#the spirit of war is ravaged homes and plundered people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

doumadono · 6 months

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Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, smut (short & not graphic), viking themes, Shoto is a spoiled brat

Summary: in a Viking world of power, secrets and warriors, a young woman captured during a raid finds herself entangled in the life of Dabi, the enigmatic eldest son of the ruthless earl. As secrets, scars, and desires collide, their unconventional connection unfolds in a tale of love, danger, and destiny

Word count: circa 5.9k

A/N: for a few years, I've held a fascination with Viking themes and their historical era. Recently, I had the idea to place Dabi in such a setting and see where the story would take me. I sat down to write and found myself falling in love with this new narrative instantly. While it might seem trivial to some, it's already become a precious gem to me. I plan to unravel the story over six chapters. I hope you enjoy the first one, and I'm open to all opinions. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

MASTERLIST

NEXT CHAPTER

ACT I - UNMASKING THE SCARS

As the longship glided silently through the dark waters, the moon cast a pale, ethereal glow on the rugged Viking coastline. The scent of salt and adventure filled the night air, and the crew of fierce warriors, led by Dabi, the renegade son of the brutal, ruthless Viking earl, Endeavor, prepared to make landfall.

Dabi, at thirty years of age, bore the marks of a troubled past. Dabi's once-pale skin was now marred by those burns, darkened like a charred log in the heart of a raging fire. His body bore the scars of a fire that had ravaged him in his youth, a cruel gift from his own father, who had attempted to kill him. But it was these very scars that had forged his determination and honed his indomitable spirit. His hair was the color of snow, and his eyes were as blue as the frost-covered sea. He had a reputation as a fierce warrior, known for his ruthless tactics and the way he fought with the fury of a tempest.

The village he came from was a place of cold stone and rough-hewn timbers, where the Viking way of life reigned supreme. The women of the village shied away from Dabi, for his scars marked him as an outcast. He lived a life of solitude, seeking solace in the wild, untamed lands that surrounded their settlement.

Their destination was a small Christian village, nestled among the rolling hills. It had been raided by Dabi's people before, but tonight was different. Tonight, Dabi's heart was restless, and he was inexplicably drawn to the village's fate.

As the Vikings stormed the village, chaos erupted. Houses were set ablaze, and the cries of the villagers filled the night.

The raucous cries of his men filled the air as the village burned and the spoils of their raid were gathered. Dabi stood at the heart of the chaos, an enigmatic figure in the midst of destruction. A faint, unsettling smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hidden beneath the eerie wolf's jaw mask.

He watched with satisfaction as his warriors, his loyal comrades in arms, looted and plundered. The riches of the Christian village flowed into their grasp, their spoils of war. It was a successful trip by Viking standards, a brutal triumph in the unforgiving world they inhabited.

Amidst the smoldering ruins of the Christian village, the Vikings had unleashed their wrath. Blood had been spilled, and the lives of some villagers had been brutally cut short.

But not all of the villagers had met a swift and merciless end. The Vikings, with a calculated eye, had chosen to capture several women and a few men, sparing them from the fate that had befallen their companions. These survivors would serve a different purpose, as slaves in the service of their Viking captors. Among them a young woman. Her hair was the Y/H/C, and her eyes held the innocence of a world untouched by the brutality of the North.

As the raiders dragged the captives away from the charred remains of their homes, the air was heavy with the weight of despair and uncertainty. These men and women, once free, were now prisoners of a world far removed from the peaceful existence they had known. Their lives had taken a harrowing turn, marked by servitude and the harsh reality of Viking conquest.

For Dabi, this decision was not only about power but also about securing the resources and labor needed to sustain their existence in these harsh northern lands. The villagers had been caught in the merciless currents of fate, and their futures were now inexorably tied to the whims of the Viking warriors who had chosen to spare them for their own purposes.

As Dabi inspected the captured men, his gaze swept over the somber group, each face marked by fear and resignation. But then, as if guided by a force beyond his control, his eyes fell upon a young woman. The sight of her took his breath away, and for a moment, he couldn't lie to himself – she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon.

Despite the dirt, blood, and tears that marred her face, her beauty shone through like a radiant star in the night sky. Her cheeks bore the scars of anguish, her eyes, streaked with despair, created rivulets in the dust and grime that clung to her skin. Her once-neat clothes, now tattered and dirtied, bore witness to the cruel turn of fate she had endured.

Dabi's heart, which had been hardened by the harshness of Viking life, thudded in his chest with a new and unfamiliar emotion. She was a vision amidst the chaos, and in that moment, he realized that there was something more to her than just her physical beauty. There was a strength in her, a resilience that had allowed her to endure even in the face of such brutality.

As Dabi's eyes locked onto her, a strange and unsettling sensation coursed through him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite comprehend, a magnetic pull that defied all reason. In the midst of the chaos and destruction, this woman, captured from the village, appeared before him like an enigma.

Her hair, now messy, and those defiant eyes held a fierce determination that had not been extinguished by the horrors of the raid. She was a picture of vulnerability and strength intertwined, a paradox that captivated his very soul.

Dabi, who had always been driven by the uncompromising resolve of a Viking warrior, found himself unnerved by the intensity of this attraction. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions, but her presence stirred something deep within him, a longing he could not explain. He questioned the very nature of his emotions, grappling with the unfamiliar warmth that her presence kindled within him, even though they hadn't spoken.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. Every time their eyes met, it felt as if the fates themselves had intervened, weaving their destinies together in a tapestry of fire and ice.

Their initial meeting was far from the romantic tales sung by skalds. She was bound and helpless, standing amidst the ash and ruin of her once-peaceful village. Dabi, cloaked in darkened furs, surveyed the captives with an air of detached authority. His icy gaze met hers, a meeting of two souls from opposite worlds. "You," he spoke, his voice as cold as the northern winds, "What's your name?"

The woman's voice trembled as she replied, avoiding looking at him, "It doesn't matter anymore."

Dabi's frustration simmered just beneath the surface as her initial reply didn't satisfy his curiosity. He huffed in annoyance, the cold air from his breath mingling with the tension in the atmosphere. His desire to understand her and the strange attraction he felt only intensified.

Closing the distance between them, he moved with a predatory grace, catching her by the shoulders and forcing her to turn to face him. His grip, firm but not unkind, held a subtle hint of authority. Their eyes locked, his piercing gaze penetrating her soul. "I asked you for your name, woman," Dabi demanded, his voice tinged with impatience. It was a command that brooked no disobedience, his intensity pushing past the boundaries of the tumultuous situation they found themselves in. His own desire to know her name and the unexplainable connection he felt had turned into an obsession, and he needed answers, regardless of the circumstances.

As Dabi's demand hung in the air, she met his unwavering gaze. Her eyes, a mixture of fear and defiance, looked up into his, a silent struggle raging within her. But shortly after, her gaze faltered, shifting to the mask he wore, crafted from the jagged jaw of a wolf. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, a symbol of the fierce, untamed nature of the man who stood before her.

The man, with the mask that lent him an imposing visage, was tall and imposing, easily towering over her. His presence alone was enough to instill a sense of vulnerability in her.

Trembling, she finally surrendered to his demand, her voice quivering as she spoke, "I am Y/N." Her name, offered with a tremor in her voice, was a fragile gift, a shard of her identity laid bare in the face of the formidable Viking who had claimed her as his captive.

For the next two days, the Viking raiders worked tirelessly to pack the spoils of their conquest onto their longships.

Dabi, ever the watchful leader, stood guard over the entire process, ensuring that the riches plundered from the Christian village were securely stowed away. The village's treasures, from precious metals to food supplies, were meticulously organized and divided amongst the victorious Vikings.

The night of their conquest, the Vikings celebrated their successful raid with an infernal party. Driven by the spoils they had claimed, they emptied the Christians' pantries of beer, meat, and mead. The sound of merriment echoed through the night, a stark contrast to the sorrow that had befallen the captured villagers.

However, amidst the revelry, there were dark moments that marred the festivities. Some of the Viking warriors, fueled by intoxication and the ruthless nature of their world, committed terrible acts upon the captive Christian women without their consent. It was a grim reminder of the brutality that often accompanied such raids, where power and desire clashed with the innocence of the conquered.

Dabi, torn between his leadership role and the strange attraction he felt for one of the captives, observed the chaos with a heavy heart. The celebration, for him, was a juxtaposition of the jubilant and the sinister, a reflection of the duality that defined their lives as Vikings.

After days of tireless packing, the Viking raiders were finally ready to set sail for their homeland. The longships, laden with the spoils of their conquest, were now prepared to embark on the journey back to the rugged shores they called home.

Dabi took his place at the bow of his longship, a position of command and observation. His keen, turquise eyes surveyed the captivated people who had survived the ruthless acts of the past nights. They were a motley group, marked by both the physical and emotional scars of the raid. Some carried the burden of their violated dignity, while others were haunted by the loss of their loved ones and the destruction of their once-peaceful village.

The longship that Dabi commanded was the largest among the six that had come to the shore. It loomed like a dark behemoth against the horizon, its figurehead carving through the waves, a symbol of the Viking's ruthless power. Dabi watched as the captives, those who would serve as slaves in their new life, reluctantly boarded the vessel. It was a moment that carried with it a sense of foreboding, a step into the unknown, as they embarked on a perilous journey to a life that was bound by the harsh code of the Viking world.

Dabi's keen eyes never left the captivating young woman named Y/N as she hesitantly approached the longship. She was one of the last to board, and her trembling form didn't escape his notice. She might have tried to mask her fears with a poker face, but the vulnerability that emanated from her was unmistakable.

A faint, almost smug smirk played at the corners of Dabi's lips. He knew that Y/N was not going to be easily sold in any market or to another earl. The strange attraction he felt for her had ignited something within him, a desire to protect and possess her. He understood that she was unique, an enigma amidst the other captives, and he was prepared to put pressure on his father to ensure she remained with their family in their Great Hall.

The journey back home was arduous and relentless, the Viking longships battling through raging storms and colossal waves that crashed against their sides. The tempestuous sea was a cruel reminder of nature's might, a fierce adversary they had to contend with on their voyage.

For days on end, they sailed through the tumultuous waters, each day bringing new challenges and peril. The crew worked tirelessly to navigate the treacherous waves, their lives intertwined with the unpredictable whims of the sea. The longships, laden with their ill-gotten gains, were tossed like leaves in a tempest, and the thunderous roars of the ocean were their constant companion.

Dabi, despite his role as a leader, occasionally took walks along the longship to check on his comrades. It was an excuse, he told himself, but the truth was that he sought to steal moments to take a closer look at the captivating young woman named Y/N. She was bound to a mast, her body curled in a defensive posture, a vulnerable figure amidst the chaos.

One night, as they braved the wrath of the sea, Dabi stood close to the place where Y/N was tied. He leaned against the side of the boat, his arms crossed, gazing into the darkness that enveloped them. The crashing waves and the howling winds created an eerie symphony, but his focus remained on the woman who had become a focal point of his thoughts.

"I was curious how," Dabi's voice suddenly pierced the silence.

Startled, Y/N was pulled out from a shallow slumber she had allowed to envelop her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and apprehension.

Dabi, who had been standing nearby, turned his gaze toward her. "How do you know our language?" he inquired, his words delivered with a curious, almost neutral tone. It was a question that had been gnawing at him, the mystery of her familiarity with their Viking tongue.

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing as she grappled with how to respond. The truth was a delicate matter, a secret that she had guarded with her life. "My father was a Northman," Y/N replied, her voice carrying a note of bitterness, "and as long as he was around, he was teaching me some things."

Dabi's response was not immediate, and in the dim light, his smirk was concealed by the wolf's jaw mask he wore. The revelation intrigued him, and the knowledge that she had learned their language from her Northman father added another layer of complexity to the enigma of Y/N. It was a connection he hadn't anticipated, a bridge between their two worlds that he had yet to fully explore.

"What are you going to do to us?" Y/N asked suddenly, the uncertainty in her eyes betraying her anxiety.

Dabi sighed heavily and walked closer to her, resting his hip against the mast to which she was tied. "You'll work for us," he replied simply, his tone carrying a hint of slyness.

Y/N's expression darkened as she processed his words. "So, we're going to be your slaves," she said with a tinge of bitterness, "a beautiful perspective."

Dabi chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his mask. "Well, we Vikings have a different way of looking at things, you see. You'll find our 'perspective' quite interesting, I assure you."

"Why us?" Y/N asked, curiosity mingling with her apprehension.

Dabi's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your village was raided before, and you happen to possess a huge amount of goods we needed," he replied, the slyness in his voice becoming more apparent. "You could say it's just a matter of unfortunate circumstances."

"You're a monster. You all are. You killed innocent people!" Y/N ground the accusation from the depths of her mind.

Dabi chuckled darkly, his head tilting back slightly. "We? Oh no, sunshine, we're not monsters," he retorted, his voice dripping with a chilling nonchalance. Dabi leaned in closer to Y/N, his voice low and filled with an air of mystery. "You see," he began, a hint of smugness in his tone. "We are Vikings, warriors of the North. Our ways are brutal, but they're also fiercely proud. We live by the sword and sail by the stars. Our world is one of conquest and survival, where strength and cunning are the ultimate currencies." Dabi paused for a moment, as if considering whether to reveal more. "And you, Y/N, have found yourself caught in the wake of our world. Your journey is now intertwined with ours, and how it unfolds, well, that remains to be seen."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Dabi's sharp ears caught the sound of Y/N's quiet sobs, and he turned his gaze toward her.

Her words, filled with pain and anger, washed over him. "I wanna rather die than be a slave," she lamented, "you're animals, killing and robbing for fun. I'll never forgive you for killing my friends."

He let out a low, almost amused chuckle, a sound that resonated with a kind of sly arrogance. "Animals, you say?" he responded, his voice carrying a note of mockery. "Perhaps, but in our world, it's the fittest that survive. We aren't much for sentiment, and the reality is, we did what we had to do to ensure our own survival." Dabi's gaze remained fixed on her, and his tone took on a more cryptic edge. "As for forgiveness, sunshine, that's not something I'm particularly concerned about. We live by the code of the North, and it's a world where the line between predator and prey is often blurred. It's a harsh existence, but it's ours."

As the Viking longships sailed southward through the tempestuous sea, they finally reached their home village, known as Skjaldvargr nestled on the southern shores of Norway.

The arrival of Dabi and his crew was met with a raucous reception. The people of Skjaldvargr, mostly guards and shieldmaidens, had been eagerly awaiting their return. The shieldmaidens, with their fierce eyes and battle-worn armor, stood proudly alongside their male counterparts, a testament to the equality that defined Viking society.

The village came to life with the clanging of shields and the joyful cries of reunion as the raiders disembarked, their ill-gotten treasures in tow. It was a homecoming marked by the spoils of their conquest and the triumphant return of their warriors, a scene that underscored the unyielding spirit of the people of Skjaldvargr.

The longships were expertly unloaded, and the captivated men and women were carefully escorted off the vessels. They were bound together, forming a dispirited line, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and resignation. The captives from the Christian village now stood on the wooden pier, their lives forever changed by the Viking raid.

Dabi was the last to disembark. As he stepped onto the pier, the people of Skjaldvargr erupted into cheers. His name carried weight in the village; he was known not only as a fierce Viking warrior but also as one of the heirs to Endeavor, their ruthless earl. His presence was a symbol of power and authority, and the villagers greeted him with a mixture of reverence and admiration.

The triumphant return of Dabi and his crew marked a momentous occasion in the life of Skjaldvargr, where the spoils of their conquest and the legend of their daring deeds would echo through the halls of their Great Hall. The fate of the captives, bound and silent, hung in the balance, as the world of the Northmen unfurled before them.

Among the men and women on the shore, there was a tall, white-haired male with a thick, long fur draped around his shoulders, a figure that stood out amidst the assembled Vikings.

Dabi approached the man and wrapped him in a warm hug. "Natsuo, brother," he greeted him with a grin that couldn't be seen behind his mask.

Natsuo, the younger of the two, returned the hug, placing his hands on Dabi's shoulders. "Looking good and returning successful again. Wonderful," he replied with a hint of admiration in his voice. He stepped back, taking a moment to study his brother. "But what's all this fuss about a Christian village?" he inquired, his curiosity evident. "You've got everyone talking."

Dabi's smirk only widened as he regarded his brother. "Oh, Natsuo, it's a long story. Let's catch up over a drink at the Great Hall. I have quite the tale to tell."

The brothers shared a knowing glance, the unspoken understanding between them evident in their eyes.

Dabi wasted no time in issuing his orders to one of his men. "Make sure the Y/H/C woman is not sent to the market but is brought straight to the Great Hall," he commanded, his tone devoid of any room for discussion.

His bondsman, ever dutiful, nodded in acknowledgment of the directive.

Natsuo, wearing a mischievous grin, couldn't resist teasing his older brother about the mysterious woman. "Dabi, she must be quite the catch if you're keeping her for yourself," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Hope you're going to share a little!"

Dabi scoffed, playfully shoving his brother's shoulder. "Don't be absurd, Natsuo. She's just a captive from the Christian village. I've got more important matters to attend to," he replied, his tone gruff but carrying a hint of a secret smile. "Now, off to the Great Hall. Father is likely impatient for the reports."

The banter between the two brothers continued as they made their way to the heart of Skjaldvargr, leaving behind the captivated woman who had captured Dabi's attention and a tale that had yet to fully unfold.

His hips moved with swift and forceful determination, and the woman beneath him found herself panting and moaning his name in response. With a final series of intense grunts and thrusts, the young man with distinctive two-coloured hair reached his climax, giving one last deep thrust into the girl, spilling his seed in her.

She gently placed her palm against his cheek, her touch brushing over a scarred, reddened area under his left eye. However, her hand was met with a swift and firm push as he growled, withdrawing from her and hurriedly adjusting his pants.

"No," he snarled, pushing her off his bed with ease. "Get the fuck out now," he demanded, his tone filled with a brusque and dismissive edge.

"But you told me you liked me and that we'd have more time together," the young thrall whispered softly as she gathered her clothes from the wooden floor.

The young man's chuckle was cold and devoid of genuine emotion. "Are you that naive?" he sneered, "I only wanted your pussy, nothing else. Get out of my bed before my father or older brother catch you. You don't want to find yourself in trouble, do you?"

The thrall, disheartened and regretful, quickly dressed and left the room. She entered the main chamber of the Great Hall just as Natsuo and Dabi stepped through the massive doors.

Their father, Endeavor, the fearsome earl of Skjaldvargr, was seated at the throne at the end of the chamber, grinding his axe. His stern gaze bore into his eldest son as they approached, a silent expectation for a report on their latest raid.

"The raid on the Christian village was a resounding success. We looted their coffers, took their goods, and brought back valuable supplies that will sustain our village for the winter. The riches we've acquired are beyond our expectations."

Endeavor nodded, acknowledging the information. "Any captives?" he inquired, his eyes scrutinizing his son.

Dabi continued, "We have several men and women who will serve as thralls. We've also secured a Y/H/C woman who is very unique, father. She possesses knowledge of our language, and I've made the decision to keep her within our Great Hall rather than sending her to the market."

He listened to Dabi's report with a stern demeanor, his eyes narrowing as his son spoke about the captive Y/H/C woman. When Dabi finished, the earl's voice held a note of warning. "You know that you shouldn't be making such decisions without my consent," he admonished, his tone heavy with authority. "But this time, I will let it slide."

Inside, Dabi couldn't help but heave a silent sigh of relief. Endeavor's leniency meant that he would have the opportunity to interact with Y/N more freely, a chance to explore the mystery and attraction that had drawn him to her during the journey home. The knowledge that he wouldn't face immediate consequences for his impulsive decision filled him with a sense of gratitude, even as he maintained his outward composure.

Natsuo, on the other hand, took a seat at the long table, where freshly cooked meat was being served by their thralls. He joined the warriors who had gathered to eat, listening to the tale of their successful raid with a satisfied grin. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the Great Hall, a stark contrast to the darkness and secrets that had transpired on the longship during the journey home.

As Dabi stood in front of his father, a sudden presence caught his attention. A young man with two-colored hair, neatly groomed but slightly untidy now, had joined them. It was Shoto, Dabi's youngest brother, who had recently celebrated his eighteenth spring. His appearance and demeanor appeared deceivingly innocent, but Dabi knew that his younger sibling was not to be underestimated.

"So, you've returned, brother," Shoto said, his tone dripping with feigned sweetness. He offered Dabi a smile that was almost too saccharine, given the complexities of their family dynamics.

Dabi acknowledged Shoto with a nod, a sense of unease brewing beneath the surface.

Shoto turned his attention to their father, Endeavor, his voice carrying a subtle air of request. "Father, this winter, I want to visit Earl Gizzor's settlement, as we discussed. It's crucial that we maintain good relationships between our settlements."

Dabi furrowed his brow, disbelief tinging his words. "What? How do you intend to do that? We've declared war on them."

Shoto maintained his sweet smile as he responded, "While you were away, brother, father and I reached an agreement. We've decided that it's no longer necessary to wage war with Earl Gizzor. Instead, we've buried the hatchet."

Dabi was taken aback, struggling to process what he was hearing. Earl Gizzor was known to be a man of dubious trustworthiness, and the sudden reconciliation with him left a bitter taste in Dabi's mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, and the unexpected alliance between his younger brother and their father raised more questions than it provided answers.

Endeavor nodded in agreement with Shoto's proposal, adding his voice to the conversation. "Shoto is right, Dabi. Maintaining alliances and peace with neighboring earls is essential. We can't be at war on all fronts."

Dabi, with a simple nod of acknowledgment, turned to leave the throne area of the chamber. However, before he walked away, he caught Shoto's shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. "You have a fucking sperm on your pants, you little bastard," he grumbled, his voice low and filled with a blend of irritation and brotherly mockery. "Which poor thrall have you managed to lure into your charms this time?"

Shoto, not one to be easily cowed, replied in a wry and cocky whisper, ensuring their father couldn't hear, "You're always looking so closely, brother. Some of us don't need a mask to be charming. If you looked look like a real man, you wouldn't need to be envious of my romantic pursuits," he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took a not-so-subtle dig at Dabi, looking him hardly in the eyes.

Their exchange, hidden beneath the veneer of family respect and decorum, hinted at a deeper sibling rivalry and a history of conflicting personalities. The tension between Dabi and Shoto was a thread woven into the very fabric of their family.

Dabi's patience worn thin by the exchange with Shoto. He scoffed and let go of his younger brother's arm. He turned and made his way straight to his chamber, his footsteps heavy.

Natsuo, who had been a silent witness to the situation between his two brothers, watched with a heavy heart. He loved them both and couldn't bring himself to pick sides, but the tension in the air was palpable, and he worried about the growing rift between Dabi and Shoto.

In his own chamber, Dabi wasted no time. He shed his outer layers, discarding the fur, the mask, woolen shirt, and pants until he stood naked in the room. He flopped onto his bed, which was covered with furs, and stared at the ceiling. His mind was filled with thoughts about everything that had transpired during the days, and he couldn't help but wonder about Shoto's intentions and the potential consequences of their father's newfound alliance.

After some contemplation, he decided to take a bath to clear his mind. Dabi wrapped a towel around his hips and called for one of the thralls to prepare a hot bath for him.

As the thrall prepared the bath, the steam filled the room, creating a cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Dabi wasted no time and immersed himself in the hot water of the wooden tub. The soothing warmth seeped into his muscles, and he leaned back comfortably against the edge, closing his eyes.

The scent of the bath's herbs and oils mixed with the steam, creating a fragrant haven that allowed Dabi to momentarily escape the complexities of his world. With each passing moment, the tensions seemed to melt away, leaving him in blissful solitude and the serene embrace of the soothing bathwater.

As you were brought to the Great Hall, everything appeared new and unfamiliar. Fear coursed through your veins as you found yourself surrounded by strangers, most of them men whose eyes bore into you with an unsettling hunger. The air was thick with whispered, lewd comments, but you did your best to avoid drawing attention, keeping your gaze lowered and your composure intact.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, an older woman, a thrall who had been through similar experiences, extended a hand to guide you away from the prying eyes. She offered a reassuring smile as she took your hand and spoke in a soothing tone. "Come with me, child. I'll explain your new duties and help you settle in," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "You'll find your place here, and in time, it will become more familiar."

Her words provided a glimmer of hope in the midst of your fear, as you followed the thrall to begin your new life in the Great Hall, embarking on a journey that held both uncertainty and the possibility of finding your own strength in a world of unfamiliar faces and customs.

The thrall, as she handed you a plain, thick, greyish dress, began to speak about the members of the earl's family. Her voice was gentle and informative, and you listened attentively, eager to learn more about the people you would be serving. In the end, it was your new life.

She explained, "The earl is Endeavor, a formidable leader and the head of this settlement. He's known for his strength and authority, but also for his ruthlessness."

You nodded, taking in the information, and she continued, "Touya, the eldest son, is a fierce warrior, and he's known for his prowess in raids. His younger brother, Natsuo, is more diplomatic, often seeking peaceful resolutions. The youngest of Endeavor's sons is Shoto," the thrall continued, her voice carrying a more cautious tone as she spoke of him. "He can be the most problematic one, especially when it comes to his affairs." Her words were filled with a hint of warning. "Shoto is known for his charisma and charm, but don't be fooled. He's a smooth talker and has a way of getting what he wants." She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she emphasized, "Be careful around him, dear. He may seem charming, but his intentions can be far from virtuous."

Overwhelmed by the realization that you had been reduced to nothing but a slave, a feeling of hopelessness and anger welled up within you. You turned to the elder woman and, with a hint of defiance, you declared, "I don't want to work. I won't be a slave."

The thrall, her expression heavy with the weight of harsh reality, looked at you with a stern gaze. She leaned in closer, her voice low and foreboding as she whispered, "You don't have a choice in this matter, my child, so hadn't I. If you refuse to work, you won't survive for long. This is the way of our world, and it's a harsh one. I arrived here several years ago, after being taken from the settlement of another earl who was killed in a battle with Endeavor, and ever since, I've been toiling for the earl's family. The tasks are far from rewarding, but such is the way of life," she explained, her voice tinged with resignation.

As you inquired about the tall man who cnquered your village, the thrall's eyes held a certain intensity, and she clarified, "It was Dabi. Dabi is his chosen warrior name. His given name is Touya."

You had obediently completed your first task of cleaning the Great Hall, even though it felt like a menial chore that reflected your new life as a thrall. However, when another thrall instructed you to go to another room to help with the bath, you complied without question. With a heavy sigh, you followed the directions and pushed open the door.

As you stepped into the room, a rush of steam enveloped you, carrying a fragrance of herbs that filled the air. Your brow furrowed in surprise, but before you could react further, the steam dissipated. What lay before you was a scene that caught you off guard: a large bed and clothes, and a mask that you recognized from when Dabi had worn it.

Then, your eyes fell upon the figure in the bath, and a gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't control. You took an involuntary step back as the sight unfolded before you. The man in the bath was Dabi, his body covered with a patchwork of purple, dark, scarred skin. These gnarled, wrinkled, and disfigured patches marred much of his lower face and neck, extending past his collarbone, and continued down his arms and legs. Your whimper of shock hung in the air, and you couldn't help but take another step back, horror etched on your face. It was the first time you saw him without a mask.

Dabi's turquoise eyes opened slowly, and he gazed at you with a haunting intensity. "That's you," he whispered, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery and a deep well of secrets.

As the realization of Dabi's disfigured appearance settled in, the room seemed to grow heavy with tension. Your initial shock gave way to a mix of empathy and curiosity, wondering about the circumstances that had led to such extensive scarring.

The room, suffused with the aroma of herbs, steam and the eerie sight of his scars, seemed to cradle you both in its embrace, marking a pivotal moment that was only beginning to unfold.

heathen wolves: @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog

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amer-ainu · 4 years

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Ancestral Ainu Remains Returned by Tokyo University by Noah Oskow

A long fight by Japan's indigenous Ainu results in a hard-won victory - but much more remains to be done. Resting Once Again Amongst Their People

On August 22nd, a Kamuinomi – an Ainu ceremony meant to celebrate the return of spirts to the realm of the gods – was held in Urahoro, in eastern Hokkaido. The sacrament’s purpose was that of welcoming back six sets of indigenous remains, taken long ago by Japanese researchers based out of the famed Tokyo University. The researchers first removed the Ainu remains from their gravesites in 1889, in the early Meiji Era; later, others returned in 1965, in the post-war era, for more.

The group receiving the ancestral remains was the Raporo Ainu Nation, the local Urahoro indigenous organization. For them, it was a day of quiet celebration – the culmination of a series of victories in their quest to reclaim stolen Ainu remains.

Raporo Ainu Nation had previously brought court cases against Hokkaido and Sapporo Medical Universities, both of which housed innumerable Ainu skeletons; all have now been returned to their homelands. Tokyo University, despite earlier protestations, was now also acquiescing to similar demands.

Six wooden boxes were laid out in front of a large freshly dug grave. Besides the waiting earth sat the Ainu delegation, bedecked in traditional clothing. They chanted in the Ainu tongue – one unrelated to the Japanese language which otherwise surrounded them. (Unlike the languages of the native Ryukuans, Ainu is not a Japonic language.) Libations of sake were offered to the kamuy, the spirits. Then, the remains were finally reinterred in the land from which they had so long ago been taken.

The Abduction of their Ancestors

The impetus for the veritable grave plundering of Ainu bones was ostensibly scientific: the desire by Japanese researchers to learn more about the physical and, later, genetic make-up of the indigenous ethnic minorities native to Japan’s northern borders. Indeed, at the time of the first unearthing, Hokkaido (and the native Ainu people along with them) had only recently been fully incorporated into Japan.

Previous to the Meiji Restoration in 1868, Hokkaido wasn’t even “Hokkaido;” rather, it was Ezo, a frontier borderland peopled by those the Japanese considered “barbarians.” A relatively small Japanese settler colony ruled by the Matsumae clan existed on the southern tip of Oshima Penninsula, which regulated trade with the Ainu and oversaw Japanese financial control of the island.

Sadly, this led to the entire field of Ainu Studies being essentially founded on grave robbery.

Previous to Japanese encroachment and eventual control, the Ainu people lived in villages scattered across Ezo, Sakhalin Island, and the Kurils. While they had a hunter-gatherer lifestyle that appeared uncivilized to the Japanese, Ainu society was in fact more complex than most interlopers perceived.

Beyond their advanced hunting and fishing techniques, the Ainu were also part of a diverse and expansive trade network that stretched from Hokkaido in the south, to Kamchatka in the far north. Ainu traders rode in dugout canoes to the Asian mainland, where they traded with the indigenous peoples of the Amur river basin. Sakhalin Ainu even made war with the Mongol-controlled Yuan dynasty of China, and later engaged in tributary trading with the Ming and Yuan dynasties.

High-quality silk brocades given to Ainu chieftains by the Chinese became prized goods for trade with encroaching Japanese from the south. It was access to these Chinese goods and Ainu-hunted pelts, furs, painted Sakhalin beads, and live falcons that made Japanese samurai desirous towards control of Ainu trade. Japanese trading pressure; exploitative and often coerced use of Ainu labor in Japanese fisheries; the ravages of newly introduced diseases; all these brought irreparable damage to the Ainu environment and society.

The Myth of a Naturally Doomed People

In 1889, in the midst of Japan’s headlong rush towards modernity, the Japanese government passed the Hokkaido Former Aborigines Protection Act. The Ainu were now officially considered Japanese. In practice, this meant they were subject to forced cultural assimilation that further disrupted their society and lead, ironically, to mass discrimination.

The Ainu’s were now a periphery people scheduled to be made “Japanese,” their “aboriginal” status to be forgotten as quickly as possible. In light of the notion that the Ainu were now a “disappearing tribe,” Japanese researchers became intent on taking as many artifacts of the Ainu’s material culture as possible before the earth swallowed them up. This is part of what resulted in the initial untombing of the Ainu remains just recently returned by Tokyo University.

In these inaugural years of the field of ‘Ainu Studies” (アイヌ学), previously held ideas about Ainu “barbarians” were melded with the emerging scientific field of evolution, leading Japanese researchers to make various claims about Ainu inferiority to “more evolved” Japanese society. Researchers, although often empathetic towards the plight of the impoverished Ainu, believed the only way to “save” the object of their research was to assimilate them out of existence. As Ainu ties to their craft traditions waned and the people themselves were assumed to be on the brink of annihilation, researchers felt the need to collect and document as much as possible.

A Dark Legacy for Ainu Studies

The Hokkaido Museum of Northern Peoples (Hoppo Minzoku Hakubutsukan) exhibits about the culture of Ainu native people and other northern peoples of the world.

Sadly, this led to the entire field of Ainu Studies being essentially founded on grave robbery. In both 1864 and 1865, mere years before the fall of the Tokugawa dynasty, the British consul in Hakodate led a group of foreigners interested in uncovering the mystery of the Ainu’s “Caucasian” features to secretly raid Ainu gravesites. When the story broke, it became a major scandal (even resulting in the firing of the consul).

Yet subsequent Japanese researchers continued to seek out Ainu bones for well over a century. Sometimes this was done with the understanding of local Ainu. (As often happened with Ainu crafts, money was possibly exchanged). Other times, however, researchers hoping to learn more about this “disappearing tribe” engaged in acts that very much resembled the previous British consul’s.

Ancestors Unearthed

Most infamous of the grave robbers was Hokkaido University Professor Kodama Sakuzaemon, who lead various state-sanctioned raids into local boneyards throughout the 1920s to 1970s – all against Ainu protests. Sometimes police were called in to help hold off Ainu from physically preventing the unearthing of their ancestors. As is recalled in the book Beyond Ainu Studies, a 1930’s bone-collecting expedition resulted in…

…the entire village police force [being] enlisted to assist Kodama’s team and when three or four elderwomen threw their bodies over their ancestors’ grave sites they were unceremoniously removed by attending officers. The end result of decades of university researchers stealing thousands of ancestral remains was an Ainu populace who often distrusted and felt anger towards those Japanese academics and scientists who, ostensibly, wanted to understand the Ainu. Especially egregious to the Ainu was the fact that, within their tradition, bodies are to buried whole in order to maintain a tie to the spirit.

Painful Memories

Our land, Ainu Mosir, had been invaded, our language stripped, our ancestral remains robbed, the blood of living Ainu taken, and even our few remaining utensils carried away. At this rate, what would happen to the Ainu people? For Kayano Shigeru (萱野茂, 1926 – 2006), the first Ainu in Japanese parliament and a major voice for indigenous rights, the spiriting away of Ainu skeletons and artifacts by mainland researchers was a source of much shame. In his famous memoir, Our Land Was A Forest, Kayano recalled returning home to find treasured artifacts missing; his impoverished father had sold them away to researchers.

In those days I despised scholars of Ainu culture from the bottom of my heart. They used to visit my father for his extensive knowledge of the Ainu. I often railed at them and, accusing them of behavior as rude as that of waking a sleeping child, ordered them never to return. Professor K. [likely Kodama] of Hokkaido University was one at whom I snarled many times… They dug up our sacred tombs and carried away ancestral bones. Under the pretext of research, they took blood from villagers and, in order to examine how hairy we were, rolled up our sleeves, then lowered our collars to check our backs… It was this same anger and desire to recover the Ainu culture that lead Kayano to become such a major voice in the question for indigenous rights in Japan.

Seeing such self-centered conduct by shamo [Japanese] scholars, I asked myself whether matters should be left as they were: Our land, Ainu Mosir, had been invaded, our language stripped, our ancestral remains robbed, the blood of living Ainu taken, and even our few remaining utensils carried away. At this rate, what would happen to the Ainu people? What would happen to Ainu culture? From that moment on, I vowed to take them back.

The Fight to Reclaim the Ancestors

It was with the same spirit of cultural recovery that Ainu groups from around Hokkaido have set out to gain the return of their ancestor’s remains. In 2008, after centuries of denial and erasure, the Japanese government suddenly announced that the Ainu were to be legally considered the indigenous people of the north. Although by this point there remained only around 25,000 self-declared Ainu with only a few elderly native speakers still living, this signaled a huge victory for Ainu rights. In 2013, the Ainu council of Kineusu used their new indigenous status as a basis for suing Hokkaido University for the return of uninterred Ainu bones.

More lawsuits followed. Slowly, the ancestral remains and funerary artifacts sitting in collections and in storage across universities in Japan began to be returned. Hokkaido University, home to more Ainu remains than any other facility in Japan, played a major role in these skeletal repatriations. In July, Hokkaido opened the Symbolic Space for Ethnic Harmony – a “national center for the revival and development of Ainu culture.” The center is to host the National Ainu Museum and National Ainu Park. Importantly, it also has a space to carefully store Ainu remains. Still, the Symbolic Space itself has become controversial with Ainu, with some hoping for the return of remains more directly to Ainu communities.

The Way Forward

The return of the ancestral remains by Tokyo University on Saturday comes amidst an interesting time for the Ainu community. Recognition of the Ainu and their culture is one the rise worldwide, they finally have recognition by the Japanese government, and cultural revival movements are gaining steam. Young Ainu are engaged in reconnecting with their heritage, learning their language, and sharing their culture with others. Hokkaido schools will soon have textbooks that make multiple references to Ainu history. The field of Ainu Studies has evolved, now placing more primacy on the perceptions of the Ainu themselves and welcoming more Ainu scholars.

Yet still, Ainu face discrimination and erasure. A national survey from only four years ago revealed that a huge 74% of Japanese people had never been exposed to Ainu culture or people. The now-delayed 2020 Tokyo Olympics suddenly axed an Ainu ceremony planned for the opening ceremonies. Progress is being made, but it’s not always enough.

Yet, on Saturday, as the burial of six sets of remains in Urahoro marked the complete return of a total of 103 such Ainu once held at Tokyo University, Raporo Ainu Nation honorary president Masaki Sashima found himself becoming emotional.

この瞬間を迎えられて感無量です。遺骨には『今まで待たせて申し訳ありませんでした。静かに眠ってください』とお祈りしました。I’m overcome with feeling having reached this moment. I prayed to the remains of the deceased, saying, “I’m greatly sorry for having made you wait so long. Please rest in peace.”

The earth of the Ainu Moshir, the Ainu homeland, once again embraced the ancestral remains, welcoming them home.

Sources (08月22日). 東大返還アイヌの人の遺骨を埋葬. NHK News Web.

Kayano, S. (1994). Our Land Was A Forest : An Ainu Memoir. Routledge.

Hudson, M.J., Lewallen, A., & Watson, M.K. (2014). Beyond Ainu Studies: Changing Academic and Public Perspectives. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.

Walker, B. (2001). The Conquest of Ainu Lands: Ecology and Culture in Japanese Expansion,1590-1800. University of California Press.

Kimura, K. (2015, July 25). Japan’s indigenous Ainu sue to bring their ancestors’ bones back home. The Japan Times.

#Ainu #Ainu Moshiri #Ancestors #Hokkaido #Tokyo #Tokyo University #Japan #colonialism #colonial violence #genocide #grave robbing #racism #institutional racism

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poorquentyn · 6 years

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Remember Your Name, Part 3: When That Other Man Had Come This Way

Series so far here

“That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.”

At the end of In the Mood for Love, the film’s protagonist visits the ruins of Angkor Wat. He’d earlier mused to a friend about how back in the day, if you had a secret burning inside that you couldn’t bring yourself to share, you dug a shallow hole into a tree and whispered your secret into it, filling the hole with mud afterwards to keep the truth at bay.

But when our hero decides to try and leave behind the story of forsaken love we saw unfold over the course of the movie, he does not seek out a living thing that can survive and change and grow. He instead unburdens himself to a ruin: a monument to the ravages wrought and distances forged by time. In the sequel 2046, he disappears into the rose-colored fog within, surrounded by his ghosts on parade. Try as he might, he could not seal them away forever.

I have come this way before. It was a dangerous thought, and he regretted it at once.

“No,” he said, “no, that was some other man, that was before you knew your name.” His name was Reek. He had to remember that. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leek. When that other man had come this way, an army had followed close behind him, the great host of the north riding to war beneath the grey-and-white banners of House Stark. Reek rode alone, clutching a peace banner on a pinewood staff. When that other man had come this way, he had been mounted on a courser, swift and spirited. Reek rode a broken-down stot, all skin and bone and ribs, and he rode her slowly for fear he might fall off. The other man had been a good rider, but Reek was uneasy on horseback. It had been so long. He was no rider. He was not even a man. He was Lord Ramsay’s creature, lower than a dog, a worm in human skin. “You will pretend to be a prince,” Lord Ramsay told him last night, as Reek was soaking in a tub of scalding water, “but we know the truth. You’re Reek. You’ll always be Reek, no matter how sweet you smell. Your nose may lie to you. Remember your name. Remember who you are.”

“Reek,” he said. “Your Reek.”

The Drunkard’s Tower leaned as if it were about to collapse, just as it had for half a thousand years. The Children’s Tower thrust into the sky as straight as a spear, but its shattered top was open to the wind and rain. The Gatehouse Tower, squat and wide, was the largest of the three, slimy with moss, a gnarled tree growing sideways from the stones of its north side, fragments of broken wall still standing to the east and west. The Karstarks took the Drunkard’s Tower and the Umbers the Children’s Tower, he recalled. Robb claimed the Gatehouse Tower for his own. If he closed his eyes, he could see the banners in his mind’s eye, snapping bravely in a brisk north wind. All gone now, all fallen.

Memory and identity are inextricable. Who you were informs who you are, and who you are invariably filters your perspective on who you were. The weight of backstory has always been one of ASOIAF’s central claims to profundity. R+L=J, the story’s central revelation and the beating heart of the fandom, is also the burdensome duty that defined our fakeout protagonist Eddard Stark. What makes Ned’s life so meaningful is that he put it all on the line not to keep the secret that his purported bastard Jon is in fact his sister Lyanna’s son by Rhaegar Targaryen, but in the name of the values that keeping that secret instilled in him.

Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon Poole had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence. They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. Ned could no longer use his concern for their safety to excuse his delay.

Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar's children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy…the boy…

Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.

Jaime floats in heat and memory in the Harrenhal bathtubs, the truth finally swimming to the surface; Barbrey stares deep into a dead man’s face, the pleasure and pain of it eternally intermingled; Robert himself admits that all he wants most is to leave behind the crown it was all ostensibly for. They all sing the same sad song, the one Reek sings as he rides fearfully into Theon Greyjoy’s past at Moat Cailin: I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. They followed the red comet, over the edge. Their songs broke, and broke them in their fall.

Following on Theon briefly coming unstuck in time in his first ADWD chapter, Reek II builds on that disorientation by externalizing it onto his environment. The chapter is thick with memory and riddled with decay, all swathes of mist that give way to fountains of blood, because that’s what the inside of Theon Greyjoy’s head looks like. That opening chapter in the Dreadfort gave us a blood-curdling glimpse of the crucible in which Theon became Reek before forcing him out of it; now, the story goes widescreen, taking in how the North has changed along with our POV since last he stepped out into it.

The hall was dark stone, high ceilinged and drafty, full of drifting smoke, its stone walls spotted by huge patches of pale lichen. A peat fire burned low in a hearth blackened by the hotter blazes of years past. A massive table of carved stone filled the chamber, as it had for centuries. There was where I sat, the last time I was here, he remembered. Robb was at the head of the table, with the Greatjon to his right and Roose Bolton on his left. The Glovers sat next to Helman Tallhart. Karstark and his sons were across from them.

The reference to time’s fire in which we burn (“blackened by the hotter blazes of years past”), the epochal weight of the table filling the chamber “as it had for centuries,” the evocation of the ghosts that haunt Theon--all of it grounds the business of the plot in memory and time, and thus in what’s happened to our POV.

Theon smiled. Reek cannot. Theon had friends. Reek is a pariah. Theon came to Moat Cailin with an army. Now, that army is dead and gone, except for those who turned on the rest...just as he did. Moat Cailin has been made a ruin all over again, defeat and despair folded into it like Lannister crimson into Stark steel, a testament like Tristifer’s tomb to a shattered kingdom. Theon helped shatter it, and now he stumbles back shattered to help melt down what’s left. He is Moat Cailin, more or less, the broken towers a misty mirror for our broken man, the splintered teeth of his smile writ large. The fog that cloaks the fortress reflects how he’s been forced to compartmentalize his past, which is now screaming its way to the surface. There are ghosts in Moat Cailin, and he is one of them.

(image by warsandpoliticsoficeandfire.wordpress.com)

This sense of desolation and loss is mirrored in the chapter’s purpose in the larger plot. The standoff between the Boltons and the Ironborn over the Moat (and by extension, the North as a whole) is little more than a feast for crows. Both sides went for the direwolf’s throat with no higher cause than plunder and the pleasure of it; all they’re fighting over is who did it more successfully. The Ironborn here were left to rot by their Lord Captain when he went chasing his brother’s crown...

“Victarion commanded us to hold, he did. I heard him with my own ears. Hold here till I return, he told Kenning.”

“Aye,” said the one-armed man. “That’s what he said. The kingsmoot called, but he swore that he’d be back, with a driftwood crown upon his head and a thousand men behind him.”

“My uncle is never coming back,” Reek told them. “The kingsmoot crowned his brother Euron, and the Crow’s Eye has other wars to fight. You think my uncle values you? He doesn’t. You are the ones he left behind to die. He scraped you off the same way he scrapes mud off his boots when he wades ashore.”

Those words struck home. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at one another or frowned above their cups. They all feared they’d been abandoned, but it took me to turn fear into certainty. These were not the kin of famous captains nor the blood of the great Houses of the Iron Islands. These were the sons of thralls and salt wives.

...and the Dreadfort men can’t lay any credible claim to be acting as defenders of the North from the reaving invaders, given the Northern blood they’ve both happily spilled throughout. (Those who hunt people for sport shouldn’t throw stones, and all that.) Ramsay in this chapter is merely mopping up after and reaping the benefits of the hard-earned victory won by Howland Reed and his guerilla fighters, and even that he’s not doing himself, but forcing a helpless tortured prisoner to do for him. The Bastard’s unspeakably hideous treatment of the Ironborn after they surrender to him in good faith is the punchline to a very dark joke, poisoned icing on bitter cake. And of course, it’s all in the service of welcoming an army soaked in the blood of the men and women with whom they sat down to dinner, as allies, as friends, as guests at a wedding.

Three days later, the vanguard of Roose Bolton’s host threaded its way through the ruins and past the row of grisly sentinels—four hundred mounted Freys clad in blue and grey, their spearpoints glittering whenever the sun broke through the clouds. Two of old Lord Walder’s sons led the van. One was brawny, with a massive jut of jaw and arms thick with muscle. The other had hungry eyes close-set above a pointed nose, a thin brown beard that did not quite conceal the weak chin beneath it, a bald head. Hosteen and Aenys. He remembered them from before he knew his name. Hosteen was a bull, slow to anger but implacable once roused, and by repute the fiercest fighter of Lord Walder’s get. Aenys was older, crueler, and more clever—a commander, not a swordsman. Both were seasoned soldiers.

The northmen followed hard behind the van, their tattered banners streaming in the wind. Reek watched them pass. Most were afoot, and there were so few of them. He remembered the great host that marched south with Young Wolf, beneath the direwolf of Winterfell. Twenty thousand swords and spears had gone off to war with Robb, or near enough to make no matter, but only two in ten were coming back, and most of those were Dreadfort men.

Even as Reek struggles to keep Theon at bay (thinking of his life before the Dreadfort dungeons as the time “before he knew his name”), making contact with the people with whom Theon rode to war is stirring something inside him, and that’s reflected in the big picture of what it means for this army to arrive in the North. Grey Wind’s forlorn eyes from the House of the Undying are watching, and judging, and waiting. Wolves prowl and howl through the opening chapters of ADWD’s Northern half, singing the song of their fall, and of Jojen’s solemn promise: “the wolves will come again.” The ghosts of the Red Wedding follow this army to Winterfell, and hang heavy on the Ramsay-Jeyne wedding and everything that follows, crying out for redress. The gods have been insulted, and will have their due. Thankfully, there’s a man going ‘round taking names, and he decides who to free and who to blame...

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...but discussion of His Grace King Stannis Baratheon, the Wrath of God, will have to wait for later chapters, as will Wyman Manderly’s culinary interpretation of divine judgment.

For the purposes of Theon’s arc, the Ironborn at Moat Cailin serve as the mirror from which he’s trying so desperately to look away. I said last time that what Reek fears most right now, even more than Ramsay, is being Theon. That name carries so much shame and pain with it that he prefers to be “your Reek,” fearing not only the external consequences of defiance (more torture and maiming), but also the internal consequences of identifying as his old self. All Theon wanted to do in ACOK was take control of his life, and now that’s the last thing he wants, because of what he did with that power once he had it. He returns to Moat Cailin flying a white flag of peace, but it may as well be one of surrender.

“I am Ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been Ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak.

“Ralf Kenning is dead,” he said. “Who commands here?”

The drinkers stared at him blankly. One laughed. Another spat. Finally one of the Codds said, “Who asks?”

“Lord Balon’s son.” Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with cheek.

One of the Codds pushed to his feet. A big man, but pop-eyed and wide of mouth, with dead white flesh. He looked as if his father had sired him on a fish, but he still wore a longsword. “Dagon Codd yields to no man.”

No, please, you have to listen. The thought of what Ramsay would do to him if he crept back to camp without the garrison’s surrender was almost enough to make him piss his breeches. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leak.

What gives this chapter its charge is that our POV is being forced by the man who shattered his old identity to resume that identity. It’s Theon playing Reek playing Theon, and he’s being made to remember his name in order to sway the people who represent his old life, because they’d never surrender to Reek. He knows that, because he used to be like them...or he wanted to be, anyway. When Theon first became a POV, his mind was aflame with song, lashing his in-between identity to the values and visions of the Old Way:

Once I would have kept her as a salt wife in truth, he thought to himself as he slid his fingers through her tangled hair. Once. When we still kept the Old Way, lived by the axe instead of the pick, taking what we would, be it wealth, women, or glory. In those days, the Ironborn did not work mines; that was labor for the captives brought back from the hostings, and so too the sorry business of farming and tending goats and sheep. War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song.

Aegon the Dragon had destroyed the Old Way when he burned Black Harren, gave Harren's kingdom back to the weakling rivermen, and reduced the Iron Islands to an insignificant backwater of a much greater realm. Yet the old red tales were still told around driftwood fires and smoky hearths all across the islands, even behind the high stone halls of Pyke. Theon's father numbered among his titles the style of Lord Reaper, and the Greyjoy words boasted that We Do Not Sow.

It had been to bring back the Old Way more than for the empty vanity of a crown that Lord Balon had staged his great rebellion. Robert Baratheon had written a bloody end to that hope, with the help of his friend Eddard Stark, but both men were dead now. Mere boys ruled in their stead, and the realm that Aegon the Conqueror had forged was smashed and sundered. This is the season, Theon thought as the captain's daughter slid her lips up and down the length of him, the season, the year, the day, and I am the man.

This chapter, Theon I ACOK, slots right in between Davos I (the one with Lightbringer) and Daenerys I (the one in the Red Waste), both of them positively soaked with messianic imagery and focused on weighty questions of power, prophecy, and the price you pay. But in Theon’s chapter, the launching pad for the most stubbornly secular storyline in ACOK, the messianic mindset is stripped of its finery and exposed as pitiful self-delusion. This is who you are, Chosen One, all the more clearly with neither dragons nor shadowbinders at your back: a mirror-drunk fool dreaming of atrocities while your dick gets sucked.

Three books later, that self-image has been racked and flayed and castrated before being spat back out at us as Reek. He thinks of himself as having been born beneath the Dreadfort, molded like clay from Theon’s blood and pain; are you my mother, Ramsay? He keeps retreating to his new name in his thoughts, a mantra to keep the fear away. The identity of which he dreamed is now the nightmare he cannot shake. And what better way for the author to reflect that than by bringing him up against the death of his dream, the most unshakable images of the rot eating away at the Old Way?

Reek passed the rotted carcass of a horse, an arrow jutting from its neck. A long white snake slithered into its empty eye socket at his approach. Behind the horse he spied the rider, or what remained of him. The crows had stripped the flesh from the man’s face, and a feral dog had burrowed beneath his mail to get at his entrails. Farther on, another corpse had sunk so deep into the muck that only his face and fingers showed.

Closer to the towers, corpses littered the ground on every side. Blood-blooms had sprouted from their gaping wounds, pale flowers with petals plump and moist as a woman’s lips.

Ralf Kenning lay shivering beneath a mountain of furs. His arms were stacked beside him—sword and axe, mail hauberk, iron warhelm. His shield bore the storm god’s cloudy hand, lightning crackling from his fingers down to a raging sea, but the paint was discolored and peeling, the wood beneath starting to rot.

Ralf was rotting too. Beneath the furs he was naked and feverish, his pale puffy flesh covered with weeping sores and scabs. His head was misshapen, one cheek grotesquely swollen, his neck so engorged with blood that it threatened to swallow his face. The arm on that same side was big as a log and crawling with white worms. No one had bathed him or shaved him for many days, from the look of him. One eye wept pus, and his beard was crusty with dried vomit.

“What happened to him?” asked Reek.

“He was on the parapets and some bog devil loosed an arrow at him. It was only a graze, but…they poison their shafts, smear the points with shit and worse things. We poured boiling wine into the wound, but it made no difference.”

This is how the Old Way has always died, with broken towers and the stench of corpses, from Aegon melting Harrenhal to Robert smashing Pyke. Every time it falls, the seeds are sown for its next rise; the ideology’s exposed festering folly is folded into a Lost Cause mythos that weaponizes resentment and ennobles suffering. The last time it fell, part of the price paid was Theon’s identity, and his desperate drive to reclaim it by reviving the Old Way is what led him here. He’s unrecognizable to the very world in which he hoped to finally recognize himself.

The garrison will never know me. Some might recall the boy he’d been before he learned his name, but Reek would be a stranger to them. It had been a long while since he last looked into a glass, but he knew how old he must appear. His hair had turned white; much of it had fallen out, and what was left was stiff and dry as straw. The dungeons had left him weak as an old woman and so thin a strong wind could knock him down.

And his hands…Ramsay had given him gloves, fine gloves of black leather, soft and supple, stuffed with wool to conceal his missing fingers, but if anyone looked closely, he would see that three of his fingers did not bend.

That fall from grace, the violent collapse of his projected identity, is reflected back at him by the sorry state of the Ironborn garrison. They came here as an army, together, one people; they knew who they were. And now...?

Someone seized him and dragged him inside, and he heard the door crash shut behind him. He was pulled to his feet and shoved against a wall. Then a knife was at his throat, a bearded face so close to his that he could count the man’s nose hairs. “Who are you? What’s your purpose here? Quick now, or I’ll do you the same as him.” The guard jerked his head toward a body rotting on the floor beside the door, its flesh green and crawling with maggots.

“I am ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak. He had to forget that for a little while, though. No man would ever yield to a creature such as Reek, no matter how desperate his situation. He must pretend to be a prince again.

His captor stared at his face, squinting, his mouth twisted in suspicion. His teeth were brown, and his breath stank of ale and onion. “Lord Balon’s sons were killed.”

“My brothers. Not me. Lord Ramsay took me captive after Winterfell. He’s sent me here to treat with you. Do you command here?”

“Me?” The man lowered his knife and took a step backwards, almost stumbling over the corpse. “Not me, m’lord.” His mail was rusted, his leathers rotting. On the back of one hand an open sore wept blood. “Ralf Kenning has the command. The captain said. I’m on the door, is all.”

“And who is this?” Reek gave the corpse a kick.

The guard stared at the dead man as if seeing him for the first time. “Him…he drank the water. I had to cut his throat for him, to stop his screaming. Bad belly. You can’t drink the water. That’s why we got the ale.” The guard rubbed his face, his eyes red and inflamed. “We used to drag the dead down into the cellars. All the vaults are flooded down there. No one wants to take the trouble now, so we just leave them where they fall.”

“The cellar is a better place for them. Give them to the water. To the Drowned God.”

The man laughed. “No gods down there, m’lord. Only rats and water snakes. White things, thick as your leg. Sometimes they slither up the steps and bite you in your sleep.”

Reek remembered the dungeons underneath the Dreadfort, the rat squirming between his teeth, the taste of warm blood on his lips. If I fail, Ramsay will send me back to that, but first he’ll flay the skin from another finger. “How many of the garrison are left?”

“Some,” said the ironman. “I don’t know. Fewer than we was before. Some in the Drunkard’s Tower too, I think. Not the Children’s Tower. Dagon Codd went over there a few days back. Only two men left alive, he said, and they was eating on the dead ones. He killed them both, if you can believe that.”

Moat Cailin has fallen, Reek realized then, only no one has seen fit to tell them.

And now they are lost, turning on each other, their god forgotten. Cannibalism rears its head again and again in ADWD, as the taboo wilts in the face of winter and war. Theon came here with the knights of summer; Reek returns to find the living dead. Two different armies, two different peoples, as one in his mind now. After all, he’s been trying to bridge this particular gap for most of his life. The abyss awaited both armies to occupy the Moat, as it awaited Theon. Never forget Kubrick’s parting shot in Barry Lyndon:

In ACOK, Theon tried to shed the Northern self exemplified by that shining army at the Moat like dead skin, giving himself over to the image of the Ironborn self in his head. Now Reek returns to Moat Calin to play that image, only to sacrifice it as he was as a child, sacrificed like the men at Moat Cailin to the Old Way...

“Kill him,” Reek told the guard. “His wits are gone. He’s full of blood and worms.”

The man gaped at him. “The captain put him in command.”

“You’d put a dying horse down.”

“What horse? I never had no horse.”

I did. The memory came back in a rush. Smiler’s screams had sounded almost human. His mane afire, he had reared up on his hind legs, blind with pain, lashing out with his hooves. No, no. Not mine, he was not mine, Reek never had a horse. “I will kill him for you.” Reek snatched up Ralf Kenning’s sword where it leaned against his shield. He still had fingers enough to clasp the hilt. When he laid the edge of the blade against the swollen throat of the creature on the straw, the skin split open in a gout of black blood and yellow pus. Kenning jerked violently, then lay still.

...and then again as an adult, this time to the Bastard of Bolton.

Reek swung down from his saddle and took a knee. “My lord, Moat Cailin is yours. Here are its last defenders.”

“So few. I had hoped for more. They were such stubborn foes.” Lord Ramsay’s pale eyes shone. “You must be starved. Damon, Alyn, see to them. Wine and ale, and all the food that they can eat. Skinner, show their wounded to our maesters.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A few of the Ironborn muttered thanks before they shambled off toward the cookfires in the center of the camp. One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

When the last of them were gone, Ramsay Bolton turned his smile on Reek. He clasped him by the back of the head, pulled his face close, kissed him on his cheek, and whispered, “My old friend Reek. Did they really take you for their prince? What bloody fools, these ironmen. The gods are laughing.”

“All they want is to go home, my lord.”

“And what do you want, my sweet Reek?” Ramsay murmured, as softly as a lover. His breath smelled of mulled wine and cloves, so sweet. “Such valiant service deserves a reward. I cannot give you back your fingers or your toes, but surely there is something you would have of me. Shall I free you instead? Release you from my service? Do you want to go with them, return to your bleak isles in the cold grey sea, be a prince again? Or would you sooner stay my leal serving man?”

A cold knife scraped along his spine. Be careful, he told himself, be very, very careful. He did not like his lordship’s smile, the way his eyes were shining, the spittle glistening at the corner of his mouth. He had seen such signs before. You are no prince. You’re Reek, just Reek, it rhymes with freak. Give him the answer that he wants.

“My lord,” he said, “my place is here, with you. I’m your Reek. I only want to serve you. All I ask …a skin of wine, that would be reward enough for me…red wine, the strongest that you have, all the wine a man can drink…”

Lord Ramsay laughed. “You’re not a man, Reek. You’re just my creature. You’ll have your wine, though. Walder, see to it. And fear not, I won’t return you to the dungeons, you have my word as a Bolton. We’ll make a dog of you instead. Meat every day, and I’ll even leave you teeth enough to eat it. You can sleep beside my girls. Ben, do you have a collar for him?”

“I’ll have one made, m’lord,” said old Ben Bones.

The old man did better than that. That night, besides the collar, there was a ragged blanket too, and half a chicken. Reek had to fight the dogs for the meat, but it was the best meal he’d had since Winterfell.

And the wine…the wine was dark and sour, but strong. Squatting amongst the hounds, Reek drank until his head swam, retched, wiped his mouth, and drank some more. Afterward he lay back and closed his eyes. When he woke a dog was licking vomit from his beard, and dark clouds were scuttling across the face of a sickle moon. Somewhere in the night, men were screaming. He shoved the dog aside, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The next morning Lord Ramsay dispatched three riders down the causeway to take word to his lord father that the way was clear. The flayed man of House Bolton was hoisted above the Gatehouse Tower, where Reek had hauled down the golden kraken of Pyke. Along the rotting-plank road, wooden stakes were driven deep into the boggy ground; there the corpses festered, red and dripping. Sixty-three, he knew, there are sixty-three of them. One was short half an arm. Another had a parchment shoved between its teeth, its wax seal still unbroken.

“So few. I had hoped for more.” The soul shudders. And oh, how casually “somewhere in the night, men were screaming” strolls into the middle of a paragraph, and Reek rolls back over to sleep...

To be clear, I’m not holding Theon responsible for what happens to his sixty-three fellow Ironborn left at the Moat. He’s in no position to refuse Ramsay, as GRRM makes clear in his inner monologue throughout the chapter. But Ramsay is deliberately putting his prisoner through a gauntlet of the self. He has our POV act as Prince Theon son of King Balon, forces him through a cruel mummer’s farce of “choosing” to stay at Ramsay’s side as Reek, and then viciously annihilates the people who represent Theon’s connection to that old identity. It has exactly the effect Ramsay wants: “He pulled down the kraken banner with his own two hands, fumbling some because of his missing fingers but thankful for the fingers that Lord Ramsay had allowed him to keep.” This is what it means to have been Theon and to now be Reek.

This pattern will repeat itself over the course of Theon’s next two chapters, as Roose and Barbrey conspire to have him give Jeyne away to Ramsay publicly, as Theon, and so help cement Bolton control of Winterfell. At every step, Theon's identity is weaponized and turned against him. He flinches from his past, drinks to annihilate his present, and can barely conceive of a future. He is unmoored, drifting through external and internal fog, and he has once again unlocked the North on behalf of heinous authority figures he desperately wants to please. Indeed, Ramsay has wrought a fearsome image of himself in Theon’s mind, a devil equally at home tempting and punishing, and that dynamic is recreated at Moat Cailin:

One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

On that note, one persistent critique of both AFFC and ADWD is that the violence stopped meaning anything--the author started leaning on brutality for brutality’s sake, because he bought into his own rep and/or was out of ideas. I think it’s a valid complaint when it comes to, say, Biter eating Brienne’s face. But on the flipside, the horrific violence in Theon’s storyline is consistently linked to intertwined themes of memory and identity in a manner that I find resonant. Look no further than the man who accepts Ramsay’s offer, and why:

It was the one-armed man who’d flung the axe. As he rose to his feet he had another in his hand. “Who else wants to die?” he asked the other drinkers. “Speak up, I’ll see you do.” Thin red streams were spreading out across the stone from the pool of blood where Dagon Codd’s head had come to rest. “Me, I mean to live, and that don’t mean staying here to rot.”

The one-armed man walked at the head of the procession, limping heavily. His name, he said, was Adrack Humble, and he had a rock wife and three salt wives back on Great Wyk. “Three of the four had big bellies when we sailed,” he boasted, “and Humbles run to twins. First thing I’ll need to do when I get back is count up my new sons. Might be I’ll even name one after you, m’lord.”

Aye, name him Reek, he thought, and when he’s bad you can cut his toes off and give him rats to eat. He turned his head and spat, and wondered if Ralf Kenning hadn’t been the lucky one.

“All they want is to go home, my lord.” And so does Theon, but he has no home to go back to.

Now, of course, Adrack Humble’s dream of counting up his sons is hardly a utopian vision--he kidnapped and enslaved most of their mothers. But the world to which he belongs is the world to which Theon wanted to belong, believing in it so badly he put his life on the line for it...and it failed him, just as it always ultimately fails your average [H]umble man of the Iron Islands. As such, Reek now thinks that the man who rotted without getting his hopes up was the lucky one. This is how he talked when the Young Wolf’s army marched south...

"But such a battle!" said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. "My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We've taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Lord Westerling, Lord Banefort, Ser Garth Greenfield, Lord Estren, Ser Tytos Brax, Mallor the Dornishman … and three Lannisters besides Jaime, Lord Tywin's own nephews, two of his sister's sons and one of his dead brother's…"

Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun's Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her father's garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. "Some tried to flee, but we'd pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The Lannisters must have thought the Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb's got in among them. I saw him tear one man's arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn't tell you how many men were thrown—"

...but his story is always interrupted, his comrades died at dinner, and now he dreams only of blood. We rode to war with songs on our lips, but by the time the last notes faded and left us alone with the silence, we were utterly transformed. When Theon eagerly embraces his wine and his half-chicken and his collar, trusting them to silence the screams, all I can think of is this:

“And the man breaks.

“He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them...but he should pity them as well.”

Two chapters prior to Reek II, half a world away, the Shy Maid sailed through another mournful ruin, and when Tyrion stared into the Sorrows, they stared back.

The grey moss grew thickly here, covering the fallen stones in great mounds and bearding all the towers. Black vines crept in and out of windows, through doors and over archways, up the sides of high stone walls. The fog concealed three-quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Tyrion to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep once and a hundred times more beautiful. He knew where he was. “The Palace of Love,” he said softly.

“That was the Rhoynar name,” said Haldon Halfmaester, “but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow.”

The ruin was sad enough, but knowing what it had been made it even sadder. There was laughter here once, Tyrion thought. There were gardens bright with flowers and fountains sparkling golden in the sun. These steps once rang to the sound of lovers’ footsteps, and beneath that broken dome marriages beyond count were sealed with a kiss. His thoughts turned to Tysha, who had so briefly been his lady wife. It was Jaime, he thought, despairing. He was my own blood, my big strong brother. When I was small he brought me toys, barrel hoops and blocks and a carved wooden lion. He gave me my first pony and taught me how to ride him. When he said that he had bought you for me, I never doubted him. Why would I? He was Jaime, and you were just some girl who’d played a part. I had feared it from the start, from the moment you first smiled at me and let me touch your hand. My own father could not love me. Why would you if not for gold?

Through the long grey fingers of the fog, he heard again the deep shuddering thrum of a bowstring snapping taut, the grunt Lord Tywin made as the quarrel took him beneath the belly, the slap of cheeks on stone as he sat back down to die.

And therein lies a theme that runs through ASOIAF but for me finds its richest expressions in A Dance with Dragons: you can’t go home again.

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again.

Home is haunted, by the love you lost and the family you failed.

The door to the roof of the tower was stuck so fast that it was plain no one had opened it in years. He had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he’d been had replied, “One day they will all be mine.” As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Griffin’s Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father’s father had before him. But his father and his father’s father had never lost their lands. He had.

Home is a border wall, a chain digging and twisting.

“Do you have brothers?” Asha asked her keeper.

“Sisters,” Alysane Mormont replied, gruff as ever. “Five, we were. All girls. Lyanna is back on Bear Island. Lyra and Jory are with our mother. Dacey was murdered.”

“The Red Wedding.”

“Aye.” Alysane stared at Asha for a moment. “I have a son. He’s only two. My daughter’s nine.”

“You started young.”

“Too young. But better that than wait too late.”

A stab at me, Asha thought, but let it be. “You are wed.”

“No. My children were fathered by a bear.” Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. “Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows.”

Asha smiled back. “Mormont women are all fighters too.”

The other woman’s smile faded. “What we are is what you made us. On Bear Island every child learns to fear krakens rising from the sea.”

The Old Way. Asha turned away, chains clinking faintly.

Home is leagues and years away, and yet so close you can almost touch it.

Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below.

Then all at once he was back home again.

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man’s gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard’s lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth.

“Winterfell,” Bran whispered.

“I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.”

You have no home. You never will.

Water splashed against the soles of her feet. She was walking in the stream. How long had she been doing that? The soft brown mud felt good between her toes and helped to soothe her blisters. In the stream or out of it, I must keep walking. Water flows downhill. The stream will take me to the river, and the river will take me home.

Except it wouldn’t, not truly.

You’ll give up everything just to get home, please, please...

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

...but it’s gone.

“I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?

Home is a time, not a place, and there were so few times that Theon was at home. One of them was here, not so long ago, though it feels like it was. For a brief shining second as the banners caught the breeze, with roaring Umbers and fierce Karstarks, with a powerful army around him, with his brother in all but blood marching to avenge his (their?) father, he knew who he was.

And now, he can’t even remember his name.

How could who I was mean anything if it can be taken away from me like this? I was a Greyjoy among Starks, and then a Stark among Greyjoys; I was Theon and had to become Reek, I am Reek and have to become Theon. Forgive me, he calls through time to the smiling man he used to know, I was not strong enough. But Theon can’t hear Reek and never will.

...and yet.

A light rain had begun to piss down out of the slate-grey sky by the time Lord Ramsay’s camp appeared in front of them. A sentry watched them pass in silence. The air was full of drifting smoke from the cookfires drowning in the rain. A column of riders came wheeling up behind them, led by a lordling with a horsehead on his shield. One of Lord Ryswell’s sons, Reek knew. Roger, or maybe Rickard. He could not tell the two of them apart. “Is this all of them?” the rider asked from atop a chestnut stallion.

“All who weren’t dead, my lord.”

“I thought there would be more. We came at them three times, and three times they threw us back.”

We are Ironborn, he thought, with a sudden flash of pride, and for half a heartbeat he was a prince again, Lord Balon’s son, the blood of Pyke.

We are Ironborn. We are Ironborn. The point isn’t that being Ironborn is, in itself, some great moral progression for Theon. The point is that he just thought of himself as one of them, as Theon, in spite of Ramsay arranging everything that happens in Reek II to convince him that he is not. He has, just for a second, found himself.

This spark grows in strength when Roose Bolton and his army arrives to escort his bastard’s bride home. As I said last time, the identity shell-games extend beyond Theon himself; his arc in ADWD only works as well as it does because it resonates with what’s happening in the plot. The North went south united, but returns divided. Roose doesn’t exactly have “a peaceful land, a quiet people” on his hands, and bringing the hated Freys north will only further provoke Stark loyalists (as we’ll see in later chapters). Moreover, his army had to pass through the Neck, controlled by one of said Stark loyalists, Howland Reed. As such, it’s not safe these days to be Roose Bolton...so he outsourced the job.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek followed with the other dogs at Lord Ramsay’s heels when his lordship strode forth to greet his father. When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. Ramsay’s smile curdled at the sight, and anger flashed across his face. “What is this, some mockery?”

“Just caution,” whispered Roose Bolton, as he emerged from behind the curtains of the enclosed wagon.

This is a terrific way to reintroduce a villain. We haven’t seen Roose since he shed all pretense and revealed himself, a snake with new skin, at the Red Wedding. What could be more fitting than for him to wrong-foot us along with Ramsay upon re-entry? We lean forward to see him, only to hear his soft voice behind us...

Reek pretending to be Theon paved the way for the man pretending to be Roose and the girl pretending to be Arya. It’s a mockery, a mummer’s farce, a hall of mirrors. By weaving the central question of Theon’s story--who am I?--into the characters and plot points surrounding him, GRRM elevates that story. It’s the classic existentialist quest: the eternal hunt of the elusive Real. The question of whether Theon will remember his name fits like a puzzle piece with the question of whether the North will remember its name. And the North remembers.

But Theon, try as he might, is not a Stark...and neither is Ramsay’s bride-to-be.

(image by Elia Fernandez)

Jeyne Poole is not Arya Stark, and everyone knows it. Her presence is a marker of Bolton success: the key to Winterfell, a gift from their Lannister patrons, a declaration that the old has been humbled before and folded into the new. Yet more than anything else, it is the lack of anyone willing to call the Dreadfort men on their fraud that points to their rising fortunes at this moment. This is precisely why Davos’ defiant stand against the Freys in the Merman’s Court (in the chapter immediately prior to this one, worth noting?) hits home so hard. The man who stuck his neck out for the truth will not suffer these noxious lies about what happened to the Northerners who went south, and it’s all the more admirable because he (seemingly) stands alone.

And after a chapter of his identity being used against him, rewarded with a collar for handing his people over to a butcher, telling himself again and again that he is Reek, not Theon but Reek...our POV finally drops the disguise.

The girl was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was only to be expected. Girls grow fast at that age. Her dress was grey wool bordered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf’s head. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. And her eyes…

That is not Lord Eddard’s daughter.

Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes. That’s Sansa’s little friend, the steward’s girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.

“Lord Ramsay.” The girl dipped down before him. That was wrong as well. The real Arya Stark would have spat into his face. “I pray that I will make you a good wife and give you strong sons to follow after you.”

“That you will,” promised Ramsay, “and soon.”

It’s only internal. There’s nothing moral about it yet. He’s yet to relate her fortunes to his own. But by allowing Reek to play Theon, Ramsay has unknowingly reintroduced his captive’s pre-captivity identity into his bloodstream like an antivirus, and Jeyne’s arrival crystallizes what this means for our POV. If she’s not Arya, then he’s not Reek.

The past is present. The mud you pack into that hole in the ruined wall won’t keep your ghosts at bay. But (to borrow from Barristan) mud can nourish the seeds from which you will grow, your past the fertilizer for your rebirth.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell's chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.

#theon greyjoy #ramsay bolton #a dance with dragons #theon in adwd #asoiaf meta #moat cailin #roose bolton #jeyne poole #a game of thrones

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tenesen-khuu · 7 years

Text

The departure.

At the top of a hill, from the crest of which the camp's edge can be only just be seen, stands a boy who should not exist.

Many, many generations past, the children of the Creators lived upon the steppe, beneath the Eternal Blue Sky. Their lives were not always peaceful and never easy; at times, they quarreled with each other, or the rain would not come, and young and old died by hunger, dagger, or disease. But they lived. The sun shone upon the grass, and the beasts of the steppe grazed upon it, and the people reaped their milk and meat in the way the Creators had taught them. Thus were they nourished by the land for countless turns, summer after winter, generation after generation, in harmony and obeisance to the Earth.

Then one day, the scouts brought word of wonders they had seen in the south, beyond the steppe and the range of the children of the Creators. Whispers swiftly spread among all tribes of this far-off, fertile land, where strangers, the Southern People, lived fat and indolent lives on the easy bounty. The children of the Creators, who had never known such luxuries as the Southern People enjoyed even existed, were filled with astonishment, then resentment, then greed. They looked at themselves, their bodies tough and strong from their years on the steppe, at the Southern People, weak and puny, and wondered: why should they obey the dictates of Creators and accept such hard and meager lives when they, with their swift horses and keen archers, could take what these undeserving Southern People had? The whispers continued, and the tribes' blood was inflamed with wrath and desire, and soon the horde descended on the south, slaughtering the weaklings and taking their riches for their own.

The children of the Creators had never before enjoyed such overabundance. They not only gorged themselves on food and wine but rolled in perfumes and wrapped themselves up in silks. They even covered themselves in jade and shiny silver, useless ornaments that they had never wanted on the steppe. They were happy -- and yet their greed, far from being sated, only grew. What else, they wondered, could they plunder from the south? What new delights and pleasures could await? They raided more and more, making the Southern People their slaves, burning their homes and killing their families. And their wealth and greed grew and grew in step together; soon nothing was more important to them than increase of their plunder, and they forgot compassion and hospitality, respect for the spirits, harmony with the Earth.

Soon they even forgot thrift, and endurance, and self-denial, all the things that had once made them leaner and stronger than the Southern People. And the Southern People grew angrier and angrier each year. The persecution of the raiders had calloused their soft flesh; their shared sufferings made their bonds of brotherhood grow strong. And then, one summer, when the sun was at its zenith, at last they had enough. While the children of the Creators revelled and feasted drunkenly, the Southern People surrounded them, then set upon them. The slaughter once visited on the children and elderly of the Southern People was returned. The ground ran with blood, and barely one of each family was able to escape, and fewer survived their wounds to struggle back to the steppes.

Those who returned soon realized that they had forgotten the teachings of the Creators, and, naked and starving, many more died. But, slowly and painfully, the few survivors remembered what they could and learned anew what they could not. They remembered how to hunt and how to herd, how to shelter from summer heat and feed the flock through winter cold. They lived -- not with the luxury of the fertile south, but they lived.

They remembered, and their children remembered, with some difficulty. But their grandchildren began to forget, and by the time their great-grandchildren had grown into women and men, again the whispers began to spread across the tribes. The south, once ravaged, had blossomed again, and was said to burst with even greater riches. The young people talked not only of jade and silver but of diamonds and gold, and of how the Southern People had grown soft again, while the children of the Creators were strong. Greed and bloodlust burned in their hearts, and the joyous chorus went up, crying for a new and wonderful war.

Only one tent was quiet; in it, a mother and father mourned. The other tribes cheered at the thought of the prosperity to come -- but the mother and father knew that theirs would be no true prosperity, but an evil medicine that would bring only suffering, again and again and again. And so as the warriors swung into their saddles and turned their horses south, the mother and father rolled up their tent, gathered their herd, and turned away, into the deepest part of the steppe. There, they and their children hunted and herded, suffered the storms and the snows, starved and lost, and lived, as the Creators had long-ago taught, in harmony with the Earth. And when the other tribes returned from the south, bloodied and battered and begging for succor, they would no more speak with them, and turned away.

That is why we live the way we do, away from the other tribes. We keep the old ways, carrying only what we need. Our bodies are thick and strong, but our arrows are for the hunt, and our horses are for herding. We defend ourselves, but we do not murder and plunder, for greed is a hunger that deepens when fed. We honor our ancestors, the spirits, and the Creators, and we live and die between the Earth and the Sky. So it is for all who are truly one of us.

That is what they said.

Many, many winters past, under a black sky that thundered without rain, the Dark Stranger came. Some thought they should have killed her, this infiltrator from the Outside; more thought she should at least have been expelled and left behind, in obedience to the laws of ancient custom. But she appealed to them -- threatened them -- offered handfuls of iron rings, strong colored thread, hunting knives made of what she called steel -- put a hand to her belly and begged. It was the shaman's decision that allowed her to remain, and the rest obeyed, although they were uneasy.

For three moons' nights she slept outside the tents, in the saddle of her black horse. In the day she stood apart or disappeared into the hills to hunt, bringing back a marmot or a gazelle. When one of the men remarked that no woman he'd ever known could shoot a bird out of the air, she went with the hunters the next day to do exactly that; they murmured about the ease with which she pulled back her giant bow and the distance from which she could loose a deadly arrow, not all in complimentary tones. When the day shortened and her body swelled, she sat with the women spinning wool around the fire, and they stared at her jet-dark arms and their covering of scars. From then she slept inside, and they shared with her their food and drink, and they answered her questions, when she spoke -- but would not question or touch her.

She gave birth on a sunless noon, the sky once more black and roaring. No one would come within; she tied the infant's cord herself and wrapped it in her shirt. She nursed it a few moons, sitting astride her horse, eyes on the distant horizon. Then, at the frost, she left. The child was left behind.

None of the women wanted it; it was the shaman who picked him up, carrying him tucked inside his jacket as he drove his own small herd. On mare's milk the child grew withered and limp, and he ought surely to have died once, twice, on many nights. He lived, small and sickly, and cried only softly, when he had breath. From a weak and tiny baby came a weak and tiny youth, dull-eyed and sedate, who when outside would never run and play but sit, silent, on a mound of earth, staring at the grass and the clouds or looking into the distance.

For boys to learn to shoot and wrestle they had to be bold, strong, and bright, full of the blood and vigor of life. He could not run without making himself sick, and airag made him sicker. He was left behind with the women and sheep. His hands were small and nimble enough to cook and to sew -- but more often he burned or mangled what he tended, for his mind and eyes were elsewhere. They'd fix his mistakes with a sigh, remembering that he was good for nothing, this child whom they never should have allowed, a child who shouldn't exist.

"You're different," the shaman would tell him, "and special. You come from hardship, through hardship. And beyond hardship is great destiny. My ancestor made me aware of it, bade me protect and guide you until you are ready. On the reverse of weakness is power, power you must ready yourself to receive."

He shivered instead through a dozen illnesses, receiving nothing but a great dollop of blood on the dawn of his eleventh spring.

That summer when the Dhoro met, the shaman took the boy with him when he traveled between tents, speaking to the families of the ill and afflicted. He helped his mentor into his regalia, then sat quietly to the side, tearing off sprigs of dried thyme to add to the fire. He observed as the shaman pounded his drum and spun, whirled till the glinting mirrors on his robes flashed like lightning or a fall of meteors, and thrummed and screamed in combat with the malignant spirits. He watched the frightened family cry and cling to each other, then gasp in amazement as their ailing mother sat upright. Then he stood and aided the man who, on return from his flight, felt unsteady, and observed the thanks of the family, not only spoken in words but counted out in goods. Then on to the next tent to make diagnoses and dispense advice, to speak blessings or shamanize when appropriate.

At the end of one treatment, when the two had left the tent, the shaman turned to him and asked, "Could you feel it, when the soaring-demon surrendered and took flight and the oppression lifted? Your sensitivity to the spiritual is very strong. Tell me, did you notice the turning point and feel it go?"

He felt nothing.

Their relationship continued, winter after summer after winter after summer. Among their families at their camp, at the greeting of one camp by another, and at the great meets, he followed along and assisted, observing. He smelled a great deal of smoke, burning herbs, and juniper, and he heard many songs, chants, and wails, and the myriad intrigues and tragedies of their clients' families. And the listened hard for spirits and demons, the murmurings of ancestors below and beings above -- but he heard nothing.

His sensitivity was strong -- to the wind, the sky, and the grass. He knew, before the shaman told him, when they passed over an underground river, from the tingling in his feet and the plants he saw growing around them. He watched a family of foxes the rest of the camp never knew denned beside them and knew, from the fluttering of the birds, the very day they had moved on. He knew the iron zud was upon them before it was explained to him what one was, and he knew which animals would first die. Sometimes, in certain places, when he was very quiet and still, he thought he could feel the earth breathing, sometimes deeply, sometimes shallowly, sometimes as if in a peaceful or restless sleep.

He knew the myriad insects and animals, flowers and clouds, rocks and winds, more than his language had named. But whenever his mentor listed for him the types of demons and devils, the names of the heavenly beings, the attributes of the White Old Man or the Very Old Grandmother, he didn't understand.

"It is lore I learned from my master and from the ancestors who have visited me," the shaman said. "When you become a shamaness, your ancestor will teach you the names of the demons and spirits and how to conquer them."

But he knew that would never happen because a boy could not become a shamaness.

In his fifteenth summer, he felt it, long before they stepped into the client's tent. The presence hung like a heavy cloud over the residence, an oppressive miasma, as if the air had been twisted into a thousand invisible threads and knotted into a thick, obstructive blanket.

The shaman did his work, threatened the demon with his staff and dagger, spun to a stop and prayed with the family. The ill girl raised her head and smiled at him, full of hope -- and it was true that the air in the tent had become lighter.

The boy alone kept his eyes on the shadows in the tent, shoulders tense, frowning.

"You should give libation to the cairn at the river-crossing this summer to ensure it does not take offense once again," his mentor advised them.

That won't be enough, the boy thought.

And she did die before summer arrived.

"Sometimes the opposing spirit is more powerful than those I can muster," his mentor said, when he dared to ask.

But how do you know it is that? How can you be content with such an answer and move on? How much -- how little -- do you really understand?

He needed to understand.

He began to watch the shamanizing with doubled attention. He visited the cairns himself, standing with his bare feet on the earth and staring at them, searching. He left the tent one night to climb up the slope to a burial site, a place the shaman had warned him to never set foot, lest the ancestors take offense. He lay among the rocks and bones; he kicked one off the mountainside. There was no evil there, no twisted air and shuddering earth -- not like the plains they sometimes crossed that smelled like ancient, dried-up blood.

The shaman named demons and spirits and ancestors confidently; the boy lay on his back and looked up at the stars and tried to count how many of them had no names.

A plague swept through; he should have been stricken, but he wasn't. Instead, the camp's newest-born daughter went limp in his arms, drowned, as he tried to revive her.

"The old ways are hard to live by."

He cursed the old ways.

Many, many nights later, the boy who stands at the top of the hill looks down at the sheath in his hands. He pulls the knife from it, twists it in his hands -- sees in it his blurry reflection.

Steel.

He looks up at the sky full of stars; he looks back at the distant shape of the camp.

He looks forward -- towards the south.

On his back is the staff of the shaman, one that he was told could only be his when he at last became a shamaness. He has held it before, taken it out into the darkness for years, and practiced the dance of fire; with no ancestor, no possession, no initiation, he bent it to his will nevertheless. Another law of ancient custom he defied, to be added to the list of dozens, hundreds.

But the ancient customs are not his, just as the ancestors are not his, just as the Dhoro are not his. The old ways are not good enough for him. The ancient understanding, the wisdom of ages, the teachings of the Creators -- none of them are good enough for him.

This tiny corner of the steppe, where they hide from the vastness of the world, fearful of the unknown, is not enough.

He is impossible here; he should not exist.

Yet he exists, so he must be possible.

And by staying here, he cannot understand how.

#ffxiv rp #xaela #dhoro #kharadai dhoro #stories #subject to much retconning when we actually get lore #orz

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cfijerusalem · 6 years

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Watching Over Zion Report ~ June 21, 2018 ~ (24 Tamuz 8, 5778)

THE WORD

"Son of man, prophesy to the mountains of Israel and say, 'O mountains of Israel, hear the word of the LORD. This is what the Sovereign LORD says: The enemy said of you, "Aha! The ancient heights have become our possession." [Emphasis added – DS] Therefore prophesy and say, 'This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Because they ravaged and hounded you from every side [Again, emphasis added – DS] so that you became the possession of the rest of the nations and the object of people's malicious talk and slander, therefore, O mountains of Israel, hear the word of the Sovereign LORD: This is what the Sovereign LORD says to the mountains and hills, to the ravines and valleys, to the desolate ruins and the deserted towns that have been plundered and ridiculed by the rest of the nations around you, this is what the Sovereign LORD says: In my burning zeal I have spoken against the rest of the nations, and against Edom, for with glee and with malice in their hearts they made My land (Israel) their own possession so that they might plunder its pasture-land.' [Again, emphasis added – DS] …'But you, O mountains of Israel, will produce branches and fruit for my people Israel, for they will soon come home. I am concerned for you and will look on you with favour; you will be ploughed and sown, and I will multiply the number of people upon you, even the whole house of Israel. The towns will be inhabited and the ruins rebuilt. I will increase the number of men and animals upon you, and they will be fruitful and become numerous. I will settle people on you as in the past and will make you prosper more than before. Then you will know that I am the LORD. I will cause My people Israel, to walk upon you. They will possess you, and you will be their inheritance; you will never again deprive them of their children. (Ezekiel 36:1-12)

POINTERS FOR PRAYER

Even though Israel has seen a huge downpour of rain recently, agricultural arson from Arab Palestinians continues and more fires devastate parts of southern Israel. God has a purpose for the people and nation of Israel, but Israel's enemies also have a purpose – they want Israel annihilated. And so we must continue to press on with our intercession to fight this spiritual war in the heavenly realms. As attempts of terrorism also continue to threaten Israel (see report below), let us battle on in our intercession regarding these issues.

Please pray through Ezekiel chapters 36 and 37 and use this as you intercede for the nation of Israel.

Since taking over Gaza by force in 2007, Hamas has done little to help the people of Gaza, and choose to devote its resources to encouraging violence and terrorism, all aimed at destroying Israel (see here). Please keep praying into this situation, and please pray that the truth regarding Hamas will be exposed worldwide.Ask God to deliver many Arab Palestinian people from the spirit of deep-seated hatred for the Jewish people. God can reach into hearts where we cannot and He can perform miracles where no one else can go.

ISRAEL FOILS HAMAS PLANS FOR MAJOR ATTACKS ACROSS ISRAEL

In the past few ‘Watching over Zion’ reports we have been asking for much prayer regarding the situation of terror attacks from Hamas. Well, we can give thanks to the Lord that much prayer has been answered, though I’m sure we will need to keep interceding regarding this situation. According to sources, twenty Hamas members from the city of Nablus (Shechem) who had planned lethal terrorist attacks across Israel – including a suicide bombing in Jerusalem – have been arrested, according to the Shin Bet (Israel Security Agency). Shin Bet stated, “In recent months, the Shin Bet, Israel Defence Forces and Israel Police uncovered a Hamas terror cell, extraordinary in its size and level of activity, which operated in the Nablus area.”

Nablus is of course known as the site of biblical Shechem, however today it is one of the largest Arab Palestinian cities with a population of more than 50,000 people. Historically, Abraham travelled through Shechem and offered his first sacrifice to God. After the conquest of Canaan, Joshua assembled the Israelis here and encouraged them to follow the Torah. During the period of the Judges, Abimelech was crowned king here. Inside the area known as Biblical Shechem are the remains of a defensive wall and Joseph’s Tomb. During an outbreak of violence in October 2000, Palestinian rioters destroyed Joseph’s Tomb, looting the insides and destroying the Jewish artefacts found inside. Though mostly now in ruins, the Israeli Defence Force coordinates visits to the site for prayer services. Another site related to the biblical patriarch is Jacob’s well, found inside a Greek Orthodox monastery. This site is also visited by Messianic Jews and Christians who believe Yeshua (Jesus) spoke here to a Samaritan woman (Gospel of John 4).

Mount Gerizim is another place considered holy by the Jews and the Samaritans. West of Mount Gerizim, is a synagogue that contains Samaritan Torah scrolls believed to date back to the 13th year of settlement of the Israelites in Canaan. In times of unrest in the region, Nablus is often a focal point of protests and is not safe for visitors. And today, even members of the Islamic terrorist group Hamas can be found there. The Hamas cell that have been arrested was led by 35-year-old Mu’tazem Muhammad Salem and 33-year-old Faras Kamel Zavidi, both from Nablus, and included more than 20 operatives. Most of the operatives were affiliated with Hamas; some had a long history of terrorist activity that included the manufacture of explosives and explosive devices. According to sources, both Salem and Zavidi were responsible for building explosive charges as well as planning the attacks, which included a suicide bombing in Jerusalem; a bombing in Tel Aviv and in the Samarian town of Itamar; and shooting attacks across the northern so-called “West Bank”. These attacks were thwarted, some at the very last minute, due to the arrest of the cell members. In addition to the main cell, other Hamas cells that were planning terrorist attacks were discovered and their attacks foiled, the Shin Bet said.

During the investigation into the cell, Israeli security authorities found several explosive devices. One contained a large explosive charge of 10 kg. that could be remotely detonated by a mobile phone. Other explosives were discovered that weighed approximately 15 kg. in total. Raw materials for the production of explosives, weapons and instructions for the manufacture of bombs and explosive materials were also discovered by security forces.

According to a report in the Jerusalem Post, militants in Syria are believed to have offered Hamas member Mu’tazem Muhammad Salem a sum of $100,000 to manufacture a bomb and detonate it next to Israelis or IDF facilities. Salem has been charged with attempted manslaughter, illegally creating and transporting an explosive, belonging to a terrorist group, contact with an enemy agent, conspiracy to commit a shooting, bringing terrorist funds into the “West Bank” and obstruction of justice. Other cell members are expected to be charged soon. A senior officer of Shin Bet stated, “This case again shows the desire and efforts that Hamas is investing in building terrorist infrastructures in Judea and Samaria in order to carry out severe attacks in Israel. This case also indicates Hamas’ desire to carry out attacks against Israeli targets while undermining the current relative quiet. Severe attacks and loss of life have been prevented. We, along with our partners in the IDF and Israel Police, will continue to take determined action to thwart Hamas’s murderous intentions. Infrastructure members will be dealt with to the fullest extent of the law.”

Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu issued a statement saying that the arrest of the Hamas cell members illustrated Israel’s need to maintain security control throughout Judea and Samaria. Netanyahu stated, “Hamas is trying to harm us both from Gaza and from Judea and Samaria. That is the reason that we will continue to maintain security control over the entire area west of the Jordan.”

As I mention above, Nablus is the area of biblical Shechem in what the Bible describes in Ezekiel 36 as ‘The Mountains of Israel’. According to the Bible, the Mountains of Israel (todays so called “West Bank”) are the heart of the Land promised by God to the children of Israel. They are Judea and Samaria, the inheritance of the tribes of Judah, Benjamin, and Joseph. The importance of this area, and the spiritual battle over it, are understood better when you realise what it is the enemy is trying to take away. Here we have Bethel (Beit El), Ai, Shiloh, and of course Shechem. These were made famous by Abraham, Jacob and Joshua. Joshua and the bones of Joseph were buried in this area (Joshua 24:30 - 32). Further south, we find Bethany, Bethlehem (home of King David and of course the birth place of the Jewish Messiah Yeshua, Jesus) and Hebron where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Leah, and Jacob (whom God changed to Israel) are buried. And of course there is Jerusalem! Is there any wonder the enemy is poisoning the minds of Hamas and Fatah members and others? Nablus was considered the central hotbed of terrorism in the “West Bank” during the Second Intifada from September 2000 to mid-2005, which saw close to 1,000 Israelis killed and thousands more injured. Things haven’t changed for the better in 2018.

Please pray that these Hamas members would have dreams and visions - as many Muslims are having - of who the true God is, and pray that salvation would come even now, that they would repent and be a blessing to Israel instead of a curse.

ISRAEL SEE DOWNPOUR OF RAIN YET AGRICULTURAL ARSON CONTINUES

Residents of Sderot and Ashkelon last week found their vehicles submerged in over a metre of water, after storm drains in the southern cities apparently overflowed during a very rare June downpour. Israel was hit with heavy rains causing power outages and severe flooding throughout the country, a highly unusual occurrence for mid-June. Kibbutz Dorot in the south of the country recorded an all-time high rainfall for the month of June. The meteorological service measured 64 millimetres of rainfall in the Western Negev last Tuesday morning. Heavy rainfall was also reported last week along the coast and in northern Israel. The inclement weather caused power shortage for several Galilee towns overnight. Last Thursday, warnings were given of flash floods in southern Israel’s dry desert valleys. Though Israel’s rainy season typically ends in March, this year has already experienced several unseasonable heavy rainstorms later in the year. As the week progressed, we were all giving thanks to the Lord for this incredible amount of water, as this is so needed in Israel.

However this week, the fires were raging once again in the south from attacks in Gaza. These fires have so far caused 1,800 of acres of damage to Israeli farmland and have come dangerously close to threatening homes and communities as well. Weary firefighters are in urgent need of fire equipment adaptable to different terrain in order to meet the Hamas’s “kite arson” epidemic coming from terrorists in Gaza. The damage to Israeli agriculture is equivalent to the size of over two “Central Parks” in New York; twenty two Disneylands; or, one thousand three hundred and sixty tree football fields. The fires have destroyed wheat fields, avocados, and other crops which could have fed thousands of people, and the damage to the fields, irrigation equipment and more has been devastating to the farmers and residents of southern Israel. The fires have also killed many wild animals in their natural habitats and destroyed nature reserves. Needless to say, Hamas could have invested the billions of dollars that come into Gaza through many nations including Israel, but instead chose to use the money by creating terror tunnels, Kassam rockets and a hunger to destroy Israeli livelihoods.

BORIS JOHNSON REBUKES UNHRC BUT US WITHDRAW ALTOGETHER

Boris Johnson, the UK’s Foreign Minister, addressed the United Nations Human Rights Council (UNHRC) this week stating, “Britain considers this Council to be part of the rules-based international system in which we believe and that we strive to protect.” But then he immediately went on to rebuke the council for having a regular agenda item focused on Israel, adding: “And I will say that we share the view that a dedicated agenda item focused solely on Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territories is disproportionate and damaging to the cause of peace and unless things change, we shall move next year to vote against all resolutions introduced under Item 7.” (Full report here: https://www.cfi.org.uk/news.php?article=251). However following this, US Ambassador to the United Nations Nikki Haley announced the United States is withdrawing from the UN Human Rights Council, accusing the body of bias against US ally Israel and a failure to hold human rights abusers accountable.

Speaking from the State Department, where she was joined by Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, Haley defended the move to withdraw from the council, saying US calls for reform were not heeded. “Human rights abusers continue to serve on, and be elected to, the council,” said Haley, listing US grievances with the body. “The world's most inhumane regimes continue to escape its scrutiny, and the council continues politicising scapegoating of countries with positive human rights records in an attempt to distract from the abusers in its ranks.” Nikki Haley continued, “For too long, the Human Rights Council has been a protector of human rights abusers, and a cesspool of political bias.”

Based in Geneva, the Human Rights Council is a body of 47 member states within the United Nations tasked with upholding human rights – which it has failed to do in many Islamic countries where thousands of women and children suffer human rights violations. When the issue of Hamas’ violence against Israeli civilians was brought to the UN, they basically ignored it and instead heaped more blame on Israel – the only true democracy within the Middle East. Membership on the council gives countries like the United States a voice in important debates over human rights atrocities, but the council's critics, including Haley, say abusers use their membership to guarantee their own impunity.

Vice President Mike Pence tweeted the following statement: “Today the US took a stand against some of the world's worst human rights violators by withdrawing from the United Nations Human Rights Council. By elevating and protecting human rights violators and engaging in smear campaigns against democratic nations, the UNHRC makes a mockery of itself, its members, and the mission it was founded on. For years, the UNHRC has engaged in ever more virulent anti-American, and anti-Israel invective and the days of U.S. participation are over."

THE ROYAL VISIT TO ISRAEL

Prince William is set to arrive in Israel on Monday on a trip that is sure to be closely watched by the British and Israeli media. During his historic visit to Israel, the Duke of Cambridge will visit important sites in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and meet with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and President Reuven Rivlin.

Included in his plans are visits to the High-Tech Start-Ups in Tel Aviv, and time spent with ‘Peaceful co-existence football programme’ with Jewish and Arab Israel children in Jaffa. Leaving Tel Aviv, the Duke of Cambridge will go to Jerusalem where he will stay at the King David Hotel. Prince William will then visit the Mount of Olives, the Old City of Jerusalem and have a tour of Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum. Prince William is also set to meet with a Holocaust survivor and members of the Kindertransport – Jewish children in Europe who were sent to Britain to escape the Nazis between 1938 and 1940. The duke will be accompanied on his tour by British Chief Rabbi Ephraim Mirvis.

David Soakell Media Correspondent Tweet me @David_Soakell

Sources: Unless stated, personal sources throughout Israel, the Jerusalem Post, i24news.tv/en

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