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havenoffandoms · 4 years

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Running With The Wolves - Part I

I am back with some Geraskier Werewolf AU. I have planned at least one more part after this, but possibly I’ll be inspired to write more. I find the concept interesting. If you so happen to be interested in reading Part II, let me know and I will tag you in my next update. Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it!

Wordcount: 5.5k

Summary: Jaskier had heard the rumours about shapeshifting witchers, but he had always dimissed them as old wives’ tales. They were the kind of stories mothers told their children to stop them from wandering into the woods on their own after sundown. Shapeshifters did not exist, plain and simple. Jaskier was above such superstitions.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, in a place inaccessible to mere mortals such as ourselves, lived the famous witchers of Kaer Morhen. Mutants, people called them, taken in at a tender age and trained into the deadliest weapons the Continent had ever seen. The witchers of Kaer Morhen were bred with one aim: create a race powerful enough to protect the nations of the Continent against the most horrific monsters that loomed in the darkest corners of the world. However, the other races began to worry that the witchers would one day turn against them. Fearful of the mutants turning rogue, an Alliance was formed between the rulers of the most influential kingdoms of the Continent to combat this new race of superhumans threatening the peace in all the lands. The armies of Nilfgaard, Redania, and Cintra, joined arms and attacked the keep of Kaer Morhen. This was the last time that the nations of the Continent had stood united against a common enemy rather than being at each other’s throats. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, many witchers and young students lost their lives that day. Satisfied with the bloodshed, the armies of the Continent retreated never to be seen in these parts again. Unfortunately for them, the armies of the Alliance had failed to kill all the witchers. Those who survived mourned the loss of their brethren. They swore to never witness such a massacre again and to avenge the fallen by taking the life of whoever dared venture near the keep. The witchers renounced their duty as protectors of the people in favour of becoming the safekeepers of Kaer Morhen.

Nobody knows what became of the surviving witchers, but some claim –

“’l’ll tell ye what became o’ em, bard,” a booming voice interrupted Jaskier’s tale. He traced the voice back to a middle-aged balding man sitting at the bar, his pudgy hand clutching a tankard of ale and a haunted look reflected in his glassy eyes testifying of years of chronic alcoholism. “Shapeshifters, they became… massive wolves now roam the valley o’ Kaer Morhen. Gobble up anyone who shows ‘is face near the keep…”

Jaskier refrained from rolling his eyes at the patron’s comment. He had heard the rumours about shapeshifting witchers, but Jaskier had always dismissed them off as old wives’ tales. They were the kind of stories mothers told their children to stop them from wandering into the woods on their own after sundown. Shapeshifters did not exist, plain and simple. Jaskier was above such superstitions.

“As I was saying, some claim that the witchers still live in Kaer Morhen, keeping to themselves and occasionally wandering out to slay monsters in the area. Others – “

“Did ye not hear me, bard?” the patron interrupted Jaskier a second time, “they ain’t witchers no more. Beasts they’ve become, more freakish still than their mutated human forms. Seen one wi’ me own eyes.”

“Of course you have, good sir. Although I do wonder, was that before or after the third bottle of whiskey?” Jaskier jested, earning himself drunken laughter from the crowd which brought a pleased smile to his face.

“The man’s right, that he is,” another patron, younger and in much better shape, shouted in defence of the first man, “everyone knows that wolves roam the parts of Kaer Morhen.”

The patron carried on his tale of shapeshifting wolves and to Jaskier’s dismay, the crowd hung to his every word. The bard could have argued with the two men, but he did not see the point in doing so. Jaskier would rather save his breath on something more useful. Storytelling paid well enough, and until Jaskier managed to find inspiration for his next ballad, it would have to do. Hopefully he would not have to wait much longer for inspiration to hit him.

“You don’t believe them,” a voice startled Jaskier out of his reverie, “I can tell. I can see it in your eyes.”

The voice belonged to an old and frail-looking woman who was supporting her hunched form somewhat precariously on a wooden stick the size of a thick tree branch. She smiled a toothless smile at Jaskier, who despite his initial surprise had managed to compose himself enough to offer a polite smile in return.

“Do you?” he asked her, trying not to sound condescending as he addressed the elderly woman.

“Why shouldn’t I believe them? I am willing to believe your tale about witchers. If sorcerers exist, it seems perfectly plausible to me that they can use their magic to shapeshift.”

“Only that sorcerers don’t exist, and magic is a relic of the past. Everyone knows that Nilfgaard has successfully eradicated all forms of magic. Witchers are nothing but legendary characters from an old world.”

Jaskier noticed the woman’s smile grow wider at his words. She straightened up as much as her hunched back allowed and locked her milky eyes with Jaskier’s, seemingly staring straight into his soul despite her evident blindness. Jaskier felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“Dear boy, this is not how magic works. You can’t eradicate it in the same way Nilfgaard has destroyed everything else in their path. Eradicating magic is like trying to move sand, grain by grain, from one beach to another. You cannot possibly gather all of it, even with the most advanced tools. Sooner or later, one grain will escape you. Such is the way of magic.”

Jaskier scanned the bar nervously, hoping no one was listening to the conversation. Mentioning sorcery or speaking of Nilgaard in derogatory terms was considered the highest form of treachery, and as such, was punishable by death. Jaskier valued his life dearly and did not want to be seen talking to the wrong person. Sensing his unease, the old woman dropped her voice to barely above a whisper.

“I enjoyed your story, bard. I don’t have much coin to my name, but I do have this.” The woman fished a small vial out of her pockets, her gnarly fingers clutching onto it as if she were holding the world’s most precious elixir in her hands. Her other hand grabbed Jaskier’s so she could place the vial in the palm of his hand. She folded his fingers over the vial, ensuring he was holding it securely.

“What… what is this?” Jaskier enquired curiously.

“A special kind of medicine that heals most wounds. It is not much, but you never know when you might need it. You’ll be glad to have it when the time comes.”

Jaskier would have honestly preferred coin, but he had a bad habit of getting himself into peculiar situations and his clumsiness often resulted in one too many bruises. Medicine was not a cheap ware and healers were rarely honest with their pricing. If anything, Jaskier could sell the medicine at the market for a fair sum which he could then spend on clothes, a nice hot meal or a night at a brothel. Jaskier discreetly dropped the vial in his pocket, making sure no one had spotted him doing so. The last thing he needed was to be mugged as soon as he left the tavern. The woman smiled softly at him, her eyes twitching almost as if she was mapping his face. Which, of course, could not possibly be the case. The woman was clearly blind.

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady…?” Jaskier left the end of his sentence hanging in the air, hopeful that the old woman would fill in the blank for him. Instead, she merely shook her head and left the tavern through the main entrance without another word. Jaskier did not know what to make of that other than finding her behaviour strangely evasive.

“I hope you took notes, bard,” the owner of the tavern shouted at him from the bar, “might wanna add shapeshiftin’ wolves to your story. Then people might throw some coin your way.”

“I have a better idea,” the first patron said as he rose to his feet and took several unsteady steps towards Jaskier. His breath stank of cheap ale and rotting teeth, but Jaskier was far too polite to pull a face at the stench. The man poked the bard’s chest with his fat finger as he slurred his next words. “I’ll pay you a thousand crowns if you travel to the Cursed Valley and live to tell the tale.”

The man’s proposal was met by enthusiastic shouts from the other intoxicated patrons.

“A thousand crowns? For travelling to Kaer Morhen and back?” Jaskier confirmed, pleased when the man’s smile vanished from his face at his nonchalant attitude, “How do I know you have that kind of wealth to spare in this shithole?”

“Oh trust me bard, everyone will pitch in,” the man with the bad breath assured him, but his face grew dead serious as he spoke his next words, “You are a fool for considering the journey. Nobody will have to worry about spending a penny. You’ll die from frostbite before you even reach the keep.”

“If I don’t come back, you’ll have your proof that the giant wolves are not legends. If I come back, then trust me my friend, you’ll never hear the end of it. I shall go to Kaer Morhen and prove to you people once and for all that shapeshifting witchers are a fantasy from the past. I’ll make sure to draw a wonderfully scenic sketch of the Kaer Morhen ruins as proof. And then, of course, I’ll take my thousand crowns from you and disappear from this village forever. Sound like a plan?”

Jaskier could feel the tension rise in the room and the overly-confident patron suddenly seemed to second guess his decision. He extended his hand and waited patiently for the patron to shake it. The glassy eyes stared at Jaskier’s face in a calculating manner as he tried to guess whether the bard was bluffing. After a short silence, the patron shook Jaskier’s hand to the cheers of the crowd. This would be a piece of cake. All Jaskier had to do was disappear for several days, draw a sketch of castle ruins and return to the inn to claim his reward. No one would follow him to Kaer Morhen willingly, so they had no way to prove that he was lying to them. There was no downfall to this plan.

OoO

When Jaskier left the tavern, he felt someone pull him back by the arm and the bard realised with horror that he was unable to escape their iron grip. He turned to face his attacker only to find himself standing before the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was shorter than him but still tall for a woman. Her fiery-red hair reached her lower back and green eyes that could enchant any man, including Jaskier, stared back at him intently. The woman shot him a knowing smile that seemed all too familiar.

“Good afternoon, miss, how may I be of assis –“

“You have no intention of going to Kaer Morhen. Why not?” the woman asked him. She must have been inside the tavern mere minutes ago and followed him out, or how else would she know about his wager with the patron? Jaskier wondered how he could have possibly overlooked such a beautiful creature, he who was usually so good at spotting them. Perhaps they had been so loud that their conversation could be heard from outside, but even so, how would she have known who to intercept?

“I beg your – “

“A thousand crowns is a fair sum, yet I can sense that you have no intention of travelling to Kaer Morhen. My guess is that you want to take advantage of the villagers’ naïve superstitions by fooling them into thinking that you went, reap the rewards and disappear never to return. Which begs the question, why not simply go to Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier did not appreciate the woman’s questioning, and much less the fact that she had read his intentions so plainly and with such ease. If she had figured out his plan in under two minutes, the patrons of the tavern might have seen through his façade, too. Now the villagers may not have much influence in high places, but nearly all of them possessed pitchforks and torches, and Jaskier did not really find out how much damage those could do in the hand of an angry defrauded mob.

“I don’t have to travel to Kaer Morhen to know that I’m right. Magic does not exist,” Jaskier maintained stubbornly, which earned him a resigned sigh from the red-haired woman.

“They have always baffled me, you know? Those people who stare right at the truth, yet still refuse to acknowledge it.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked, unsure whether he was ready for the answer. The woman stared at him intently as if debating her next move carefully. Her green eyes scanned the area for any unwanted witnesses before she grabbed Jaskier by the arm once more and lead him away from the tavern.

“Not here, it’s too risky,” was the only explanation she provided as she guided Jaskier out of the village and into the nearby woods. The bard wondered if she was planning on killing him for his coin. At least, he tried to console himself, he would die at the hands of a beautiful woman which admittedly could class as a poetic death. The woman stopped abruptly in the middle of the forest and turned to face Jaskier in all her glory. She wordlessly put some distance between herself and the bard by stepping back from him slowly, almost as if she were trying not to startle a terrified animal. Jaskier was too mesmerised by the way her body seemed to float away from him that the thought of running did not even cross his mind. His jaw dropped when he noticed a purple hue surround the beautiful woman, wrapping itself around her in wisps of smoke until it faded and revealed the distinctive hunched back belonging to the old woman from the tavern. Jaskier felt his heart skip and drop to his stomach at the sight.

At first, he was surprised.

Then surprise gave way to baffled confusion.

Until his confusion turned to fear.

“You… you’re a…”

“Sorceress,” the old woman provided before changing back into the beautiful red-haired woman once again, “a wielder of magic, capable of shapeshifting amongst other very useful things. I know what you’re thinking, bard. You’re scared and confused, and that’s understandable. But you needed to see this. You needed to see it to believe it.”

Jaskier’s mind was racing as he tried to wrap his head around what he had just witnessed. This woman before him had managed to change her appearance within seconds by using magic. It did not make any sense. Nilfgaard had destroyed every magical being, artefact and grimoires they managed to find. They had done so leaving behind bloodbaths, destruction and ruins. Jaskier had learned all about the Great Cleansing as a boy, and later at Oxenfurt. Kaer Morhen had been one stage of the Great Cleansing, but many more places had suffered the same fate. Aretuza was destroyed several weeks later, although the mages had been expecting the armies and had fought more viciously against the invader. Some even believed that Nilfgaard had convinced sorceresses to turn against their own kind, only to be betrayed and killed once the massacre was over. Over a hundred years ago, Nilfgaard had managed to destroy every remnants of magic that was left in the Continent. No region had been overlooked, no magic-wielding creature spared. What Jaskier had just witnessed this woman do did not make any sense.

If this woman could still wield magic, what was to say that others could not?

Perhaps the patrons at the tavern had been right.

Perhaps magic was not dead, but merely practiced in secret to avoid repercussion. Magic-wielders most likely went into hiding to avoid the wrath of Nilfgaard.

And what better way to hide than to do so in plain sight by changing one’s appearance? In the same way this beautiful woman had turned into an old hag, powerful witchers could have turned into ferocious wolves to throw Nilfgaard off their scent.

Melitele be damned.

“This is… why? Why show me this? Aren’t you worried I’ll tell someone?” The sorceress shook her head, that knowing smile creeping back onto her lovely features. “Why not?”

“Do you really want to take that risk? Chances are if you came into contact with a witch, Nilfgaard will kill you too. They can’t risk anyone revealing that magic is not, in fact, a relic of the past.” Jaskier could not argue with the sorceress as he desperately tried to wrap his head around this turn of events. The red-haired woman spoke again, her voice softer but her expression graver. “We are linked by destiny, Julian Alfred Pankratz. I do not expect you to understand, nor am I here to provide an explanation. All you need to know is that this meeting was written in the stars decades before your conception.”

“I… no, this… this is not possible. I must be dreaming,” Jaskier muttered to himself, pinching himself for good measure. He wanted to wake up, although this dream would inspire a great ballad no doubt. This could not be truly happening to him. None of this made any sense.

“You are not dreaming, Julian. My name is Visenna, and I have been looking for you for the best part of the last year. I have a request that only you can fulfil.”

Jaskier's fear merely intensified at the woman's - Visenna's - words. He could feel his heart race in his chest as she stepped closer to him, her body moving with such precision and grace that Jaskier was convinced she was trying her best to seduce him into getting him to do her will.

"What do you want me to do?"

And apparently, whatever tempting magic she was using was working. Judging by the pleased expression on Visenna's face, she was fully aware of the power she had over Jaskier in that instant. Once she was close enough, Visenna cupped Jaskier’s face with both hands and even if the bard wanted to shy away from her touch, he was rooted to the spot and mesmerised by her deep green eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I need you to go to Kaer Morhen. I am willing to pay you double of what the patron offered you. I will be in your debt, which is of course not negligible. I can make most of your wishes come true, one way or another."

As tempting as the offer was, Jaskier knew that fraternising with a sorceress could prove fatal if anyone ever found put. A fact she would undoubtedly be aware of, which made it really easy for her to break her end of the bargain. What was Jaskier to do if she did not keep true to her word? Legally speaking, he had no standing.

And the witch knew this, too.

"I'm not an adventurer, miss. I am but a bard. I'm afraid I won't be much use on the road, much less at night when bandits and wolves - actual non-shapeshifting wolves - come out to play. I'll have to give this opportunity a pass."

"You haven't even heard what I need you to do once in Kaer Morhen...," Visenna remarked, her tone calm and composed.

"I don't need to hear it. It's not an adventure for me. You'll have to find someone else."

Visenna was silent for a moment. Jaskier could have used this opportunity to break into a sprint to get the fuck away from Visenna as quickly as humanly possible. Yet, something about her eyes kept him rooted to the spot. There was wisdom in them, but something else also that Jaskier could not quite place. Perhaps hurt, or nostalgia, or boredom. She was making it very difficult for him to read her. Jaskier swallowed past the lump in his throat as Visenna pulled his face closer to hers. Her skin felt surprisingly soft against his cheek.

"It can't be anyone else, Julian. It has to be you."

These words were the last thing Jaskier heard before the world turned black.

OoO

When Jaskier woke up, his head was pounding and all the muscles in his body were aching. He tried to remember what could have possibly caused such a reaction from his body, but to no avail. The last thing he remembered was leaving the tavern after promising the patrons to return for the thousand crowns they had promised him if he successfully returned from Kaer Morhen. Jaskier could not remember much of what happened after that. The bard opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to adjust to the bright light. The sun was shining and warming his face, but also blinding him as he tried to sit upright. The bright beams did nothing to appease his sore head. Once Jaskier got used to the light, he observed his surroundings more closely and was surprised to find himself lying at the edge of a forest in a valley surrounded by mountains so high they disappeared into the clouds rolling over his head.

Jaskier could not remember drinking anything but ale at the tavern, but then he could not remember much apart from the wager he had made with the patrons. Perhaps he had gone back for a couple of drinks later that day. Clearly that time Jaskier had opted for the strongest drink in the fucking tavern. His mind could not fathom how he had managed to stray this far from the village. The warm sun was soon submerged by menacing dark clouds foreboding an oncoming storm.

Fantastic.

Jaskier rose to his feet and took several seconds to find his balance as the world spun around him. Judging by the position of the sun, it was late morning. He had performed at the tavern in the late afternoon. Clearly the mountains had been closer than initially anticipated for there was no way Jaskier had been drunk enough as to wander for hours on end without any recollection of his travels. He must have passed out and slept until now. It was a miracle he was still alive. Plenty of creatures roam the forests of the Continent. Jaskier decided not to while on these thoughts too much as he set out to find the nearest village. Any village would do at this point although he would preferably like to find the one he had performed in to retrieve his lute and other belongings from the room he had rented for the night. Jaskier did not have to wait long before he heard the deep rumbling of thunder in the distance. Heavy raindrops fell from the sky and soaked Jaskier to the bone in mere minutes. The sun had completely disappeared as the world turned dark and the storm took over. Jaskier struggled to see the path he was on because of the heavy rain, and it was only when he tripped over a branch sticking out of the muddy ground that he realised he had wandered deeper into the forest.

Shit.

He was not sure how far into the forest he had wandered, or more importantly which direction in. Panic took a hold of him as Jaskier scrambled to his feet and moaned at the sight of his expensive doublet covered in mud. There was no way he would get that stain out no matter how hard he scrubbed. That was one way to ruin a perfectly good doublet. Jaskier picked up the pace as he tried to find a way out of the heavy curtain of rain surrounding him. He panted heavily as he clumsily navigated the treacherous paths of the forest as well as he could. The occasional flashes of lightening followed by the booms of thunder only increased his anxiety levels. After what seemed like an eternity, Jaskier noticed the entrance to a cave carved out in the rocky mountain which would make an excellent shelter against the rain. That was all the encouragement Jaskier needed, and so he hurried inside the cave but made sure not to wander in too deep. He wrapped his arms around his body and shivered uncontrollably as his soaked clothes stuck stubbornly to his skin. If the creatures did not get to him first, he would probably die of hypothermia. Jaskier was so concerned with keeping himself warm that he did not notice the beast that was creeping up to him from behind. Only when his body was suddenly pushed to the hard ground with the force of a thousand men did Jaskier realise that he probably should have checked the area first before walking blindly into this cave.

"Oh boy.... Ooooooh boy."

The creature looming over him snarled and bared its teeth as drops of saliva dripped onto Jaskier's already soiled doublet. The first thing the bard noticed were the razor-sharp canines, the horrendous breath and two large paws pressing down on his chest. Only upon closer inspection did Jaskier realise that he had been tackled by a wolf. Not a traditional wolf, mind you. This one looked bigger, stronger and more aggressive than the wolves Jaskier was familiar with, which was saying something. A flash of lightening, and Jaskier noticed the yellow eyes and the long scar on the left side of the wolf's face. Another flash, and Jaskier could make out the colour of its coat: mostly white with streaks of silver. The bard figured that if he was to die here and then at the hand - or paws - of this beast, he might as well take a closer look at it. Not that the wolf’s appearance would matter much once it had feasted on Jaskier for supper and no one lived to tell the tale. Surprisingly, the creature yet had to attack.

"Easy... I'm not here to hurt you, I just wanted shelter from the rain. Please don't eat me..."

Jaskier knew the wolf could not understand a word he was saying, but it made the bard feel better to feel like he was stalling the creature's attack. It seemed to be working considering that the wolf stubbornly refrained from attacking him despite snarling viciously in warning. Jaskier avoided staring directly into the beast’s yellow eyes, showing submission in the hope it would be enough to convince the huge beast towering him that he was no threat.

“If I’d known that you were in here, I would not have come in trust me. You’re a biiiig, big boy… I swear I don’t want to hurt you. I… I’m lost. I don’t know how I got here, and I just need to – “

A loud high-pitched whine coming from the other end of the cave interrupted Jaskier’s nervous babbling. The wolf above him tensed at the sound and turned its massive head in the direction of the sound. Jaskier could faintly make out the shape of another, much smaller creature. Probably a second wolf. That thought was terrifying and if it was true what they said about animals being able to smell fear, then those beasts were in for a treat. Jaskier was surprised he had not wet himself at this point. He shifted slightly to get a better look at the other wolf, but as soon as the beast above him sensed his movements it snapped its attention back to Jaskier and growled in warning. Jaskier instantly froze at the sound.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

The other wolf let out another wail, sharper this time. It sounded like it was in pain. The helpless whine the wolf pinning Jaskier down let out was another indication that something was wrong. The bard took comfort in the fact that the beasts had shown no signs of wanting to eat him yet.

“Is your friend hurt?” he asked the larger wolf, unsure what kind of answer he was expecting. The irritated huff he was met with was most likely unrelated to his question, but Jaskier liked to think the animals could understand him. Suddenly the bard remembered the vial some old woman at the tavern had handed him as payment for his performance. A special kind of medicine that heals most wounds.

“Hey, I… I got something in my pocket that I could use to help your friend.”

Jaskier noticed the way the large wolf’s ears twitched at his words. The piercing yellow eyes seemed to stare directly into his soul. Although the animal still looked unsure, at least he was not showing any teeth or any signs of aggressive behaviour. Almost as an afterthought, he got off Jaskier and sat on its haunches expectantly. The bard could not quite believe his luck as he watched the beast wait patiently for him to get up. It was probably confident that it could outrun Jaskier if the bard tried to flee. Rightly so, if Jaskier was perfectly honest. With slow precise movements, the bard fished the vial out of his pocket and rose to his feet. The beast’s head, even from its sitting position, reached up to Jaskier’s chest. The bard felt his knees go weak.

“I’m going to put some of that oil on your friend’s wound, okay? Don’t try to eat me while I’m doing that. I have to say I don’t know if it’ll hurt your friend or not. I hope it won’t. We can all get along, alright? I’m in the same boat as you and I don’t want anyone to get hurt today.”

The wolf blinked, never taking his eyes off Jaskier. The bard decided to attempt an approach but advanced one small step at a time to properly gauge the wolf’s reactions. The yellow-eyed beast made no movement to stop Jaskier’s approach on the wounded animal, and Jaskier visibly relaxed at the realisation. Now that the bard was closer, he could see the second wolf more clearly. It was not only smaller, but thinner too. It looked like a young pup who was not fully grown yet. Its flaxen coat was silky apart from where it had been wounded. Dark dried blood stained the otherwise spotless fur while pus oozed out of the wound. The young wolf was panting and did not manage to raise its head from the ground, but its eyes sought Jaskier’s nonetheless. The bard offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Hey little one. I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, but my friends call me Jaskier. I have this special medicine here that’s supposed to make your wound all better. You’re lucky I got lost in these parts of the woods.” Jaskier uncorked the vial and smelled the oil within it. A faint odour of chamomile hit his nostrils. He decided to apply the oil directly to the wound. The younger wolf twitched when the cold oil hit the sensitive wound, but Jaskier took confidence in the fact that it never let out a single sound. Probably not painful, then. To Jaskier’s amazement, the pus around the wound slowly started disappearing, allowing the skin to magically close itself until all that was left were the blood-caked fur and a bald patch where the wound had been seconds earlier. It was like the wolf had never been hurt at all.

Jaskier stared at the now empty vial in sheer shock. What the fuck had just happened?

“Uh… I guess you’re fine now, huh?”

The younger wolf raised its head and looked at where its wound used to be, sniffing the bald patch curiously and giving it several probing licks. Jaskier flinched when he saw the silver wolf approach them, keeping a close eye on the human who had just helped its friend as he nuzzled the younger wolf’s head affectionately. Outside, the sun was shining again, brighter than ever. Jaskier longed to leave this cave as quickly as his legs would carry him, but before he could act on that thought he felt a large wet tongue lick the side of his face, leaving behind a trail of slobber reaching from his chin to the crown of his head. The younger wolf was now on its legs and was determined to clean Jaskier from head to toe as its tail wagged furiously in barely contained joy. The bard let out a nervous laugh when the wolf jumped at him and gently tackled him to the ground, trying to playfully nibble his hand. Realising the younger wolf only meant to play, Jaskier tried to relax and even brought himself to scratch the spot behind the beast’s ear, earning himself more approving licks from the grateful animal.

Playtime was interrupted by the silver wolf, who by producing a low rumbling noise similar to a growl let the younger wolf know that they were done fooling around with the human. The younger wolf seemingly understood and instantly hurried to the silver wolf’s side. Those yellow eyes locked with Jaskier’s again, almost as if silently thanking him for his service, and before long the two beasts took off into the woods leaving behind a more than baffled Jaskier.

What the fuck had just happened?

TBC.

#the witcher #the witcher au #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #Jaskier #dandelion #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #shapeshifter geralt #jaskier x geralt #dandelion x geralt #wiedzmin #taglist #wip

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boneandfur · 4 years

Text

Incantations [1]

And whosoever of them ate of the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus, had no longer any wish to bring back word or to return, but there they were fain to abide among the Lotus-eaters, feeding on the lotus, and forgetful of their homeward way. (Homer, Odyssey)

WARNINGS: contains potentially triggering content. Rated Explicit 18+. Tagging will be in comments as i’m in a bit of a rush today. Words: 2840 // Summary: No one ever tells what becomes of common girls, after they ascend. An alternate universe that explores the links that myth and magic have to present day Cordonia. A/N: love you guys!! Thank you for being so supportive, especially @lizeboredom and @ritachacha and @darley1101 and @breaumonts

CHAPTER ONE

"The Queen is not pregnant." The doctor delivers his verdict in the clipped, sterile tones that Riley has begun to dread and expect in equal measure. He strips the gloves from his hands, wiping them off briskly and vigorously, and she tries not to think about his fingers pushing into her, probing her aging ovaries cynically as her ankles dangle in the stirrups, laid bare for her king -- her husband, yes, but first and foremost her king -- to witness.

As if she were being punished.

As if what happened -- what has repeatedly happened -- is her fault alone to bear.

Maxwell would never -- But Riley tries not to think of him.

(Not anymore. Not for a long time. Not since the last time she saw him, a thousand and one things unsaid between them.)

"...instruct her to lie with her legs up after the act of coitus, and no sinful positions. There is only one way that the heir to our blessed country should be conceived..."

Riley thinks of the doctor's words when her thighs are spread so wide they ache and her lover is plowing her deep, cursing and grunting, the sound of their sweaty flesh slapping together in the thick darkness of the room.

To conceive a child, you must cease your sinful ways. The queen shall lie on her back, and think of Cordonia. The king shall lift the hem of her nightdress, inserting his little king into her throne room. The subjects shall be blessed.

The summer heat presses behind the curtains, if it comes into this room, it will blind them, their sins laid bare before all the court to see.

All Riley can think of is how close she is, dipping a finger between her slick thighs, the bud of her clit swollen and engorged. She fists the bedsheets in one hand as his hand cups one breast, the pads of his fingertips creating a delicious friction on her nipple. She twists wildly under him, movement becoming frantic, jerky.

"Not yet." His accent gets thick when they are abed together, it becomes something out of legend and myth, honey and myrrh, stirring the embers into a blaze that will burn down civilizations, and make a new age of men.

•••

"Who is that absolute oaf making a mess of the canapés?"

Lady Adelaide must be getting old, Riley thinks. She would know those broad shoulders and muscled thighs anywhere. The memory of his stubble against her breasts makes Riley dig the tips of her nails into her palm, but only for a moment.

"There's no need to signal the staff. I will take care of it." She touches Adelaide's shoulder, brief, light, like the fanning of the death’s head moth against the cheek, and the older woman nods vaguely, already turned back to her glass of wine and Lord Rashad's slow, deliberate eye fuck.

Riley scans the grounds for her king, out of pure habit if nothing else. Three years after the fact has made Liam a stranger, and she sees him lay two fingers on the shoulder of Kiara of Castlerellian as she laughs prettily with the ambassador of Auvernal, showing her neck. It means: She is mine. She belongs to me.

(Once, it was Riley who was the mistress. Once, she was the one who belonged to the king, not to all Cordonia. Once, she had the world at her feet, and the love of few good men… And now, nothing.)

Even from this distance, Riley can see the ambassador swallow, taking a step back. His eyes avoid her direction, but she knows she will have to patch this up later, and can already feel a migraine coming on. Diplomacy was never her strong forte, even if she played the part back when she was still an imposter, a waitress who dreamed of being a queen.

Arin, The First Courtesan of Rome. Valentina, The Sell Sword. Penelophon, The Beggar Queen.

(No one ever tells what happens to the common girls, after they ascend.)

"Excuse me, sir, guests must use a fork, and not their fingers. We are not all wild animals here." Riley taps the oaf on the shoulder, and squeaks in mock alarm as he drops his plate. He issues forth a roar of laughter, wrapping her in a bear hug and lifting her off her feet.

He smells of the Aegean, blue and green and bronze as the brine in his hair.

(Salt, and sun, and sin.)

She sneaks a glance in Liam's direction. If he has noticed their proximity, he gives no sign. But why would he care? This man is to be trusted.

The petals of the lotus quiver in the breeze, and sleepy dusk grows thick with the sickly sweet fragrance of the blossoms.

•••

“I need my lips on yours when you come for me.” His voice is ragged and thick with lust, and she does not protest as he flips her over, pulling her to the edge of the bed. His cock impales her to the mattress, plunging deep inside of her, and Riley makes a strangled noise in her throat as her lover begins to thrust, her teeth pressing against his shoulder, nearly breaking the skin.

She tastes sun and sea and salt and sin, and when she closes her eyes she hears the sonorous peal of the bells from the last time they were together, three years gone: the household draped in black, her orgasm tasting of hot copper where she'd bitten her lip to keep silent, for a queen must never, ever cry.

(You must bear an heir of royal blood. It is for the good of the country, for we have enemies on all sides. If you cannot conceive, what good are you, except as a figurehead?)

“You are crying.” His voice is as resonant as the caverns under the palace, where before time was time, princes and pythias alike would speak the language of the house snake, and feed it milk and honey to ensure good oracles for the reign to come. “Ah, my queen.” He pulls out, and his breathing is thick, labored: the scent of wormwood is pungent in the small room. The sides of the mattress beside her thighs sinks down as he braces his hands upon it, and he cups her by the chin to gently kiss her forehead, a mark of obeisance.

(But she is not his sovereign. His star had already fallen before hers ever shot across the sky. Their constellations were never meant to align.)

“It is nothing. I thought you wanted us to come like an incantation between our lips.” She feels him tense under her fingertips, stroking down the rippling abdomen, the fuzz is fair and fine from his navel to his cock, and he moans when she takes him in her mouth.

(Sin, salt, sea, sun.)

An incantation.

A ritual tattoo.

The black sails that returned the ships to the harbor after the battle had done, bearing the byre of the regent’s only heir.

“Fuck. Fuck.” His hands fumble, they grip the bedposts. His cock quivers in her mouth, she runs the tip of her tongue up the vein in the center, then deep throats him, hard. His muscles tense, the only sound in the room is that of the tip of his cock hitting the back of her throat and his rasping groans. When he comes, his fist gripping her hair, the deluge floods into her mouth like the waters of the Nile.

Riley licks up every salty drop, the great man dropping to his knees before her with a thud that would bring the guards running if they were not all sequestered in their quarters to escape the heat of the midday sun.

(Except Mara. But Mara will never tell. After all, it is Mara who knows her secret sins, loyal unto death like a handmaiden of old.)

•••

“Duchess, are you always this bored at state functions, or did I arrive at a bad time?" Leo lays a finger on the side of his nose, tapping it with a wink. He is bronzed from the sun, and under his ceremonial suit his muscles bunch and ripple, the seams stretching at the shoulders. He pops a canapé into his mouth, following it with a shot of ouzo from a nearby waiter's tray.

"It's always a time." Riley frowns as Leo passes her a shot of ouzo, clinking their glasses together. “I shouldn't be drinking --” but after a long, measured moment, she does.

Blue eyes search her face, and her stomach roils with guilt. “I'm not.” The memory makes her head swim, and the ouzo tastes like poppy syrup, oozing down the back of her throat.

(Only three years gone, bloody handprints on the wall, the dogs setting up a cacophony of howls for days on end, and all the things that smelled of them, of her, carted away and burnt to cinders.)

What good are you, except as a figurehead?

“That is very fine, especially when you think about what the two of us will get up to later.” Leo’s breath tickles her earlobe when he leans in, and the proximity of his body makes something kindle in her loins, desires she'd thought long dead and buried beyond the garden walls. “I have half a mind to snort a line of blow right off that tight little arse, right here on the lawns, but I think Regina would perish on the spot.”

“Let us consider it done, then.” Riley smiles against Leo’s neck, so he can feel her lips move, and then takes a graceful step back. He grunts, shielding his erection with a carefully angled bottle of champagne, dripping with condensation.

“Your Majesty, the king bids you join him for the closing address.” A servant bows before her, and she thinks she may never get used to this -- the linen dresses with finely beaded necklines, intricate enough to put an Egyptian queen to shame, the way the crowds part for her as she walks in mincing steps through the waving grass, the sudden sharp memory of a small, tiled room, painted with cracked frescoes, the oldest room in the palace.

(There was a lemon tree, and a girl with wide eyes, bangles on her wrists and shackles on her wings. Her wings? But that can't be right.)

Lady Riley Brooks…

The Duchess…

A figurehead…

She closes out the whispers with a Lady Di smile plastered on her face, bright as anything. Liam’s fingertips dig into her wrist, just enough. He knows. The sinking cold dread settles in her bones, and she covers it with her most brilliant, diplomatic smile.

“Darlings, thank you for joining us.” Her kisses on the cheeks of the Auvernese and Panrian ambassadors are sweet as poppy syrup, false as plasticine. When they smile, it is at Kiara, awkward and unsure.

“Your Highness!” One of the reporters for a local vlog, The Golden Apple, jumps up and down frantically, waving to get her attention. Riley picks her out of the crowd, a girl with short pink hair and a leather mini-dress far too on-trend for the noveau riche set. The press badge reads Eris.

Riley mentally steels herself for the same tired question, but is unable to mask her expression for what comes instead.

“Duchess Riley, how is the royal family handling the news about Lord Maxwell Beaumont?”

•••

Maxwell Percival Beaumont.

The hallway is endless.

Riley carries her kaboodle, and Maxwell drags the vintage steamer trunk with seemingly little effort behind him. His designer trainers set up little clouds of dust off the threadbare carpet, an Aubusson which has never seen a carpet sweeper more modern than anything from 1902 (according to the girl upstairs, socialite Fenny Vandervliet, this is an actual historical fact).

She can feel the ghosts of the pre-war building at her back, watching her leave. I'll be home soon. The words are on her tongue, but she does not dare speak what she already fears to be a lie.

She thinks, instead, of Maxwell’s scent on the bed sheets when they woke in the morning, still tangled together.

Bronze, parchment, and the expectations of the ancestors.

•••

After the nightclub, she begs a headache, and Maxwell offers to share a taxi. Liam seems pretty taken with you, you know…

But when he brushes a strand of hair back from her face, she doesn't pull away. And when she offers him a nightcap, he doesn't refuse. When he lifts her hair from the back of her neck to press a kiss at the nape, all the birds in the apartment, hearing her soft sigh, begin to sing.

He unclasps the first button on the dark green dress (abalone and gleaming pearl, borrowed from the girl who lives upstairs, the socialite with enough Old Money to buy all of New Amsterdam), and the silk rustles like the petticoats of the girl who ran away to sea with a pirate she met on the King's Highway in 1612, rapier wit and gold teeth, a pair of blackbirds the two of them.

(But her soul whispers that this man is not the pirate, that man was another path, another chance, and he sits drowning his sorrows even now at a dive bar somewhere south of hell.)

His fingertips are warm against the bones of her spine, and his lips follow, each kiss making her gasp and grip the kitchen sink for stability, as though she might fall apart without him there to keep her steady. Years later, this memory will blacken around the edges like a beaten bronze mirror found at an archaeological dig in the Aegean, back in 1899, just as the old age began to fall into the new. She will take it out and examine it, trying to reconcile the girl she once was with the queen she has become.

(Ah. But that is what will come, and this is now.)

Now is this: a tangle of images and sensation. Maxwell’s fingers lacing through hers as the dress slides to the floor, his tongue in her mouth, she bites his lower lip and drags it between her teeth. The shelves rock against the wall, the train is coming through. The scent of cardamom is in the air, her hands are in his hair and his stubble scrapes against her neck.

Maxwell’s hands move up her thighs, they both fumble with each other’s garments: her moan of dismay as she tries to maneuver his belt, his low groan as he struggles with the clasps of her bra.

Don't bother. She stays his hands and pulls the straps down, her breasts still firm and high and tipped with dusky rose. She feels his cock hard and firm between her legs, he's lifted her up on the counter and stepped in between her thighs, pulling her forward and nudging them apart as he dips his head to take one nipple into his mouth, her cries drowned out by the sound of the train again. Somewhere, a harp is playing, somewhere, somewhere, over the rainbow.

But here and now there is only the two of them: Maxwell's fingers push aside the sodden cloth of her underthings, and she sobs his name as he plunges his fingers into her, in and out, in and out, over her clit and back inside of her until she knows she will go mad with wanting him.

Condoms are in the bathroom, she manages to gasp out, and when he dashes off, she has a moment to study her reflection in the windowpane: a stranger is there, with red lips and tousled hair, and a face to launch a thousand ships.

Riley. His lips brush the nape of her neck and if she kept scrying into the glass for one single second more, she might have seen his doppelgänger there, with a breastplate of beaten bronze, on his knees before his queen in a bedchamber of a palace in some place long forgot to human memory.

They fall into the bed, his hands are on her hips as she sinks against him, their moans and sighs an incantation.

Come back. Come back to me.

Throw the centuries off like the dust on a handful of faience beads. Dance in his arms on a ship's deck lit by Greek Fire, roaring across a wine dark sea. Scream your lover’s name as the blood pools under the locked door that will become your tomb.

Come to me. Come back to me.

A funerary rite.

A hymn to the living.

An incantation.

#the royal romance #liam x mc #maxwell x mc #maxwell beaumont #trr #playchoices fanfic #n*fw

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empressxmachina · 4 years

Link

Patients Zero - iii. by Imperial-Radiance

~Also on Wattpad~

*gasp* *cough*

Oh, good god. What? I thought I was— But, how am I—? Didn’t I get—? Wait, where am I?

Hard: I’m on something hard. Hard, flat, slick, and cold. My back hates this. I’m guessing it’s a floor. But I feel grooves, not just one that takes up my entire hand. It almost feels… made for me. Impossible. My eyes; they’re closed. It’s dark, behind and in front of the lids. Yet, there’s a glow: a… soft one? Not the blinding white from before? It’s cool, still, but not as much somehow. I wait for a voice to give me any sort of insight of where I am, and all I get back is just the gentle hum of a… a… Wait, is that a fan? No, is that a heater? Even on the hottest days outside in the real world – real because this is a fantasy, still, especially if I’m alive – it never went past room temperature. I… I’m boiling like I’m stuck in an oven.

Oh, my god. Am I being cooked in here? No, screw that. I’ll accept going out in plenty of ways in this diminutive state, but I will not go out as someone’s di—!

Well, this is… new? I finally lift my back up and open my eyes, and I’ve found myself lost… and in pain. Holy crap! Everything hurts! Ugh. But that’s the least of my worries. I’m alive, somehow, for some reason. But, why, and why here, wherever here is?

Am I crazy? This sure looks like a living room: not very different from my one at home. There’s a sofa, a table, and works of art that admittedly caught my vision immediately. I’ve liked to think that I’m not a leech for moving media, so not seeing a television or the like here is pleasing. There are dimly lit LEDs as large as me, a rug across the ground over there as large as me, and an actual fan even larger than me. Sure, it nearly takes up a whole wall like a fireplace would, but the latter would be unconventional. It’s blowing out heat, so it must switch between hot and cold. The only thing missing is a collection of literature of varying genres, but I doubt printing that small is even possible. Besides that, it’s like it was made for me.

But that’s just it. That’s fucking weird. It’s made for me, and how small am I now?

I must be going insane. This can’t be real. This room can’t possibly be mine—Oh. Oh shit.

That’s a kitchen over there behind me. A real kitchen – well, as real as it can be with its counters and cabinets. But it’s the actual cooking stuff that made it real: the primitive tools in the corner for refrigeration and cooking – some solar funnel/pot thing, I think – and the bruised yet familiar food scraps from my past life stacked in a triad of pyramids next to them. Wait, past life? I say that like it’s been forever since I was… ambushed… by someone big enough to make a place like this if they’re careful.

I’ve got to get out of here. But what is here? First things first, I should probably get my ass off the floor: this uncomfortably perfectly-sized floor.

O-Okay. Up and at it. The floor isn’t an ocean anymore. Appliances don’t have as much of a chance of killing me now. If I go this way, then I can sit at this table right here and contemplate all the dumb stuff I did to get here… wherever here is, not to mention there are enough chairs to fit a whole family or a group of housemates. Housemates. AmI alone here? Why am I here? Why do I keep asking myself these questions rather than just looking for the answer?

I’m irrational. This is irrational, but I must make the most of it. No, screw it, do I even have a choice? Well, with all these grabbable, sharp things around, I guess the answer’s technically a ‘yes.’ But. I’m not that depressed. I’m not. Not *sigh* that depressed. I’ve fought this long for others’ lives before and my own at this level, so why stop now? It’s not like I’m not used to being like this. It’s just this current situation that’s new… and heaven knows how much I love surprises… and rambling. Where was I? Oh, right.

If I go that way, now, then I can go to a surprise upstairs with who-knows-what… or who-knows-who. Would they really bunk me with someone else? I wasn’t one for strangers at full size, so how would they think I’d manage one on this scale!? They’re the ones that are short-sighted, not me. Ugh, I can’t wait to deal with that possibility. Though, maybe I don’t have to.

There’s the door. Huh.

I know I just got out of some stasis a moment ago, but it only just occurred to me that all the windows are covered and presumably closed. There seems to be no light peeking out of anywhere, either, so either it’s still nighttime, or I’m enclosed somewhere cut off from the world. No, the latter’s always going to be true here, now that I think about it. I don’t know where here is, but I do know it sure isn’t out there. There’s no use in not verifying it, though.

I guess that I shouldn’t be surprised how what should be a small door doesn’t have a lock. Yet, it has a hinge – two of them? Okay. Am I too dumb for not checking the windows? No, just crazy, but I knew that already. What’s crazier, though, is how I’m simultaneously right and wrong upon opening this door.

This is a small house, and this sure doesn’t look like a lab, a ward, and especially not that basement. To be honest, I kind of expected there to be grass or an equivalent on the ground here. Ground. I say that like this place containing me isn’t on a freaking table right now. Well, to be fair, they brought in real grass, plants, and stuff for the diorama dwellings, so I guess it’s not that weird. But those were for hundreds if not thousands of people on several stations. This is just me… and a house for me… on a table.

A table in what looks like a… a bedroom? I mean, I think I can make out the mountainous shapes of a bed, nightstands sandwiching it, and I think a dresser across from them, but it’s freaking dark in here. I’m surprised I can see that far away. Those LEDs boxed in my walls shouldn’t be able to reach that far, even if their brightness was somehow magnified through the cracks between windows and the door, yet here they are. Despite that, there’s no denying I’m in some resting place for some giant somewhere. Somewhere.

I could be freaking anywhere, but where?

I do know one thing: it’s damn fine that I don’t have a fear of heights. That helped me back there with the commons, so it’ll help me here, too. But, god, damn it, that drop is large. I bet it was intentional, along with my placement here. With the back edge cut off by the wall and the front sharply opening to this no man’s land of a room, I don’t have many options of escape.

I hear a heater running like a radiator under a window on one side of this table, and I’d rather not get burnt to cinders today. I could test my luck descending the curtains, but I don’t think I’m in proper form to climb or slide down. The opposite side is blocked by a chair in the corner. Falling onto a cushion might not be a bad idea. Maybe there’s a vent I can get through behind there. Hmm.

Screw it. I’d rather risk seeing my maker than wait for them to come to me. Chair, it is. It seems like the only way to go. But, should I take a leap of faith or weigh my options? Eh, watch with my luck, and this room’s patron comes back in and throws something atop of me – maybe even themselves. A smudge on somebody’s ass: that’s not legacy worthy. At least if I’m up here for some time, then I can probably make it back in the house and use it for even a smidgen of protection.

Hopefully.

Huh. Should I be bothered by how my steps aren’t clicking across this surface? I mean, they never did in the basement, but there were plenty of people around causing noise and whatever. Here, I’m alone… at least for now. That should be calming, shouldn’t it? Alas, as I continue forward, the curve of what-now-looks-like-an-accent-chair crests over the horizon and—

Oh, curse me.

So, I was right in being worried about possibly being suffocated to no end in colossal clothing. But, of all of them, did it have to be scrubs? I’m no color aficionado, but I do think that’s how that health-centric blue is supposed to look in this lighting—er, lack of light, I should say. Of course, they’re not just any scrubs, either. Any sensible physician would know to discard of their scrubs in at least a hamper to be washed after use or just use a new pair. These look like cast-offs like mad.

I’d put money down on them being his. That monster brought me here, didn’t here? Then, me being here would make sense: I’m where he lives or, at least, stays so he can watch me like some project.

Looking back at this rather extravagant house for a subspecies like me, who knows how much other preparation has been done since he acquired me? Is he why I’m hurt like this? Speaking of hurt, wasn’t I beeping before, and that led to all of this? It’s stopped now, and so was I, but is replacing it with pain much better? If I run away, then how do I know that the beeping won’t restart and lead to an even greater demise?

I’m curious, though, considering he could’ve ended me earlier while I was presumably incapacitated if that were his goal. But what if he may have plans for me, instead? What if he’s planning for me to run away, and that’s why he’s away, probably watching from afar? The basement had cameras whether they wanted us to know they were there or not, and I bet there’s some in here, too, with night vision, thermals, and all that other fancy gobbledygook. Ugh, it’s dark and distant in here, but damn it, I’m going to find one if it’s the last thing I—

Are you kidding me?

Do not tell me that’s been him this whole time. Him, and he’s that? Well, that’s poetic as hell, isn’t it? He was going to take me out beforeall this crap started. Now, he’s going to do me in here, instead, screwing me sideways and 1-upping me even more so.

In my visual pursuits of a camera, the last thing I expected to find was an I.D. To surprise me even more, I recognized the face on it. I remember my first time seeing it.

I was on a lunch break, just reading in my journals about Match Day – how it had been the largest amounts of matches in history or whatever – and then Doc Adams suddenly broke the fun and excitement, coming in with a list of our future interns. One of them was him. If it had been just a few years prior, then I would’ve been excited. After all, there’s nothing wrong with more doctors, right? But, Adams, the louse, has… had been trying to get me out of the doctoring game since.

It’s because he knows that I’d be better at his job than him, and the supervisors at the system H.Q. have been telling us both this. I can’t help that I love – loved– helping people directly so much to not replace it with a tedious desk job, even if it looks over pretty much everyone else in the hospital. Thus, his solution was to put more and more people in our ranks to dilute the focus away from me. It worked for a while until someone had a symptom that they didn’t know how to treat, but I did.

Despite my knowledge, this new guy was perfection, though, and from across the ocean, no less. I bet Adams creamed his pants at him on the list: this—What’s his name again? Oh, yeah: this ‘Mikul Merchant’ or whatever. I wonder how many bribes Adams had to make to get him. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? The first day for the interns would’ve been months ago, and the kid and I are both here, apparently, with him ruining my life just as much if not more so than he would’ve been without this wretched disease.

Though, if he was already on this continent way before then, then he must’ve been excited, too. After all, I’m sure his home country has its own center like this where he could’ve been. Why was he here, and how in the world did he turn out to be a carrier, too?

Upon registration, everyone is given I.D.s, but rather than having the random number sequences and barcodes the others get until they’re rendered useless by dwindling heights to where they can’t carry the damn thing, carriers’ listings are just ‘zeroes’ with a Q.R. code. I’m positive that’s how that self-deprecating squad of bugs found me and put their emotions out on and into me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one here, so why would they charge me rather than someone like him? Well, besides his youth, foreignness, and relative handsomeness that may correlate with them, unlike me, he’s a carrier of and might as well be immune to both strains.

Curse this minute minutia. Curse my imperfections. But, most importantly, screw this—!

*CLICK* God, no.

Before I can even blink, a beam of light blinds me, revealing the previously dark side of the room and thus allowing me to see that this isn’t just a bedroom but more like a hotel room. A vanity adjacent to a closed closet appears. It’s spanning across the wall opposite me, this table and chair, that house of mine, and the window. How I didn’t see the reflection of this house in the mirror beforehand is beside me. But, no other reflection aside from my own hasn’t yet come into view, which makes me wonder if this is genuinely that giant’s room.

I know I used to come across my team’s scrubs in my office on occasion, so who’s to say that a lead person isn’t just keeping subject/’Doctor’ Merchant’s clothing with them for testing or safekeeping? Though, I don’t think that just throwing them across a chair shows its direct importance or proper sanitation practices. Or, maybe there’s another type of experiment going on. Perhaps it’s just dealing with me and what I do in this new location? Either way, that doesn’t answer whose room this is or why—

Never mind. There, he is. I’m here with him. I should stop doubting myself. No, this is the one time I should challenge anything and everything I’ve ever known.

Emerging from what I assume is a bathroom, a lanky, lean embodiment of a supposed human comes through. Supposed. Humans aren’t meant to be that large. It’s almost godly – the glow of his mostly bare, solely-pants-wearing, towel-draping-necked form – but I’m not glorifying a monster, checking his face and onyx hair over the sink and counter like he hasn’t done anything wrong. His auburn skin with no marks in sight is so nourished like he’s been able to bathe sensibly and get proper sunlight. There’s not one eye bag or wrinkle like he’s never had a single stressor in his life: the pampered, pompous prick. I’d almost say he’s prettier in person, but beasts are never pretty.

If you’re here, then you should be under all the stresses. Yet, here you are, flouncing around almost naked like you aren’t contracted with and spreading disease! If that’s the case, then why the hell am I here, trapped with you—!?

You… You… You’ve got to be kidding me. I mean, it was only a matter of time, but… don’t fucking dare.

Before I can even comprehend it, his almond gaze snaps on me like a locked crosshair in a gun’s sight. I try freezing in place, but I’m sure the vanity lights are making my eyes glow like a beady animal’s, so it’s all in vain. Aside from that, I didn’t think he had even noticed me at first, but then he had squinted his eyes and cocked his head like an inquisitive dog trying to hear. Just to test my luck, he even acknowledges me… or whatever he thinks I am if he doesn’t know for sure for some reason,

“H-Huh?” He sounds so soft, almost… Nope, I’m not going to say that. There’s no way he actually cares. I… I’m nothing in comparison. He’s taken out souls larger and smaller than me, so what difference would I make? “Is something there?” See? ‘Something.’

I’m a thing now.

I almost thought he’d salivate for his new toy, treat, or whatever I am to him. He’s already been a predator in public upon thousands of eyes. How much craftier will he be, all alone? I’m not going to wait to find out. Even if that’s what he’s expecting me to do, I don’t care. It’s fight-or-flight, and the former is definitely out of the question.

“W-Wait!”

Like hell, I’m doing that.

#g/t #my writing #patients zero #giant male #sm #male giant #medical fic #pandemics on my mind lmao

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ukdamo · 4 years

Text

Antinous

Fernando Pessoa

It rained outside right into Hadrian's soul.

The boy lay dead On the low couch, on whose denuded whole, To Hadrian's eyes, that at their seeing bled, The shadowy light of Death's eclipse was shed.

The boy lay dead and the day seemed a night Outside. The rain fell like a sick affright Of Nature at her work in killing him. Through the mind's galleries of their past delight The very light of memory was dim.

O hands that clasped erewhile Hadrian's warm hands, That now found them but cold! O hair bound erstwhile with the pressing bands! O eyes too diffidently bold! O bare female male-body like A god that dawns into humanity! O lips whose opening redness erst could strike Lust's seats with a soiled art's variety!

O fingers skilled in things not to be named! O tongue which, counter-tongued, the throbbed brows flamed! O glory of a wrong lust pillowed on Raged conciousness's spilled suspension! These things are things that now must be no more. The rain is silent, and the Emperor Sinks by the couch. His grief is like a rage, For the gods take away the life they give And spoil the beauty they made live. He weeps and knows that every future age Is staring at him out of the to-be. His love is on a universal stage. A thousand unborn eyes weep with his misery.

Antinous is dead, is dead forever, Is dead forever and the loves lament. Venus herself, that was Adonis' lover, Seeing him again, having lived, dead again, Lends her great skyey grief now to be blent With Hadrian's pain.

Now is Apollo sad because the stealer Of his white body is forever cold. In vain shall kisses on that nippled point Covering his heart-beats' silent place implore His life again to ope his eyes and feel her Presence along his veins this fortress hold Of love. Now no caressing hands anoint With growing joy that body's lusting lore.

The rain falls, and he lies like one who hath Forgotten all the gestures of his love And lies awake waiting their hot return. But all his vices' art is now with Death: He lies with her, whose sex cannot him move, Whose hand, were't not cold, still ne'er his could burn. Lilies were on his cheeks and roses too. His eyes were sad in joy sometimes. He said Oft in his close abandonments, that woo Love to be more love than love can be, «Kiss My eyelids till my closed eyes seem to guess The kiss they feel laid in my heart's breast-bed.»

O Hadrian, what shall now thy cold life be? What boots it to be emperor over all? His absence o'er thy visible empery Throws a dim pall. Now are thy nights widowed of love and kisses, Now are thy days robbed of the night's awaiting, Now are thy lips purposeless and thy blisses No longer of the size of thy life, mating Thy empire with thy love's bold tendernesses.

Now are thy doors closed upon beauty and joy. Throw ashes on thy head! Lo, lift thine eyes and see the lovely boy! Naked he lies upon that memoried bed; By thine own hand he lies uncovered. There was he wont thy dangling sense to cloy, And uncloy with more cloying, and annoy With newer uncloying till thy senses bled.

His hand and mouth knew gamuts musical Of vices thy worn spine was hurt to follow. Sometimes it seemed to thee that all was hollow In sense in each new straining of sucked lust. Then still new crimes of fancy would he call To thy shaken flesh, and thou wouldst tremble and fall Back on thy cushions with thy mind's sense hushed.

«Beautiful was my love, yet melancholy. He had that art, of love's arts most unholy, Of being lithely sad among lust's rages. Now the Nile gave him up, the eternal Nile.

Under his wet locks Death's blue paleness wages Now war upon our pity with sad smile».

Even as he thinks, the lust that is no more Than a memory of lust revives and takes His senses by the hand, and his flesh quakes Till all becomes again what 'twas before. The dead body on the bed gets up and lives Along his every nerve ripped up and twanged, And a love-o'er-wise and invisible hand At every body-entrance to his lust Utters caresses which flit off, yet just Remain enough to bleed his last nerve's strand, O sweet and cruel Parthian fugitives!

He rises, mad, and looks upon his lover, That now can love nothing but what none know. Then his cold lips run all the body over— His lips that scarce remember their warmth, now So blent with feeling the death they behold; And so ice-senseless are his lips that, lo!, He scarce tastes death from the dead body's cold, But it seems both are dead or living both And love is still the Presence and the Mover. Then his lips cease on the other lips' cold sloth.

But there the wanting breath reminds his lips That between him and his boy-love the mist That comes out of the gods has crept. The tips Of his fingers, still idly tickling, list To some flesh-response to their purple mood. But their love-orison is not understood. The god is dead whose cult was to be kissed!

He lifts his hand up to where heaven should be And cries on the mute gods to know his pain. Lo, list!, o divine watchers of our glee

And sorrow!, list!, he will yield up his reign. He will live in the deserts and be parched On the hot sands, he will be beggar and slave; But give again the boy to be arm-reached! Forego that space ye meant to be his grave!

Take all the female beauties of the earth! Take all afar and rend them if ye will! But, by sweet Ganymede, that Jove found worth And above Hebe did elect to fill His cup at his high festivals, and spill His fairer vice wherefrom comes newer birth—, The clod of female embraces resolve To dust, o father of the gods!, but spare This boy and his white body and golden hair. Maybe thy newer Ganymede thou meanst That he should be, and out of jealous care From Hadrian's arms to thine his beauty steal'st.

He was a kitten playing with lust, playing With his own and with Hadrian's, sometimes one And sometimes two, now splitting, now one grown, Now leaving lust, now lust's high lusts delaying, Now eyeing lust not wide, but from askance Jumping round on lust's half-unexpectance; Then softly gripping, then with fury holding, Now playfully playing, now seriously, now lying By the side of lust looking at it, now spying Which way to take lust in his lust's withholding.

Thus did the hours slide from their tangled hands And from their mixed limbs the moments slip. Now were his arms dead leaves, now iron bands, Now were his lips cups, now the things that sip, Now were his eyes too closed, and now too open, Now were his ways such as none thought might happen, Now were his arts a feather and now a whip.

That love they lived as a religion Offered to gods that do to presence bend. Sometimes he was adorned and made to don Half-costumes, now a posing nudity That imitates some god's eternity Of body statue-known to craving men. Now was he Venus, risen from the seas; And now was he Apollo, white and golden; Now as Jove sate he in mock-judgment over The presence at his feet of his slaved lover; Now was he an acted rite, by one beholden, In ever-repositioned mysteries.

Now he is something anyone can be. O white negation of the thing it is! O golden-haired moon-cold loveliness! Too cold! too cold! and love as cold as he. Love wanders through the memories of his vice As through a labyrinth, in sad madness glad, And now calls on his name and bids him rise, And now is smiling at his imaged coming That is i'th'heart like faces in the gloaming-- Mere shining shadows of the forms they had.

The rain again like a vague pain arose And put the sense of wetness in the air. Suddenly did the Emperor suppose He saw this room and all in it from far. He saw the couch, the boy and his own frame Cast down against the couch, and he became A clearer presence to himself, and said These words unuttered, save to his soul's dread:

«I shall build thee a statue that will be To the astonished future evidence Of my love and thy beauty and the sense That beauty giveth of infinity, Though death with subtle uncovering hands remove The apparel of life and empire from our love, Yet its nude statue-soul of lust made spirit All future times, whether they will't or not, Shall, like a curse-seeming god's boon earth-brought, Inevitably inherit.

«Ay, this thy statue shall I build, and set Upon the pinnacle of being-thine. Let Time By its subtle dim crime Eat it from life, or with men's violence fret To pieces out of unity and presence. Ay, let that be! Our love shall stand so great In thy statue of us, like a god's fate, Our love's incarnate and discarnate essence, That, like a trumpet reaching over seas And going from continent to continent, Our love shall speak its joy and woe, death-blent, Over infinities and eternities!

«The memory of our love shall bridge the ages. It shall loom white out of the past and be Eternal, like a Grecian victory, In every heart the future shall give rages Of not being our love's contemporary.

«Yet oh that this were needed not, and thou Wert the red flower perfuming my life, The garland on the brows of my delight, The living flame on altars of my soul! Would all this were a thing thou mightest now Smile at from under thy death-mocking lids And wonder that I should so put a strife Twixt me and gods for thy lost presence bright; Were there nought in this but my empty dole And thy awakening smile half to condole With what my dreaming pain to hope forbids».

Thus went he, like a lover who is waiting, From place to place in his dim doubting mind. Now was his hope a great bulk of will fating Its wish to being, now felt he he was blind In some point of his seen wish undefined.

When love meets death we know not what to feel. When death foils love we know not what to know. Now did his doubt hope, now did his hope doubt. Now what his wish dreamed the dream's sense did flout And to a sullen emptiness congeal. Then again the gods fanned love's darkening glow.

Thy death has given me a newer lust— A flesh-lust raging for eternity. On my imperial will I put my trust That the high gods, that made me emperor be, Will not annul from a more real life My wish that thou shouldst live for e'er and stand A fleshly presence on their better land, More beautiful and as beautiful, for there No things impossible our wishes mar Nor pain our hearts with change and time and strife.

Love, love, my love! thou art already a god. This thought of mine, which I a wish believe, Is no wish, but a sight, to me allowed By the great gods, that love love and can give To mortal hearts, under the shape of wishes— Of wishes strong, having imperial reaches— A vision of the real things beyond Our life-imprisoned life, our sense-bound sense. Ay, what I will thee to be thou art now Already. Already on Olympic ground Thou walkest and art perfect, yet art thou, For thou needst no excess of thee to don To perfect be, being perfection.

«My heart is singing like a morning bird. A great hope from the gods comes down to me And bids my heart to subtler sense be stirred And think not that strange evil of thee That to think thee mortal would be.

«My love, my love! My god-love! Let me kiss On thy cold lips thy hot lips now immortal, Greeting thee at Death's portal's happiness, For to the gods Death's portal is Life's portal.

«Thus is the memory of thee a god Already, already a statue made of me-- Of that part of me that, like a great sea, Girds in me a great red empire more broad Than all the lands and peoples that are in My power's reach. Thus art thou myself made In that great stretch Olympic that betrays The true-wholed gods present in river and glade And hours eternal in its different days.

«So strong my love is that it is thyself, Thy body as it was ere death was it, Towering above the silence infinite That girds round life and its unduring pelf. Even as thou wert in life, thy corporal shade Is in the presence of the gods. My love Permits not that its carnal being fade Or one whit false to fleshly presence prove. Creeds may arise and pass, and passions change, Other ways may be born out of Time's dream, But this our love, made but thy body, 'll range On deathless meads from happy stream to stream.

«Were there no Olympus for thee, my love Would make thee one, where thou sole god mightst prove, And I thy sole adorer, glad to be

Thy sole adorer through infinity. That were a divine universe enough For love and me and what to me thou art. To have thee is a thing made of gods' stuff And to look on thee eternity's best part.

«O love, my love! Awake with my strong will Of loving to Olympus and be there The latest god, whose honey-coloured hair Takes divine eyes! As thou wert on earth, still In heaven bodifully be and roam, A prisoner of that happiness of home, With elder gods, while I on earth do make A statue for thy deathlessness' seen sake.

«That deathless statue of thee I shall build Will be no stone thing, but my great regret By which our love's eternity is willed. My sorrow shall make thee its god, and set Thy naked presence on the parapet That looks over the seas of future times. Some shall say all our love was vice and crimes. Others against our names, as stones, shall whet The knife of their glad hate of beauty, and make Our name a pillory, a scaffold and a stake Whereon to burn our brothers yet unborn. Yet shall our presence, like eternal morn, Ever return at Beauty's hour, and shine Out of the East of Love, and be the shrine Of future gods that nothing human scorn.

«My love for thee is part of what thou wert And shall be part of what thy statue will be. Our double presence unified in thee Shall make to beat many a future heart. Ay, were't a statue to be broken and missed, Yet its stone-perfect memory Would, still more perfect, on Time's shoulders borne, Overlook the great Morn From an eternal East.

«Thy statue is of thyself and of me. Our dual presence has its unity In that perfection of body, which my love, In loving it, did out of mortal life Raise into godness, set above the strife Of times and changing passions far above.

«The end of days, when Jove is born again, And Ganymede again pour at his feast, Shall see our dual soul from death released And recreated unto love, joy, pain, Life—all the beauty and the vice and lust, All the diviner side of flesh, flesh-staged. And, if our very memory wore to dust, By the giant race of the end of ages must Our dual presence once again be raised.»

It rained still. But slow-treading night came in Closing the weary eyelids of each sense. The very consciousness of self and soul Grew, like a landscape through dim raining, dim. The Emperor lay still, so still that now He half forgot where now he lay, or whence The sorrow that was still salt on his lips. All had been something very far, a scroll Rolled up. The things he felt were like the rim That haloes round the moon when the night weeps.

His head was bowed into his arms, and they On the low couch, foreign to his sense, lay. His closed eyes seemed open to him and seeing The naked floor, dark, cold, sad and unmeaning. His hurting breath was all his sense could know. Out of the falling darkness the wind rose And fell. A voice swooned in the courts below. And the Emperor slept.

The gods came now And bore something away, no sense knows how, On unseen arms of power and repose.

#poetry #fernando pessoa #antinous #antinoos #hadrian #grief #loss #love #death #immortality

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pendragyn · 5 years

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Yet Another Entry In The Ineffable Bastards Universe

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls (It Tolls For They)

It all comes back to the church in '41, and what happened and almost happened and thankfully didn't happen after the church.

[This is very angsty and sad and while yes there will be a happy ending, so help me Glod, it is still a long way off as of the end of this ficlet. Also, I am not sure how to tag this because while they are very very into what they do do together, they are not thinking about the consequences of their actions due to some cursed cider.]

∞

Crowley ran, ran and ran, heart pounding, almost blind with panic, hissing with pain as their foot hit the edge of consecrated ground, but it didn’t matter, because they were in time and like a snake shedding their skin the panic slipped away as they yanked open the door and hot-footed their way into the church under the confused eyes of a trio of nazis and an angel moments away from a fate worse than death.

A church, for fuck’s sake? Can’t the angel see it’s a setup? A trap? Dealing with nazis on holy ground, giving them holy books, even if it’s supposed to be a double-cross, a double double-cross. “Sorry, consecrated ground. Ugh, like being on the beach in bare feet.” Crowley fervently kept that thought in mind, because in reality, it was far far worse than that. Crowley was very good at imagining not being on fire, and that belief was all that was keeping them from falling to ash inside that church.

Aziraphale continued to stare at Crowley in shock, for a moment wondering if they were actually hallucinating the way humans could during moments of high stress. Because consecrated ground discorporates demons, and yet. And yet, Crowley was somehow really here. Why the he- heaven is Crowley here? “What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, the nazis and the gun momentarily forgotten.

“Stopping you from getting in trouble,” Crowley hissed back, dancing from foot to foot just an arm’s length away from Aziraphale. Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool, if you panic you’re both done for.

“I should have known. Of course,” said Aziraphale, not believing that for a moment, even if they couldn’t sense a lie. They’d never been able to sense a lie when it came to Crowley. Probably a punishment for still caring about a demon after everything. Don’t fall for it again! “These people are working for you.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale an annoyed look. “No. They’re a bunch of half-witted nazi spies, running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.” That was one way of putting it, embarrassed; to be the first angel kicked out of heaven since the fall. The first one dipped in boiling sulfur in two thousand years. Even thought it was all a setup, that wouldn’t stop heaven from kicking Aziraphale out, not when they’d been trying for so long.

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, your fame precedes you.”

“Anthony?” echoed Aziraphale in surprise. The grudging respect in the man’s voice implied that Crowley was an adversary and not an ally, and Aziraphale’s momentary resolve to keep their distance started to crumble. Why are they really here? It, it can’t really be just to help me. Can it?

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asked, desperate for anything to keep the angel distracted, keep them from making a desperate choice that would send them falling, just for a little while longer.

“No, no, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” Aziraphale let out a little sigh, of regret and relief, because it was only a matter of time until Crowley hurt them again, but for now, for now they were here. Together.

“The famous Mr. Crowley. Such a pity you must both die.” Greta lifted the gun and pointing it at Crowley, wondering if that would spurn the response they were looking for from the so-called book-seller. Or perhaps from both of them, surely they’d get an even better reward if they got a bargain from two magical beings instead of just the one.

If we get discorporated, there will be paperwork, and paperwork means explaining… Oh dear lo- somebody, if either side finds out that Crowley can go into churches..! “What’s the ‘J’ stand for?” Aziraphale asked, trying to stall for time to figure out a way to keep them both from being discorporated. I have made a rather big mess of things.

Stall, stall, stall, Crowley kept thinking, giving the woman a sarcastic little flip from the brim of their hat, startled by Aziraphale’s question. “Oh, er, uh, just a ‘J’ really.” It was clear the nazis were getting restless and flicker of light caught Crowley’s attention. “Look at that! A whole font-full of holy water. Doesn’t even have guards.” Keep talking you arseholes, oh thank he- hea- somebody, there’s the sirens.

“Enough babbling, kill them both.”

“In about a minute,” interjected Crowley before Aziraphale could even think to say anything, “a German bomber will release a bomb that will land, right here. If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, you definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Glozier smiled, looking again at their primary target, Mr. Fell. Clearly Mr. Crowley was working for someone rather powerful, to be trying so hard to keep them from capturing the book-seller. “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

Crowley was finding it strangely easier and easier to be in the church the longer the conversation went on, and they were almost still as they replied, “Yes. It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes.” Took almost every bit of power I had too, Crowley thought, inwardly pleased to see their expressions shift at the word ‘demonic’. That’s right, thought they’d play fair, did you? Think again!

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look that said, I don’t think they believe you. I don’t even believe you.

Dammit angel! “Look, you’re all wasting your valuable running away time! And if, eh, in 30 seconds, a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it,” said Crowley pointedly.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “A, a real miracle?” They nodded to show they understood but then their eyes landed upon the open font of holy water and they completely lost their breath in that moment. A subtle flick of their fingers vanished the entire font while everyone was distracted, and they let out a faint sigh of relief to not have to test if an angelic miracle could keep a demon from being destroyed by holy water as they were all vaporized by a bomb.

“Kill them, they are very irritating,” said Harmony with a wave of his hand, picking up the bag of books. This was taking far too long, and no matter what their handler might say, Harmony knew that angels and demons didn’t exist. Delusions of lesser minds, all of it, but the money was very good, and his collection of magical books was growing by the day. These English wizards are all the same, thinking a spell would protect them from a bullet to the brain. As though bullets can’t be enchanted as well. Played for suckers, all of them.

Finally! Crowley pointed upwards as the first blasts started to echo in the distance, smiling fiercely in triumph as the nazis all looked upwards with dawning horror, and used their one last bit of magic.

Aziraphale looked up too, slapping their hat on their head and grounding themself, casting the miracle outward over Crowley, pouring their own power into it as the blast wave and flames and debris battered against it. They floated in the center of the destruction for a timeless while and then the dust settled and the miracle was done, leaving them both unharmed amidst the rubble.

Crowley staggered a bit, relieved that the burning sensation was gone and squinted through their dusty glasses, relieved to see Aziraphale standing rooted to their spot as they slowly came back to themself, no surprise considering the magnitude of the miracle they’d just pulled off. Crowley pulled a handkerchief from their pocket to wipe their glasses clean, smiling a little to themself. The foreboding of danger was gone and hell and heaven had both been thwarted.

It took a moment for Aziraphale to come back to themself, respectfully pulling off their hat as it was still consecrated ground, and looked around in dismay at the destruction. Their eyes alighted on Crowley, looking for all the world as though it were any other day as they nonchalantly cleaned their glasses amid the smoldering ruins of a church. A church that would probably still be standing if Aziraphale hadn’t gotten it into their head to ‘help’ in spite of heaven being unwilling to do so. “That was very kind of you.”

Kind? Was it particularly kind of me when I stupidly reminded hell of your existence? Kind? To almost drag you down with me again? More like unforgivable. Crowley said none of that, instead saying, “Shut up,” as they defensively shoved their glasses back onto their face before Aziraphale could see anything in their eyes.

“Well, it was.” Aziraphale didn’t know how to reconcile it- Crowley, the demon, had, at great personal risk, done something far beyond kind. “No paperwork, for a start,” Aziraphale joked weakly, gasping as realization hit. “Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all the books! Oh, they’ll all be blown to...” Aziraphale stared in shock and then wonder as Crowley prized the intact bag of books from, well best to not think about it, and held it out to Aziraphale, that little smile curling their lips that always invited you in on the joke.

“Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” Crowley had to make themself walk away after the jolt they’d felt from their hands brushing. They didn’t let themself look back, stalking away and wondering if Aziraphale would accept the offer. Almost hoped the angel wouldn’t, knowing they themself didn’t have the willpower to stay away, not when the angel looked at them the way they had as they’d accepted the books. As though it was a real courting gift, as though something lasting could come of it. As though Aziraphale had ever felt as Crowley had and still did.

Aziraphale looked down at the bag and up at Crowley’s retreating back, and inwardly at their own jumble of feelings and those that had come through with their first physical contact in centuries. Love. Their heart soared with terror and hope. They love me. They love me! As much as I love them! The euphoria was gone in an instant. In love, with a demon. A demon strong enough to walk on consecrated ground. How can this be anything but a trap? Aziraphale’s eyes drifted back down to the books, at war with themself, but called out, “Wait!”

Read the rest at AO3

#Good Omens #The Church Scene #Ineffable Bastards #angst #6000 years of pining #Crowley #Aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #go x discworld #celestial intimacy

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basicsofislam · 5 years

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ISLAM 101: Muslim Culture and Character: Morals And Manners: Part 8

CARE OF KIN

The Islamic term used for the care of kin is sila al-rahm which encompasses visiting one’s parents and relatives, asking after their welfare and making them happy. Islam gives importance to relationships with people, particularly the mother and father and then other close relatives. Visiting them should become a principle in one’s life.

Khalid ibn Zayd (Abu Ayyub al-Ansari) narrated an event in which a man came and asked the Prophet, “O Messenger of God, can you tell me an act of worship that will help me enter Heaven?” God’s Messenger replied thus, “Worshipping God, not associating any partners with Him, performing the daily prayers, giving to charity, and visiting your relatives.”

This hadith emphasizes the importance of sila al-rahm, stating that such actions can help Muslims go to Heaven. But sila al-Rahm means more than just visiting relatives; it also includes taking care of their needs and always including them when doing something

helpful (like giving charity). The fact that this is mentioned directly after the prescribed acts of worship, such as daily prayers and charity, shows the great importance given to sila al-rahm in Islam. For this reason, some Islamic scholars hold that such behavior is wajib, or necessary, for believers, and they consider it to be a great sin to neglect or refuse these duties. Indeed, in the Qur’an God commands:

O humankind! In due reverence for your Lord, keep from disobedience to Him Who created you from a single human self, and from it created its mate, and from the pair of them scattered abroad a multitude of men and women. In due reverence for God, keep from disobedience to Him in Whose name you make demands of one another, and (duly observe) the rights of the wombs (i.e. of kinship, thus observing piety in your relations with God and with human beings). God is ever watchful over you. (Nisa 4:1)

In the verse above, as well as the following verse, God’s Word charges us to maintain the bond of family ties, look after relatives and never allow these relationships to be severed:

And those who unite the bonds God has commanded to be joined (among kin as a requirement of blood relationship, and among people as required by human social interdependence), and stand in awe of their Lord, and fearful of (facing) the most evil reckoning… But those who break God’s covenant after its solemn binding, and sever the bonds God commanded to be joined, and cause disorder and corruption on the earth—such are those on whom there is a curse (exclusion from God’s mercy), and for them, there is the most evil abode. (Ra’d 13:20, 25)

There are differences of opinion as to how far the designation of “relative” extends, or who, exactly, is meant by these verses and hadith. According to some, relatives are close relatives with whom marriage is forbidden; according to others, the word’s meaning is those relatives close enough to have rights to inheritance. Still other scholars believe that the word rahm in the verse is inclusive of all relatives, even if they are distant relatives. In terms of social life, the latter view is the most helpful.

Since it has been commanded by God and His Messenger Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, to visit and care for relatives, it would be appropriate here to examine how this should be done. There are certain “degrees” of sila al-rahm:

The absolute minimum is to speak kindly to relatives and be amiable when talking to them, to greet them when we encounter them, to ask after their well-being, and to always think positively about them and want the best for them.

The second level is to go and visit them and to come to their aid in various circumstances. Such actions are a more physical way of serving our relatives. This is especially important as our relatives get older and need someone to assist them with things they can no longer do for themselves.

The third and most important level of sila al-rahm is to give one’s relatives financial and material support.

There are exceptional circumstances, such as when someone is too poor to support their relatives materially. But the Muslim who is well-off cannot be said to have completed the duties of sila al- rahmsimply by visiting and asking after their relatives. For such a person, these duties include financial support, as much as they can afford, for less well-off relatives. This support can be in the form of giving them a regular amount of money or providing them with the things they need. This is what is meant by “looking after and caring for relatives” in Islam; a good Muslim should carry out all of the above three “degrees” of support to the best of their ability. Otherwise, if they neglect to carry out those duties that are in their power, they will be held accountable. We must keep in mind the punishment for those who neglect these duties given in the above Qur’anic verse. Our Prophet also said, “Every Friday night each person’s deeds are presented to God; only those who neglect sila al-rahm will have their deeds denied.”

Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings are upon him, spoke of this topic in another hadith, proclaiming that faith in God and in the Last Day requires looking after one’s relatives. The Prophet said that God’s mercy is on those whom God judges to be taking good care of their families and those who take care to maintain blood ties. Conversely, God curses anyone who makes no effort to maintain their relationships with their relatives.

There are also other warnings that state that those who cut ties with their relatives will be punished. The Prophet declared that such people will not be admitted to Paradise. He also taught that only those who take good care of their relatives will be granted long life and more abundance, and that one who gives financial help to relatives will be rewarded twice, both for helping family and forgiving to charity.

The term relatives usually imply close relations such as immediate family, cousins, aunts or uncles. There are special benefits in treating these relatives well. The Messenger of God said, “An aunt is like another mother.” Likewise, an uncle is like another father. It is only natural that as part of good morality such as close family members have certain rights on us. Among these rights, paying visits is of particular importance. As explained below, the general rule is that one should visit close relations first on holidays, and then occasionally at other times, if possible bringing gifts.

Visiting strengthens the bond of love between relatives and puts an end to estrangement. It allows people to share their sorrows and joys, and to help one another through difficult times. In particular, the elderly need to spend their final years in peace and happiness in the bosom of their family, knowing they are loved and cared for.

There is another consideration that should be taken into account when examining the subject of sila al-rahm. One should not expect anything in return; in this context, this means that we must not only look after the relatives with whom we are already close, but we should also attend to our duties toward those who have severed ties with us. The Prophet said, “One who simply returns good with good is not living the full meaning of ‘caring for relatives.’ True care means to care for the relation who has not shown us any regard.” In fact, this is a general principle—we should always think carefully and choose good action in every situation. It is not correct to look after the well-being of those in need when one is weak and powerless but to change one’s conduct when wealth and power increase. This situation is one among the thousands of layers of meaning in the following Qur’anic verse:

But is it to be expected of you (O hypocritical ones), that you will break your promise and turn away (from God’s commandments), and cause disorder and corruption in the land, and sever the ties of kinship? Such are they whom God has cursed (excluded from His mercy), and so He has made them deaf and blinded their eyes (to the truth). (Muhammad 47:22–3)

As a final point, I wish to point out a general principle found in a hadith of the Prophet. Being fallible humans, we may some- times let bad words slip, especially when we are agitated and angry. There is a striking hadith about this: Ibn Amr ibn al-As relates the following words of Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him: “One of the greatest sins is to curse one’s parents.” Those with him asked, “Would any person curse their own parents?” The Messenger answered, “Yes! If anyone curses the par- ent of another person, as that person will then curse their parent in return, it is as if he has cursed his own parent!”

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readgreat-thinkbig-blog · 5 years

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The Echoing Tale (The Story of Echo)

This is an original short story, with several hand-drawn illustrations. It aims to help you discover the interesting cultural meaning behind English vocabulary, and learn more about the source of magic of English language.

“O, I am so in love with you… please come out! Come to me!”

She heard that wistful moaning again: his voice over-flown with longing, he called out to the water, just as he had done yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before… She tried to track time, but quickly lost count. He had stayed here too long—so long that she almost forgot how her life had been before he came.

Yet she remembered the day he came—a flash of a bow drawn, a swish of an arrow shot, a yelp of frustrated effort, the shadow of a lithe figure, the light of an exhausted smile—vague memories flickered like dim tatters, ragged shreds of blurry remembrance scattered across her foggy mind. But at times, some pieces flared up in brilliant sparkles—and she caught them before they faded forlornly away—such as the moment she was struck by him and had since then fallen helplessly and hopelessly in love: when he beamed and declared, joyously, “O, I love you!”

The violent force of reminiscence battered her heart; for an instant she was knocked out of breath. Bitterness welled up inside her, and she had to bite her lips to damher burning tears. Then coldness gripped her in its iron fist, twisting and squeezing her entire body until she was shaking terribly, in immense, desolate grief.

She collapsed onto the ground, sobbing, eyes stinging from countless days of agony. She loved him so, so dearly; but he seemed ignorant of it.

He cared about nothing, but himself.

His never left the pond side; his eyes never moved from the image of himself reflected in the watery mirror. Every word spoken by him was about his love for himself; so was every sigh, every smile.

He pined for his own self.

Narcissus…! She wanted to cry out, and yank his attention away from that cursed water. But when she opened her mouth, there was only a hollow, wheezing sound, void of substance, straining to create meaning.

She couldn’t speak.

How many times had she forgotten her curse, and how many times had she been reminded of the painful reality of it yet again, after her vain struggle to talk to her lover? Narcissus didn’t love her; he was repulsed by her presence. And he didn’t even bother to know her.

She thought of the disgust in his eyes. Such revulsion! Malice glittered like blades of obsidian, dangerous and sharp; dark flames of arrogance breathed into loathing, casting interweaving shadows of condescension and repugnance. His contemptuous dismissal of her entirety was imbued with such intense abhorrence that it cut wounds into her simple little soul: those wounds never healed, re-opening again, and again, upon his sole concern for himself.

He had screamed, “leave me! Leave me alone!” She had been exceedingly puzzled, wondering at his stormy complexion, the way his eyes bore into hers, and those maddeningly flashes warning of malignity and spite swirling inside. She remembered thinking, foolishly, of how Zeus’ lightning bolts must resemble the raging wrath in his eyes, extremely menacing, yet astoundingly beautiful. O, she had thought in admiration, how he looks like a god!

He roared again: “Go away, you detestable creature! I don’t love you! Do you hear me?”

Then her tiny heart shattered. Shards of broken hope crashed within her body, slashing at her flesh, hamstringing her. Her senses were cut dull; she was shocked into numbness, rendered immobile as if another curse was cast upon her. Perhaps she had been dead ever since: her will to survive had withered away like wilted flowers.

But she still loved him, despite his cruelty, his ego, his obsession of his own image. It is her own fault, she thought, to mistake his words addressed to himself as some profession to her of his adoration.

No, a damned creature like her doesn’t deserve his noble feelings; so what a wishful thinking it is to deem herself ever fortunate to secure the noblest feeling of all—love!

She thought of the day her fortune failed her. She recalled Hera’s wrath—the Queen of the gods was so furious at her tricks that she was shivering with rage. Her eyes burning with indignation, the goddess shrieked: “You! You detestable creature! How dare you! To lie! For Zeus!”

She had been grovelling at her feet, too terrified to look up. But the aura of power and godly strength around Hera was shimmering in golden waves of energy, clashing at her with horrifying force. She felt herself being clamped against the cold, hard ground.

Hera paused. Slowly, she said: “I will bestow a gift upon you, Echo.”

She was stunned. But before she sighed with relief and thanked the goddess, Hera chimed: “You shall never speak your own words again; you can still speak, but only in repetition of others—your companions shall despise your strangeness, so one by one, they shall leave you. You shall die, in your own time; but surely you shall perish in loneliness and regret.”

A blinding light flashed; then Hera was gone.

She had since spoken others’ words, and everything Hera had promised came true.

Except for death.

“O, I am so in love with you… please come out! Come to me!”

Narcissus’ voice cracked, his face lined with pain. In tears, she observed him—his face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, his expression excruciating. O, her only lover, what kind of spell had left him in such a trance of self-obsession, and such folly of self-love!

She watched him crumple to the ground.

She rushed to his side; but it was too late—Death had taken him away.

She wept silently, too frail to make a sound. Her lover was dead. Why, she asked Death, why have you not taken me?

Something was glimmering beside her. She lifted her tear-streaked hands, and choked at the sight—she couldn’t comprehend what she saw—Narcissus was dissolving; his body was crumbling into thousands of shining star-dust.

He disappeared completely. Soundless. Traceless.

She sobbed again.

A tiny flower sprouted from the spot where he had knelt and died—a white bud, bursting into pure, startling beauty—a snow-like bloom starred with gold patterns at the centre.

Trembling, she cuddled the flower, murmuring, “O, Narcissus! O, my love!”

Then Echo fell to the ground, holding the flower to her heart.

Exhaustion coursed through her body; and she prayed, against all hope: Mercy, Hera! Let me have him…

She lay on the grass, her flesh disintegrating into star-dust.

Finally, she thought, smiling, I could stand by his side…

In Oxford Dictionary, the word ‘echo’ means ‘the repetition in structure and content of one speaker's utterance by another’. Repeating what others have said is exactly the curse Echo had to suffer in endurance of Hera’s wrath. That’s why the word means as such.

Meanwhile, the word ‘narcissism’ means ‘excessive interest in or admiration of oneself and one’s physical appearance’. Narcissus, who loved his own reflection in the water, died of unfulfilled passion which consumed his entire body and soul, is the origin of the word ‘narcissism’. The self-obsessed behaviour of Narcissus gives the term ‘narcissism’ powerful meaning.

I took inspiration from the retelling of this myth by Richard Riordan in his book, ‘The Mark of Athena’. Echo’s unrequited love for Narcissus was tragic enough, not to mention her fate being doomed long before her encounter with Narcissus, her sad story already penned down at the moment when Hera cursed her.

Echo’s story (particularly the part about Narcissus) is familiar to many of you, however, I’ve been quite unsatisfied with how Greek Mythology is often told from an omniscient perspective—because subtlety of feelings and complexity of emotions are usually lost as a result of this story-telling technique. Therefore, I decided to render this old tale in a new way, animating these characters by exposing their minds.

I’ve chosen to write in the viewpoint of Echo, since I find her more interesting than Narcissus (forgive me, but this guy seems only able to care about his own self). Moreover, I used flashbacks to insert important pieces of information to aid readers’ understanding: Echo’s first encounter with Narcissus and her falling madly in love; and Echo’s curse due to Hera’s rage.

I hope that it’s been an enjoyable read for you—you learn more about Greek Mythology, and about the origins of English words (and their root words). Above all, I hope that you could find English, as a language that bustles with life and continues growing,interesting and rich. It’s a mode of communication, yes, but it also contains so much cultural meaning—it’s a collection of the most powerful and amazing imaginative ideas in human history.

Learning English, therefore, is not solely about familiarising yourselves with grammatical rules and linguistic structures; it’s more about sensing the pulsing energy of the language, loving the breath of it, enjoying everything it pertains to.

English is lovely, and that’s why I love learning it.

I hope you enjoy my writing.

#greekmyth #pjo #greek quotes #greek posts #greek #story #short story #literature #classic

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eldritchesrpg · 6 years

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Name: Tomas Whitney ✖ Age: 26 ✖ Occupation: N/A ✖ Flexibility: Inflexible ✖ Plot: And Home Before Dark ✖ Status: Open ✖ FC: John Boyega

what goes up / ghost around — haunted, beyoncé

personality

❝ He’s a newcomer so we’re still sussing out his personality, but this is what we know of him so far: he’s brave, he’s good. Tomas has a knight’s honor, faithful to the end, even to people that don’t deserve his loyalty. He’s hungry for the good in people, and he’ll look past the worst of flaws to see it. The golden rule seems to be built into Tomas — do unto others, and he does this without fail. He’s foolish at times, and naive, and sometimes just plain stupid. He runs headlong into danger, thinking with his gut and not his head. But and still, he has a spirituality about him that makes you believe that this impulsivity is not impulsiveness at all. Like, it’s more akin to intuition, something in him sounding off and alerting him to protect, fight. Without question, Tomas is one of those people that are fences. He is a sentinel, a guard against fear. There is strength in him, stronger than any strong man. It’s the strength of a protector. He is willing to die for anyone one of us; could you say the same? ❞

❝ You can call it spirituality, but there’s something wrong with Tomas. It isn’t just being new or having not found a place in our community. He’s a jump behind quirky, too haunted to be taken seriously by most. With some Tomas can be coy and sharp in conversation, but with others he is strange, stilted. Some people build walls to hide their true selves, but Tomas wears masks. Constantly swapping them out, switching them from person to person. His knight’s honor leaves room for white lies, mistruths that allow him to sneak away from suspicion. And then too, I have noticed that he is almost too good. There’s a chill about him, as if he’s on the verge of emotion, but is terrified to let the feelings free. He can perform vulnerability, but never honestly, never revealing everything lest it may be used against him. Whatever brought him to our village transformed him. I think he’s afraid of a second transformation. ❞

❝ Bad moon rising, a storm on the horizon; call it whatever you please. There’s turmoil inside of Tomas, thunderstorm on its way to becoming a deadly hurricane. He’s past the point of unsteady —he is canted, nearly falling over. Like a gun just before the trigger is pulled, Tomas is the danger. Never to anyone else though, only to himself. He’d prefer death over letting anyone get to know him, the real him that hides underneath all of that laughter. He is complex, but not so complex that nobody can unravel him. Tomas doesn’t believe this, thinks that everything he has gone through is too toxic to share. He rejects help. It’s not even pride that stops him; it’s fear. Fear of judgement, fear of weakness, fear of letting the village down. Someone told him the lie once that warriors were not allowed to lay down their weapons, and so he walks around with his suit of armor, his sword and shield. Alert always, but Tomas is wearing down. He sees Atlas with the world on his shoulders, but Atlas never had people who cared for him, who were willing to help him carry the weight. Tomas is willing to die for anyone of us, yes. Has anyone considered that that’s what he wants most of all? ❞

about character

one. Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity. Speaking of, has one seen Tomas? He was here just a minute ago, but he seems to have vanished in thin air. Omnipresent, he is on the ceiling, the stair and in the cellar. There are rumors of duplication, you know. There is no human way possible that he can be here and there and there also. With some skill, he has managed to share a drink with Daphne at the pub all while helping Missus Jackson with her garden. He’s been seen picking flowers with the children on the hill, but others have seen him near the woods, eyes wooden and mouth full of owl moths. They say that his face with slick with sweat and dew, that he gripped the dry grass as if holding on for dear life. Others say that his arms are full of flowers, that he smelled of blackberries and wine. You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air, but I tell you once and once again — Whitney’s not there.

two. I know you, I’ve walked with you once upon a dream. Or was it a memory? He knows there was a city once, shockingly neon and blinding, that held hundreds of millions. The buildings like the Tower of Babel, kissing the sky. The sky, in turn, kissing the people. He remembers, or does he dream, smooth planes of glass and metal that hung from the clouds like a neck dripping in jewels. His face illuminated by raging fires, his face stained red and black with blood. Tomas seizes, dreams, or does he remember, blunt, white teeth gnashing and snapping, clicking together with such force. People leaving by the thousands, empty bodies returning with little more than their skin. Tomas dreams, remembers, seizes, foams, bursts — And he’s never quite sure when day becomes night, when the dreams are just dreams. ... visions are seldom what they seem, but if I know you —

three. Tell me about the big bang. Stars and star dust, chaos and ordering rushing, swirling. Tomas swears he was there when the earth came to be, swears he could see straight into the molten core. He says it was hot at the beginning and ice cold at the end. He says that he saw darkness and light, a thousand truths and a million lines. His tongue contorts with stories of monsters, beasts, gods. Six eyes, twelves wings, hooves and horns and tentacles. He describes their mouths and maws, lolling red tongues and talons that curl into the torso and pull. Tomas says he can see the beginning and feel the first twinges of the end, that the guts of the universe will soon crack open and spill, viscous-like, into what is safe and known. Tell us then, o Tomas, about the big bang. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts to become.

four. A huntsman ties down his daughter with braided rope and fishing nets. Her ankle is blackened with blood. An arrow pierces her side. Her hands, feet and snarling mouth are all that Tomas can see. Grab hold of her, pin her down! He obeys, feels the rawness of her wrists, her thick, green spit against his cheek. She curses, she kicks, she damns all gods and her parents and every man that binds her. She promises blood and suffering, hellfire and beasts from within the woods that lust for the rend of flesh. She begs to be released, to go back to the house, to the lady-hand forest where the others were. What others, what others? But all Tomas can see is her eyes, her snarling mouth, the maze of rooms and wanting. See, see, see? A huntsman ties down his daughter with braided rope and fishing nets. Her ankle is blackened with blood, and an arrow pierces her side. But tomorrow, or perhaps tonight, she will meet the others.

lore

one. The last place he lived had a festival too, but there they burned witches and sacrificed sinners to the sea. Check his eyes. Aren’t they birch and aspen?

two. There’s something off about that new man, Tomas. They say that he’s a seer, that he knows things far into the future. Soothsayers tell you only what you want to hear.

three. He freed the huntsman daughter. I saw him myself! Loosening the ties, whispering to her of a place with a red-cheeked woman. Do you trust him still?

#bio roleplay #bio rpg #rpc #horror roleplay #horror rpg #john boyega fc #ahbd ch #ahbd open #open #inflexible ch

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derekajones · 4 years

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The Sacred Isles: The Throne of God. Author & Researcher, Derek A. Jones

HOUSE OF ISRAEL - HEAD & HAIRS. HOUSE OF JUDAH – BODY.

THE THREE LATTER DAY HOUSES OF ISRAEL - MANASSEH, EPHRAIM & JUDAH.

THE THREE DAYS & STARS OF THE LATTER DAY.

JONATHAN & DAVID

Saul chose him three thousand men of Israel; whereof two thousand were with Saul in Michmash and in mount Bethel, and a thousand were with Jonathan in Gibeah of Benjamin: and the rest of the people he sent every man to his tent. 1. Samuel 13:2

And between the passages, by which Jonathan sought to go over unto the Philistines' garrison, there was a sharp rock on the one side and a sharp rock on the other side. 1. Samuel 14:4

Here above, we now have the reference to the three latter day houses (the three thousand men of Israel). Jonathan is now central (as Samson in between the two pillars), in between the two sharp rocks:

And the men of Israel were distressed that day: for Saul had adjured the people, saying, Cursed be the man that eateth any food until evening, that I may be avenged on mine enemies. So none of the people tasted any food. And all they of the land came to a wood; and there was honey upon the ground. And when the people were come into the wood, behold, the honey dropped; but no man put his hand to his mouth: for the people feared the oath. 1. Samuel 14:24

But Jonathan heard not when his father charged the people with the oath: wherefore he put forth the end of the rod that was in his hand, and dipped it in an honeycomb, and put his hand to his mouth; and his eyes were enlightened. 1. Samuel 14:27

Jonathan, like Samson, now tastes the honey. Note that the eyes of Jonathan were enlightened.

DAVID

And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a mountain on the other side: and there was a valley between them. And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath. 1. Samuel 17:3

And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh to meet David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine. And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth. So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David. Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head. 1. Samuel 17:48

And David took the head of the Philistine, and brought it to Jerusalem. 1. Samuel 17:54

David meets Goliath in the valley in between the two mountains. It is actually Goliath here that represents the central house of the latter day three houses. David represents the latter day Messiah and the hidden knowledge. The stone in between the strings of the sling is also a reference to the two mountains and the valley. The stone, like the honey, represents the hidden knowledge. The stone hits and sinks into the forehead of Goliath. The head of Goliath is then severed by David and taken to Jerusalem. Here then we see the head and body terminology for the house of Israel and the house of Judah. The severed head, when taken to Jerusalem (body), is the restoration of the house of Israel with the house of Judah in the latter day.

And it came to pass, when he (David) had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father's house. Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle. 1. Samuel 18:1

As both Jonathan and David represented the latter day Messiah, we can see here why their souls were knit together.

If ye will not be reformed by me by these things, but will walk contrary unto me, then will I also walk contrary unto you, and will punish you yet seven times for your sins. Leviticus 26:23

The '3' within prophecy relates to the three latter day houses of the kingdom of Israel, Manasseh, Ephraim and Judah. The '7' within prophecy relates to the seven times (2520 years) transgression period for both the houses of Israel and Judah.

The hidden knowledge of Joseph in the latter day will be received and understood by the Messiah. The terminology of 'honey' and 'fire' represent the hidden knowledge.

Then went Samson down, and his father and his mother, to Timnath, and came to the vineyards of Timnath: and, behold, a young lion roared against him. And the Spirit of the LORD came mightily upon him, and he rent him as he would have rent a kid, and he had nothing in his hand: but he told not his father or his mother what he had done. And after a time he returned to take the daughter of the Philistines, and he turned aside to see the carcase of the lion: and, behold, a swarm of bees and honey in the carcase of the lion. And he took thereof in his hands, and went on eating. Judges 14:5

Samson, like the majority of the prophets, will either be presented as the collective house of Israel, or as the singular Messiah. Sometimes they are presented as both within the prophecies. Samson eating the honey is here representing the Messiah receiving the hidden knowledge. The following prophecy from Matthew is a reference to this latter day Messiah:

For wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together. Matthew 24:28

Matthew is specifically referencing the honey of the carcase. Thus, the carcase will be the location where the Messiah will receive the honey.

Here now we must remember Elijah and the chariot of fire. With the terminology of 'fire', like honey, representing the hidden knowledge, we can therefore read the chariot of fire as the chariot of hidden knowledge. Elijah going with the chariot is a reference to Elijah being found in the latter day on the chariot with the fire. With the chariot of fire representing the house of Israel, My father, my father, the chariot of Israel, Elijah (Messiah) will come from the central house of the three latter day houses of Israel.

The central house then, relates to the carcase of the honey. The central house is also connected to the 'LION'. Samson (Messiah), receives the honey (hidden knowledge), from the carcase of the lion. Thus, Samson receives honey from the lifeless lion, and in so doing, awakens the house/nation to the truth of his knowledge.

And she said unto him, How canst thou say, I love thee, when thine heart is not with me? thou hast mocked me these three times, and hast not told me wherein thy great strength lieth. And it came to pass, when she pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was vexed unto death; That he told her all his heart, and said unto her. There hath not come a razor upon mine head; for I have been a Nazarite unto God from my mother's womb: if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man. Judges 16:15

And she made him sleep upon her knees; and she called for a man, and she caused him to shave off the seven locks of his head; and she began to afflict him, and his strength went from him. Judges 16:19

Here in the above, we see the code word of 'seven'. Seven is a reference to the house of Israel and the seven times period for transgression. The seven locks upon the head of Samson (Goliath), represent the house of Israel. The hairs being shaven from the head of Samson, is the house of Israel being uprooted (shaven) from Samaria. Samson also becomes blind as the house of Israel becomes blind to their identity. So, as Elisha becomes bald when Elijah and the chariot of Israel is taken from his head, so Samson becomes bald when his seven golden locks are shaven from his head. The more astute reader will have noticed also the number 'three' from Judges 16:15. Samson, mocking Delilah three times, is a reference to the mystery of the seven concerning the three houses of the latter day.

And they called for Samson out of the prison house; and he made them sport: and they set him between the pillars. And Samson said unto the lad that held him by the hand, Suffer me that I may feel the pillars whereupon the house standeth, that I may lean upon them. Now the house was full of men and women; and all the lords of the Philistines were there; and there were upon the roof about three thousand men and women, that beheld while Samson made sport. And Samson called unto the LORD, and said, O Lord GOD, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes. And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood, and on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand, and of the other with his left. And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein. Judges 16:25

The strengthening of Samson relates to his hair growing back upon his head. The three houses of the latter day Israel are here presented as the cryptic 'three thousand' upon the roof. Also, Samson in between the two pillars is representative of the latter day three houses. In this case, the head and hairs of Samson represent the central house. Samson moving the two pillars is terminology for the power of revelation. Hence, the hidden knowledge will come from the central house. Thus, David and Goliath in between the two mountains.

And Samson said concerning them, Now shall I be more blameless than the Philistines, though I do them a displeasure. And Samson went and caught three hundred foxes, and took firebrands, and turned tail to tail, and put a firebrand in the midst between two tails. And when he had set the brands on fire, he let them go into the standing corn of the Philistines. Judges 15:3

The three hundred foxes relate to the three latter day houses of Israel. We then read a wonderful terminology for these three houses as the two foxes with the firebrand central and representing the hidden knowledge. Thus, the stone and honey from Jonathan and David.

Then said I, Woe is me! For I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts. Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar: And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged. Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. Isaiah 6:1

The live coal is from the hand but, there is also reference to the latter day three houses of Israel: The live coal that touches the lips of Isaiah is in between the two 'arms' of the tongs, as Samson is in between the two pillars, as the firebrand is in between the two foxes. The live coal touching the lips is a reference to the honey.

THE COVENANT

The Blessing of the Right Hand

ABRAHAM

ISAAC

JACOB (ISRAEL)

MANASSEH (left hand). EPHRAIM (right hand).

DIVISION OF THE KINGDOM OF ISRAEL: 970 BC.

HOUSE OF ISRAEL: [Manasseh, Ephraim]. Reuben. Simeon. Issachar. Zebulun. Dan. Nephtali. Gad. Asher.

HOUSE OF JUDAH: Judah and Benjamin.

Both the two houses contained a contingent of the tribe of Levi. Because the Covenant was born a double in the nest, both the right hand and the left hand were used to bless the twins. However, the right hand is THE Covenant of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Ephraim then, was the right hand of the Covenant.

A prophetic day in the Scriptures relates to one year. A prophetic 'time' relates to 360 days. Seven times therefore, relates to 2520 years:

If ye will not be reformed by me by these things, but will walk contrary unto me, then will I also walk contrary unto you, and will punish you yet seven times for your sins. Leviticus 26:23

Manasseh was taken from Palestine around the years 734/732 BC. Their seven times transgression period therefore would come to an end 2520 years later. This gives us the dates of 1786/1788 AD. Is it pure chance that in 1787 AD., the Constitution of the United States of America was drawn, and in 1789 AD., the United States of America was born, with George Washington as it's first President.

Ephraim's seven times transgression period began around 723/721 BC., a little later than that of Manasseh. A simple calculation shows us that 2520 years should have expired for Ephraim around the years 1797/1799 AD. In 1798 it was decided to unite Ireland with Britain, due to the Catholics in Ireland being in rebellion against Protestant rule and of seeking aid from France. In 1800 AD., the unification was complete, resulting in the union flag becoming the flag of the United Kingdom.

The United States being born before the United Kingdom makes the United States the elder brother of the United Kingdom, and is further testimony from the Old Scriptures to the identity of the United States as Manasseh and the United Kingdom being the younger, Ephraim.

This blindness of Israel however, did not apply to the house of Judah - they have always known their identity, and were to be the 'anchor' for the house of Israel. Israel was to be hidden from the gentile empires and nations until the 2520 years for transgression period was over. Israel would then slowly begin to regain her sight.

The house of Judah was invaded and taken captive into Babylon in the year 603 BC. Their punishment period of 2520 years therefore would expire in the years 1917 AD. The gentile Turks were removed from Palestine and Jerusalem in World War One by the British (Ephraim) in 1917 AD. Thus, the 'times of the gentiles' for the house of Judah had come to an end, resulting in the house of Judah once more becoming a nation state thirty years later in 1948 AD., and given the name 'Jewish State of Israel'.

The '3' then within prophecy relates to the 3 latter day nations/houses of Israel. The '7' then, within prophecy relates to the 7 times transgression period. When dealing with the prophecies, these numerical figures can take on the forms: 3, 30, 300, 3000 and 7, 70, 700, 7000. The reader must try and be aware of these numerical concealments, in order to truly grasp the beauty of the writings of the prophets.

Chapters one and two in the book of Ezekiel involves the vision of the four living creatures. The reader must not be intimidated by the cryptic symbolism of these prophecies, it is agreed by virtually all Jewish scholars that this vision of Ezekiel represented Israel, especially Israel during their encampment in the Sinai desert - the cherubim and their wings. The second simplified version of the four living creatures and their wings was the wheel within a wheel. The outer wheel (twelve tribes of Israel) represented the outstretched wings of each of the four living creatures. The inner wheel (tribe of Levi) represented the wings of the four living creatures that covered their bodies. The reference to four more wheels appearing by the side of each of the four living creatures, represents the four groups of the tribe of Levi.

And when I looked, behold, an hand was sent unto me; and, lo, a roll of a book was therein; And he spread it before me; and it [was] written within and without: and there was written therein lamentations, and mourning, and woe. Moreover he said unto me, Son of man, eat that thou findest; eat this roll, and go speak unto the house of Israel. So I opened my mouth, and he caused me to eat that roll. And he said unto me, Son of man, cause thy belly to eat, and fill thy bowels with this roll that I give thee. Then did I eat it; and it was in my mouth as honey for sweetness. Ezekiel 2:9

We must first be aware that after eating the roll of the book, Ezekiel is then instructed to go speak to Israel:

So the spirit lifted me up, and took me away, and I went in bitterness, in the heat of my spirit; but the hand of the LORD was strong upon me. Ezekiel 3:14

The following account would appear to be the end of the experience for Ezekiel. However, the reference to the SEVEN DAYS is the key that the experience had not ended. Ezekiel in the above verses was the observer of the latter day Messiah. Below, Ezekiel is presented as the latter day Messiah.

Then I came to them of the captivity at Tel-abib, that dwelt by the river of Chebar, and I sat where they sat, and remained there astonished among them SEVEN DAYS. Ezekiel 3:15

What follows is the more simplified version of Ezekiel's prophetic vision and experience from chapters one and two. Chapters one, two and three concern the latter day (our day) AFTER THE SEVEN DAYS and in the time of the THREE DAYS. Thus, in the following verse, Ezekiel, like the majority of the prophets, was being presented as the latter day Messiah.

And he said unto me, Arise, go forth into the plain, and I will there talk with thee. Then I arose, and went forth into the plain: and, behold, the glory of the LORD stood there, as the glory which I saw by the river of Chebar: and I fell on my face. Then the spirit entered into me, and set me upon my feet, and spake with me, and said unto me, Go, shut thyself within thine house. But thou, O son of man, behold, they shall put bands upon thee, and shall bind thee with them, and thou shalt not go out among them: And I will make thy tongue cleave to the roof of thy mouth, that thou shalt be dumb, and shalt not be to them a reprover: for they [are] a rebellious house. But when I speak with thee, I will open thy mouth, and thou shalt say unto them, Thus saith the Lord GOD. Ezekiel 3:22

Ezekiel is told by the Lord to, Go to thy plain, and lock thyself within thine house. Ezekiel then, the Lord says, will become mute, in the sense that he will not be the reprover. The Lord continues to inform Ezekiel that his isolation is part of his removal from his environment - an environment that would try to bind him to their understanding and not the Lord's. After a period of isolation within his house of the plain, the knowledge from the roll of a book comes to Ezekiel, which is sweet as honey to his learning. His isolation and non reproving creates the condition for his sweet knowledge to become bitter within him. It is then, that the Lord commands him to go teach the House of Israel.

We now have to look for the explanation of the 'Go to thy plain, and lock thyself within thine house'.

Then they that feared the LORD spake often one to another: and the LORD hearkened, and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the LORD, and that thought upon his name. Malachi 3:16

Ezekiel writes the book of remembrance. The term 'remembrance' denotes an historical knowledge.

Likewise, Ezekiel became enlightened after eating the roll of a book that tasted of honey. The roll of a book, like the honey, is just cryptic terminology concerning the receiving of hidden knowledge or enlightenment. Thus the latter day Messiah is awakened/enlightened in his house of the plain/field.

And the angel that talked with me came again, and waked me, as a man that is wakened out of his sleep. Zechariah 4:1

And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, Who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof? And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon. And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon. Revelation 5:1

Go and take the little book which is open in the hand of the angel which standeth upon the sea and upon the earth. And I went unto the angel, and said unto him, Give me the little book. And he said unto me, Take it, and eat it up; and it shall make thy belly bitter, but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey. And I took the little book out of the angel’s hand, and ate it up; and it was in my mouth sweet as honey: and as soon as I had eaten it, my belly was bitter. And he said unto me, Thou must prophesy again before many peoples, and nations, and tongues, and kings. Revelation 10:8

In Revelation 5:1, John is the observer, when we read of the rejection of the book, resulting in John weeping. The weeping relates to the bitterness of the book's rejection worldwide. In Revelation 10:8, we read of John being presented as the Messiah. But, when the command is given to teach the hidden knowledge, the latter day Messiah will teach the entire world - many nations, tongues and kings (leaders), but with the bitterness still felt from the rejection of his book.

So the spirit lifted me up, and took me away, and I went in bitterness, in the heat of my spirit; but the hand of the LORD was strong upon me. Ezekiel 3:14

And Moses said unto the LORD, O my Lord, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue. And the LORD said unto him, Who hath made man’s mouth? Genesis 4:10

The latter day Messiah will be self-conscious and inexperienced in teaching and presenting his knowledge to an audience.

The prophecies of the late eminent Rabbi Yitzhak Kaduri concerning the latter day Messiah:

It is hard for many good people in the society to understand the person of the Messiah. The leadership and order of a Messiah of flesh and blood is hard to accept for many in the nation. As leader, the Messiah will not hold any office, but will be among the people and use the media to communicate.

Will all believe in the Messiah right away? No, in the beginning some of us will believe in him and some not. It will be easier for non-religious people to follow the Messiah than for Orthodox people.

The Messiah would not appear to Israel until sometime after Ariel Sharon’s death. The union of the two souls of the Messiahs (Messiah son of Joseph and Messiah son of David) has taken place. Rabbi Kaduri said it had been revealed to him that these two were one.

The revelation of the Messiah will be fulfilled in two stages: First, he will actively confirm his position as Messiah without knowing himself that he is the Messiah. Then he will reveal himself to some, not necessarily to wise Torah scholars. It can be even simple people. Only then he will reveal himself to the whole nation. The people will wonder and say: ‘What, that’s the Messiah?’ Many have known his name but have not believed that he could be the Messiah..

RABBI YITZHAK KADURI.

I AM THAT I AM

Ehyeh asher ehyeh, is the first of three responses given to Moses when he asks for God's name:

And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you. Exodus 3:14

The King James Version of the Bible translates Ehyeh asher ehyeh as, 'I am that I am', and uses it as a proper name for God. Ehyeh, is the first-person singular imperfect form of hayah, 'to be'. Ehyeh, is usually translated, 'I will be', since the imperfect tense in Hebrew denotes actions that are not yet completed. For example: Certainly I will be (Ehyeh) with thee. Exodus 3:12

The second word, Asher, is an ambiguous pronoun which can mean, depending on context, 'that', 'who', 'which', or 'where'. Although Ehyeh asher ehyeh is generally rendered in English, 'I am that I am', better renderings would be 'I will be what I will be', or 'I will be who I will be', or 'I shall prove to be whatsoever I shall prove to be', or even 'I will be because I will be'.

THE HEBREW WORD FOR 'WAY':

Yeshua saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life. John 14:6

The Hebrew translation for the word, 'Way' is 'Derek' and pronounced, 'Deh-rek'.

I will be (Ehyeh) the Way (Deh-rek), and the truth, and the life. John 14:6

Again the high priest asked him, and said unto him, Art thou the Christ, the Son of the Blessed? And Jesus said, I WILL BE: and ye shall see the Son of man sitting on/at the RIGHT HAND of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven. John 14:61

For wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together. Matthew 24:28

In other words, wheresoever the right hand is, there will the eagles be gathered together. The carcase is a reference to the honey. Thus, Ezekiel and John receive the honey from the Covenant of the right hand – the house of Ephraim.

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superpowerprayer · 5 years

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I say a Lot of Bad Cruel Hurtful Dirty Things-I Curse. SO WHAT? / Timothy J Douglass Sr My Testimony

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The New Creation Man | Neville Johnson

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Psalm 5 King James Version (KJV)

1 Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my meditation.

2 Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King, and my God: for unto thee will I pray.

3 My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.

4 For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness: neither shall evil dwell with thee.

5 The foolish shall not stand in thy sight: thou hatest all workers of iniquity.

6 Thou shalt destroy them that speak leasing: the Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man.

7 But as for me, I will come into thy house in the multitude of thy mercy: and in thy fear will I worship toward thy holy temple.

8 Lead me, O Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies; make thy way straight before my face.

9 For there is no faithfulness in their mouth; their inward part is very wickedness; their throat is an open sepulchre; they flatter with their tongue.

10 Destroy thou them, O God; let them fall by their own counsels; cast them out in the multitude of their transgressions; for they have rebelled against thee.

11 But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy, because thou defendest them: let them also that love thy name be joyful in thee.

12 For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou compass him as with a shield.

Prayer is a conversation with God.

Prayer, simply put, is conversation with God.

FATHER GOD,

I BELIEVE THAT YOU SENT YOUR SON JESUS CHRIST TO DIE ON THE CROSS FOR MY SINS.

I BELIEVE THAT HE DIED, AND WAS RESURRECTED, AND IS COMING BACK TO JUDGE THE LIVING AND THE DEAD.

FATHER, I REPENT. PLEASE FORGIVE ME OF ALL MY SINS. COME INTO MY HEART AND MAKE ME YOUR CHILD.

IN THE NAME OF YOUR SON JESUS CHRIST.

AMEN

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Cleansing PrayerHeavenly Father In The Mighty Name of Jesus Christ. All Things Concerning Myself, My Spouse,My Children, My Job, My Business, My City, My State, My Country My Household and My Church.I Pray that You Stop, Nullify, Blind, Deafen, Confuse, Shut Down, Break The Power, and Conquer, Satan Lucifer, All Witch Craft, Sorcery, The Prince of the Power of The Air, Every Generational Curse and Every Unclean Spirit That I Have Not Mentioned. Father Mute, Muzzle,Gag and Cut off All Communication Between Devils, Close Every Demonic Portal and Gateway Seal it.Confuse Them All. Thwart All of Their Efforts.Lord Jesus Render Every Demon Powerless In My Life from Now On. In Jesus Christ Name.Send Them To The Feet of Jesus For Judgement.Matthew 18:18 States That "Verily I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be boundin heaven: and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven". "The Word of God Is Quick And More Powerful and Sharper Than Any Two Edged Sword". Hebrews 4:12Father In Jesus Name, Kill and Cut off the Head of Every Serpent and Every Giant With The Two Edged Sword, The Sword of The Spirit, With The Word of God. Lord Jesus Christ.Every Negative Unclean Spirit that Operates Inside of My Eyes, My Nose, My Mouth, My Ears, My Skin,Inside of My Head, My Emotions, My Body, My Mind, My Thoughts, My Spirit, My Soul, and My Personal Life,Both Internally and Externally. Father I ask That You Divide All Of Their Power,Divide Their Camp, Divide Their Agreements, Divide Their Kingdoms, Pull Down Every Stronghold. In The Mighty Name of Jesus Christ.Thank You Father That "No Weapon That is Formed Against Me Shall Prosper". Isaiah 54:17Thank You Lord That You Will Thrust Out The Enemy From Before Me and Shall Say Destroy Them. Deuteronomy 33:27Thank You Jesus That " My Enemies Shall Be Found Liars Unto Thee and That I Tread Upon Their High Places".Deuteronomy 33:29 In The Mighty Name Of Jesus Christ.The Holy Bible States In Philippians 2:10-11 "That Every Knee Shall Bowand Every Tongue Shall Confess That Jesus Christ is Lord" And Now With The Authority Of The Blood Of Jesus Christ. I Command Every Unclean Spirit To Now Bow Down andConfess With Your Mouths that Jesus Christ is Lord,Thank You Lord Jesus For The Dominion, Power and Authority To Do This. Father In Jesus Name,I Bind, Chain, and Cage the Works of Darkness and Put Them Into the Supernatural Cages of Jesus Christ. Father, Enable The Warrior Angels To Arrest Every Fear and Every Unclean Spirit and Cast Them Down Into The Pit Along With Every Other Devil Involved That I Have Don't Know About.Father In Jesus Name I Thank You for The Power, Dominion, and Authority that You have Given Me To Do ThisAs Your Son or Daughter and With The Power and Authority of The Blood of Jesus Christ.In Jesus Name "No Weapon That is Formed Against Me Shall Prosper". 2 Timothy 1:7I Exercise The Law of Psalm 91:7 "A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right handbut it shall not come near me". There Shall Be No Backlash, No Blow back, No Reprisal, and No Retaliation because of This My Prayer. Thank You Father for Giving Me "The Power to Tread on Serpents and Scorpions and Over All of The Power of The Enemy and That Nothing Shall By Any Means Hurt Me". Luke 10:19In The Mighty Name of Jesus Christ.Father I Thank You That "I am raised up together with You, and I sit together With You In Heavenly Places in Christ Jesus". Ephesians 2:6Father I Pray that You Will Continue To Lead and Guide Me In Every Moment of My Life.Please Give Me A Heart To Believe And A Mind To Receive. And That My Eyes May Be Enlightened.According To The Works of Your Mighty Power.You Have Not given Me "The Spirit of Fear, but of Love and a Sound Mind". 2 Timothy 2:7Please Forgive Me of Every Sin That I Have Ever Committed.Thank You For Your Passion and For Dying on The Cross for Me.I Thank You Father and Give All of The Praise, Honor, and Glory Forever And EverIn The Mighty Name of Jesus Christ. Amen

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frederickwiddowson · 6 years

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2Corinthians 11:16 - 12:10 comments: God's power shines through our weakness

11:16 ¶ I say again, Let no man think me a fool; if otherwise, yet as a fool receive me, that I may boast myself a little. 17 That which I speak, I speak it not after the Lord, but as it were foolishly, in this confidence of boasting. 18 Seeing that many glory after the flesh, I will glory also. 19 For ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise. 20 For ye suffer, if a man bring you into bondage, if a man devour you, if a man take of you, if a man exalt himself, if a man smite you on the face. 21 I speak as concerning reproach, as though we had been weak. Howbeit whereinsoever any is bold, (I speak foolishly,) I am bold also.

Paul sets up an argument here admonishing the Corinthians who he says would permit false teaching to pollute their faith. He is referring to Judaizers who would try to put the Corinthians back under the Law as we will see.

11:22 ¶ Are they Hebrews? so am I. Are they Israelites? so am I. Are they the seed of Abraham? so am I. 23 Are they ministers of Christ? (I speak as a fool) I am more; in labours more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequent, in deaths oft. 24 Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. 25 Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep; 26 In journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; 27 In weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. 28 Beside those things that are without, that which cometh upon me daily, the care of all the churches. 29 Who is weak, and I am not weak? who is offended, and I burn not? 30 If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things which concern mine infirmities. 31 The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which is blessed for evermore, knoweth that I lie not. 32 In Damascus the governor under Aretas the king kept the city of the Damascenes with a garrison, desirous to apprehend me: 33 And through a window in a basket was I let down by the wall, and escaped his hands.

The Judaizers who are trying to put the Corinthians back under the Law have nothing on Paul’s pedigree. He also is a Hebrew, an Israelite. He has suffered a great deal for the gospel. These are his credentials; prison, beatings, shipwrecks, and in grave peril for his life in many places. He barely escaped death in Damascus.

Acts 9:22 But Saul increased the more in strength, and confounded the Jews

which dwelt at Damascus, proving that this is very Christ.

23 ¶ And after that many days were fulfilled, the Jews took counsel to kill him: 24 But their laying await was known of Saul. And they watched the gates day and night to kill him. 25 Then the disciples took him by night, and let him down

by the wall in a basket.

His argument continues in trying to explain to the Corinthians what he, Paul, has seen….

Chapter 12

12:1 ¶ It is not expedient for me doubtless to glory. I will come to visions and revelations of the Lord. 2 I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) such an one caught up to the third heaven. 3 And I knew such a man, (whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) 4 How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter. 5 Of such an one will I glory: yet of myself I will not glory, but in mine infirmities. 6 For though I would desire to glory, I shall not be a fool; for I will say the truth: but now I forbear, lest any man should think of me above that which he seeth me to be, or that he heareth of me. 7 And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure. 8 For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. 9 And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. 10 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.

Paul had a vision of being caught up to heaven. Could it have happened when he was near death at Lystra as reported in Acts 14:8 through 20? We simply do not know if it was that occasion or perhaps when he was first blinded in his encounter with Christ on the road to Damascus as reported in Acts 9.

Paul uses the phrase the third heaven. This would suggest that the first heaven is the atmosphere of earth where life can exist, the second heaven would be our understanding of outer space containing stars and planets, the third heaven would be where God dwells and the origination point of the heavenly New Jerusalem, that giant cube of a city that is at some point headed toward us.

Revelation 21:16 And the city lieth foursquare, and the length is as large as the breadth: and he measured the city with the reed, twelve thousand furlongs. The length and the breadth and the height of it are equal.

It is to there that God has placed Paradise, what we call Abraham’s Bosom from Luke 16:22, and the Tree of Life.

Revelation 2:7 He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the tree of life, which is in the midst of the paradise of God.

Revelation 22:1 ¶ And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. 2 In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. 3 And there shall be no more curse: but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him: 4 And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. 5 And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.

It is there that sorrow and suffering end for those who have trusted in God, who have believed His word, and who are depending on Christ’s righteousness and not their own for sanctification and justification before God.

Revelation 21:4 And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

Paul can’t talk about it probably because we would not understand it nor would we have any thing on earth to connect it to from our own experience or understanding. It is beyond our comprehension. To explain something we must have some sort of parallel or reference from experience. As Isaiah noted;

Isaiah 64:4 For since the beginning of the world men have not heard, nor perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen, O God, beside thee, what he hath prepared for him that waiteth for him.

Which Paul paraphrased as;

1Corinthian 2:9 But as it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.

To keep Paul from getting a swelled head over this privileged experience from God he was given a thorn in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to afflict him. This gives us some suggestion of the origination of disease, at least in some cases. We only see temporal causes; unsanitary conditions, a disease agent, injury, or genetic factors but there is also a spiritual explanation. Here is a reason for suffering that is not linked to Paul’s sin but to his triumph in Christ and to his mission.

What was Paul’s condition? Well, we know that he was blinded on the road to Damascus.

Acts 9:8 And Saul arose from the earth; and when his eyes were opened, he saw no man: but they led him by the hand, and brought him into Damascus.

Which he was delivered from….

Acts 9: 17 And Ananias went his way, and entered into the house; and putting his hands on him said, Brother Saul, the Lord, even Jesus, that appeared unto thee in the way as thou camest, hath sent me, that thou mightest receive thy sight, and be filled with the Holy Ghost.18 And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith, and arose, and was baptized.

And yet, he seemed to be plagued with vision problems after that.

Galatians 4:15 Where is then the blessedness ye spake of? for I bear you record, that, if it had been possible, ye would have plucked out your own eyes, and have given them to me.

He asked three times, thrice, for the Lord to deliver him from his infirmity. But, he received…

My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.

God’s power shines through us in our disabilities, our weakness, our infirmity, and our inability. It is in these circumstances that our desire for preeminence and to have power over our world is severely diminished and then God shines through our finite, frail vessels. It is a great testimony to the world for them to see God’s power in your frailty.

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araitsume · 6 years

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Prophets and Kings, pp. 143-154: Chapter (11) Carmel

This chapter is based on 1 Kings 18:19-40.

Standing before Ahab, Elijah demanded that all Israel be assembled to meet him and the prophets of Baal and Ashtoreth on Mount Carmel. “Send,” he commanded, “and gather to me all Israel unto Mount Carmel, and the prophets of Baal four hundred and fifty, and the prophets of the groves four hundred, which eat at Jezebel's table.”

The command was issued by one who seemed to stand in the very presence of Jehovah; and Ahab obeyed at once, as if the prophet were monarch, and the king a subject. Swift messengers were sent throughout the kingdom with the summons to meet Elijah and the prophets of Baal and Ashtoreth. In every town and village the people prepared to assemble at the appointed time. As they journeyed toward the place, the hearts of many were filled with strange forebodings. Something unusual was about to happen; else why this summons to gather at Carmel? What new calamity was about to fall upon the people and the land?

Before the drought, Mount Carmel had been a place of beauty, its streams fed from never-failing springs, and its fertile slopes covered with fair flowers and flourishing groves. But now its beauty languished under a withering curse. The altars erected to the worship of Baal and Ashtoreth stood now in leafless groves. On the summit of one of the highest ridges, in sharp contrast with these was the broken-down altar of Jehovah.

Carmel overlooked a wide expanse of country; its heights were visible from many parts of the kingdom of Israel. At the foot of the mount there were vantage points from which could be seen much of what took place above. God had been signally dishonored by the idolatrous worship carried on under cover of its wooded slopes; and Elijah chose this elevation as the most conspicuous place for the display of God's power and for the vindication of the honor of His name.

Early on the morning of the day appointed, the hosts of apostate Israel, in eager expectancy, gather near the top of the mountain. Jezebel's prophets march up in imposing array. In regal pomp the king appears and takes his position at the head of the priests, and the idolaters shout his welcome. But there is apprehension in the hearts of the priests as they remember that at the word of the prophet the land of Israel for three years and a half has been destitute of dew and rain. Some fearful crisis is at hand, they feel sure. The gods in whom they have trusted have been unable to prove Elijah a false prophet. To their frantic cries, their prayers, their tears, their humiliation, their revolting ceremonies, their costly and ceaseless sacrifices, the objects of their worship have been strangely indifferent.

Facing King Ahab and the false prophets, and surrounded by the assembled hosts of Israel, Elijah stands, the only one who has appeared to vindicate the honor of Jehovah. He whom the whole kingdom has charged with its weight of woe is now before them, apparently defenseless in the presence of the monarch of Israel, the prophets of Baal, the men of war, and the surrounding thousands. But Elijah is not alone. Above and around him are the protecting hosts of heaven, angels that excel in strength.

Unashamed, unterrified, the prophet stands before the multitude, fully aware of his commission to execute the divine command. His countenance is lighted with an awful solemnity. In anxious expectancy the people wait for him to speak. Looking first upon the broken-down altar of Jehovah, and then upon the multitude, Elijah cries out in clear, trumpetlike tones, “How long halt ye between two opinions? if the Lord be God, follow Him: but if Baal, then follow him.”

The people answer him not a word. Not one in that vast assembly dare reveal loyalty to Jehovah. Like a dark cloud, deception and blindness had overspread Israel. Not all at once had this fatal apostasy closed about them, but gradually, as from time to time they had failed to heed the words of warning and reproof that the Lord sent them. Each departure from rightdoing, each refusal to repent, had deepened their guilt and driven them farther from Heaven. And now, in this crisis, they persisted in refusing to take their stand for God.

The Lord abhors indifference and disloyalty in a time of crisis in His work. The whole universe is watching with inexpressible interest the closing scenes of the great controversy between good and evil. The people of God are nearing the borders of the eternal world; what can be of more importance to them than that they be loyal to the God of heaven? All through the ages, God has had moral heroes, and He has them now—those who, like Joseph and Elijah and Daniel, are not ashamed to acknowledge themselves His peculiar people. His special blessing accompanies the labors of men of action, men who will not be swerved from the straight line of duty, but who with divine energy will inquire, “Who is on the Lord's side?” (Exodus 32:26), men who will not stop merely with the inquiry, but who will demand that those who choose to identify themselves with the people of God shall step forward and reveal unmistakably their allegiance to the King of kings and Lord of lords. Such men make their wills and plans subordinate to the law of God. For love of Him they count not their lives dear unto themselves. Their work is to catch the light from the Word and let it shine forth to the world in clear, steady rays. Fidelity to God is their motto.

While Israel on Carmel doubt and hesitate, the voice of Elijah again breaks the silence: “I, even I only, remain a prophet of the Lord; but Baal's prophets are four hundred and fifty men. Let them therefore give us two bullocks; and let them choose one bullock for themselves, and cut it in pieces, and lay it on wood, and put no fire under: and I will dress the other bullock, and lay it on wood, and put no fire under: and call ye on the name of your gods, and I will call on the name of the Lord: and the God that answereth by fire, let him be God.”

The proposal of Elijah is so reasonable that the people cannot well evade it, so they find courage to answer, “It is well spoken.” The prophets of Baal dare not lift their voices in dissent; and, addressing them, Elijah directs, “Choose you one bullock for yourselves, and dress it first; for ye are many; and call on the name of your gods, but put no fire under.”

Outwardly bold and defiant, but with terror in their guilty hearts, the false priests prepare their altar, laying on the wood and the victim; and then they begin their incantations. Their shrill cries echo and re-echo through the forests and the surrounding heights, as they call on the name of their god, saying, “O Baal, hear us.” The priests gather about their altar, and with leaping and writhing and screaming, with tearing of hair and cutting of flesh, they beseech their god to help them.

The morning passes, noon comes, and yet there is no evidence that Baal hears the cries of his deluded followers. There is no voice, no reply to their frantic prayers. The sacrifice remains unconsumed.

As they continue their frenzied devotions, the crafty priests are continually trying to devise some means by which they may kindle a fire upon the altar and lead the people to believe that the fire has come direct from Baal. But Elijah watches every movement; and the priests, hoping against hope for some opportunity to deceive, continue to carry on their senseless ceremonies.

“It came to pass at noon, that Elijah mocked them, and said, Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked. And they cried aloud, and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them. And it came to pass, when midday was past, and they prophesied until the time of the offering of the evening sacrifice, that there was neither voice, nor any to answer, nor any that regarded.”

Gladly would Satan have come to the help of those whom he had deceived, and who were devoted to his service. Gladly would he have sent the lightning to kindle their sacrifice. But Jehovah has set Satan's bounds, restrained his power, and not all the enemy's devices can convey one spark to Baal's altar.

At last, their voices hoarse with shouting, their garments stained with blood from self-inflicted wounds, the priests become desperate. With unabated frenzy they now mingle with their pleading terrible cursings of their sun-god, and Elijah continues to watch intently; for he knows that if by any device the priests should succeed in kindling their altar fire, he would instantly be torn in pieces.

Evening draws on. The prophets of Baal are weary, faint, confused. One suggests one thing, and another something else, until finally they cease their efforts. Their shrieks and curses no longer resound over Carmel. In despair they retire from the contest.

All day long the people have witnessed the demonstrations of the baffled priests. They have beheld their wild leaping round the altar, as if they would grasp the burning rays of the sun to serve their purpose. They have looked with horror on the frightful, self-inflicted mutilations of the priests, and have had opportunity to reflect on the follies of idol worship. Many in the throng are weary of the exhibitions of demonism, and they now await with deepest interest the movements of Elijah.

It is the hour of the evening sacrifice, and Elijah bids the people, “Come near unto me.” As they tremblingly draw near, he turns to the broken-down altar where once men worshiped the God of heaven, and repairs it. To him this heap of ruins is more precious than all the magnificent altars of heathendom.

In the reconstruction of this ancient altar, Elijah revealed his respect for the covenant that the Lord made with Israel when they crossed the Jordan into the Promised Land. Choosing “twelve stones, according to the number of the tribes of the sons of Jacob, ... he built an altar in the name of the Lord.”

The disappointed priests of Baal, exhausted by their vain efforts, wait to see what Elijah will do. They hate the prophet for proposing a test that has exposed the weakness and inefficiency of their gods; yet they fear his power. The people, fearful also, and almost breathless with expectancy, watch while Elijah continues his preparations. The calm demeanor of the prophet stands out in sharp contrast with the fanatical, senseless frenzy of the followers of Baal.

The altar completed, the prophet makes a trench about it, and, having put the wood in order and prepared the bullock, he lays the victim on the altar and commands the people to flood the sacrifice and the altar with water. “Fill four barrels,” he directed, “and pour it on the burnt sacrifice, and on the wood. And he said, Do it the second time. And they did it the second time. And he said, Do it the third time. And they did it the third time. And the water ran round about the altar; and he filled the trench also with water.”

Reminding the people of the long-continued apostasy that has awakened the wrath of Jehovah, Elijah calls upon them to humble their hearts and turn to the God of their fathers, that the curse upon the land of Israel may be removed. Then, bowing reverently before the unseen God, he raises his hands toward heaven and offers a simple prayer. Baal's priests have screamed and foamed and leaped, from early morning until late in the afternoon; but as Elijah prays, no senseless shrieks resound over Carmel's height. He prays as if he knows Jehovah is there, a witness to the scene, a listener to his appeal. The prophets of Baal have prayed wildly, incoherently. Elijah prays simply and fervently, asking God to show His superiority over Baal, that Israel may be led to turn to Him.

“Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and of Israel,” the prophet pleads, “let it be known this day that Thou art God in Israel, and that I am Thy servant, and that I have done all these things at Thy word. Hear me, O Lord, hear me, that this people may know that Thou art the Lord God, and that Thou hast turned their heart back again.”

A silence, oppressive in its solemnity, rests upon all. The priests of Baal tremble with terror. Conscious of their guilt, they look for swift retribution.

No sooner is the prayer of Elijah ended than flames of fire, like brilliant flashes of lightning, descend from heaven upon the upreared altar, consuming the sacrifice, licking up the water in the trench, and consuming even the stones of the altar. The brilliancy of the blaze illumines the mountain and dazzles the eyes of the multitude. In the valleys below, where many are watching in anxious suspense the movements of those above, the descent of fire is clearly seen, and all are amazed at the sight. It resembles the pillar of fire which at the Red Sea separated the children of Israel from the Egyptian host.

The people on the mount prostrate themselves in awe before the unseen God. They dare not continue to look upon the Heaven-sent fire. They fear that they themselves will be consumed; and, convicted of their duty to acknowledge the God of Elijah as the God of their fathers, to whom they owe allegiance, they cry out together as with one voice, “The Lord, He is the God; the Lord, He is the God.” With startling distinctness the cry resounds over the mountain and echoes in the plain below. At last Israel is aroused, undeceived, penitent. At last the people see how greatly they have dishonored God. The character of Baal worship, in contrast with the reasonable service required by the true God, stands fully revealed. The people recognize God's justice and mercy in withholding the dew and the rain until they have been brought to confess His name. They are ready now to admit that the God of Elijah is above every idol.

The priests of Baal witness with consternation the wonderful revelation of Jehovah's power. Yet even in their discomfiture and in the presence of divine glory, they refuse to repent of their evil-doing. They would still remain the prophets of Baal. Thus they showed themselves ripe for destruction. That repentant Israel may be protected from the allurements of those who have taught them to worship Baal, Elijah is directed by the Lord to destroy these false teachers. The anger of the people has already been aroused against the leaders in transgression; and when Elijah gives the command, “Take the prophets of Baal; let not one of them escape,” they are ready to obey. They seize the priests, and take them to the brook Kishon, and there, before the close of the day that marked the beginning of decided reform, the ministers of Baal are slain. Not one is permitted to live.

#egw #Ellen G. White #Christianity #God #Jesus Christ #Bible #Elijah the Tishbite #the prophet Elijah #Ahab #Mount Carmel #the northern of Israel #God vs. the demons masquerading as deities #miracle #pick a side #idolatry #prophets and kings #conflict of the ages

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

The Game Made

While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs, and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character. "Jerry," said Mr. Lorry. "Come here." Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance of him. "What have you been, besides a messenger?" After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron, Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, "Agicultooral character." "My mind misgives me much," said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger at him, "that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret. Tellson's shall not be imposed upon." "I hope, sir," pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, "that a gentleman like yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so - I don't say it is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his fardens - fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens-half fardens! no, nor yet his quarter - a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going out to their own carriages - ah! equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given, a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating - stark ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop - catch 'em at it! Or, if they flop, their toppings goes in favour of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being once in-even if it wos so." "Ugh!" cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, "I am shocked at the sight of you." "Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir," pursued Mr. Cruncher, "even if it wos so, which I don't say it is - " "Don't prevaricate," said Mr. Lorry. "No, I will NOT, sir," returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were further from his thoughts or practice - "which I don't say it is - wot I would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to be a man, wot will errand you, message you, generallight-job you, till your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father - do not do it, sir - and let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends for what he would have undug - if it wos so-by diggin' of 'em in with a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe. That, Mr. Lorry," said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, "is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good cause when I might have kep' it back." "That at least is true, said Mr. Lorry. "Say no more now. It may be that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in action - not in words. I want no more words." Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy returned from the dark room. "Adieu, Mr. Barsad," said the former; "our arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me." He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done? "Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access to him, once." Mr. Lorry's countenance fell. "It is all I could do," said Carton. "To propose too much, would be to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the weakness of the position. There is no help for it." "But access to him," said Mr. Lorry, "if it should go ill before the Tribunal, will not save him." "I never said it would." Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late, and his tears fell. "You are a good man and a true friend," said Carton, in an altered voice. "Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune, however." Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch, that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly unprepared for. He gave him his band, and Carton gently pressed it. "To return to poor Darnay," said Carton. "Don't tell Her of this interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence." Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and evidently understood it. "She might think a thousand things," Carton said, "and any of them would only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that. You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night." "I am going now, directly." "I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance on you. How does she look?" "Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful." "Ah!" It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh - almost like a sob. It attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry; his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had broken under the weight of Ms foot. "I forgot it," he said. Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression. "And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?" said Carton, turning to him. "Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go." They were both silent. "Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?" said Carton, wistfully. "I am in my seventy-eighth year." "You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied; trusted, respected, and looked up to?" "I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. indeed, I may say that I was a man of business when a boy." "See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss you when you leave it empty!" "A solitary old bachelor," answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. "There is nobody to weep for me." "How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?" "Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said." "It IS a thing to thank God for; is it not?" "Surely, surely." "If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night, 'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!' your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they not?" "You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be." Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a few moments, said: "I should like to ask you: - Does your childhood seem far off? Do the days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?" Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered: "Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!), and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me." "I understand the feeling!" exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. "And you are the better for it?" "I hope so." Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with his outer coat; "But you," said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, "you are young." "Yes," said Carton. "I am not old, but my young way was never the way to age. Enough of me." "And of me, I am sure," said Mr. Lorry. "Are you going out?" "I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?" "Yes, unhappily." "I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir." Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to the prison every day. "She came out here," he said, looking about him, "turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps." It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door. "Good night, citizen," said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the man eyed him inquisitively. "Good night, citizen." "How goes the Republic?" "You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!" "Do you often go to see him - " "Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?" "Never." "Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less than two pipes. Word of honour!" As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he turned away. "But you are not English," said the wood-sawyer, "though you wear English dress?" "Yes," said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder. "You speak like a Frenchman." "I am an old student here." "Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman." "Good night, citizen." "But go and see that droll dog," the little man persisted, calling after him. "And take a pipe with you!" Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets - much dirtier than usual, for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of terror - he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man. Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. "Whew!" the chemist whistled softly, as he read it. "Hi! hi! hi!" Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said: "For you, citizen?" "For me." "You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the consequences of mixing them?" "Perfectly." Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them, and deliberately left the shop. "There is nothing more to do," said he, glancing upward at the moon, "until to-morrow. I can't sleep." It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road and saw its end. Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a youth of great promise, be had followed his father to the grave. His mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on high above him. "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die." In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death, and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep, might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and went on. With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for the lighter streets. Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over, and before, the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss. "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die." Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he heard them always. The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died, and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to Death's dominion. But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays. And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river sparkled under it. The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea. - "Like me." A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, ended in the words, "I am the resurrection and the life." Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a tittle coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to the place of trial. The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep - whom many fell away from in dread - pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her father. When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly. Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure, ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds. Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A lifethirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St. Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer. Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor. No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one another, before bending forward with a strained attention. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law. To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor. The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly? "Openly, President." "By whom?" "Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine." "Good." "Therese Defarge, his wife." "Good." "Alexandre Manette, physician." A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated. "President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband of my child!" "Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic." Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and with warmth resumed. "If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!" Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together, and restored the usual hand to his mouth. Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release, and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him. This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work. "You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?" "I believe so." Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: "You were one of the best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannoneer that day there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!" It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience, thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, "I defy that bell!" wherein she was likewise much commended. "Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille, citizen." "I knew," said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him; "I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President." "Let it be read." In a dead silence and stillness - the prisoner under trial looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them - the paper was read, as follows.

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