#here dwell together still two men of note / who never lived and so shall never die

[thegoodthebadandtheart]

long time coming, kansas.

#supernatural #a #wincest #sam winchester #dean winchester #i don’t even care about the mistakes in this anymore enjoyy #i used the ruler a bunch even tho i don’t really like it because it looks inorganic. but even i’m not so insane as to freehand all this #skip the following tags it’s gonna be pointless but - #i like the finale and you have to appreciate what its goal was to get it i think #but i also enjoy drawing in a universe where. you see it's like starrett said: #here dwell together still two men of note / who never lived and so shall never die #etc etc #these two survive and it is always eighteen ninety-five. you know? #floofy hair and everything.

[xmarchwarden-of-lothlorienx]

A World Away

Thranduil x fem!human!reader

Requested: Anonymous

Summary: “I want a modern reader thrown into mirkwood forest. Found and thrown into a cell by thranduil. During an escape attempt reader sees an animal and decides to rescue an animal and get caught by thranduil. He takes an interest and reader is treated as a guest. Thranduil starts falling for her and sends her to live with humans. “What did i do? Why are you sending me away?” And then during the battle of five armies she meets with thranduil again and fluff”

Warnings: a little swearing (like twice)

Authors Note: Splitting this into two parts so everyone can suffer (joking lol)

Edit: Not me trying to schedule this and realizing it didn’t post 🤦🏻‍♂️

__________________________________________

With every step, you could hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your adrenaline rush prevented you from noticing the sharp briars that tore at your skin and clothes. You could worry about that later. Your only concern now was making it out of this forest.

You had planned your escape from the Elvenkings dungeon for weeks. Today, the opportunity to put your plan into action had finally arisen. As you dodged fallen logs and low hanging branches, you thought of how you came to be here in the first place.

Your head was throbbing as you came to. You attempted opening your eyes, but the bright sunlight forced you to close them again. You could hear strange voices speaking in a foreign tongue. You attempted to move your hands, but they were bound. Forcing your eyes open a second time, you took in your unfamiliar surroundings.

You were in a forest, surrounded by men and women dressed in strange clothes. All of them had long hair that was intricately braided, revealing their...pointy ears? Okay, what on earth was happening here.

“Excuse me, but who are you people? Why am I here?” You voiced. One with blonde hair, you assumed he was their leader, snapped his head towards you.

“You were trespassing on our lands. You are now in the custody of King Thranduil. He shall decide your fate” You gulped. Oh lord, what had you done now?

You were ripped away from your thoughts when you tripped over something in your way.

“Shit!” You hissed at the pain now shooting up your leg. You turned and looked at what had caused you to fall. A small fawn lay trembling at your feet. It didn’t appear injured, but your conscience wouldn’t let you leave until you checked. You extended a hand to the fawn, but it flinched away. “C’mon, I won’t hurt you. I promise,” you reassured. As you were checking the animal over, the sound of a sword being drawn reached your ears. You turned to see the tall figure now standing behind you. You recognized him as one of the guards that had taken you prisoner when you arrived at this miserable place.

“I see we didn’t get very far,” the elf said sarcastically. You dropped your head in defeat.

“Damn my good conscience,” you thought.

___

The first time you were before the Elvenking, he had been perched atop his throne. This time, you met him in his private study. He was seated in a large chair, sipping a glass of rich red wine. He appeared unbothered. You weren’t sure if anything could sway him.

“Leave us,” he commanded the guards placed at the doors. He took another long drink of his wine, then placed it on the table beside him. Neither of you spoke, and the silence was deafening. Thranduil took a deep breath and gestured to the seat adjacent from him, ”Sit.”

You obeyed, the large plush seat nearly swallowing you. You fiddled with your hands-noting that they had been left unbound this time.

“Do you have any idea what the punishment is for those that try to escape my prison?” He questioned. You shook your head in response, not trusting your voice to remain steady. “A more barbaric king would likely have you put to death.” Thranduil noticed you becoming more anxious. “But do not worry, I don’t plan on doing such a thing.”

“O-Oh?” You stuttered.

“You must be quite clever to have out maneuvered my guards,” Thranduil continued as he poured another glass of wine. “It was surprising to learn that your escape failed because you stopped to help a fawn.”

“It wasn’t my greatest decision,” you admitted.

“Perhaps, but I think it’s ultimately been in your favor,” Thranduil hummed.

“What do you mean?” You questioned.

“What I mean is that I’ve reconsidered my original sentence. I believe I may have been quick to judge when you were first brought before me,” Thranduil paused. “I hear of all the happenings in this forest. Humans are typically uncaring of those around them. Despite your situation, you stopped to help another in need of aid. Quite a noble trait to possess, yes?”

“Yes, I suppose,” you replied. You had never considered yourself noble before. Helping others had always felt like the right thing to do.

“If it would be no trouble, I should like you to remain in Mirkwood-as my guest.” There it was. The point that this conversation had been leading to.

“I-Really?” You exclaimed. Just when you thought you were starting to understand how this world worked, you were blind sided once again.

“If you have family you would rather return to, I understand. We would be more than willing to supply you for your journey-“

“Oh, no,” you cut him off (which surprised him). “It’s not that. I just wasn’t expecting it is all. I appreciate the offer, and I totally except.” You were glad to finally move on from being a prisoner. The treatment in Thranduils dungeon was alright, but a prison is still a prison after all.

“Well, then,” said Thranduil, pouring a second glass of wine. “Let’s drink to the hope of newfound friendship,” he offered the glass to you. You accepted and raised your glass to him. A possible friendship with the king? Oh, this was going to be a story to tell.

___

Life in Mirkwood was very pleasant; spending your days exploring the endless gardens and library. You would share dinner with Thranduil once a week. Then twice a week. Then soon you would dine together most nights. You noticed how interested he was in your life-both before you came to Middle Earth and now.

What you didn’t notice were the whispers between the elves. Since the death of his queen, the king had been closed off. Now, he was showing such favoritism to a human woman. Sharing dinner with her. Strolling through the gardens together. Gifting her with clothes and her own dwelling. It wasn’t until Legolas brought it up did Thranduil notice how fond he had become of you.

“Ada?” Legolas asked one day.

“Yes?” Thranduil replied as he leafed through paperwork.

“I’ve seen you’ve become quite partial to (Y/N),” said Legolas.

“Hm, I suppose I have,” Thranduil paused from his work.

“Do you think you may have...romantic feelings for her?” Legolas hesitated before asking.

Thranduils eyes widened at what his son had said. “O-Of course not! Honestly, Legolas, I don’t see why you would say such things!” Legolas gave his father a look and turned to leave.

“If you say so,” Legolas teased before closing the door behind him.

Thranduil pondered over what Legolas had said. Yes-he could see it now. He had slowly become wrapped around your little fingers. Falling for you so slowly he didn’t even notice. He wanted to feel joy-could he have found a second companion at last? But he couldn’t help the guilt that clawed at his stomach. Many elves only married once. Though his wife was deceased, her soul still lingered in the Halls of Mandos. What then? Should he do you both a disservice and pursue his newfound love? Thranduil stood and paced the room, thinking of what he should do. Finally, he called to the guards outside the room. He had made his decision.

“How may we serve you, My King.”

“Tell Lady (Y/N) to pack her things. She must be gone by daybreak tomorrow. She is not to step foot in the Woodland Realm again, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thranduil felt sick. This was for your own good, he kept telling himself. To be with you would only hurt you both. It had to be this way.

___

You wiped away your tears as you packed. You didn’t understand. Mirkwood was your home. Thranduil had become your closest friend, but now he was banishing you? You thought the Elvenking liked you, even entertained the thought that he more than liked you, but not now. Now you felt foolish. Of course it would never work. He was a stupidly handsome immortal king. You were a human girl from a different world.

You threw the last of your belongings into your bag. The guards escorted you out of the castle. Before the cart you were placed upon moved, you took one last look at the kingdom, trying to absorb every detail. The coachman urged the horses forward, and that was it. You would never see Thranduil again. As night fell, so did your tears.

Little did you know, you weren’t the only one who cried that night.

Tags: @themerriweathermage

#lord of the rings #the hobbit #thranduil #thranduil x y/n #thranduil x you #thranduil x reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit x you #the hobbit x y/n

[oh-theres-a-woman]

Flowers in a Peaked Cap; Part One

A/N: Heres to attempt two at writing this author’s note… Let’s just say, I haven’t perfected the art of saving drafts. Note to self to actually find out how to make the draft before losing three solid paragraphs of rambling about the story… Sophie Points; Nil. Laptop/Internet Points; One. Welp, honestly internet and laptop have won a hell of a lot more than that. Just don’t remember how many times I’ve lost work because of not quite understanding how to post on here…. Safe to say I’m still a noob. 

Any hoot! Enough rambling about that stuff. 

After posting the first piece to this story; in the very very early hours of this morning. I couldn’t help but feel the massive urge to continue and work on the more of Tillie’s little adventure. It made me want to think about her as a person outside the relatives that we already know. What this girl’s goals are and ambitions. Unlike the rest of her family, I think she has a relatable amount of vulnerability and anxieties that are more from society’s working in the 1920s compared to her brothers; Arthur, Thomas and John that all suffer war-related mental illness and scars.   

Actively she’s a romantic escapist that wants to make her brothers and aunt proud. Making a name for herself in the means of writing and exploring the tales that are brewed from the memories of old days. 

In the progression of this story, I want to be able to explore the growth in Tillie as a young woman. The stepping out of her brothers’ shadows and coming into her own. Growing into a more confident young woman that could be from meeting new people like in this chapter and moving away from her fears. 

I do see romance in this story, something like and full of all the trend first experience one faces at one stage or another. In terms of smut, I’d think it’s lighter and would be something that is worked towards. Tillie to me doesn’t seem rather lust-driven. So, it’ll happen if it does, and if not; its simply because Tillie Shelby isn’t interested in that sort of thing. 

Important note; I’ll be working on organising the Taglist a little more throughout my next few posts. Please notify me if you’re interested in anything specifically and want tags there or if you mind just being on the general tag list and included in every story I post. Thank you!!!  

Requested By; @csigeoblue​

Parts; [ Prologue ] 

Taglist; @zodiyack​, @itsfrancisneptun​, @amys-small-world​, @fandom-fucking-shit​, @hesagod-notyet​, @hinagiku0​, @dylanlover24​, @amirahiddleston​, @a-dorky-book-keeper​, @theamuz​, @csigeoblue​, @smallheathgangsters​, @beautycinders 

Word Count; 1400

Watery Lane wasn’t the play that supported the wild fantasy’s of Tillie Shelby, but the little bookshop that was filled with many hopefuls or lads that were born a little more well off collectively grouped together. Reading the stories they wrote. This gathering was apparently one that caught the attention of the paper since the known publishers and well-off lads from another book club around England had found themselves doing a sort of travel for their source material. 

Since the profile of this club of prolific writers had taken interest in the area of Small Heath and its inhabitants. Inviting upstart writers or aspiring tellers to come and meet them. So, onward the youngest Shelby strolled until she pulled open the door of the quaint little bookshop. The signal of her arrival was the sound of her kitten heels and the ringing of the bell on the door. Doe-like blue eyes that were like the crystal-clarity of the purest of water found themselves settling on a group of well-dressed gentlemen.  Her eyes flicker between some faces she knew of Small Heath, most of them being the arseholes she went to school with and thought themselves privy to a better life. 

It wasn’t that Tillie didn’t believe they weren’t welcome to it. Mostly, it was the way they treated people in order to get there the young woman didn’t quite agree with. She was rather foolish coming to her though since her brother’s had a very vision about how the Shelby family should be seen. Their measures to getting things done with it were also less than admirable. Perhaps, it was the fact that Billy Bronson, James Fitz and Joe Gilbert made hers and Finn’s school life a living hell one way or another. But, it also made it seem extremely unfair to talk to their older brothers about what happened. Since most knew better than to fuck with the kin of the Peaky Blinders. 

Plooms of cigarette smoke clouded in the air, filling the bookstore with a spiced herbal infusion and rippled tailored sticks of tobacco. Moving her gaze from the lads she knew; to the new arrivals. The youngest of the Shelby mob offered a little smile. “Is there room for one more?” Tillie finally spoke up, pulling her book that contained the novel she had poured hours and hours over. Smiling hopefully. Arms hugging the expensive leather made book that her brothers banded together in the hopes for a lovely birthday present in the days before the war. 

Hoping that she’d fill in with various things she enjoyed to draw, but instead, Tillie hadn’t touched it until she was old enough to respect things. Asking Aunt Pol to help her keep in a safe place until then. Scraps of paper were best for sketches in any case. 

Eyes ever hopeful looked at the posher sort, some seemed wary until a certain collared lad smiled and offered a little nod then the place he’d been sitting. Away from the boys that seemed to make life a little more bothersome. “Thank you,” she whispered, settling down in the seat. Resting the book down on her lap before looking to the other lads who straightened their composure.

“We were all about to introduce ourselves since we’ve never travelled outside of London for such a meeting before. Yet, it seemed like a brilliant idea when bought up. Birmingham seemed like the best place, so raw and thrilling. Small Heath alone.” Spoke finally a lad in a handsome waist-coat, the colouring of coal, stiff collar and matching suit made her think of it being something her brother; Tom would wear. Only on the best occasions, or when he was dressing-to-impress. Unlike Thomas, this lad had handsome hazel eyes, the slightest tan to his skin like he enjoyed the frolicking on the beach. His name was Walter, but everyone called him, Walt. 

“Even the presence of criminal activity and organisations like the Peaky Blinders, it does make the area a prize for writing. Wouldn’t you agree, lads,” spoke up for eccentric Norman, who took delight in the thing that only made Tillie smile in a measure of great awkwardness. The name seemed to follow her everywhere she went, and there was a measure of awkwardness for that.  “Sorry, miss, I didn’t quite mean to be so rude, it’s just you don’t seem the sort to know much on that end, too kind and pretty, huh?” Norm covered himself for any form of rudeness that could have been interpreted. 

Only causing a polite little lowering of her head, as her hands wrapped anxiously around her book’s spine. Before relaxing at the conversation drifting off elsewhere. Sobering to the notion that the following cough from Joe Gilbert had goosebumps appearing on her arms. Causing a vast amount of discomfort in the young woman. Tillie traded glances with the nicer of the Londoner’s; Robert. Whom quickly coughed to get things back on track. 

“In any case, back to the introductions. We shouldn’t dwell too long on the story topics if we’ve lacked the proper course of introduction. Shall I start?” Robert spoke up, settled against set up for the purpose of meetings. “My name is Robert Augustine, myself and these other gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the others in the group of London lads. 

“Are from a collective of young men that wish to write and publish arts. Never before have we had a lady join us, but surely in this modern world we’d be able to welcome the bright minds of femininity amongst us. After all, lady authors are blooming into the publishing world more and more with each generation.” His words seemed to still the anxiousness within her soul at the agreement of his other companions. Looking forward to seeing a hand extended to her, Robert allowed her to stand. The mix of coarseness and softness met between the two palms meet. 

Holding her book, Tillie looked down smiling a little at her feet. Hugging her book to her chest, like it was the most precious thing to her. That was… Because it truly was the thing that held so much value to her heart. Her right hand still gently in the hold of the Londoner, cheeks lightly warming. “I’m Tillie Shelby, and I like to write about my brothers, their stories before the war. When we were kids,” she lit up sweetly talking of her brothers. Her hand and Robert’s naturally finding it parting, before he settled in his spot by the desk. Arms folding at his chest with a little smile. 

“Would you be willing to share any of those stories?” Robert asked in a light voice. Tillie could only think of one response. 

“Would I ever,” she beamed with a presence that seemed to warm the room and the quiet little shop around them. Settling down into her seat once more, she didn’t think about when the others were introducing themselves. Instead, she found herself lost within stories. The more whimsical tales of lads that laughed and partied. Or the ones that filled with a warmth that made her think of the family that suppressed or lost who they were before the war. Among them, none had known those woes and horrors. 

They’d seen things happen on the outside. Felt the absence of a brother, father, uncle or grandfather that either died or lost what kept to their memory that their younger-selves recalled. Tillie was young then. Merely a baby in some regard. But she couldn’t ever forget the days of laughter, wherein night terrors; her heroes would just come up and curl into the undersized cot she called a bed. Soothing their fingers along with the softness of infant or child hairs–that had yet to understand dryness or damage. 

When business didn’t entirely rule the Shelby family but happened in the background. Those were her tales. The tales of rawness and loss from a different scene. Where her brothers; the men who took over the role of an absent father, became; fathers, uncles, older brothers and best friends. And… Pol became the only mother she ever knew and remembered. Her voice spoke of the volumes to family values and how terrible things broke people. Yet, she never uttered their names aloud. 

Only recording them within her mind when she read the tales that meant something to one of her brothers. Art. Tom. John.

#shelby sister #shelby sister imagine #younger shelby sister #younger sister #peaky blinder fanfiction #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagines #peaky blinder imagine #by order of the peaky blinders #by order of the peaky fookin blinders #shelby!sister #shelby!sister request #shelby!sister imagine #new little series #wholesome family #shelby company limited #the shelby company limited #the garrison #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfiction #thomas shelby fanfic #arthur shelby jr #arthur shelby imagine #arthur shelby fanfiction #arthur shelby fanfic #john shelby #john shelby fan #john shelby imagine #john shelby fanfiction

[kellyvela]

THE WOLF THAT SLEW THE DRAGON

The other day I made this little post:

Here is Jon Snow killing his aunt to protect Sansa… Oh I’m sorry, this is Saint George killing the dragon to protect a redhead princess. In some versions of the tale Saint George marries the princess… [x]

I did it as a little funny post really, after reading some very bad takes about Targaryen dragons... But after just a small research the last couple of days the things I found are really amazing. Let’s see:  

I already knew about the Legend of Saint George - the Dragon Slayer, and even asked @sansaastark​ to photoshop GRRM’s head on Saint George’s body:

But who was this man, Saint George - the Dragon Slayer? Does he really influenced GRRM?

Saint George was a Roman soldier that was martyred and beheaded following the Emperor orders, after refusing to participate in the persecution of christians because he was a christian himself. 

This part of Saint George’s life reminds me of the Faith of the Seven versus the Old Gods in ASOIAF.  It also makes me think about Jon Snow refusing to abandon the Wildlings and allowing them to cross the Wall, against the ancient law of the Night’s Watch.

Saint George ascended quickly in the Roman Army and became a member of the Praetorian Guard, whose members served as personal bodyguards and intelligence for the Roman emperors, something like the Kingsguard.  

This reminds me of a very young Jon Snow becoming the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, you know: “the shield that guards the realms of men”. Also according Fire & Blood: “Visenya modeled their vows (Kingsguard’s vows) on those of the Night’s Watch; like the black-cloaked crows of the Wall, the White Swords served for life, surrendering all their lands, titles, and worldly goods to live a life of chastity and obedience, with no reward but honor.”

But the most famous part of Saint George’s story is the legend that says he slew a dragon:

In the well-known version from Jacobus da Varagine's Legenda aurea (The Golden Legend, 1260s), the narrative episode of Saint George and the Dragon took place somewhere he called "Silene", in Libya.

Silene in Libya was plagued by a venom-spewing dragon dwelling in a nearby pond, poisoning the countryside. To prevent it from affecting the city itself, the people offered it two sheep daily, then a man and a sheep, and finally their children and youths, chosen by lottery. One time the lot fell on the king's daughter. The king offered all his gold and silver to have his daughter spared; the people refused. The daughter was sent out to the lake, dressed as a bride, to be fed to the dragon.

Saint George by chance arrived at the spot. The princess tried to send him away, but he vowed to remain. The dragon emerged from the pond while they were conversing. Saint George made the Sign of the Cross and charged it on horseback, seriously wounding it with his lance. He then called to the princess to throw him her girdle (zona), and he put it around the dragon's neck. When she did so, the dragon followed the girl like a "meek beast" on a leash.

The princess and Saint George led the dragon back to the city of Silene, where it terrified the populace. Saint George offered to kill the dragon if they consented to become Christians and be baptized. Fifteen thousand men including the king of Silene converted to Christianity. George then killed the dragon, beheading it with his sword, and the body was carted out of the city on four ox-carts. The king built a church to the Blessed Virgin Mary and Saint George on the site where the dragon died and a spring flowed from its altar with water that cured all disease. Only the Latin version involves the saint striking the dragon with the spear, before killing it with the sword.

The Golden Legend narrative is the main source of the story of Saint George and the Dragon as received in Western Europe, and is therefore relevant for Saint George as patron saint of England. The princess remains unnamed in the Golden Legend version, and the name "Sabra" is supplied by Elizabethan era writer Richard Johnson in his Seven Champions of Christendom (1596). In the work, she is recast as a princess of Egypt. This work takes great liberties with the material, and makes St. George marry Sabra, and have English children, one of whom becomes Guy of Warwick. Alternative names given to the princess in Italian sources still of the 13th century are Cleolinda and Aia.

Source

You can read various versions of the Legend of Saint George and the Dragon here. 

It’s very interesting that between the names given to the princess of the legend are Sabra and Aia, names that sound pretty much like the names of the Stark sisters: Sansa and Arya.  

It’s also pretty interesting that the princess was ‘sent out to the lake, dressed as a bride, to be fed to the dragon’. This bit remains me very much of Sansa who is strongly linked with marriage in ASOIAF.   

Researching about the princess of the story, I found a very cute version of the legend in a web specialized in children’s audio-books. Here is the part about the princess: 

Then one day, the name of the princess was shaken out of the urn. According to the King’s own law, his daughter must be sacrificed. He called the people together and offered them gold and treasure if only they would agree to spare her from the dragon. The judges who oversaw the lottery said that it must be completely fair, or else the people would no longer accept it. And so, much saddened, the king said to the princess, “My dear, I shall never see your wedding day.”

A week went past, and the day arrived when she must meet her fate. The palace servants dressed her in her wedding gown and placed a crown of flowers on her head. They led her out of the city in a procession, and headed for the lake where the dragon lived.

Source

The King’s lament and the princess dressed her in her wedding gown with a crown of flowers on her head sounds as if the princess was about to marry the dragon. This bit sounds very much like Jenny of Oldstones, Lyanna and Sansa Stark... And take note that the first two actually had a romance with a Targaryen man, you know, a dragon...    

This description of the princess, wearing her wedding gown with a crown of flowers in her head, has been depicted by Edward Burne-Jones in the paintings of his Series “The Legend of St George and the Dragon”:

Princess Sabra Drawing the Lot:

The Princess Sabra Led to the Dragon: 

The Princess Tied to the Tree: 

Where do I see those long sleeves before? Oh yeah in Sansa’s costumes on the Show and also in the description of his wedding dress in the books: “The points of the long dagged sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms.” - A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

This addition to my little funny post tell us more about the relationship between Saint George and the princess: 

Source: The Union Jack: The Story of the British Flag by Nick Groom.

via @butterflies-dragons [x]

This bit: “Saint George is often described as ‘Our Lady’s Knight’ and was strongly associated with the Cult of the Virgin, which contributed to his role as a model of chivalry and courtly love”, reminds me more and more of Sansa, the character most associated with chivalry and courtly love in ASOIAF.  We also have a link to the Faith of the Seven and The Maiden, that reminds me of this ASOIAF passage: “The Maiden lay athwart the Warrior, her arms widespread as if to embrace him.” - A Clash of Kings - Davos I. Sansa would be the Maiden and Jon would be the Warrior.  

The secular version of the legend, the one where George marries Sabra, was also depicted in paintings, here’s an example:   

 The Wedding of St. George by Dante Gabriel Rossetti:

I love that Sabra is wearing a rose in her hair, I will come back to this detail later.

As if all of these findings weren’t enough, yesterday @tell-me-this-isnt-jonsa​ made this very interesting contribution:

Want to hear a fun fact?

While St. George is now most often associated with England and English iconography, his legend actually spans across Europe and parts of Asia. Relevant to our interests, in Slavic and Germanic folklore, St. George is also the patron saint of wolves, otherwise known as the “Master of Wolves” or a wolf herdsman, able to tame and/or command these wild beasts, as well as protect people and livestock from them.

@tell-me-this-isnt-jonsa [x]

You can read more about Saint George as the Master of Wolves here.

Saint George as the “Master of Wolves” or “Wolf Herdsman” reminds me of Jon Snow being crowned King in the North (I know this only happened in the Show, but there is a possibility that this happens in the Books as well).  Either way, Jon Snow is a character strongly linked to leadership, and that’s what being a master or a herdsman ultimately means.  And talking about masters, leaders and Kings, is worth to say that Saint George is also known as the “Prince of Martyrs”.  

After this very important addition, I talked with my friend @flibbertigiblet about all the symbology and similarities between the Legend of Saint George and ASOIAF.

First she told me this:

The country of Georgia, where devotions to the saint date back to the fourth century, is not technically named after the saint, but is a well-attested back-formation of the English name. However, a large number of towns and cities around the world are. Saint George is one of the patron saints of Georgia; the name Georgia (Sakartvelo in Georgian) is an anglicisation of Gurj, ultimately derived from the Persian word gurj/gurjān ("wolf").

Source

So yeah, ladies and gentlemen: GEORGE = WOLF

So Saint George is literally: THE WOLF THAT SLEW THE DRAGON

And my little funny post was right after all: Jon Snow killing his aunt to protect Sansa could be the televisual representation of Saint George killing the dragon to protect Princess Sabra... 

The story of Saint George and the Dragon symbolizes the good winning over the evil. The Christianity winning over paganism, where the dragon represents the evil, the paganism; the princess represents the Catholic Church/Virgin Mary; and Saint George is the Champion of the Catholic Faith.  

Jon Snow is not a Champion of the Faith of the Seven tho, he worships the Old Gods. A very classical GRRM twist, making the Old Gods the pagans and shaping the Faith of the Seven as the Catholic Church. Don’t worry tho, Sansa Stark professes both religions, but I would dare to say that, at this point of the story, she prefers the Old Gods.  

After finding all these gems, so many things make sense. Like the way GRRM talks about dragons, calling them nuclear weapons; and the way he expresses his love of wolves.   

About dragons:

Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only Dany has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world. But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I’m trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn’t mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals.

Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn’t give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.

—Vulture 2014

THEM: And the dragons?

GRRM: “Oh sure, dragons are cool too,” he chuckles. “But maybe not on our doorstep”

—The Guardian - 2018

What drives Dany? With Dany I’m particularly looking at the… what effect great power has upon a person. She’s the mother of dragons, and she controls what is in effect the only three nuclear weapons in the entire world that I’ve created. What does it do to you when you control the only three nuclear weapons in the world and you can destroy entire cities or cultures if you choose to? Should you choose to, should you not choose to?

—“Interview exclusive de George R R Martin, l'auteur de Game Of Thrones” de -Le Mouv’-

About wolves:  

Chris Long: What your favorite things about wolves are? What drew you to wolves? Because it seems like you have a passion for them.

GRRM: I like their ferocity. I like the fact that they’re social animals, that they have, they’re packs, they’re not lonely hunters. They have their own society, their own packs. They work together. You know I’ve tried to make that point in “Game of Thrones” and that will come back to it in later books, you know. When winter comes, the cold wins blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. And human beings need to keep that in mind too. We all need each other. We all need packs. That’s true on a football team as well. The individual star can’t succeed without great teammates around him.

—George RR Martin in The Fish Bowl with Chris Long

It’s not a surprise then, that GRRM has called the Starks “The Heroes of the Story”, and the Starks are wolves, and one of them could be destined to slay a dragon to protect a member of their pack, and become a legend: THE WOLF THAT SLEW THE DRAGON...  Just like happened in the Show...    

To be honest, as thorough as GRRM is, I’m very sure he knows a lot about his namesake Saint George “The Dragon Slayer”, and he seems proud to bear the name:

John Hodgman: That’s how I can’t sue you, If you steal from history and add a dragon. I can’t sue you.

GRRM: I’m working off my own, you know, karma here, because I’m George, and what’s he known for? He killed the dragon, you know, come on. Come on, I was almost abolished at one point when the Catholic Church was reviewing all the saints, I was terrified that George would be abolished, because they abolish a lot of fiction, I said George is only known for killing a dragon, how can they keep him in, but they did so, that was, that was good.

John Hodgman: I’m glad you stayed anointed.

GRRM: That’s right.

—In conversation: George R. R. Martin with John Hodgman

As far as I know, GRRM is an atheist, but he went to a catholic high school: 

Chris Long: You also grew up in Bayonne, right?

GRRM: Right, Bayonne, New Jersey, yeah.  

Chris Long: So you have, somebody that works on my crew said they’re from Bayonne. They said to ask you about the Bayonne Bees. Did you go to there, were you at the high school, the Bayonne Bees?    

GRRM: No, that was our archrival. I went to the Catholic high school, Marist, and the Royal Knights.  

—George RR Martin in The Fish Bowl with Chris Long

Marist is a catholic congregation named after Blessed Virgin Mary. And their Football Team is called the Royal Knights. Royal Knights huh... I wonder why?

Interestingly enough, Saint George is often described as ‘Our Lady’s Knight’ and was strongly associated with the Cult of the Virgin, which contributed to his role as a model of chivalry and courtly love.

And remember that according to the most known version of the legend, “The king built a church to the Blessed Virgin Mary and Saint George on the site where the dragon died”.

I really hope Sansa Stark finds her true knight someday, someone as brave and gentle and strong as Saint George - The Dragon Slayer... Someone we could call “Our Lady of Winterfell’s Knight” or maybe “The Queen in the North’s Knight”...

Anyway, continuing with the recount of my research, after that I told my friend about my favorite version of the Legend of Saint George and the Dragon, this one from Catalonia, Spain:

The Legend of Saint George

The legend explains that long ago, in Montblanc (Tarragona) a ferocious dragon, capable of poisoning the air and killing with his breath, had frightened the inhabitants of the city. The inhabitants, scared and tired of the dragon´s ravages and misdeeds, decided to calm him by feeding him one person a day that would be chosen randomly in a draw. After several days, the princess was the unlucky one.

When the princess left her home and headed towards the dragon, a gentleman named Saint George, dressed in shining armor, riding a white horse, suddenly appeared to rescue her. Saint George raised his sword and stabbed the dragon, at last releasing the princess and the citizens from this turmoil.

From the dragon's blood a rose-bush grew with the reddest roses that had ever been seen. Saint George, now a hero picked a rose and offered it to the princess.

Source

Montblanc, the town of this story, literally means “White Mountain”, very Winterfell-ish... 

So, remember that Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s painting where Sabra is wearing a rose in her hair during her wedding? That painting reminds me of this version of the legend.

A knight giving a rose to a princess is a trope GRRM used a lot in ASOIAF: Lyanna’s crown of winter roses, The Rose of Winterfell, Loras giving Sansa a red rose, Sansa wearing the rose Loras gave to her in her hair, Marillion’s song for Alayne: 'The Roadside Rose', etc.  Also, a rose is a very important element of certain story GRRM loves: Beauty and the Beast. 

Saint George’s day (April 23th) is a very important festivity in Catalonia, Spain. Saint George is their Patron Saint and this day is also known as the Catalan Valentine’s Day:

Saint George´s Roses

Sending roses is the most significant thing about this festival. Anyone can make this offering, although as tradition dictates it is the man who must give a rose to his beloved. According to the legend, Saint George saved his princess by killing the dragon from whose blood grew a rose. That is why some consider it the Catalan Valentine´s Day, because Saint George is said to be, par excellence, the patron saint of lovers in Catalonia.

Source

That’s why Saint George's Day is also known as The Day of the Rose in Catalonia.

Since we got romantic at this point, my friend told me about some potential Jonsa AUs based in the Legend of Saint George and the Dragon, and she also mentioned Saint George’s Cross, the one on the England flag.

To that detail, I mentioned the Saint Andrew’s Cross, the one on the Scotland flag, and how GRRM has made the Starks very Scot coded. I also mentioned how the Union Jack, the United Kingdom’s Flag was created by merging Saint George’s (Englad), Saint Andrew’s (Scotland) & Saint Patrick’s (Ireland) crosses.

And after that, my friend said to me this: 

“Following that logic - Jon's non-Stark half (I don't want to say Targ), as represented by St George's cross, which theoretically gives him the birthright to rule England/The southern kingdoms, plus his Stark side/Sansa, as represented by St Andrew/Scotland = The 7K/Westeros with Jonsa as King and Queen”. 

At that point I was screaming: ¡¡¡THIS IS THE HENRY TUDOR & ELIZABETH OF YORK -WAR OF THE ROSES- JONSA THEORY!!!

And then, after all this information, I decided to write this post.  My friend took the same decision, so expect more on the subject!

It was a long ride. I could be right about all of this or maybe just a little, or more probably, I’m all wrong, but it was a blast! 

As my friend, @shieldofrohan​​ likes to say: “GRRM’s own name is a fucking spoiler for the books”  

***The end***

#jonsa #saint george and the dragon #grrm

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: What poem would you want to be read at your funeral and why?

Surprisingly I don’t find this a morbid question at all. It is a question I haven’t given much thought to in a long time because when do we ever really question our mortality?

I suspect the younger we are the further we push it away. That is until a freak crisis of some sort hits us. I can think of a few occasions when perhaps I have thought about it momentarily. I have found myself in some freak situations where I thought I was going to die - like a mountaineering accident or when I had a parachute accident. But in those situations a poem to be read at your funeral is the last thing that you dwell on in your mind!

The only other conscious times I have thought about it was when I was going through Sandhurst as an army officer cadet. Towards the end of Week 8 or so the junior cadets have to visit Brookwood Military Cemetery to see the fallen - the visit is done by all cadets and it’s done not just as an act of remembrance but also a reminder that the fate of real lives could depend on the decisions you take as an officer. I can’t articulate the feelings that coarse through you as you read the youthful inscriptions of those who died in battle (past and present) and reflect it back upon your own sense of fragile mortality.

Surprisingly I didn’t think too much about poems or eulogies when I was out serving in Afghanistan. There simply wasn’t time to think too much. It’s hard to explain but there is simply too much going on both in and out of the heat of battle: the amount of work to be done between missions as well as the tiredness, lack of sleep, and exhaustion to manage whilst also doing anything - from playing silly pranks, playing sports, reading, writing, doing laundry etc - to take your mind far away from dark thoughts.

I think about my mortality more when I meet very old veterans on their last legs or when I attend solemn commemorative services.

I can think of many poems that I would love to be read at my funeral so it’s hard to decide. I especially like ‘Ithaka’ by Cavafy for instance. But I’ll go with Alfred Lord Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’.

The last part of the poem especially resonates for me:

Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

The full poem itself reveals Ulysses (Odysseus from Homer's Odyssey)  the ageing king who, having returned from the Trojan war, yearns to don his armour again and ride off in search of battle, glory, and adventure (leaving his poor wife Penelope behind). The poem ends with Ulysses triumphantly announcing his intention to sail off again on yet more adventures. After being away from home for ten years while fighting in the Trojan War, and then taking ten years to get back home to the island of Ithaca to his family, Ulysses feels ill at ease at home. The civilian’s life is not for him: he is made for battle and adventure and voyaging (even though, in the Odyssey, he manifestly hates travelling on the sea), and will never be content to be the stay-at-home king with a wife and son, living out the rest of his years on Ithaca and enjoying ‘the quiet life’.

Tennyson of course drew upon Homer's Odyssey but also drew upon Dante's Inferno, Canto XXVI, in which Dante is led by the Roman epic poet Virgil to meet Ulysses and hear his tale. In Homer, Odysseus is told by the blind prophet Tiresias that he will return home to Ithaca but will then make one more journey to a land far away from home. In Dante, this part of the story is fleshed out. Ulysses gathers his men together to prepare for the journey and exhorts them not to waste their time left on earth. He dies on this journey, which is why he is in Dante’s hell. Tennyson's character is somewhere in between these literary predecessors, as Ulysses knows he will set off on a last journey but has not done so yet. Critics also note the influence of Shakespeare, particularly his Troilus and Cressida, which also includes Ulysses.

Ulysses knows he is famous for his great deeds, but this is not what motivates him. Unlike Achilles, glory was never the goal of Ulysses, it was the spirit of adventure.

Indeed what I love about this poem is Ulysses’ inquisitive spirit is to be always looking forward. He has seen much and has seen a great variety of cultures, but this is all in the past. Experiences have made him who he is, but what matters is passing through the “arch” to the “untravell’d world” and constantly moving toward the ever-escaping horizon.

In addition to the arch, Ulysses uses another metaphor here, calling himself a sword that must “shine in use” rather than “rust unburnish’d.” Yet, at home he feels bored and useless, yearning to truly engage with what’s left of his life. He is impatient for new experiences, lamenting every hour and every day that he does not seek “something more.”

Ulysses’ quest for adventure and fulfilment, like the goal of Goethe's Faust, is defined by the pursuit of new and unique knowledge “beyond the utmost bound of human thought.” Adventurer isn’t just about experience it’s about knowledge and, one hopes, wisdom.

Tennyson wrote this poem just after the death of his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam in 1833. Tennyson found himself thrust into the role of Ulysses. Confronted by the death of his friend, Tennyson noticed a sudden urge to drive forwards in life and not settle for the commonplace. As stated in the poem, ‘death closes all,’ enlightening the poet to the need to make the most of his life before it escapes him.

The poem’s final line is the most famous. The need ‘to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’ fits into the Victorian urge to escape the tedious nature of day-to-day life, to achieve a level of mythical fame reached by the classical heroes, to travel ‘beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars.’ Tennyson doesn’t want to conform, he wants to challenge himself, and he wants to break new ground before his inevitable death. Just like Ulysses, Tennyson wants to go out adventuring rather than settle for regular life.

But where most people have misunderstood the poem is in that final line. They tend to only focus on the last line at the expense of what comles before. So “‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’ is meremy seen as a monumental pronouncement for unbridled success and arrogant pride disguised as optimism. But it’s one that is isolated from its context within the poem as a whole. Indeed in doing so it robs Tennyson’s poetry of its fragile nuance. People forget to think about the last line within the context of the two lines above, “ One equal temper of heroic hearts/Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will.”

Despite being stoic and leading a life of meaningful purpose (heroic even), life still leaves us room with doubt and equivocation. As Tennyson himself suggested, confidence and doubt are equal elements of his poem’s meaning: he said that it ‘was written under the sense of loss and that all had gone by, but that still life must be fought out to the end’.

The struggle between the sense of loss and the desire to fight life out to the end remains unresolved at the end of the poem. I think this titanic struggle remains true even if one has religious faith and a belief of resurrection of an after-life. As a believing Christian I see no tension in this other than the ones being pulled on the human heart and the divine soul.

In the end Ulysses' enduring challenge to himself, is a challenge to us, to push ahead with energy and strength of will no matter how old or weak our bodies are. To yield to age or weakness is to be less than fully human and yet paradoxically when our bodies give out and we fail it’s also very human. As honourable as it may be to live a peaceful life without risk, we miss the most exciting aspects of life if we do not venture out, at least a little bit, into the unknown. For me as a Christian, the unknown (or as Donald Rumsfeld would put it ‘a known unknown’) is of course the ‘undiscovered country’ beyond life, the eternal life in the presence of Christ. As such Tennyson’s poem - as I like to think about my life - is not one of past lament but one of future hope.

Thanks for your question.

#question #poem #funeral #tennyson #ulysses

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Murders in the Rue Morgue

Edgar Allan Poe (1841)

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture. --SIR THOMAS BROWNE, Urn-Burial.

THE mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talents into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract --Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some recherche movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by "the book," are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognizes what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation --all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18--, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was of an excellent --indeed of an illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained. Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded as madmen --although, perhaps, as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building; lighted a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams --reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm and arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its exercise --if not exactly in its display --and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin --the creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:-

"He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for the Theatre des Varietes."

"There can be no doubt of that," I replied unwittingly, and not at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound.

"Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of --?" Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

--"of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause? You were remarking to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy."

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon's tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.

"Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method --if method there is --by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter." In fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.

"It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omne."

"The fruiterer! --you astonish me --I know no fruiterer whomsoever."

"The man who ran up against you as we entered the street --it may have been fifteen minutes ago."

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue C-- into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of charlatanerie about Dupin. "I will explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus --Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer."

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:

"We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving the Rue C--. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments) slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity.

"You kept your eyes upon the ground --glancing, with a petulant expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word 'stereotomy,' a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that you could not say to yourself 'stereotomy' without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday's 'Musee,' the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler's change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean the line

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fall to combine the ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I say by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler's immolation. So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little fellow --that Chantilly --he would do better at the Theatre des Varietes."

Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the "Gazette des Tribunaux," when the following paragraphs arrested our attention.

"Extraordinary Murders. --This morning, about three o'clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of one Madame L'Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L'Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in angry contention, were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased, and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not less with horror than with astonishment.

"The apartment was in the wildest disorder --the furniture broken and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of metal d'Alger, and two bags, containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.

"Of Madame L'Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been throttled to death.

"After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated --the former so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity.

"To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew."

The next day's paper had these additional particulars.

"The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many individuals have been examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair," [The word 'affaire' has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys with us] "but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon We give below all the material testimony elicited.

"Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms-very affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part of the building except in the fourth story.

"Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L'Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly retired life --were reputed to have money. Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes --did not believe it. Had never seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.

"Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house --not very old.

"Isidore Muset, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house about three o'clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet --not with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced --and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony --were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention-the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller --a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman's voice. Could distinguish the words 'sacre' and 'diable.' The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them yesterday.

"Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the testimony of Muset in general. As soon as they forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, the witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it was a man's voice. It might have been a woman's. Was not acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased. "--Odenheimer, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes --probably ten. They were long and loud --very awful and distressing. Was one of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice was that of a man --of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick --unequal --spoken apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh --not so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly 'sacre,' 'diable' and once 'mon Dieu.'

"Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L'Espanaye had some property. Had opened an account with his baking house in the spring of the year --(eight years previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home with the money.

"Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L'Espanaye to her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the street at the time. It is a bye-street --very lonely.

William Bird, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly 'sacre' and 'mon Dieu.' There was a sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling --a scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud --louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman's voice. Does not understand German.

"Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached it. Every thing was perfectly silent --no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four story one, with garrets (mansardes). A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely --did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as three minutes --some as long as five. The door was opened with difficulty.

"Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman --is sure of this. Does not understand the English language, but judges by the intonation.

"Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.

"Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. By 'sweeps' were meant cylindrical sweeping-brushes, such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength.

"Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron --a chair --any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument --probably with a razor.

"Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.

"Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris --if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault --an unusual occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent."

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement continued in the Quartier St. Roch --that the premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned --although nothing appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed. Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair --at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the murderer.

"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain's calling for his robe-de-chambre --pour mieux entendre la musique. The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fall. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser, and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances --to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly --is to have the best appreciation of its lustre --a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

"As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us amusement," (I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said nothing) "and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know G--, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission."

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it; as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding way, on one si panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the building-Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no possible object. Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge. We went up stairs --into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated in the "Gazette des Tribunaux." Dupin scrutinized every thing-not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way home my companion stopped in for a moment at the office of one of the dally papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Fe les menageais: --for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word "peculiar," which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

"No, nothing peculiar," I said; "nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper."

"The 'Gazette,'" he replied, "has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution --I mean for the outre character of its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of motive --not for the murder itself --but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations with those just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked 'what has occurred,' as 'what has occurred that has never occurred before.' In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police."

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

"I am now awaiting," continued he, looking toward the door of our apartment --"I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here --in this room --every moment. It is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use."

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

"That the voices heard in contention," he said, "by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame L'Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter's corpse up the chimney as it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard in contention. Let me now advert --not to the whole testimony respecting these voices --but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you observe anything peculiar about it?"

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.

"That was the evidence itself," said Dupin, "but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet there was something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is not that they disagreed --but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that of a foreigner. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it --not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant --but the converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and 'might have distinguished some words had he been acquainted with the Spanish.' The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that 'not understanding French this witness was examined through an interpreter.' The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and 'does not understand German.' The Spaniard 'is sure' that it was that of an Englishman, but 'judges by the intonation' altogether, 'as he has no knowledge of the English.' The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but 'has never conversed with a native of Russia.' A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, not being cognizant of that tongue, is, like the Spaniard, 'convinced by the intonation.' Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this could have been elicited! --in whose tones, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic --of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one witness 'harsh rather than shrill.' It is represented by two others to have been 'quick and unequal' No words --no sounds resembling words --were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable.

"I know not," continued Dupin, "what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony --the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices --are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said 'legitimate deductions;' but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arises inevitably from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form --a certain tendency --to my inquiries in the chamber.

"Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe in praeternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L'Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite decision. --Let us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers must have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent 'impossibilities' are, in reality, not such.

"There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, therefore, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.

"My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the reason I have just given --because here it was, I knew, that all apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality.

"I proceeded to think thus --a posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have re-fastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened; --the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forebore to upraise the sash.

"I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught --but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the headboard minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same manner --driven in nearly up to the head.

"You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not been once 'at fault.' The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result, --and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. 'There must be something wrong,' I said, 'about the nail.' I touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. now carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete-the fissure was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect.

"The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed) it had become fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail, --farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.

"The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades --a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the upper half is latticed or worked in open trellis --thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open --that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. --By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might have swung himself into the room.

"I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished: --but, secondly and chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very extraordinary --the almost praeternatural character of that agility which could have accomplished it.

"You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that 'to make out my case' I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxta-position that very unusual activity of which I have just spoken, with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected."

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without power to comprehend --as men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

"You will see," he said, "that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to suggest that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess --a very silly one --and no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life --saw no company --seldom went out --had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best --why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of motive, engendered in the brains of the police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party receiving it), happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities --that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together.

"Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your attention --that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this --let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will that there was something excessively outre --something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that strength which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down!

"Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses --very thick tresses --of grey human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp --sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L'Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far thesegentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them --because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows have ever been opened at all.

If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your fancy?"

I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. "A madman," I said, "has done this deed --some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Sante."

"In some respects," he replied, "your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L'Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it."

"Dupin!" I said, completely unnerved; "this hair is most unusual --this is no human hair."

"I have not asserted that it is," said he; "but, before we decide this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as 'dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,' upon the throat of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as a 'series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.'

"You will perceive," continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon the table before us, "that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. Each finger has retained --possibly until the death of the victim --the fearful grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective impressions as you see them."

I made the attempt in vain.

"We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial," he said. "The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again."

I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before.

"This," I said, "is the mark of no human hand."

"Read now," replied Dupin, "this passage from Cuvier." It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

"The description of the digits," said I, as I made an end of reading, "is in exact accordance with this drawing, I see that no animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman."

True; and you will remember an expression attributed almostunanimously, by the evidence, to this voice, --the expression, 'mon Dieu!' This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible --indeed it is far more than probable --that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses-for I have no right to call them more --since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of 'Le Monde,' (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought by sailors,) will bring him to our residence." He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

Caught --In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the --inst., (the morning of the murder,) a very large, tawny Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner, (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No.--, Rue --, Faubourg St. Germain --au troisieme.

"How was it possible," I asked, "that you should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?" "I do not know it," said Dupin. "I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of those long queues of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is gained. Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement --about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus: --'I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value --to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself --why should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne --at a vast distance from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have done the deed? The police are at fault --they have failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, I am known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so great value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the animal, at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has blown over.

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

"Be ready," said Dupin, "with your pistols, but neither use them nor show them until at a signal from myself."

The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor had entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up with decision and rapped at the door of our chamber.

"Come in," said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently, --a tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, was more than half hidden by whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us "good evening," in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.

Sit down, my friend," said Dupin. "I suppose you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?"

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:

"I have no way of telling --but he can't be more than four or five years old. Have you got him here?"

"Oh no; we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?"

"To be sure I am, sir."

"I shall be sorry to part with him," said Dupin.

"I don't mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir," said the man. "Couldn't expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal --that is to say, any thing in reason."

"Well," replied my friend, "that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think! --what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about these murders in the Rue Morgue."

Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.

The sailor's face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart.

"My friend," said Dupin, in a kind tone, "you are alarming yourself unnecessarily --you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know that I have had means of information about this matter --means of which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done nothing which you could have avoided --nothing, certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator."

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all gone.

"So help me God," said he, after a brief pause, "I will tell you all I know about this affair; --but I do not expect you to believe one half I say --I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it."

What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it. Returning home from some sailors' frolic on the night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o'clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive's attention was arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of Madame L'Espanaye's chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as it entered the room.

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A lightning-rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would naturally have been attributed to the wind.

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame L'Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eves, it flew upon the body of the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it immediately hurled through the window headlong.

As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home --dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman's exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it. It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the Jardin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the propriety of every person minding his own business.

"Let them talk," said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. "Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound. In his wisdom is no stamen. It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna, --or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the way he has 'de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer ce qui n'est pas.'"

[chrisodonline]

In which I unwrap a little from “Mother” and also tie in past seasons’ of G Callen character development AND character insight shown and implied...

This episode was all about parallels -- and they were well done. Parallels in TV episodes are nothing new, and you see them as handy ways to tie storylines and characters together, either from within the show itself or with references and homages to past literature and media.  They are a great tool for new writers, and for good reason. People expect themes to episodic and serial presentations, and they help keep formulae from being just straight formulae. ECO and Babar definitely leaned into them, but with a lot of thought. 

I do think the parallels between Akhos and G were supposed to make us think as well as make G think.  Akhos definitely thought they were two sides to the same coin. Hetty had concerns they were, in a way, as well. It was setup to put Hetty in continued crisis thought and self-reflection that has started recently -- but you saw seeds in past seasons.  It’s still very in character.  The beauty of the ep was that it didn’t actually lean all the way into the parallel. It was more explicit in noting the parallel of Akhos and G, but mainly because the dialogue was coming through to display the aforementioned mentalities of our Baddie of the Week and Mother Hetty. (Mother was also the very specific nickname/codename given to the CIA during the Cold War, and I just kept thinking about that. I’m sure that was no coincidence.)  Sam also had a little dialogue that floated this -- in this ep and in recent ones.  

Anyway, what the episode demonstrated was a reinforcement that G and Akhos? Actually two very different people. And it’s not that they ended up on two different sides of a forked path after Hetty’s modus operandi of intervening with lost souls. It wasn’t even anything about what Hetty planted. G was never going to be Akhos, Hetty or no Hetty.

Before I get into the ending parts with G and his fantastic dialogue, we’ll look at the speakers of lines that contributed to the “Akhos = what G could have ended up as.” Akhos himself belabors the point. Akhos is extremely misguided, and approaches things from an embittered POV. He has also lied to someone who is loyal enough to him to go to the HQ of a government agency.  There’s an entitlement aspect to him, and also someone who refuses to accept any of his actions or mistakes as completely of his own doing. It was all “nurture” to him. He wasn’t a full-grown adult or anything at some point capable of making his own decisions.  If anything, saying he was ruined and fallen shows that he has a pretty darn clear understanding of morality.  You can’t fault a person for not being mentally healthy or having emotional issues. But he knows right from wrong. He did wrong. He’s not the voice of reason in all this. He has a skewed view of things, and we’re not supposed to walk away thinking, “Man, Akhos was a deep guy. He’s super smart. He had it all figured out.” He tried to kill Hetty, then G, and tried to blow up Deeks and Kensi. He’s not...a good guy. He’s not on the side of right nor is he right about things. He ends up killed by Hetty.  If this were a novel, well, a traditional novel -- let’s say -- Akhos’ ending up killed in a very bloody fashion and coming out the loser -- big time -- with his men taken out and plots being foiled all over the place pretty much enforces his worldview and ways of life are not ones the author subscribes to nor are they trying to get the audience/reader to subscribe to them. 

Hetty is another person who muses this, and she does it not from her usual confident stance.  She isn’t Hetty the Purveyor of Wisdom.  She is Hetty the Mother, specifically Hetty the Mother, who is going through common paternal guilt mode. She’s questioning her decisions, how it’s affected her children, etc. She isn’t Hetty the Orator. She is Hetty the Doubter. Sage!Hetty is a voice we’re supposed to listen to.  Confused, guilt-ridden, confidence-bruised is not the Hetty we’re supposed to listen to. It’s her at her most human, not her most all-knowing. 

Sam? Sam is your favorite aunt. He meddles at times, but he always cares. He might get a little personal, but you know you can go to him with whatever horrible thing you think you did, and he’d give you a look before helping you out and guiding you back and giving you the best hug you’ve ever gotten. He’s also a worrier. Sam’s just worried about his friend, and this is probably his gateway into deeper discussions because he knows G isn’t up for the really, really deep ones.

So, we’ve established that these aren’t necessarily the voices we need to put full faith in -- for the ep that is.  (Hetty and Sam know what’s what very often.)

The episode is smart enough to let G speak for himself. He doesn’t do it often, and that’s been a big point in some of his plots. He gets deep here, and he drops his guard. It’s Hetty, and he’s often done it with her. However, he also knows she needs to hear what he has to say. It’s all true, so he’s not lying out of kindness. He’s being honest. He doesn’t do this because Hetty showed him a magic, fun path. He may have ended up on this super specific path because of Hetty, but he was always going to help people. He doesn’t do this because he feels like he has no choice. He does it because he sees the good it does. It allows people to live their lives. That’s all he wants. He wants people to live outside of violence. He has every reason to doubt the good in people. He’s seen the worst in this job, and he saw it before the job. He had abandonment issues not knowing who he was and if he was ever wanted. He had to live with that on top of not only encountering horrible, cruel people, but being left in their charge. Time and time again. His childhood was full of horrible things and horrible people. But he also saw good, innocent people -- his fellow foster kids. 

Sam, Kensi, and Deeks usually mention at least one personal relationship when talking about doing the job, though they also love helping others and explicitly note. In the 11th season, with G’s acknowledging he is no longer a lone wolf, that he does have people close to him, and seeming to be okay with, he still talks with distance about the people he saves. He’s tried the “normal” things beyond the found family: girlfriends, a niece and nephews, steady dwelling places, staying in a job for a while, etc.  He still sees himself as separate from the “normal life.” From the world he saves. The world is full of other people living their lives, not him. He’s not bitter about that. In fact, he kind of misses the aspects to being fully solo. (See? Already very different Akhos. Not bitter. Not feeling entitled to something better or throwing blame around.)

G Callen has had emotional growth in being able to trust more people and let them in. He’s allowed himself to make connections.  Morally, though? He’s still the same person. Because he was never evil. And he never would be. Don’t get me wrong. He’s no saint, and he’d be the first to tell you that. He lives in the gray, though. Always has, and always will. He might have ended up in a different system if he stayed in juvie or kept going back. Even if he never went and ended up in organized crime or on the “wrong” side of the law because that was sort of his only options, or seemed like it, he’d be a total Arkady. (Maybe more...understated, shall we say?) He has the natural skill set and aptitude for organized crime, but you know he’d be helping people one way or another. Probably even be a CI.  He’s clever, and always has been. But he’s never been evil. He might go dark at times, but all these characters have. 

Again, Akhos feels like so many things forged him.  He takes no responsibility for the forging he did of himself. Trauma and horrible experiences do not forge us. That’s a misconception. It permanently affects you, in ways you sometimes don’t understand. It can affect your physical health. It can dig into your DNA. It’s not what makes you you, though. Survival is not a creator of bravery, it is a product of it. (I do want to note here, that the lack of survival does not mean there is an absence of bravery. There is no victim-blaming here.) 

G Callen was impacted by cruelty and tragedy. He got scars from them in various ways. He may have not wanted to get close to people or let them get close to him as a result. However, that doesn’t mean he didn’t care about them. G Callen didn’t go into this life because Hetty told him to or offered it to him, and made it sound like a trip to Disney World every day or like constant 80s training montages. The G Callen who went from agency to agency because, even though he hated the structure, he wanted to do the job. (He also says he left the CIA because the thought they were too shady.) He could have been a private investigator. Or just left and did something less kickass-y.  Something without any rules or bosses.  But he stayed. He didn’t stay because of Hetty. He’s super loyal to Hetty, but he’s also super stubborn.

G Callen sat there tonight and told Hetty that she didn’t fail him, that she didn’t fail any of them, that he does this because he wants people to be able to live their lives and that the world is worth saving. That’s why G Callen has always done this. That’s why when he sees kids in trouble, he doesn’t do what Akhos does and go “Oh, woe is me! You think you have it bad! Look at what life and the people in it have done to me! Aren’t you lucky to still have a parent who might be upset you die in a bomb blast!” G Callen has the opposite of the crab mentality.  He wants to make sure everyone else makes it out of the bucket, usually feeling like he has to stay in it himself -- no matter how often Sam tells him he can come out of the bucket. 

G Callen will always live in the gray, but never the dark.  He knows he’s not meant for a life in the “light.” He’s okay with that. He doesn’t double-down and go and live in the dark, taking down everyone with him. He wants to save people from the dark, no matter what it means for him. 

G Callen is still very often that hurt, little lonely boy who just wanted a family and to be loved and know who he was. To be safe. He was well into adulthood before he knew any of that, really.  He even says as much to Nadir back in “The Seventh Child.”  You find people who make you feel safe. He has talked about the team being family, and he said it tonight. He’s gotten all of that. That stuff is newer; however, he has always wanted other people to be safe, too. His hands are far from clean, and he can be extremely lethal and detached due to his training -- as seen tonight, as well.  But he’ll always help people. It’s who he is. It’s why he does what he does. In the “Matroyshka” episode (another nice maternal name, there), he reacts very strongly to his father calling him a good man. He doesn’t feel like he is, but he wants to be. 

G Callen lived through horror after horror, and he was still never going to approach Akhos-level evil. That’s not how it works. I realize the episode itself seemed to be pushing that more than it didn’t, but it was just having a discourse and exploring things through dialogue and plot -- as good TV does. G Callen would’ve said in his moment of deep honesty with Hetty if she did anything that might have led him to be Akhos.  I know there’s an argument to be made about whether or not Callen is self-aware, but what this ep and the ones before it have shown us is that he so very much is self-aware.  He’s more self-aware than he gets credit for because people mistake behavior changes as a guaranteed result of self-awareness.  (Behavior changes are soooo ingrained. They are nearly impossible to change permanently. It is very serious work and doesn’t signal a lack of attempts to make those changes.)

Anyway, that went even longer than I intended. I could go on and on. Clearly. I just wanted to put it out there that G Callen was never at real risk for becoming an Akhos, and the episode didn’t end with that notion, either. At least not to me.  

#g callen #z rambles on #ncis la #i'm going to pay for this tomorrow #and by this #i mean the lack of sleep #and lack of doing any work to make tomorrow's load lighter

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Sat., May, 17, 2020

Apostle Andronicus and Junia of the 17

The holy, glorious, all-laudable Apostle Junia of the Seventy is commemorated by the Church on May 17 with Apostle Andronicus, and on January 4 with the Seventy. The Seventy Apostles were chosen and sent forth to preach by Christ (Luke 10:1).

Ss. Junia and Andronicus were relatives of the holy Apostle Paul. St Paul mentions them an Epistle: Salute Andronicus and Junia, my kinsmen and fellow prisoners, who are of note among the Apostles, who also were in Christ, before me (Romans 16:7). The service in honor of these saints states that they suffered martyrdom for Christ.

Junia is the subject of debate within the academic world concerning the implications of a female apostle leading within the early Church, that it might suggest the ordination of women. In Orthodox tradition, however, the title of apostle does not necessarily confer the kind of position that the Twelve had from Christ. Rather, especially when used in reference to the Seventy, it designates someone who served as a missionary for the Church, especially in its first generation.  Apostle (from Greek apostolos) literally refers to one who is "sent out," and its origin is in military usage. Subsequent centuries' saints who significantly spread the Orthodox faith are often referred to as equal to the Apostles, and this title is given without reference to gender...Source OrthodoxWiki

St Eudoxia of Moscow

Saint Euphrosyne, in the world Eudocia, was the daughter of the Suzdal prince Demetrius Constantovich (+ 1383), and from 1367 was the wife of the Moscow Great Prince Demetrius of the Don. Their happy union was for Russia a pledge of unity and peace between Moscow and Suzdal.

Saint Alexis, Metropolitan of Moscow, and even Saint Sergius of Radonezh, who baptized one of the sons of Demetrius and Eudocia, had a great influence upon the spiritual life of Princess Eudocia. Saint Demetrius of Priluki (February 11) was the godfather of another son.

The holy princess was a builder of churches. In 1387 she founded the Ascension women’s monastery in the Moscow Kremlin. In 1395, during Tamerlane’s invasion into the southern regions of Russia, the Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God was transferred to Moscow upon her advice, miraculously defending the Russian land. During Lent, the princess secretly wore chains beneath her splendid royal garb. By her patronage the famous icon of the Archangel Michael was painted, and later became the patronal icon of the Kremlin’s Archangel Cathedral.

After raising five sons (a sixth died in infancy), the princess was tonsured as a nun with the name Euphrosyne. She completed her earthly journey on July 7, 1407 and was buried in the Ascension monastery she founded.

An old Russian church poem has survived, the lament of the princess for her husband, who had died at the age of thirty-nine.

Saint Euphrosyne is also commemorated on July 7. 

Source Orthodox Church of America

Acts 11: 19-26, 29-30 NKJV

Barnabas and Saul at Antioch

19 Now those who were scattered after the persecution that arose over Stephen traveled as far as Phoenicia, Cyprus, and Antioch, preaching the word to no one but the Jews only. 20 But some of them were men from Cyprus and Cyrene, who, when they had come to Antioch, spoke to the Hellenists, preaching the Lord Jesus. 21 And the hand of the Lord was with them, and a great number believed and turned to the Lord.

22 Then news of these things came to the ears of the church in Jerusalem, and they sent out Barnabas to go as far as Antioch. 23 When he came and had seen the grace of God, he was glad, and encouraged them all that with purpose of heart they should continue with the Lord. 24 For he was a good man, full of the Holy Spirit and of faith. And a great many people were added to the Lord.

25 Then Barnabas departed for Tarsus to seek Saul. 26 And when he had found him, he brought him to Antioch. So it was that for a whole year they assembled with the church and taught a great many people. And the disciples were first called Christians in Antioch.

Relief to Judea

27 And in these days prophets came from Jerusalem to Antioch. 28 Then one of them, named Agabus, stood up and showed by the Spirit that there was going to be a great famine throughout all the world, which also happened in the days of Claudius Caesar. 29 Then the disciples, each according to his ability, determined to send relief to the brethren dwelling in Judea. 30 This they also did, and sent it to the elders by the hands of Barnabas and Saul.

John 4:5-42 NKJV

5 So He came to a city of Samaria which is called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob gave to his son Joseph. 6 Now Jacob’s well was there. Jesus therefore, being wearied from His journey, sat thus by the well. It was about the sixth hour.

7 A woman of Samaria came to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give Me a drink.” 8 For His disciples had gone away into the city to buy food.

9 Then the woman of Samaria said to Him, “How is it that You, being a Jew, ask a drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.

10 Jesus answered and said to her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is who says to you, ‘Give Me a drink,’ you would have asked Him, and He would have given you living water.”

11 The woman said to Him, “Sir, You have nothing to draw with, and the well is deep. Where then do You get that living water? 12 Are You greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well, and drank from it himself, as well as his sons and his livestock?”

13 Jesus answered and said to her, “Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, 14 butwhoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.”

15 The woman said to Him, “Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst, nor come here to draw.”

16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.”

17 The woman answered and said, “I have no husband.”

Jesus said to her, “You have well said, ‘I have no husband,’ 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one whom you now have is not your husband; in that you spoke truly.”

19 The woman said to Him, “Sir, I perceive that You are a prophet. 20 Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, and you Jews say that in Jerusalem is the place where one ought to worship.”

21 Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe Me, the hour is coming when you will neither on this mountain, nor in Jerusalem, worship the Father. 22 You worship what you do not know; we know what we worship, for salvation is of the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth; for the Father is seeking such to worship Him. 24 God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.”

25 The woman said to Him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When He comes, He will tell us all things.”

26 Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am He.”

The Whitened Harvest

27 And at this point His disciples came, and they marveled that He talked with a woman; yet no one said, “What do You seek?” or, “Why are You talking with her?”

28 The woman then left her waterpot, went her way into the city, and said to the men, 29 “Come, see a Man who told me all things that I ever did. Could this be the Christ?” 30 Then they went out of the city and came to Him.

31 In the meantime His disciples urged Him, saying, “Rabbi, eat.”

32 But He said to them, “I have food to eat of which you do not know.”

33 Therefore the disciples said to one another, “Has anyone brought Him anything to eat?”

34 Jesus said to them, “My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me, and to finish His work.35 Do you not say, ‘There are still four months and then comes the harvest’? Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look at the fields, for they are already white for harvest! 36 And he who reaps receives wages, and gathers fruit for eternal life, that both he who sows and he who reaps may rejoice together. 37 For in this the saying is true: ‘One sows and another reaps.’ 38 I sent you to reap that for which you have not labored; others have labored, and you have entered into their labors.”

The Savior of the World

39 And many of the Samaritans of that city believed in Him because of the word of the woman who testified, “He told me all that I ever did.” 40 So when the Samaritans had come to Him, they urged Him to stay with them; and He stayed there two days. 41 And many more believed because of His own word.

42 Then they said to the woman, “Now we believe, not because of what you said, for we ourselves have heard Him and we know that this is indeed [a]the Christ, the Savior of the world.”

Footnotes:

John 4:42 NU omits the Christ

New King James Version (NKJV) Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved. 

Source Biblegateway

#orthodoxy #spirituality #firstchristian #gospel #scriptures #bible #mysticalchristianity

[queensdivas]

A Damned Soul Chapter 1 (Gwil Fic)

So something new has popped out of my brain earlier this week and one thing that I love to do is avoid homework and papers as much as I possibly can! 

I’m warning yall right now! This isn’t gonna be a light hearted fan fic! It’s got witches, vampires, magic, death, fluff, angst and of course and eventually...smut!  I’m really gonna have fun with this one because I enjoy learning and writing everything under the sun.

I also will be posting this on Wattpad if it’s easier for you to read there instead of here. (TOTH-Girl is my username on Wattpad). If you would like to be tagged just let me know and I will be more than happy to tag you! 

Here we go ladies and gents..I hope you all enjoy this possible train wreck of a fic! 

Next Chapter

Masterlist 

@mexifangorl @leah-halliwell92 @bonafiderocketqueen 

The flame crackles, 

Spitting shining sparks 

And ashes and fire

Into the warming air.

It’s always fighting, 

It’s Always changing, 

Seems always so close

To life.

To it’s burning, 

But beyond its brilliance

The fire defies, denies

And defeats it’s death.

Patience, I believe, 

Is learned in the view.

Because with strength and defiance, 

The coals burn anew.

-Sandra Osborne 

I’d like to think that when you’re executed in public it’s because of the fact you’ve done something horribly wrong. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go anyhow? When you’re in the 13th century England.. eh. Not so much. Being a woman is already hard enough in this time. Being a women whose about to be burned at the stake because she's a full blooded witch..just absolutely peachy. 

“BURN HER!” The village began to scream as I was beginning to enter the village by the priest. A village that once welcomed me to heal their sick, to help women give birth without passing away, and even teach them simple remedies. And now that a church has brought their God...Well..you see how it’s going now. 

Escorted to the top of the wood pile then was shoved against the wooden stake as I just started into the soul of man who dragged me out of my home. The priest...hypocritical bastard! My wrists were bound so tight that it was beginning to cut through my skin already when I tried to at least get somewhat comfortable before I die..and might as well spew the truth and call the priest out for being an absolute hypocrite!

“You poor minded fool who has a twelve year old locked in the basement of the church. Tell me. Doesn’t your God tell you to love all men! To love thy neighbor! Great job at loving thy neighbor you old bastard. I’d like to remind you that your savior Jesus hung around a prostitute in his life when he was preaching your word! Yet he loved her because he preached to love thy neighbor! You are all massive hypocrites who are so caught up in your daft religion that you’ve forgotten the true meaning of love! Go on then! Burn me! It will make you feel better that the only thing you have in your life is religion! I refuse to give you the benefit of me begging for my life!” Screaming to them as moed their torches towards the oil soaked wood. The priest opened his bible to start spewing bible verses from the wretched book! 

“I condemn they to die by fire for going against the nature of God's will! By the spirit of judgement and the spirit of burning! For it is on this day that atonement shall be made for you to cleanse you! You will be cleaned from all your sins before the Lord! Be not conformed to this world! But be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind! That ye may prove what is good, and what is acceptable, and perfect for the will of God! In the name of the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit! May God have mercy on your soul! Any final words before you are taken to the almighty.” His final words echoed in my mind as I looked out into the crowd..

“I’ve been good to you...I’ve been good to all of you as you have been for me. Those who are sane..please hear my final words and I hope that they carry with you through time. Do not follow the path that this priest has laid out because he is a liar...a crook..and no religion should make one kill another! True religion should be love..not execution like this man.” Grinning at the priest as he slammed the Bible shut to walk towards one of the villagers. Yanking the torch from one of them and holding it right over the oil. 

“I condemn you to hell!” He screamed then I tried to lean down close to him with my grin still bright.

“Can’t wait to see you down there then.” Leaning back up then taking one last glance through the crowd. 

His eyes were glowing red even though he wore a black cloak to hide himself from the audience. Though a normal human wouldn’t be able to see this, but I could see him in complete rage. He’s smart enough to know that stepping in would only kill him in the end...he’s already lost most of energy for being outside in the first place. 

We just...we never get the timing right in our lives.. it’s in the end when everything begins playing back again..and again…

~~~~~

The last book from the moving back fit perfectly on the shelf! Nieve floated the last jar of sunflower seeds up to the top of the seed shelf. Now all that’s left is to bless and protect the new building then step up the tablet for payment and we’re open for business!

Nieve yanked down the tapestry we had over the wall to reveal the new mural she had painted on the only empty wall space we have that’s not a bookshelf. The mural was a woman out in a very high grass field with the sun setting. The setting was a very green blue that had white clouds spread across the entire wall. 

“Probably my best work since Campbelltown.” Nodding in agreement as I slid down the ladder so I could see the mural and all its glory. 

“Beautiful. Nice job Nieve.” Telling her as she put her arm on my shoulder. 

“Is everything ready?” She walked over to her pile of brushes so that she could start cleaning up before we open. 

“All that’s left is setting up the tablet. Spices and herbs are on the shelves, books in place, and the reading table is all set to go.” It’s not that I don’t mind that I do most of the work for setting up the shop. I love setting it up because everything has a place and needs to be done right. Sort of a perfectionist. 

“Tell ya what. You get the tablet all set up and I’ll get the place ready for casting out the bad jujus. Should I use cedar or pine this time?” She walked into the back and began cleaning her brushes. 

“Cedar.” Yelling back as I took a glimpse around the shop for a moment. Shop number four I believe now. Don’t think that we go absolutely bankrupt then move on to the next town. On the contrary. As witches we can make our own money if done right and it was our last order given through our teacher Madame Rouge. 

Madame Rouge was our mentor who trained us in the ways of becoming a grande witch. She would always move her shops to small towards across the Uk and even Ireland some times. The ultimate goal of moving around constantly is that we help fellow witches and warlocks who either hide in the shadows from the world or even help them with perfecting their spells. 

But all good things must come to an end. One night Madame Rouge decided to take the evening off so she could rest and we found her passed away in the night with a note for her after life instructions. The first goal being that we continue her work on going across the country to help

Madame Rouge was my mentor who helped me with spells, hexes, becoming one with the gifts I’ve acquired. It was as if I found my new home with Madame Rouge and Nieve eventually joined us after she turned 18. But all good things must come to an end. Madame Rouge was reaching the end of her life and told us to go across the country to save other fellow witches and warlocks who are casted out. When she passed away. Nieve and I set off on our journey throughout the entire country with now calling an abandoned library home in Balmedie Scotland! 

Finishing up the last few details on the tablet as Nieve closed her book to grab the sage that also had rosemary, juniper, and a hit of cedar in it. Rosemary allows for fresh new starts, juniper for bringing a comfort feeling for us and any new sort of people coming in and out, then the cedar for basically cutting off those bad jujus out of the store. 

“You almost ready?” Nodding as I put the tablet onto the stand as I pulled out my rose gold evil eye necklace and grabbed the box of matches from under the counter. She lit the end of the sage as we began with the door and saying the incantation. 

“Blessed be that light energy to come..blessed be that good souls wander through our store.” It’s a simple incantation that does the trick about 90% of the time. It’s almost impossible to keep bad juju away from your living dwelling because it’s as powerful as good juju. Besides. Incantations don’t need to be super long anyhow since if you’re in an emergency situation, you won’t have the time to say a one hundred word spell. 

Once we finished the doorway, a customer already poked their head in as I let her continue onward with the blessing. It was a very old lady with her tiny pug and came into the store. She looked around for a moment as I approached her with my hands rubbing together. 

“Good afternoon! Welcome to Le Rouge! Is there anything I can help you with?” She snapped her fingers so the pug would sit then flicking her finger to lock the door to the shop. OH god..did we enter ministry territory? 

“My name is Madame Maia Whyte. I’m from The Ministry obviously and I’ve heard about you two through the grapevine. You must be Robin La Torneau and Nieve Macleenan We’ve been watching you two for the past few years. The ministry is very pleased on what you two are trying to do and are sitting very well with us. If you should require anything from us then feel free to give us a call.” A business card came out of her pocket as I looked to see only a number on the card. 

“Thank you Madame Whyte. We’ll keep this handy.” Smiling as she nodded then proceeded to leave the shop. Didn’t realize we were causing that much good in the UK anyhow. I know our fellow brothers and sisters over in America are having a difficult time with everyone hating each other. 

The Parliament of Witches and Warlocks was formed a little after the 9th century when we were beginning to be cooked alive, being drowned, and hung by humans who were scared of us. But it wasn’t just humans who were coming after us after a while. Would you believe me if I told you vampires are also running around this world of ours causing mayhem? Just sounds unbelievable doesn’t it? We can cross that bridge in the future with that whole long history lesson. 

This is it! A new store! A fresh start in a little off the coast town. What could possibly happen to us out here!? 

#witch #witch fic #vampire fic #gwilym lee #gwil #gwil x reader #gwily #gwilym x reader #gwilym x oc #vampire gwil #fantasy #gwil fan fic #ben hardy #joe mazzello #rami malek #lucy boynton #bohrap boy #bohrhap #fanfiction #bruh idk what this is #but i hope yall enjoy

[pamphletstoinspire]

A Padre Pio Inspirational Story

“I think people remember this great man, Padre Pio because he was a great saint. He lived the life of a saint. What he did during his life touches all nations. I think the world needs Padre Pio.” – Padre Clemente da Santa Maria in Punta

During World War II, I was a member of the American 15th Air Force stationed in Foggia. While in Italy, I visited Padre Pio and Mary Pyle in San Giovanni Rotondo. I had the honor of serving Mass for Padre Pio and being in the vestry when he put on his vestments for Mass. While there, I asked to be kept safe through the war if it was God’s will. The next day I was to fly on a very dangerous mission. That night, I developed a severe ear infection. The air force doctor refused to let me fly the next day. I pleaded with him to let me fly with my friends but he said absolutely not. I tried in every way to fly but was stopped. How sad to say that the flyer that took my place on this mission was killed by a direct hit by an anti-aircraft shell. If I had been permitted to fly that day, I would have died. – Dr. Patrick Dignam

______________________________

Padre Pio and his Friends from New Jersey

Joe Revelas who currently lives in Clarksboro, New Jersey, met Padre Pio in 1944 when Joe was in the U.S. 15th Air Force division, stationed near Cerignola, Italy during World War II. One day Joe’s chaplain told him that there was a priest named Padre Pio living in a monastery in San Giovanni Rotondo, who had the wounds of Christ. Joe decided that he had to visit him. Public transportation was not readily available during war times so Joe hitchhiked to the monastery. When he arrived, the first person he met was Mary Pyle. Joe told Mary that he intended to go to Padre Pio’s Mass the following day, Sunday, but she insisted that he go at once to the monastery to meet Padre Pio. Joe did not feel prepared and the idea intimidated him. “I am sure Padre Pio has more important things to do than to meet me,” Joe said to himself. Nevertheless, he did what Mary suggested. In the monastery, a priest greeted Joe and asked him the reason for his visit. Joe said he was planning on attending Padre Pio’s Mass the following day. The priest left for a moment and returned with Padre Pio. Joe was feeling very nervous by now but Padre Pio smiled at him and put him at ease. He was friendly and asked Joe about his life and his work in the military. When they said good bye to each other and as Joe was leaving, he looked back and saw that Padre Pio had knelt down to pray, facing the altar of the church.

At the Mass the next day, Joe and the other soldiers who were present were allowed to be in the sanctuary of the church, very close to Padre Pio. Joe noticed his deep recollection during the Mass. At the consecration, Padre Pio stared intently at the host and tears fell from his eyes. There was complete silence in the little 16th century church of Our Lady of Grace. Joe saw clearly the wounds in his hands. “I could feel the presence of Jesus on the altar,” Joe said. “It was awesome. It was like being present at Calvary at the crucifixion. It was the most beautiful Mass I ever attended in my life. I will never forget it.” Although the Mass lasted for two hours, it did not seem long. Afterward, Padre Pio blessed Joe’s crucifix, kissing it reverently before giving it back to him.

Joe, who is now 84 years old, sleeps with the crucifix that Padre Pio blessed, under his pillow every night. Although it was more than 60 years ago when he met Padre Pio, the experience remains very vivid in his memory. “Padre Pio has helped me all these years to stay close to God. I thank God for allowing me to encounter Padre Pio,” Joe said.

______________________________

Mary Pyle wrote the following letter to Joe Revelas on Oct. 20, 1949:

Dear Joe,

This is just a short little note to tell you that I have sent you 100 little Sacred Heart cards with a novena which Padre Pio says every day with the whole community for all of those who ask for his prayers. I thought that it would be nice for all of his far away spiritual children to join their prayers to his. Let us pray with him and according to his intentions.

Padre Pio is becoming more wonderful every day. Consequently the crowds who come to him for help increase and it is a real problem to be able to approach him. Two weeks ago, he healed a paralyzed woman, who had been carried into the church and went away walking without help. You can imagine the excitement, but still more wonderful are the conversions and there are many of them. Do let us try to do our little bit in helping him with our poor little prayers.

As ever, in Jesus Christ, St. Francis, and Padre Pio, Mary Pyle

______________________________

Memories of Padre Pio

Living close to Padre Pio for so many years, Mary Pyle heard many beautiful testimonies from the visitors who came to San Giovanni Rotondo. The following testimony is one that was told to Mary by a woman who lived in Foggia, Italy:

:During the war the woman went to confession several times to Padre Pio. When her brother came back from the war he could not decide whether to continue on in the military or to go into business. She wrote a letter to Padre Pio asking for advice for her brother but gave no information regarding his name, address, or military rank.

Almost immediately, her brother got a response back from Padre Pio which included his name, address, officer’s rank, and regiment. Padre Pio told him that it didn’t matter what work he chose to do because our Lord would treat him in the very same way he had treated his soldiers during the war.

The woman was amazed at the words of Padre Pio. She made enquiries and learned that her brother had been more of a father than a superior to the men he was in charge of. He personally looked after his soldiers with paternal affection when they were sick. All of the soldiers adored him. The woman added that after the war, her brother met with success in all of his undertakings, just as Padre Pio had predicted.

______________________________

Padre Pio received many gifts of the Holy Spirit including the gift of prophecy, as the following story reveals:

In 1916, while in Foggia, Padre Pio and his little nephew one day visited the home of Serafina Pipoli. He asked Serafina to call her nephew and allow the two boys to play together. She has a great veneration for Padre Pio and immediately agreed and so Michelino came to play with Padre Pio’s nephew. When Padre Pio came back to collect his nephew, Michelino’s mother, Rosa, was there also. She asked Padre Pio to pray for her husband as he has been called up to military service once again and was a soldier in the war. Padre Pio said, “I will pray a great deal. But let us all pray to Our Lady because when Michelino grows up there will be another war, and he, too, will go.” Padre Pio’s prophecy came true for in 1940 Italy went to war and Michelino was called up and took part in it.

______________________________

I was honored to meet Padre Pio when I was in the military as a pilot stationed in Foggia, Italy. I had one engine blow up as I was flying a twin engine fighter known as a P38. The black smoke was pouring out but after a time the smoke died down and I returned to the base on one engine. The next day I was checking with the head mechanic and he said, “I have been here a long time and I have seen many things, but that was an act of God if ever I saw one.” When I met Padre Pio he had put his hand on my head and he did the same to the others who were with me. He gave us his blessing that we would all return home safe. – Ray Neameyer

________________________________

Padre Pio’s Words of Faith

“Let us always keep before our eyes the fact that here on earth we are on a battlefield, and that in paradise we shall receive the crown of victory; that this is a testing ground and the prize will be awarded up above; that we are now in a land of exile while our true homeland is heaven to which we must continually aspire. Let us live, then, . . . with a lively faith, a firm hope and an ardent love, with eyes fixed on heaven and the keenest desire, as long as we are travelers, to dwell one day in heaven whenever this is pleasing to God. Let us keep our thoughts, I say, continually fixed on heaven, our true homeland of which this earth is merely an image.” – St.Pio of Pietrelcina – Letters II

#padre pio

[tanoraqui]

This is the last you’ll get of this AU for a while, I think. Until then...bonus points to whoever accurately guesses where/when Whitestone comes in!

[Prologue / 1 / 2 ]

Flashback to several hundred years ago:

Vex did not fall back onto her bed so much as fling herself delightedly, with the express purpose of bouncing. The famed elven bards of Rivendell had, this night, utterly failed to induce restfulness in their listeners.

“I shall be just like Luthien when I am older,” she announced. “Wham! Ha! Aaaa!” She punched the air, and sang a ringing note.

“And marry a human?” Vax, sitting calmly on his own bed, gasped in faux-horror. “Father would be furious.”

Vex rolled onto her elbows and grinned at him. “That is another benefit. You're growing so wise, brother.”

He stuck his tongue out at her. She propped one hand under her chin and continued.

“I do wonder if Men are more...energetic, than Elves. You'd think so, wouldn't you, with how little time they have? It's not just here - even back home, everyone is so dull. Slow. Not at all fun to-”

“Stop!” Vax put his hands over his ears. “I do NOT want to hear about you and...anybody, ever. Not in Mirkwood, not in this shitty house-”

Now it was Vex’s turn to stick out her tongue. But she abated her musing.

“Anyway,” said Vax, once it was safe to uncover his ears, “Tinuviel wasn't as badass as her father.”

“Thingol?” Vex’s voice could not have been fuller of scorn. “What did he do?”

Vax wobbled one hand in the air, palm up. “Banged a Man?” He lifted the other and shook it up and down firmly. “Banged a Maia.”

Vex replied, with that tone of almost genuine sympathy that only a sibling can truly achieve, “I really don't think Gilmore thinks of you the way you-”

A lesser being might not have caught the pillow, so quickly did Vax fling it at her face. But Vex’ahlia, daughter of Syldor, had come of age hunting beasts beneath the dangerous eaves of Mirkwood. Her reflexes were second to none.

“Shut up!” her brother shouted, already reaching for another pillow. “That's not what I- and anyway, no one knows whence- we were just talking, Vex’ahlia, it's not like-”

The rest of the scene was lost in quite a lot of torn cloth and flying feathers.

Even the great translator Professor Tolkien of Oxford University did not dwell, in his similar tale, on every detail discussed at the great council we now come upon. So nor shall I, overly much.

For some context, I should say first that Pike wakes after three days, and when she does, Gilmore has arrived at last, and they are delighted to see one another well. It had been a couple close calls: Gilmore had been attacked on Weathertop just a few days before Pike and her companions, by four of the Nine. As well as had some previous troubles of his own. And Pike, of course, had nearly passed away into wraithhood herself, the sliver of the Witch-Queen’s blade working its way steadily toward her heart for days. But Syldor Half-Elven* is a mighty healer, well-practiced in battling evil wounds of such type, though perhaps never so severe. But hobbits, as Gilmore has been saying for years, are surprisingly hardy folk.

The even dearer reunion is with Wilhand, who has been in Imladris for many years now. He earned his retirement in the Last Homely House with his own great deeds and adventures, if you will recall previous tales. There were several dwarves, and one dragon. He has gone a little deaf, now, and partakes a tad much of wine and sweetmeat—just think what the neighbors would say, he japes to Pike, once they are done hugging. After so many years of adventurous reputation, he’s acting like a respectable hobbit at last!

(This tale that I am telling now has fewer dwarves, and…well. We shall have to see about the matter of dragons.)

It is another couple days before Pike is well enough to see Grog, for he is camped out on the opposite shore of the now-quieted river. There is a limit to how far people will go to make good with unlikely allies, and that limit is an orc in Rivendell. Grog, frankly, agreed. The valley is too bright everywhere for his tastes. He has not been too alone: when Scanlan was not fretting at Pike’s bedside, he was across the ford, teaching Grog drinking songs from the Shire. With accompanying drink, of course. Minxie visited a time or two, and Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan more often. They brought much of the best drink.

First, however, the Council of Syldor. Dark times are come to Middle Earth, and so it is not just for Pike’s burden that people have assembled from near and far, seeking advice in trade for ill but urgent tidings.

From Uriel’s elven court of Mirkwood comes Allura, a lady and a scholar, to say that dark things are stirring once more in Dol Guldur. Not long did the fortress lay silent, after the cleansing dealt by the Wise back when Wilhand was out adventuring. Once more, spiders spin their webs, and orcs move and Black Riders have been sighted.

Lowbearer Vord, a dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, comes with his ward to bring similar news, and darker yet. War is brewing to the east, for the Lonely Mountain and Dale as well. Messengers have come in Vecna’s name to treat. They also ask after a hobbit, and a ring - “a trifle”, they say. Twice they have been rebuffed, but a third and final choice approaches…

Maryanne Darington of Minas Tirith arrived just this morning, with tale of a city beset and a dream most strange. For the latter, she seeks council; of the former, she speaks only with weariness and pride. Long has Gondor stood against the Enemy, and long shall it - she hopes. Osgiliath has fallen, and her brother’s dream spoke of Isildur’s Bane.

And what if that ring, that trifle, that doom of Elendil’s eldest son? That tale falls to Syldor, who was there for much of it - for times lost save in song and story, and the living memory of a very a few still on this earth.

I will not bore you with a retelling of those great events. The forging of the great rings, the betrayal of Sauron, the Last Alliance of Men and Elves… I’m sure you are likewise familiar with the parts of the tale that Gilmore fills in, of the finding of the One Ring by first one small person, and then another.

There, of course, the tale does a hop, skip, and a jump, as Wilhand tells his part - how he lost his party beneath the Misty Mountains and came across a small golden ring instead, as well as a young orc being strangled in the dark by a pale, slippery sort of being. This was the selfsame orc who had earlier tried to defend Wilhand against his own monstrous kin, so Wilhand sought to return the favor. Together, though it was not quite the tender-hearted hobbit’s plan, he and the orc killed the strange, frog-like beast, and tended each other’s wounds and escaped into the sunlight before parting ways.

That young orc, of course, was Grog, because orcs live as long as I, the storyteller, want them to live. He is very much not at this council - but while Pike was recovering, Gilmore and Minxie together got a story out of him, of wandering south and east, as countless of his kind were summoned over these last many years, and saw many terrible things and endured far, far worse, until the Great Eye knew the name “Trickfoot” and the race “hobbits”, and the land “Shire.”

(This, GIlmore tells with sympathy in his voice, and Wilhand takes and squeezes Pike’s hand as she shudders for their friend, remembering too well the Nine’s deathly cruelty. Because fuck you, Tolkien; even orcs don’t deserve that.)

Gilmore also speaks of his own recent captivity at the tower of Orthanc, at the hands of the wizard Curunir. (“Sauruman” in other tales, but in this world of Exandria, so enamoured was she of the name the elves gave her that she entreated its use by all, and they weren’t assholes so it stuck.)

So...the quest.

In the books, the moment is still, as they all stare at the Ring on the table in the center of the circle. This small, golden ring, which holds all their fates. In the films, there is shouting, discord already being sown by the power of the Ring. To guard it with the wisdom of Elves, or the strength of Men, or the strange, untouchable nature of Matthew Mercer, back in the Old Forest t the edge of the Shire, who would be First and Last? Or to take it, to use it, to overthrow the Enemy and win peace at last for Middle Earth? No, no--it must be destroyed, that is known. But how? And, moreover, who? Who could bear such a perilous quest, unspeakable temptation and greater peril, to the Fires of Mount Doom itself?

“I’ll do it.”

Pike’s voice rings clear, through silence or hubbub. She does not stand tall but she does stand forth, with her head high and her eyes alight. Her shaking hands curled into steady fists.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though I do not know the way.”

[and now, for dramatic effect, I think I will follow the films]

“I have some knowledge of it,” says Gilmore, and comes to stand beside her, a tall and steady presence. “I will help you bear this burden, Pike Trickfoot, as long as I may.”

“And I.” Minxie - or Keyleth, perhaps, we ought call her - kneels to hobbit height. “Broken or not, my sword is yours.”

“And my axe!” Kima of the Iron Hills, the Lowbearer’s ward, jumps to her feet. She has been fidgeting since the council convened.

Allura shoots the dwarf a skeptical look, and steps forth as well. “Whatever aid the Kingdom of Mirkwood can give, or even just I myself, is yours, little one.”

“I think that’s our line, darling.”

Syldor scowls as Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan step from the shadows by the door. His children by a Silvan elf, now deceased, they are estranged, and had not been invited to this meeting. They came anyway, and now take matching places at Pike’s back.

“We’ve got you, Pickle,” says Vax, with a comforting hand on her shoulder. She smiles up at him.

“And me!”

Scanlan’s appearance from hiding is much less graceful. He falls out of a tree. But he picks himself up and scrambles to stand by Pike. “No way is Pike going to go destroy all evil without me.”

Syldor casts his eyes to the heavens, as if seeking salvation. Maryanne snickers for just a moment as she stands, before her sobriety returns. “If this is truly the will of the Council…” she says slowly, and puts a hand on the hilt of her sword. “Then Gondor will see it done.”

“Fine,” Syldor says with perhaps more force than necessary. But he, too, sobers as he surveys the group assembled before him. “The Enemy fields Nine Riders - so we shall send forth Nine Walkers. The Fellowship-”

“Actually,” Scanlan interrupts. “Mr. Elf Sir Guy. Sorry, but we’re ten.”

“What? No, you are-”

Scanlan Shorthalf, who knows his way around a story, crosses his arms and stares down Syldor Peredhil, son of Eärendil, of the line of Beren and Luthien. He says, confidently: “There’s no way Grog is gonna want to miss this.”

*A/N: This is the character swap-in I’m least comfortable with, because tbh Elrond deserves better, but I am assuaged by how much canon!Syldor would hate this title.

#lotr #critical role #fanfiction #i am NOT tagging everyone #my fic #Let Vax Bang a Maia 2k17 #actually if you know lotr and cr and perhaps have half a sense of how my brain works #you should at this point be able to anticipate pretty much everything

[imagine-loki]

A Warrior’s Life

TITLE: A Warrior’s Life

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Fifty AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Viking Loki coming to your village, raiding, and pillaging, before deciding there is something about you that intrigues him and deciding to take you back to Asgard with him. There, you are forced to learn a new life and language, and though you hate what has happened to you, you learn that Loki is not as bad as you think.

RATING: Mature

Loki immediately sent a second boat to catch up to the first, to tell Thor of Odin’s death. The funeral was a sombre affair, with the children mourning their doting grandfather as the realm mourned its king. As his funeral boat was set alight, Loki held his mother as she attempted to hold herself together in front of the gathered crowd, while Sif and Maebh stood holding their infants, with the other children by their sides.

With Thor not on realm, the full responsibility fell on Loki’s shoulders to organise everything required after Odin’s funeral as well as Ásvaldr’s visit. As a result, Maebh was constantly at his side, even as Heimdall discussed Thor's coronation arrangements for after his return, Loki insisted Maebh even feed Vali in the room, terrified to be without her for the shortest of times, as she was more focused than he.

“How are you able to do such?” He demanded in frustration. “You organised everything, and fed our son at the same time.”

“Because I have not just lost my father, so my mind is clearer.” She stated factually as she winded Vali. “You are being too hard on yourself, taking on too many tasks at once.”

“They all need to be accomplished.” Loki snarled back.

Maebh ignored his anger and continued to speak calmly. “I am aware, but you try to do them all at the same time, that is causing nothing to be accomplished, do them one at a time and you will achieve more.” She explained. “And as for Vali, I need not concentrate too much with him. It is merely, eat, wind and sleep, with your mother stealing his company most of the day.”

“She is not taking it well.” Loki sighed in frustration, wishing to be of better help to his mother.

“She said they were married almost forty summers, I do not expect her to. She will get better with time.”

“Thor sent word this morning.” Maebh listened. “He is coming back early, but not immediately.”

“That is to be expected; there is nothing he can do now. What has he done with regards those who are loyal to Uí Neill?”

“Well there were a few actually attacking them, they were easily dealt with, but overall, people are not wishing to interact with the ‘brutish invaders’.”

Maebh placed Vali in his basket. “I see.”

“Maebh?” Loki knew that tone.

“Sean was saying that there is an idea to revolt against us, backed by Uí Neill.”

“Yes, he told Thor, what of it? Any that have been seen to act in such a manner have been dealt with as I stated, fear not.”

“I cannot help but fear. And Ásvaldr, what is the situation there?”

“He is currently dealing with issues of his own, apparently there are a few more that are displeased with his dealings with us. I am not sure how that will affect things.”

“Tell him to deal with that before his arrival; we need little notice for his coming here, we are prepared, so tell him not to concern himself with us, but with his upstarts.” Maebh suggested.

Loki rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. “I am sorry for my moods, I am just overwhelmed, I would have been lost without you.”

“I know.” She came behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “I know.”

“I am sorry for how I have treated you of late.”

“You are under duress my dear Loki, I take none of it to heart.” She smiled as he groaned in pleasure.

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“You overestimate me.”

Loki pulled her around so that she was on his lap. “I would not be alive but for you my darling, I would merely have given up without you and our sons to keep me fighting for my life in Svartálfheim. And even in something as simple as listening to my woes, you are there, faithful and taking note of what I need.”

“I am your wife, is that not my duty?” She stroked his face as she pressed her forehead and nose against his.

Loki leant forward and captured her lips with his. “Well then, as well as being a wonderful being, I must commend you on being the most wonderful wife.” He smiled, kissing her again.

“There is a baby in the room need I remind you.”

Placing his hands under her upper thighs, Loki hoisted himself and Maebh up in one strong movement before carrying her to their bedroom. “One child in training, one sleeping in the living area, and we are not going to be disturbed.” He grinned wickedly against her mouth as he ceased speaking every few moments to kiss her, pushing her against the wall and using himself as a means to keep her there. “And were you to become with child again…”

“Is that your plan?” Maebh smiled, kissing him back, ensuring her legs were wrapped tight around his waist.

“It’s a good plan.” He slid his hands up her dress, pushing it out of the way as he pressed in against her more.

X X X X X

News had reached Thor of Odin’s death, but he would not leave Midgard until their interests there were secured and there was little risk to those who remained. Until such time as he felt that was achieved, he gave his full backing on his brother to continue as he was in Asgard.

Loki listened as one realms person informed him of some plague on their crops, the entire of which had seemed to be stricken by some illness and rotted.

“And have you brought some with you to prove your claim?” Heimdall demanded.

“No sir.”

“Good.” Loki stated, the shocked farmer and the high ranking lord looked at him.

“If they were brought here, they could have spread among other plants.” Maebh stated as Loki nodded in agreement.

“So how do we find out if his claims are true?” Challenged one of the older men that made up the council.

Maebh looked to her husband, who nodded for her to continue, seeing that she clearly had some suggestion to make. “I would suggest having someone go and verify his claim and report back to my husband. After that, dig up and burn all the affected crops, and plough the land again, do not grow anything on it that will die, perhaps grass for a year, keep some sheep or goats on it.”

“But how will I survive on grass?” The farmer asked in fear.

“Anything you require to feed your family will be given to you with some assistance.” Loki stated.

“Your highness, that is absurd.” The councilman stood. “We cannot simply give food away just because his crops failed.”

“I never stated it would be ‘given away’, I merely stated we would assist. The milk yield from the animals would aid in the costs also.” Loki sat straighter in the throne. “I am not going to have a hard working family starve for reasons outside their control. As my wife stated, we will send one to check his claim, if it is true, he does not deserve to suffer.”

“Thank you Your Highnesses.” The farmer bowed gratefully to both Loki and Maebh.

After he left, Loki gave a small smile to his wife, who turned to go to Vali, whom she suspected required another feeding.

“So we are just going to become charity to any who require it, is that it? We all suffer because one has?” The councilman bellowed furiously.

“Know your place Randúlfr.” Loki warned. “I will state this one last time to you, we will not let an innocent family suffer. My father would not have allowed it, my brother would not allow it, and by the Gods, I will not allow it.”

“You think with your heart boy and not your head, that is why you are not fit to be king.” Randúlfr stated.

“You dare speak to him in such a manner.” Maebh turned and walked towards the older man, Heimdall and one or two others hastily making room for her as she passed them. “He is still of higher standing than you and you best not forget such, lest you wish to feel more than the crack of leather on your back for such insolence.” She snarled viciously. “You think you will suffer for the few crops it will cost to feed that man and his children, you, born into a fine homestead, with plenty of lands, of your fathers hard earned work, while you sit back and get others to do your work for you while you grow fat on meats you do not deserve and crops you did not plant.”

“I think my wife put it even better than I, and her idea of punishment for your insolence is just.” Loki smirked. He turned to two guards by his chair. “Take him outside and ensure all know why he is receiving a whipping.”

“Your Highness, please.” Randúlfr begged, realising that he was about to feel the consequences of his actions.

“You are all for titles when you think they will save you for punishment.” Loki stated coldly. “If you think it unjust, ask my brother for his opinion upon his return, I very much doubt he will be any more lenient than I, matter of fact, I would wager he will give you a few more for your continued insolence.” Loki rose to his feet. “I think I shall go check on my sons now, Maebh?” Giving Randúlfr one last glance, Maebh turned and walked back to where she had been previously heading. When they reached another area of his parents dwelling, Loki rubbed his face. “Why must they fight change so much?” He groaned.

“You did the right thing. Though I would suggest to Thor on his return to think about altering the council somewhat. There are too many old fat wealthy men with only their own interests at heart on it for his rule to be a smooth one.”

“I think you right my love.” Loki pulled her close to him. “And may I say, you were exceptionally vicious with old Randúlfr there.”

“He spoke ill of you, I could not but be angered.”

“And he will be reminded for a long time to come that I am married to the most formidable woman in all realms.” Loki leant down and kissed her forehead lovingly. “I still cannot fathom what I did to deserve you.”

“I cannot fathom either, but pray to the Gods in thanks for it.” Maebh smiled. “Now, if I do not feed our son in the next few minutes, I fear I will explode.”

“They are looking rather full.” Loki grinned looking down her dress.

“Do not even think about it.” Maebh warned, knowing the look in his eye. “I will feed our son, and then you can make such comments.”

“Spoil sport.” Loki quipped as his wife went to retrieve the infant from his grandmother.

“Your Highness?”

“Heimdall.” Loki gave consent for the other man to join him.

“Randúlfr has been punished, ten lashings. The people agree with you and Princess Maebh.”

“Of course they do, they fear this could spread and they may be the ones requiring our assistance next. And how is Randúlfr now?”

“Angered and humiliated, but very much humbled. I think the most of other councilmen enjoyed Princess Maebh’s somewhat blunt words.”

“They were quite amusing it must be said.” Loki grinned thinking for his wife making a man twice as tall and three times as wide cower from her. “She is feared, many are willing to attest to her skill and ability.”

“Indeed, there is a messenger here from Svartálfheim.”

“Bring him in.” Loki instructed, fearing what was awaiting him.

“It is a simple message I am afraid. Ásvaldr is dead.”

“What?”

“His home was burnt to the ground as he and his family slept. None could have survived such a blaze apparently.”

“What does this mean for us?” Loki asked fearfully.

“War. The next in line after his family despises us; his brother is the man who attacked you.” Heimdall answered, his face stern and solemn.

“Send a boat, we need to get Thor here immediately.” The men turned to see Maebh standing at the door, her fearful face echoing their own.

#loki #other #submission #submitted fic #wolfpawn #a warrior's life #chapter 50 #viking au #village #raiding #pillaging #intrigues #asgard

[lisagintexas]

September 8, 2019

Usually at the end of breakfast every morning one of the young men shares something from the scriptures. I really liked the one this morning so thought I would share it. He read John 15 where Jeshua says, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that bears not fruit he takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, he prunes it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine, no more can you, except you abide in me.”

A grapevine is the picture Jeshua is talking about and since we are harvesting grapes here, it is very apparent that the branches that are not close to the vine, but are disconnected are the ones that do not bear fruit. So what does it mean to abide in me. 1 John 2:6 says “he who says he abides in him ought himself also to walk just as he walked.” 1 John 4:16 says “And we have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him. And Psa. 61:4 says “I will abide in your tabernacle forever.” So to abide in him means to walk, to live as Jeshua did. He was a Jew. He obeyed his Fathers commandments. Do we? We are to love as God loves. God tells us how to love through his commandments, all of his instruction/Torah. Do we read the Torah and follow his instruction? Will we abide in his tabernacle forever as David said he would?

We harvested in Shiloh in the morning and then went to the archeological dig for a tour. Shiloh is the place where the tabernacle dwelt for 369 years after Israel came into the land, conquered it and all the tribes spread out on their inherited land given to them by God. Three times a year, at Passover, Shavuot (Pentecost) and Sukkot (Feast of Tabernacles) they all came to Shiloh where the tabernacle was to bring their offerings and to rejoice. A part of the tour which was new was a hologram of the tabernacle. It was really amazing!! The place where they believe the temple stood is surrounded by hills where the Israelites would have congregated to eat the offerings and still be in view of the tabernacle. Boaz, our tour guide, was very knowledgeable about scriptures that tell us about all that happened during the time the tabernacle was here and the history before and after.

After dinner, Ben spoke to us about the Temple Mount. Here are some notes I took from his presentation. Ezekiel prophesies of a time when they worshipping idols in the Temple, and their backs are toward the temple of YHVH and their faces toward the east and they are worshipping the sun. Great abominations Israel commits! (Ezekiel 8:6-16) But what does the Temple mean to Christianity. We are far removed from it and do not understand the temple or worship at it. God’s presence was in the Temple and has not been on earth for 2000 years. What does the Temple Mount mean to God?

Let’s go back to the beginning and God’s relationship with man. God physically walked with Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. They lost that ability when they sinned and were sent out of the garden which was blocked by two cherubim (angels). At Mount Sinai God spoke to Moses and said, “Let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” (Ex. 25:8). God gave them instructions to build the tabernacle. But it was temporary, moveable. David wanted to build a house for God, but God’s house is to be a house of peace, so since David had been the man to fight the battles for Israel, God chose his son Solomon to build the temple.

In Solomon’s prayer In 1 Kings 8 he asks a question we probably all wonder about, “but will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold the heaven and heaven of heavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that I have builded?” Then he asks for God to “respect his prayer and that God’s eyes would be open toward this house night and day...and hearken to the supplication of your servant, and of your people Israel, when they shall pray toward this place, that you hear in heaven your dwelling place; and when you hear, forgive. Moreover concerning the stranger, that is not of your people Israel...when he shall come and pray toward this house, hear you in heaven your dwelling place, and do according to all that the stranger calls to you for...”. And YHVH said to Solomon, “I have heard your prayer and your supplication, that you have made before me; I have made holy this house, which you have built, to put my name there for ever, and my eyes and my heart will be there perpetually.” (1 Kings 9:3) “When Solomon had made and end of praying, fire came down from heaven, and consumed the burnt offering and the sacrifice; and the glory of YHVH filled the house” (2 Chron. 7:1-2). It is hard for us to imagine the glory of God filling the temple, but God did. And He said he would hear the prayers of Israel and the foreigner that prayed toward His temple. The temple gave mankind a physical way to come into a relationship with Him. It is said in the time of Jeshua, the second temple was so bright and beyond imagination,and that you had not seen a beautiful building till you saw the temple. But Israel was in a dark period and the house of God was neglected.

Joseph did not neglect the temple. He and Mary brought Jeshua there according to the commandment of purification after childbirth. Luke 2:25-27 we see that the Holy Spirit led Simeon to come to the temple when Jeshua was there. Jeshua was in the temple at 12 years old sitting with the teachers and listening and asking questions (Luke 2:46). He calls the temple his father’s house and he cleans it out from those who were desecrating it. His zeal for his fathers house had consumed him. There are many references to Jeshua at the temple. Scripture records two times when Jeshua wept, once over Lazarus and the second time when he prophesies the destruction of the temple. What’s our perspective on the temple? Is it the same as our Messiah?

When Paul speaks about our body being the temple of the Holy Spirit, does that replace the physical temple? If so, somebody forgot to tell the disciples! They were continually in the temple. Through the book of Acts you read about them in the temple. In Acts 3:1 Peter and John went up together at the time of the morning prayers. Acts 5:42 says the apostles were daily in the temple teaching and preaching about Jesus the Messiah.

The Holy Spirit can still fill us, but the temple still provides a physical place that the presence of God dwells where we can physically walk with him. It is God who gave the master design for exactly how His house was to be built, and it is God who said to build a sanctuary so that He might dwell amongst us. The Holy Spirit was in many before Jeshua and after his death and resurrection. The tabernacle and temple of God also existed before and after Jeshua and His people throughout the ages on and off have experienced the temple.

But for 2000 years it has been gone. Sacrifices and offerings and the temple seem very foreign to most Christians and to many Jews. That is certainly changing for the Jews as they are experiencing the promises of God fulfilled to them in the land daily. Christians are also being awakened to the reality of the temple. Did you know the area where Jeshua drove out the money changers was the courtyard of the Gentiles. That was the area for people like us to come and pray and worship and bring offerings. This area was not being used much anymore by the nations...they were not coming, so the money changers set up shop there. Jeshua boldly cleared them out saying “my fathers house is a house of prayer for all nations.” Read Isa. 56:6-7 which is where Jeshua was quoting from. It says “the sons of the foreigners (that’s the Gentiles) that join themselves to YHVH, to serve him, and to love the name of YHVH, to be his servants, and every one that keeps the sabbath from polluting it, and takes hold of my covenant, even them will I bring into my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar, for my house will be called a house of prayer for all nations.”

We have lived without the temple so long we don’t know what we are missing. It’s like a child that grows up without a father. He or she doesn’t know what they have missed because they never had the experience. Life without a father seems normal when it truly is not! Many scriptures in the prophets speak about the rebuilding of the temple. God’s house has been in ruins for 2000 years. Do we long for it and have the zeal for it that our rabbi and messiah Jeshua had? Are we those from the nations that Isaiah is prophesying about? I know my opportunities to come to Israel have made me zealous for the temple. My understanding of it and excitement about it is real now. On Wednesday we go up to the Temple Mount. It’s hard to imagine God’s house being there again, but some day it will.

[gregnas-the-grouch]

A little meeting

The port of Slateport City has always been known to bustle with the humdrum of commerce, ever so lively. Large mobs of humans would often gather at the assorted fishmongers, clamoring for the exquisite seafood that laid bare before them. The sun shined brilliantly in the sky, the warm sea breeze wafting through the air, ever so gently skirting across people’s faces. Not that they had the time to appreciate such a small grace of nature. Well, all but one, that is.

A human female, proudly sporting a vibrant red dress that flowed like her long black hair with sunglasses casually strode through the crowd. Her skin had a light almond color to it, smooth as silk, yet hid the muscles of iron beneath them. Not broad or bulky, but firm and strong. Showing little care in the world at those who gawked at her towering height. Indeed, this was a woman that men lusted for, both power and beauty wrapped together ever so delicately. And though she enjoyed the occasional flirting, this human had more important matters at hand. Keeping her eyes peered out, the female seeked out a particular building. The Oceanic Museum, to be precise. A rather large building, it wouldn’t take long for its location to be found.

Sure enough, the female came across it, as large and tacky as ever. How revolting. Letting out a sigh, she could only muse at how wretched a spot would serve as the established meeting spot. Not wishing to waste any more time, the tall female strode confidently towards the museum, begrudgingly handing over the fee to gain entrance. As fate would have it, today was a slow day. Nary a soul in sight, aside from the occasional tourist, mouth open like a Slowpoke or the patrolling Museum guards, eternally bored out of their minds.

Having nothing better to do herself, the woman waltzed up to one of the more prominent displays. The ancient remains of a long extinct pokemon, a Kabutops. Though, considering the human has beared witness to a small handful throughout her travels, perhaps extinct was no longer accurate. Before she had any time to appreciate the skeleton, an all too familiar voice called out behind her.

“And here I thought you were above using magic to disguise yourself, Baozhai.” Turning around, Bao couldn’t help but shoot a snarky grin at the Gothitelle before her. The dapper clothing, the wizened cane and peculiar umbrella. But above all else, those two piercing purple eyes. “Ah, Haos, as if you’re one to talk.” The former empress retorted, hands on hips. Haos could only tug at his neck collar a bit. “Hardly. Appearances are necessary to maintain these days. Mine is a matter of importance, yours is a matter of pride.” Haos scoffed, seemingly amused at Baozhai’s comment. There was a brief pause before both broke out into a slight chuckle, walking up to each other and embracing in a gentle, yet light hug. After a moment, they quickly broke it off with warm smiles.

“Since you’ve shown yourself the way, would you care if I give you the tour?” Haos asked, bowing slightly as he pointed the tip of the umbrella towards the western wing of the museum. Bao could only give an exasperated sigh. “We’ve been doing this every year since this place opened. It would be rude for me to decline, even if I’m well acquainted with the entire establishment, my mentor~” And without another word, both began their brief tour, side by side.

They were silent, quietly admiring the various exhibits. From fossils to details about the ocean and its ecosystem. It wasn’t long before Haos spoke up. “Do you know why I like the ocean so much, my protege?” Baozhai shook her head no, the empress never did have much interest in the ocean. She showed concern in much more solid state of affairs. Her attention only averted for a second before returning to Haos, who seemed to be waiting ever so keenly. “It’s vast, mysterious and as beautiful as it is dangerous. What dwells there, even the deities that preside over us, remain ignorant to the unseen horrors slithering just out of reach… You know who I’m referring to, don’t you?” Baozhai merely smirked grimly in response. “How could I not, master? The Nameless Ones. Abominations that, despite all their power, the ever so gracious gods of our realm either ignore or remain oblivious to… I believe you said your father’s sovereign job was to preside over their jail cell?” Haos merely laughed, staring intently at the fossilized remains of a Omastar. “Knowledge is a terrible burden, my friend. It can lead to great prosperity, or even greater despair. Mortals go insane, gods shrink in fear. This world… This universe is ever so delicate. I’ve come to learn that much. In the blink of an eye, everything you know could vanish without even a warning. Perhaps if I knew now, I wouldn’t have done what I did back then…” Haos muttered with a somber tone, only to be startled by Baozhai’s rather cruel laughter. One that sent a chill down his spine.

“Nonsense, we are who we choose to be. For even you, with all your gifts and foresight, could not prevent the atrocities that lay bare on your hands. On all our hands.” Staring down at her hands, Baozhai clenched them tightly, angered by the illusion she had cast upon herself. “Embrace who you are, let your sins drive that needle ever closer to your heart. Knowing one day, it could end in a brutal display.” Haos paused, pondering the Cofagrigus’s words, if but for a moment.

“Tell me, did you know some of your old followers are still active? Seems like they’re determined to find you, even after all these years.” The Gothitelle expected silence, but to his surprise, Baozhai responded, though her tone was deadly serious. “Yes, they’ve been waiting so long. I shall reward their patience-” “-Even if you’re undeserving of said patience, no?” The Gothitelle interrupted, a calm look in his eyes. Baozhai went silent, her eyes narrowed as she felt inclined to retort, but no words slipped from her lips. Haos decided to continue the conversation. “Did you know they've searched five different regions for you? Despite your clan’s penchant for warfare. I must admit, they’ve been surprisingly diplomatic in their quest. No bloodshed, hardly a bruise here or there… Makes you wonder what a thousand years of undeath can do to someone, no?” At that moment, Haos stepped unnervingly close to Baozhai’s face. The ghost’s powerful amber eyes narrowing behind those thick shades as her master’s eyes glowed ominously.

“I know why you are truly here, Baozhai. And while some may applaud you for returning to them, others spit upon your very face for abandoning them. I suggest you withhold on your imminent arrival, if but for the time being.” The Gothitelle held up a card in front of Baozhai. Baozhai seemed hesitant about picking it up, but Haos’s urgent expression lent her some strength as she swiftly picked it up. It held the picture of a monstrous being, wreathed in white flames. Its towering silhouette encompassing the entire forest it wrought unspeakable brutality upon. And yet, it seemed familiar to the empress, who studied it intricately as Haos continued. “I would like you to return to where Yemir is located. I sense something… terrible.” And yet, Baozhai shot her mentor a look of bewilderment. “Yemir? Please tell me you’re joking. That brute is so… No, she can handle herself. Let her drown in misery a while longer.” Baozhai spat, offended that Haos would even suggest putting Yemir’s safety before her people. Before she left, Haos strongly gripped her by the arm, his expression anything but joking. “I would not waste your time if I did not think this was something insignificant. I must confess… Yemir. No, that entire family. They worry me.” Gripping his cane tightly, he stared at the ground.

“The futures of mortals and gods, the stars lay them bare for me to see, especially once death is near. But those three? I see static, an intangible mess of blurred pictures and distorted noises…Except for when looking through the future of someone or something else.” Needless to say, it caught Baozhai’s attention as she stared into Haos’s face with such intensity. “Tell me, then, what would you have me do, Haos?”

“Simple, I wish for you to return to Yemir. Nothing will prevent that card from coming true. But I need to know why! However, I will relinquish the followers over to you. Provided you have enough time to come up with a reasonable excuse for your absence. Just be warned, Jarvis can only keep them preoccupied for so long. After that, the rest falls upon you.” Haos explained in a businesslike manner, hands firmly planted on his cane. Baozhai pinched her forehead in annoyance, this day had turned out to be anything but pleasant. “Fine, just give me some time to myself.” The phantom uttered in annoyance. Haos bowed his head in understanding. As he turned around, Haos made note of the nearby gift shop and fancied himself a visit there as Baozhai contemplated on what to say.

(( Haos and Baozhai are available for asks. But Baozhai has now officially moved to @crumblingremnants so be sure to ask her there. ))

#plot #baozhai #haos

[raise-our-glasses-to-freedom]

Fins and Needles: Alexander Hamilton X John Laurens

Word Count: 5394

Summary: Alexander Hamilton, starring as the Little Mermaid. 

Warnings: Mentions of blood

Casting

The Little Mermaid: Alexander Hamilton

The Prince: John Laurens

The Sea-King: George Washington

The Mermaid Sisters: Marquis de Lafayette ; Hercules Mulligan ; Angelica Schuyler ; Eliza Schuyler

The Sea-Witch: Peggy Schuyler

Once upon a time, the waters of all the oceans glimmered as blue as the sky, and these waters were so deep that no man nor creature could swim to the bottom; and the pillars of all the buildings in the world, all upright and joined together at each end, would only graze the surface of what dwelled in the deepest parts of the ocean. Beyond these steeples would dwell the giant whales and fish bigger than any mortal has caught; deeper still one would find the sea-monsters of your deepest nightmares, the ones in the stories told by nannies to keep children away from the water; and in the deepest part of the ocean, where the water ends and the sand begins, dwelled the kingdom of the Sea-King.

One must not imagine that the deepest parts of the ocean contain only sand, for many things live here: beautiful flowers, adorned with vibrant colours that mortals will never gaze upon in their lifetime; trees with full green leaves, and stems so pliant that the water causes them to sway as if they had life; the stunning fish, gliding between these trees like the birds on the mortal lands; and above all, the subjects of the Sea-King.

These people are not like you and I in their appearance; they have the head and torso of a mortal, but below their waist, their skin merges into a fish-tail of great length and splendor. Their fingers are webbed; and their mortal torso is covered in scales and fins. Despite their foreign appearance, these creatures are magnificent to the mortal eye; however, many a captain has lost their ship and their life to these creatures’ enchanted voices.

The Sea-King was respected and loved by his people, and he in return treated them all with dignity. There were few of a rank as high as the Sea-King; and he was proud of this, for he wore twelve oysters on his tail, whereas others of high rank were only permitted to wear six. Few were unaware of the Sea-King’s majesty; however, only his close advisors were permitted to address him by his given name, George Washington.

Of all the sea-people, the most splendid of them all were the five children of the Sea-King: three Sea-Princes and two Sea-Princesses. The eldest of these, Angelica, was an intelligent, witty Sea-Princess, who would one day become and excellent Sea-Queen. The second and third children, Hercules and Lafayette, were amusing, playful Sea-Princes who loved practical jokes. Eliza, the fourth child, was a sweet, good-natured Sea-Princess who loved her family and her people with her entire heart. The fifth child of the Sea-King, the youngest Sea-Prince, was named Alexander. The youngest Sea-Prince was curious, constantly exploring the kingdom of his father.

The five children had grown up in the underwater palace of their father. The grand gothic windows, made of amber, were constantly open; and the fish swam in and out of the palace, as carefree as fish could possibly be, allowing the children to touch them and feed them with their hands. The walls were made of coral; and the roof was made of shells, opening and closing as the water flowed over them. In the center of each of these shells was a giant pearl, and each of these pearls were fit for the diadem of a queen. Outside the palace, the flowers that grew were vibrant reds and beautiful oranges, and the fruit that grew on the trees glittered like gold.

Each of the siblings were granted a piece of the garden to decorate as they wished. While the four elder siblings decorated their gardens with flowers of the colours they loved, Alexander would constantly bring artifacts that he had discovered from shipwrecks and add them to his garden collection.

Alexander was a strange child, always fascinated by the world above the sea. He wished for nothing more than to visit this mysterious world. He would constantly ask his father of stories about the people who lived above the water, always wishing to know about the strange manners and customs of their lands.

“Father,” he would always ask, “Father, what is the world like above the sea?”

“Alexander,” the Sea-King would reply, “there are people there, but not people like you and I. They do not swim in the air; they walk around on legs, which are not like our tails, but two long limbs attached to the waist.”

“They must look so strange, father.”

“They are strange to us, Alexander, but only in the way that we are strange to them.”

“Do they live forever?” Alexander asked once.

“Not on the land, Alexander. After near a hundred years, their bodies perish; but they possess immortal souls that live for eternity.”

As a young Sea-Prince, Alexander always wished that he could swim to the surface of the sea and behold the world of the people who lived above the water. When Alexander was small, he was told that when he turned fifteen, he would be permitted to travel up to this world for himself and view everything that he had asked about. Alexander had anxiously awaited this moment since his childhood. For many nights, he would lean against the open window

The year that Angelica turned fifteen, she promised to return and tell her four siblings all that she had seen. As each sibling was a year younger than the one before, Alexander would have to wait five years for his chance to rise to the surface of the sea.

The day that Angelica left, Alexander sat waiting for her to return with more marvelous stories about the world above the sea. As the day ended and she returned, Alexander flocked to her side, quickly followed by his other siblings.

“Tell us, Angelica. Tell us stories of what you have seen in the world above,” Alexander exclaimed.

“There was so much to see, I cannot possibly recount all of to you, dearest siblings,” Angelica spoke to Alexander, as well as Hercules, Lafayette and Alexander. “However, the most beautiful thing of all in their mortal lands is to lie in the beautiful moonlight on a sandbank near the shore, where the quiet waves crash gently over your head; and to watch the town, where the lights in their houses, shining from the windows and from the long streets, twinkle from afar like a thousand stars. I could hear the beautiful music playing in the town; the sounds of the carriages rolling over the long cobblestone roads, and the church bells ringing.”

For a year, Alexander would think of this; he would long to swim up to the surface of the water, and lie on the sand in the moonlight; he longed to see the lights twinkling like stars; and he longed to hear the carriages and the church bells.

As Hercules turned fifteen, he was permitted to visit the surface and behold the world of men. As he returned, he depicted all that he had seen to his younger siblings.

“The sky gleamed golden, and the clouds flew above in beautiful shades of violet and rose. The swans soared aloft my head, a long white veil across the water, which shined and reflected the brilliant panorama of colour around me. As the sun dipped past the horizon, the colours faded from the sky until the stars twinkled gently overhead.”

Year after year, Alexander would hear the fabulous descriptions of the mortal world, as he attempted to create images of what the world - and the people - looked like.

“I swam up one of the rivers flowing from the sea; and I saw beautiful, rolling green hills on the banks of the river, covered with tall, strong trees. Palaces and castles unlike ours peeped out from between the tall trees; the birds, they sang; and the rays of the sun reflected the scenery onto the water, yet also burned my face. I saw a whole troop of the human children splashing around in the shallow water, playing with the small fish that swan around their ankles,” Lafayette stated after he had returned from his visit to the human world.

Eliza had decided to be more passive when she swam up to the humans. “Their world is beautiful from afar,” she confessed, “but I did not approach them as close as any of you. The sky above looked like a bell of glass; and the ships in the distance appeared like sea-gulls. The dolphins leapt around me, and the whales spouted water around me, they appeared to be fountains.”

Five years from when Angelica had first surfaced from the water to behold the human lands, Alexander turned fifteen. He was then brought before his father and his siblings.

“Alexander, today you are fifteen years of age,” the Sea-King announced. “You shall be adorned like your siblings to show your high rank.”

Then a wreath of white lilies was placed around Alexander’s head, and in the centre of each of the petals of these flowers was half a pearl. The Sea-King then ordered for six oysters to attach themselves to Alexander’s tail.

“Father, they hurt!” Alexander exclaimed.

“Pride must suffer pain, my Alexander,” the Sea-King replied.

As his birthday occurred in the dead of winter, he could see what the others had not. When he rose to the surface of the water, he saw the icebergs, like pearls, but larger and loftier than any of the churches built by men. He had seated himself upon one of the icebergs, and he remarked that they glittered like diamonds as the chilly wind blew through his hair. Alexander felt the greatest surge of happiness, sitting on that iceberg, finally with the chance to see with his own eyes what he had always longed to behold.

Alexander watched the ships pass through the day, noting that they would always stay clear of the icebergs, as if they were afraid. Towards the evening, as the sun began to set, the clouds above Alexander’s head had begun to rumble, and the rain began to pour slowly from the darkening sky. The rain was strange for Alexander; he did not understand how tiny droplets of water could fall from the sky, which was full of clouds. As the rain began to pour, lightning flashed across the sky and thunder boomed. Alexander became scared; he had never heard tales of thunderstorms before; he did not even know that this was a thunderstorm. He dove back down to his father;s kingdom and told his siblings what he had seen, which both horrified them and excited them.

As the siblings grew up, they were permitted to visit the surface more and more; and while their first few visits excited them, after awhile, they became indifferent to the land above their father’s kingdom. They believed that their father’s undersea kingdom was more beautiful and splendid than the people above.

“Oh, but they look so silly on their two legs, walking around like that!” Angelica would say. “We, with our tails, are much more graceful.”

“They can't even breathe underwater!” Eliza would exclaim. Their father intervened after he saw Hercules and Lafayette glancing mischievously at each other.

“You are not allowed to go up and drag them underwater!” He would tell his elder sons sternly.

Only Alexander did not tire of visiting the human kingdoms. He believed them to be beautiful, and the people to be unique; for they had created such incredible devices to be of use in their land; he believed the humans to be quite clever. Their boats were lovely creations that enabled them to travel farther than they could walk, and he loved them the most. The boats fascinated Alexander to no end, and he would often surface just to see the boats pass, dock in the harbours close to the large towns, and leave with people aboard them.

As Alexander prepared to dive back down to the kingdom of his father, he remarked a rather large ship nearing the cove. The white sails billowed in the darkening sky; and the voices from the boat echoed across the cove, shouts of happiness and of joy. Alexander, intrigued by this large vessel, swam closer.

As Alexander swam closer, he saw that the lanterns inside of the ship were beginning to light, and he peered inside the glass windows of the hull to watch the humans. The sky, with the sun still setting, reflected gold and rose onto the lovely ship, and the air was fresh, and the sea was calm.

As Alexander peered into the windows of the cabins, he saw the many people aboard the boat, all closer than he had ever seen before; all engaged in festivities aboard the deck of the large ship. In the centre of it all, stood a young prince; the celebration happened to be for his birthday, and Alexander believed this young prince to be the most intriguing of them all. His brown curls hug to his shoulders, framing his face with his deep brown eyes. As the prince exited the cabin onto the deck, colours shot into the air, exploding in every direction. Alexander was scared, for he had never seen fireworks before; but he was also immensely intrigued, for the light in the sky appeared to be so far off, and so beautiful.

It became very late; yet Alexander could not take his eyes off the young prince. A storm began to brew on the horizon, and waves blew through the cove, rocking the boat; causing amusement for Alexander, but not for the sailors. The waves rose mountains high; and the ship creaked and groaned, and Alexander realized that each person aboard the vessel was in danger. One wave, especially violent, washed over the ship and swept many passengers out to sea- including the young prince. Alexander could not see around him, as it was so dark; but one flash of lightning revealed the entire scene. Diving around the planks and beams floating in the water, Alexander dove towards the prince.

Wrapping his webbed hands around the prince’s arm, he dragged him upwards to the surface of the water. As Alexander broke the surface, dragging the prince with him, he headed towards the shore of the cove. He deposited the prince on the shore, who lay there, barely breathing. As the prince regained consciousness, he blinked his eyes and saw Alexander beside him. The prince blinked his eyes again, and Alexander was gone, swimming back towards the kingdom of his father.

Alexander returned to the kingdom of his father and refused to talk about what he had seen in the lands of the humans. His siblings saw his misery and, out of compassion, begged Alexander to speak of what he had seen. Eventually he confessed his memories to his siblings.

“In the lands of the mortals, I saw the most wondrous ship, with billowing sails attached to tall masts. Aboard this ship there was a prince, and they celebrated him. The storm blew through the cove and he nearly drowned, but I brought him to shore.”

Despite their promise to keep a secret, the story travelled throughout the groups of Sea-People. It so happened that a friend of Angelica knew of this prince, and of where his palace stood in the mortal lands. As Angelica learned of this, she shared this with her siblings and confronted Alexander.

“Come, brother,” Angelica told Alexander. “We have something to show you.”

The Sea-Prince joined arms with his siblings and they swam up to the palace of the prince. Alexander approached the walls of the palace, where he could behold his prince, deep in conversation with what appeared to be the king.

“Father, I saw someone there!” The prince exclaimed to the king.

“Nonsense, John,” the king replied. “The waves likely washed you to shore. There could not have been another there; someone could not have dragged you to shore, against a current that strong. They would not have been human.”

“Father, I swear!” The prince - John - retorted. “I know what I saw. There was a man there with me, for just a moment; and then I blinked and he was gone.”

The king sighed.

“Father, let me search for this man,” John pleaded.

The king sighed a second time.

“Very well, John. You may search for this man.”

Alexander, thrilled with his new discoveries, swam down with his siblings to their father’s kingdom, and Alexander hurried to his father.

“Father! There is a human looking for me!” He exclaimed to his father.

“Alexander, slow down,” the Sea-King exclaimed.

“Please let me go to the surface! A human that I saved in the storm yesterday, he is looking for me! Please allow me to go to him!” Alexander pleaded.

“Alexander … “ the Sea-King said slowly, “we cannot go to the surface. We have tails, and we cannot survive outside of water. You cannot go to this human, for it will only end in despair. Forget this human; stay under the sea.”

Alexander, upset, sook consolation from his siblings- but they had the same advice.

“Alexander, we cannot reveal our existence,” Angelica told him. “They will hunt us down, for to them, we are creatures unlike them.”

However, Alexander had made up his mind.

“I wish to go up to the surface and see my prince. If I cannot go with a tail, I will go with legs.”

“How will you accomplish that, Alexander?” Eliza asked her brother.

“I will visit the Sea-Witch. She will give me legs.”

“Alexander, no!” Lafayette exclaimed. “You cannot go to the Sea-Witch. She will hurt you!”

“You cannot make my decisions for me,” Alexander declared, and swam away from his siblings.

Alexander left the palace and swam to the cave where the Sea-Witch resided. As he approached the entrance, he suddenly became filled with fear. He was then struck with a sudden gust of courage, and he then decided that he wanted to visit his prince. This was the only way to obtain legs so that he could do that, and he swam into the cave.

The cave was dark and gloomy; and Alexander could barely see what was ahead of him, relying only on the light from the outside of the cave to guide him. He was suddenly plunged into utter darkness, the water cold around him. He then heard a voice; an eerie voice, one that shook him to his bones.

“Oh, my dear sweet child,” it whispered to him. The cave suddenly lit up in front of his eyes, and Alexander came face to face with the Sea-Witch.

She was not the Sea-Witch he had heard legends of; she was a creature like him, with a human torso and a long fish tail. However, her scales were a pasty white, like all colour and moisture had been drained out of them; like they were dead. Her hair, filled with curls, floated around her head. Alexander had to admit that she was beautiful, for just a moment; but then she spoke again, and those thoughts vanished from his mind.

“Why has a young Sea-Prince like yourself come to visit me, the old Sea-Witch?” she crooned, smiling to reveal her sharp, pointed teeth.

“I … I … I wish to visit the humans,” the scared Alexander sputtered.

“Oh, but darling, can you not do that already?” The Sea-Witch asked, but not in a kind way; in an accusing way, a tone of voice where she already knew his answer and was mocking him for it.

“I … I can,” Alexander muttered again, “but I wish to walk among the humans as one of them.”

“Ah,” exhaled the Sea-Witch, straightening her back. “You wish for a pair of legs.”

“Yes,” Alexander affirmed. “Can you give them to me.”

“Can I? Well of course, my dearest Sea-Prince. It’s what I live for, to help unfortunate merfolk like yourself,” she crooned. “I will admit, in the past, I have done deplorable things. They named me rightfully in calling me the Sea-Witch. However, you will find that I am attempting to heal my wounded soul, and I desire to help others. You are fortunate that I know a bit of magic, a rare talent that few now possess. I can use it to help a poor unfortunate soul like yourself.”

The Sea-Witch paused. “I know what you think, dearest Alexander,” she whispered. “I am the Sea-Witch, so how can I truly be good? Oh, please, darling; call me Peggy instead. Yes, I can help you; I can give you legs, so you can walk among the humans. However, this gift comes with a price.”

“I am sure that I can give you gold; or pearls; whatever you desire,” Alexander told the Sea-Witch.

“Oh, no, not that type of price, darling,” the Sea-Witch responded. “My fee is … your voice.”

“My voice!” Alexander exclaimed. “What shall I do without my voice?”

“Your prince shall have to rely on his memory of your appearance to recognize you,” she smiled. “I shall take your voice; and when you walk, you shall be pained; for each time you take a step, it shall feel like you step onto very sharp needles.”

Alexander contemplated this. He did not desire to give up his voice; but more than his voice, he desired to meet his prince, so he agreed.

“When you drink the draught that I give you, your tail shall be transformed into legs, so that you may walk among the humans,” the Sea-Witch stated. “This magic shall never be broken of its own will; you will only break this magic by having your prince kiss you, in which case you will receive your tongue and be able to speak to him, and you will receive the immortal soul of a human; or if your prince marries another, in which case you will die; you will fade into the sea-foam.”

Alexander took the potion in his hand, aware of the consequences. The Sea-Witch then sent Alexander on his way. As he swam up to the surface, he passed the palace of his father, where he could hear music drifting through the water to his ears. She rose to the surface, and the sky was dark above the world, and the stars and the moon shone, granting Alexander light.

Alexander downed the draught of the witch; and it so felt like there was a large sword that cleaved his tail into two; and the pain caused him to swoon, and he lay on the rocks motionless in the light. When he awoke, the sun shone overhead, and he saw his prince. John stood near the shore, wading in the water towards Alexander. His curly hair bounced as he took each step, and it mesmerised Alexander.

“Who are you?” Inquired Prince John. “What is your name? Where do you come from?”

While Alexander wished deeply to respond to these questions, he was mute and could not speak, nor could he read or write, so he could not answer what Prince John had asked. He shook his head, not knowing how else to communicate.

“Can you not speak?” John asked Alexander, who then shook his head again.

“Very well. Come back with me to the palace,” the prince offered, and Alexander graciously followed him.

Every step Alexander took felt like he was stepping on needles, and the pain pierced his feet and legs, but he bore the pain, for he was glad to have the chance to walk on the land with the humans and with his prince. He stepped so lightly that the prince and all who saw Alexander wondered of his graceful movements.

Alexander arrived at the palace, which was so familiar yet so different as he stood inside it as opposed to outside of it, looking in. The Prince organized a performance for Alexander and his guests, and the servants sang for the assembly of people. One sang more beautiful than any other, and when she finished the prince applauded her cheerfully. This caused great pain to Alexander, for he knew how much sweeter he and his siblings could sing, and he thought,

Oh if he could only know that! I have given away my voice forever, to be with him.

The servants then danced for the king and the prince; and Alexander, with his new legs, stood and danced with them. His movements were unmatched by all; and the prince was mesmerised as he watched Alexander dance.

The prince wished for Alexander to live a life of luxury; therefore, he was given a large chamber and the finest clothes in the palace, second to only the royalty. He ate the most delicious food and was treated with utmost respect.

Alexander passed most of his time with the prince. They would ride the horses through the sweet-scented woods, where the green leaves touched their shoulders, and beautiful birds sang in the tops of the tall trees. They climbed the mountains of the kingdom, and while Alexander’s feet bled, he only laughed, and they would climb until the clouds hung just above their heads.

During the night, when the castle slept, Alexander would go to the edge of the water, and sit on the marble steps of the palace, for it soothed his feet to place them in the cool water. Every time he did this, he would remind himself of the world below the sea, and his family.

One night, Alexander’s siblings rose to the surface of the water. As Alexander saw, them he beckoned them to come closer. Once they recognized their youngest brother, they swam near the shore.

“Oh, my dear Alexander,” Angelica told him. “You have grieved us. The kingdom is not the same without you. We all miss you.”

“Father is sad,” Eliza spoke. “He wishes for you to return. Alas! You have sacrificed your tail for the legs of the humans, and you cannot return with us.”

After that night, they returned to the palace when they could; and they would talk of their kingdom, of how it had changed since Alexander had left; and while he missed his family, he did not regret his decision to trade his tail for legs.

I am with my prince, he thought. I am with my prince, and that is what is important.

Once, Alexander saw his father, the Sea-King, in the distance, near where the sun dipped and touched the horizon. The crown sat atop his head, and he watched his son somberly from afar. Alexander would beckon to him, but never would he approach the palace as near as his children.

As the days passed, Alexander loved Prince John more and more fondly. John loved Alexander, but only as he loved his father, of his brothers; it never crossed his mind to marry Alexander. Yet, Alexander needed to marry the prince to obtain an immortal human soul, and on the day that the prince married another, Alexander would fade into sea-foam and cease to exist.

Do you love me the most? Alexander’s eyes would speak silently to the prince.

“You are dear to me, for you have the best heart, and you are devoted to me; you are like a young man I once saw, once that I will never meet again. I was in a ship that was wrecked, and the waves tossed me into the raging sea; but this young man dragged me from the depths of the water to shore; he saved me. This young man holds my heart, and while you have nearly caused me to forget him, he will always linger with me and my soul, for he saved me.”

He does not know that it was I who saved his life, Alexander thought. If only he knew.

Some time passed, and eventually Prince John came to Alexander with an announcement.

“I must travel to another land to meet a foreign prince that my parents wish me to marry. I am not obligated to marry him, only to meet him. I know I cannot love him, for my heart belongs to the man who saved me; the man which you resemble.”

That night, aboard the boat towards the new kingdom, the stars shone above the heads of all who were asleep, except the man at the helm, and Alexander. He stared down at the clear, calm water, and he thought of his family back in his father’s kingdom. He thought that he could see his father’s castle deep beneath the waves; and his siblings laughing among the tall trees. Alexander heard a splash to his side and turned to see his father.

“Alexander.” He spoke calmly and softly, yet with a stern tone. “Alexander, I do not think you realize the true consequence of your actions. We miss you, and we fear for you constantly. Why did you go to the Sea-Witch? She is bitter over the past, and while she has magic, she resents me. Oh, if I could go back and change the past! I would hope that she could forgive me for ignoring her all those years, Well, I cannot go back and change the past; but Alexander, I have come to warn you. You made a decision that will haunt us all for the rest of our lives. Be careful.”

As they pulled into the harbor of the new kingdom, the church bells rang, and the trumpets sounded from the high towers. The soldiers lined up, with flying colours and glittering bayonets, and each day was a festival.

However, the prince had not yet appeared. The people said that he was returning from a long voyage, and that Prince John had arrived earlier than they were expecting. At last he came, and Alexander, who had been quite anxious to behold this foreign prince, cast his eyes upon the nobility. He was obliged to acknowledge that the foreign prince was lovely to behold; and Prince John was just as easily smitten.

“It was you,” cried Prince John, “who saved my life in the shipwreck. Oh, I am too happy,” he said to Alexander, “my fondest hopes are all fulfilled. You will rejoice at my happiness; for your devotion to me is great and sincere.”

Alexander bowed to Prince John and his husband-to-be, and felt his heart shatter into a million pieces, for their wedding would bring his death. As the wedding approached, Alexander isolated himself; he sat in his room, gazing out over the sea, wishing to see his family one last time before he died.

The night before the wedding, Alexander sat alone in his bedroom, when he saw a shape move in the water of the sea. He moved to his open window, and there was Angelica, holding a dagger.

“Alexander, we know that your prince is about to be married,” Angelica told him. “Father has given me this knife; plunge it into the heart of the prince, and when the blood touches your hands, your feet will be transformed into a tail again; and you can come live with us in peace.”

So Alexander took the knife and snuck into the bedroom where Prince John slept. He beheld the prince’s face, and his breath shaking, he held the knife above John’s heart. Seeing the beginning of the sunrise, he took one more look at the prince, and he flung the knife out of the window into the sea. It sunk quickly. Gazing at the sunrise, Alexander stood at the window and jumped.

As the cool water hit his body, he felt as if he was being lifted. He looked around and beheld that he was flying above the palace. As he reached the clouds, he heard singing so melodious no other sound would ever compare.

“Where am I?” He spoke in a voice, so similar to the ones he had heard.

“Among the children of the air,” another voice answered. “Here you may watch the world, observe it, and live among us. After three hundred years, if you have spread joy to the world, you may obtain a human soul and live among them.”

So, Alexander lived as a son of the air for three hundred years, and when he was granted a human soul, he lived a long and glorious life as a human, never forgetting his prince, who had lived happily ever after.

THE END

#fairytale collection #alexander hamilton x john laurens #hamilton x laurens #lams #lams fic #lams fanfiction

[frederickwiddowson]

2Corinthians 5:1-11 comments: our house which is from heaven

5:1 ¶  For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2  For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed upon with our house which is from heaven: 3  If so be that being clothed we shall not be found naked. 4 For we that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened: not for that we would be unclothed, but clothed upon, that mortality might be swallowed up of life. 5  Now he that hath wrought us for the selfsame thing is God, who also hath given unto us the earnest of the Spirit. 6  Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord: 7  (For we walk by faith, not by sight:) 8  We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord. 9  Wherefore we labour, that, whether present or absent, we may be accepted of him. 10  For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body,

according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad. 11 Knowing therefore the terror of the Lord, we persuade men; but we are made manifest unto God; and I trust also are made manifest in your consciences.

 Here is a reference to our resurrection bodies, the body that we will have after we are glorified by God. The promise of this body is found also in the doctrine of Adoption.

 Romans 8:22  For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. 23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.

 1John 3:2  Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.

 Paul refers to our current bodies as earthen vessels in 4:7, if you recall. Job’s friend, Eliphaz, called our bodies houses of clay.

 Job 4:19  How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust, which are crushed before the moth

 Peter also called his body a tabernacle.

 2Peter 1:13  Yea, I think it meet, as long as I am in this tabernacle, to stir you up by putting you in remembrance; 14  Knowing that shortly I must put off this my tabernacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ hath shewed me.

 The body we will receive will be eternal, a spiritual body, incapable of death.

 John 11:25  Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:26  And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?

 To repeat what I wrote for chapter 1, verse 22, another reference to the deposit on our salvation, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Paul makes the declaration that they and, of course, we, are sealed by God and the Holy Spirit indwelling us is our earnest money, the deposit, if you will, on our salvation. Again, he reinforces this in other places.

 Ephesians 1:13  In whom ye also trusted, after that ye heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation: in whom also after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that holy Spirit of promise, 14  Which is the earnest of our inheritance until the redemption of the purchased possession, unto the praise of his glory.

 Ephesians 4:30  And grieve not the holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day of redemption.

  Romans, chapter 8, contains some important thoughts in this regard.

 9 But ye are not in the flesh, but in the Spirit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you. Now if any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his.

    10 ¶  And if Christ be in you, the body is dead because of sin; but the Spirit is life because of righteousness. 11  But if the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwell in you, he that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies by his Spirit that dwelleth in you. 12  Therefore, brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after the flesh. 13  For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live. 14  For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God. 15  For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father. 16  The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God:

    17 ¶  And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together. 18  For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. 19 For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. 20  For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope, 21  Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. 22  For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. 23  And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.

 While we have the Spirit of God dwelling inside each of we believers we know that while we are in this flesh we are not going to be in the Lord’s physical presence, but we are willing and desirous to put off this body of flesh and be in His presence for eternity.

All believers must appear before the Judgment Seat of Christ to answer for the truth behind what we have done, to answer for our walk with Christ. Paul discussed this previously in the first letter and in Romans.

 Now, most evangelicals believe that the Judgment Seat of Christ is a reference to the judgment of Christians upon their decease or rapture. Older commentators often believed this was the same thing as the Great White Throne judgment of Revelation for all people. Matthew Henry wrote in his commentary;

 There are many things relating to this great matter that should awe the best of men into the utmost care and diligence in religion; for example, the certainty of this judgment, for we must appear; the universality of it, for we must all appear; the great Judge before whose judgment-seat we must appear, the Lord Jesus Christ, who himself will appear in flaming fire; the recompence to be then received, for things done in the body, which will be very particular (unto every one), and very just, according to what we have done, whether good or bad. The apostle calls this awful judgment the terror of the Lord (v. 11), and, by the consideration thereof, was excited to persuade men to repent, and live a holy life, that, when Christ shall appear terribly, they may appear before him comfortably. And, concerning his fidelity and diligence, he comfortably appeals unto God, and the consciences of those he wrote to: We are made manifest unto God, and I trust also are made manifest in your consciences.(6)

 Again, in another reference to the Judgment Seat of Christ in Romans 14:10

 We shall all stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, 2 Co. 5:10 . Christ will be the judge, and he has both authority and ability to determine men’s eternal state according to their works, and before him we shall stand as persons to be tried, and to give up an account, expecting our final doom from him, which will be eternally conclusive. (7)

 And then, for Revelation 20:11 that mentions a Great White Throne.

 “This will be a great day, the great day, when all shall appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. The Lord help us firmly to believe this doctrine of the judgment to come.” (8)

 I bring this up to point out that there are differences of opinion and some of the commentators we respect from olden days did not agree with our appraisal that the Judgement Seat of Christ and the Great White Throne are two separate events although logically I have a problem with them not being separate. I believe that Christ’s Judgment Seat is for His people only and then we shall be present with Him at the greater judgment of mankind. Still, whatever you believe about the order of things at the end of human history it should not affect your daily walk with Christ and your submission to Him in your life. We know for sure that judgment is coming and in fact, like Benjamin Franklin admitted at the Constitutional Convention that the affairs of men are judged now.

 “Sir, a long time, and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth- that God Governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without his aid?”(9)

 Several points from this passage are worth noting. Our bodies will dissolve, return to their constituent elements, at some point. But we have a body prepared for us and waiting in the world of spirit, to use in eternity. Did not Jesus say that He was going to prepare a place for us?

 John 14:2  In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

 A mansion is a dwelling place, something you inhabit, and is not necessarily what we think of when we think of a mansion, like a 5,000 sf house bordering the golf course in a gated community or the fictional Downton Abbey on TV.

 There we will be with the Lord and we will have to give an account of ourselves. I am not sure how this will work out but all indications seem to be that the emphasis will be on our motives and our faithfulness to God’s doctrines and God’s truth, the gospel. I believe that because Paul keeps emphasizing belief in the Resurrection and laments that there are those who deny it and subvert or water down God’s truth.

 (6)Matthew Henry, Commentary on the Whole Bible, https://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/matthew-henry-complete/2-corinthians/5.html

 (7)Ibid., https://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/matthew-henry-complete/romans/14.html

 (8)Ibid., https://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/matthew-henry-complete/revelation/20.html

 (9) John R. Vile, The Constitutional Convention of 1787 (Denver, CO: ABC-CLIO, 2005), 451.

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