#SIR WHAT GREATER CAUSE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE SERVING . EXCUSE ME. A MOMENT OF YOU TIME PLEASE

[rin-enjoyer]

It's late. Even underground, in the winding labyrinth of tunnels beneath Konoha where no natural light falls, Danzo can tell. There's a scent to the air.

Normally, he works through these quiet hours with the same dedication that he carries at all times. Tonight, however, his stacks of paperwork have all been meticulously combed through, signed, and filed. No one needs his attention. Nothing is wrong.

Danzo picks up his cane and begins the trek back to his old clan compound. He does not visit often. He is usually busy. He is not busy tonight.

His bones ache with a sort of weariness that denotes no real problem. He has learned to ignore this sort of pain. He ascends out of the tunnels, not bothering to muffle the sound of his footsteps with chakra.

He does not blink when he comes out to Konoha's streets. It is just as dark out here as it was in the tunnels. It is late out. A glance at the thin, crescent moon puts the time somewhere around 1.

Danzo makes his way past shopfronts, apartments, and fields. His memory of the layout of the village is annoyingly spotty. The streets have changed too much since the Kyuubi's attack, and he does not spend much time in them.

He walks past Hokage tower. The light in Hiruzen's office is on, casting a dim, yellow glow into the air. Danzo does not stop to see him. Soft, tender moments would ruin the sparks between them. He cannot think of anything more unappealing than stopping to relearn everything about the man who puts poison in his tea once a week.

He used to know Hiruzen. It was a mistake. A good shinobi does not have time for sentiment. Teamwork is a strength- relationships are weaknesses.

He wanders the streets for what seems like an eternity, a ghost in the village he has given and will give everything for. He does not regret it. He does not regret anything. He has done everything right.

Like the dull, distant pain in his hip, something tugs at his gut. Danzo ignores it. He knows what he is protecting. He knows why he does the things he does. He does not regret it.

He does not look back at the light in Hiruzen's office. The hair on his neck prickles- he can feel Hiruzen's gaze, how it carefully avoids him, observing the street around him, but not Danzo. A good shinobi has no time for sentiment. Hiruzen may be starting to fall apart in his old age, but lessons he learned alongside Danzo decades ago still stick to him like wet, rotting leaves.

Danzo finds his way to the Shimura Compound. There are heaps of fertilizer sitting in the garden, ready to be mixed into the soil. The smell of rotting leaves dances around the smell of the night. Crickets, hiding in bushes of nightshade, chirp a quiet, steady song.

The siding of the buildings in the compound is all pristine, brown and orange and achingly unfamiliar. Danzo knows how to ignore aches that do not matter. There are twelve in total, each housing one or two families. Danzo knows every name and face of his clan. He has met sparingly few of them.

He does not miss them. He does not miss the way he used to live. He creeps into the house in the center of the compound, past the rooms where the clan head and her four nephews sleep, into his old, dusty office. He will rest here, for the night, only because there is nothing else for him to do.

Danzo reaches across old scraps of paper with shaky writing and sloppy drawings and turns on his old lamp. A dim, yellow glow fills the room. He leans back in his chair. His hip aches. His hands shake. He does not regret anything, but quietly, because there is nothing else to do, he allows himself to feel very, very bad.

The lamp burns, and the leaves rot, and the crickets chirp. Dim yellow light slips through the window and paints stripes through the garden of poisonous plants. Danzo rests, and lets himself ache, and the night drags on.

#shimura danzo #hiruzen sarutobi #DO YOU GUYS SEE MY VISION DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME. DO YOU UNDERSTAND #guy who feels so terrible all the time because of the emotional repression and ptsd and then is like “well whatever” #and goes and commits war crimes. in the name of a greater cause. grabs him by the shoulders. ahem. #SIR WHAT GREATER CAUSE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE SERVING . EXCUSE ME. A MOMENT OF YOU TIME PLEASE #hes not uniquely horrible o'er there in ninja land but like. OHGHGHGH he is a Good Shinobi. he's good at his job #and that means that he's jsut not a very good person. and he tears himself and anyone else within reach to shreds #danzen #naruto fanfiction #idk man idk. he drives me insane. “sentiment BAD” why are you still “trying” to kill hiruzen then? huh? huh? why isnt he dead yet #iiiiif it came down to it i do not think he would hesitate to kill that guy. but in the moments when its not necessary? well. haha. #anyways as it turns out trying to kill the guy you love for years on end as an excuse to not ACTUALLY have to kill him #turns the trying to kill each other into the way you flirt. you understand how it is. #whatever. WHATEVER. you guys know how it is.

[allzelemonz]

Don’t Go: Crosshair X Gender Neutral Reader Part 3

Last one for a bit. Because, you know, content is limited.

Your duties kept you away for a while. Clone cadets needed a lot of supervision. The younger ones weren’t usually your division, but today you had to teach a squadron of them proper drill. That took hours. Being clones you’d think they’d all have a relatively similar sense of balance, but this one kid kept swaying during movements. Your frustrations would be quelled once you got to the batch’s barracks. Crosshair always kept a blanket in the drawer under his bunk. That blanket happened to smell like him, and you really needed the comfort. He’d intended it to be a substitution for when he didn’t want to be touched, but you only really used it when he was on mission. When you opened the door it slid open to reveal Omega and TZ.

“What’re you two doing in here?”

Omega was holding one of the tablets as TZ came across the droid head that Wrecker lost a few months ago.

“Oh, we were just on a, uh, a research assignment.” Omega explained.

“Uh-huh.” You stepped inside, letting the door slide closed behind you. “Research?”

“Yeah, wait. What’re you doing here?” She asked as TZ hovered behind her, peaking over her shoulder at you.

“I’m checking on the state of my former trainees and current friends.” You answered smoothly. “You know, my job.”

The sound of footsteps caused you to look away from the girl. She made for the door, only to run directly into a clone trooper.

“You’re not authorized to be in here.” The trooper accused.

“She’s with me.” You brought the clone’s attention to you. “I needed her help to return a few items to Clone Force 99 after their last mission check in.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to report this, Commander. She’s still not authorized.” The clone grabbed Omega’s arm and TZ objected to the action.

The clone stunned the droid and pulled Omega away. You stood in place, keeping your demeanor. As the troopers began to gather the batch’s gear you snuck over to Crosshair’s bunk and slipped the blanket into a blaster case. You made your way to the door, trying not to arouse suspicion.

“Where are you going with that, Commander?” A trooper intercepted you.

“It’s a training blaster.” You lied. “Wrecker took it accidentally from their last training simulation, I needed to get it back for the cadet’s upcoming training.”

The trooper nodded and let you pass. You made your way to your own barracks, putting the case aside and hiding the blanket in one of your clothing drawers. You couldn’t let them take it. Now you had Omega to worry about. As you were about to leave your barracks the door slid open and Tarkin stood before you.

“Commander, or should I say Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Excuse me, what did you say, sir?” You asked in utter confusion.

“You’ve been promoted.” Tarkin explained. “I reported your capabilities to the Emperor and was impressed as well.”

“Thank you, sir.” You said, still mildly confused.

“You are to be appointed as second-in-command of our new training program.” Tarkin gave a small smile. “I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“Of course, sir.”

You mind boggled around as you tried to make sense of the situation.

“Come now, Colonel. We have treacherous clones to deal with.”

“Treacherous clones, sir?”

“Clone Force 99 failed their mission and have committed a gratuitous act of treason.”

Tarkin turned on his heel and beckoned you to follow him. You were joined by a squadron of clones and made your way to the hanger. The sick feeling in your stomach refused to subside. Best case scenario Hunter did something stupid and it was easy to fix.

As you neared, Tarkin took a blaster from one of the clones and handed it to you with a curt nod. You took it, trying not to think about who you’d be pointing it at. You took position and watched as the Bad Batch approached. As Hunter commanded them to stop and wait the other troopers moved in, blasters poised. You emerged with Tarkin, blaster fixed more downward than it should be.

“The Empire does not tolerate failure, Sergeant.” Tarkin noted.

“There were complications.” Hunter explained, his eyes looking to you for a moment.

“Yes, the probe droid’s report was quite detailed.” The storm’s lightning flashed, lighting up Tarkin’s face for a moment. “Conspiring with Saw Gerrera.”

You furrowed your brows. Gerrera fought for the Republic. Why wouldn’t he fight for the Empire? You looked past Hunter to try and get a read from the others. They looked as confused as you.

“I assume you know the punishment for treason?” Tarkin continued.

“Treason?” Hunter questioned.

“Throw them in the brig.” Tarkin ordered.

At that you saw Crosshair grit his teeth in annoyance and you couldn’t help but think what might happen if you just shot Tarkin and fought your way out. It’s what you should’ve done, but you didn’t. You moved aside as the clone escorted their brothers to the holding cells. Tarkin nodded for you to oversee and you followed them out.

There was an uneasy feeling in the air as you walked behind the troopers. You held your blaster passively now. When you reached the holding facility the batch was stripped of their weapons and armor. You tried to keep a commanding face as you instructed the troopers what to do with your friends. None of them would meet your eyes. Aside from Crosshair. He wouldn’t look away from you. You couldn’t tell if he was upset or angry or whatever, he just never let his eyes leave you.

When they were in the cell you noticed the discourse amongst them. Crosshair was at a disagreement with everyone else. Nothing new, but it seemed like more than usual. Their voices were muffled by the barrier, so the conversation was lost to you. You focused on the incoming message from Tarkin. He wanted Crosshair.

The clones approached the cell. Crosshair looked in pain now that you had a chance to look at him, not crowded by the others.

“CT-9904, you’re coming with us.” Crosshair looked up at the sound of his designation.

“Oh, no, no, no. We stay together.” Hunter defended.

The troopers acted rashly, weapons engaged. Crosshair stood and walked out with no further quarrels. You led the escort out of the holding area. It would be so easy to escape now. But, Crosshair was unlikely to want to escape. Given his attitude up until now, this might be what he wants. You hated this. Having to pick sides. Tarkin had ordered Crosshair to the med bay. There was no telling what he had planned, but it couldn’t be good.

You stood by the Admiral in observation as they put Crosshair under a scanner. You were too far away to stop anything, and too far deep into this new ploy. Whatever Tarkin had planned was going to happen, and you couldn't do anything to stop it. They spoke about an inhibitor chip. That’s why Crosshair was acting weird. The programming Tech was talking about was the chip.

“Could you intensify the programming?” Tarkin asked.

You listened intently. If this happened, Crosshair wouldn’t be himself. He’d be as obedient as the regs after the order.

“Yes.”

“Then proceed.” Tarkin ordered.

You watched with a tight grip on your blaster, your knuckles turning white, as the machine bore into Crosshair’s head and he began to shake. The urge to shoot your way out of there was greater than ever, but you knew it’d never work.

When the operation was over Tarkin ordered you to oversee Crosshair’s transition. He was to be outfitted with new armor. You were left alone with him in the medbay as he stirred awake.

“Crosshair?” You called timidly, hoping whatever that thing did didn’t harm his memory.

“(Y/n)?” He put a hand to his head. “What’s going on?”

“They enhanced your inhibitor chip, they want you to serve the Empire.”

“And what do you want, Lieutenant Colonel?” Crosshair asked as he got on his feet.

“What?” You wondered how he knew about your promotion.

“Do you have orders for me, sir?”

“Crosshair do you not remember me?”

“I do.” He nodded. “But the mission comes first.”

“Right, follow me.” You nodded.

You led Crosshair to where instructed. He was provided new armor and a new rifle. As he got dressed you waited by the door, ready to report back to Tarkin when he was done.

“(Y/n)?” He called.

“Something wrong, Cross?” You peaked around the corner, relief filling you that he’d not used your rank.

“What do you think?” He gestured to his new uniform.

Your breath caught for a moment. He looked good. The armor fit him nicely and it was very complimenting.

“I, uh, I like it.” You nodded.

Crosshair walked to you and rested his hand on your cheek. You were just happy the reprogramming had done anything overly dramatic to him. He leaned in and kissed you. His hand traveled to the back of your head and his other arm wrapped around your waist. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed you like this. You wrapped your arms around him as well and deepened the kiss.

A beeping alert from your comm caused you both to pull away. You listened intently as Crosshair grabbed his rifle and helmet.

“It’s the others, they’ve escaped to the hanger.” You informed. “Tarkin wants you there.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Are you sure?”

Crosshair gave you an odd look.

“They’re our friends.”

“They were.” Crosshair countered. “Now they’re traitors.”

You gave him a nod and led the way out, but your mind was racing again. Crosshair wouldn’t do this. Nevertheless, you reported to the new troops and Crosshair took command. He went to the hanger while you made your way to Tarkin’s office as instructed. Whatever was going to happen, you weren’t leaving Crosshair alone.

#star wars #star wars clone wars #star wars x reader #star wars clone wars x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch x male reader #bad batch #crosshair #crosshair x reader #crosshair x male reader #crosshair x female reader #crosshair x gender neutral reader #x reader #x gender neutral reader #x male reader #x female reader

[thesolitarystripe]

Writing Prompt #5—The Last Time He Saw Her

This prompt was conceived from another random journal prompt I pulled off the internet. I won't say it now because I would hate to give any context that would ruin the surprise below but, it is clear to me there are certain emotions I like writing in. I wonder what that says about me! This is a brand new character I had started to create after Jason, my supportive husband, read my Ellius/William entry; we were playing a new video game and he named his character Aullius. "You know, like if Ellius had a brother!" It made me stupidly happy that not only was he thinking about Ellius days after he read that entry but, he loved him enough to think..."what if he had a brother." So, while his name isn't Aullius, this character was inspired by the thought. To be clear, this character is not related to Ellius but they do exist in the same world and who knows, maybe one day they'll cross paths. Then again, we can't have two beautiful men in the same story, it would just be too much of a good thing. Enjoy Aurelian here, who knows where else we'll find him.

Aurelian was a man of the sea. A man with great aspirations and a noble heart. The city from which he hailed was smaller than the rest, but its value was paramount. Telios, the only realm of its kind, placed upon the vast and unexplored sea; it served as the main importer of fish and thus caused many other cities to sign trading agreements in order to feast upon the savory salted fish and other delicacies of the sea. Aurelian was of noble blood, son to the Archduke of Telios—Cedric Swyer. The boy was raised upon the wooden deck of his father’s ships, with men as strong as the wind that howled through their sails. As a babe, Aurelian wished for nothing more than to be upon the battlefield like the knights that occasionally paraded through the streets of their city. The Teliosi had no formal knighthood, a guard perhaps, that watched the borders of their town and meandered through the streets at night on the lookout for thieves or mischievous travelers. Aurelian looked at those men and scrunched his nose, they paled in comparison to the men who visited their home, clad from head to toe in the most dazzling suits of armor, with swords as big as he! How he wished to don the tabard of his home, to fly the crest of his family upon a flag he held as he stormed the meadows of an enemy kingdom!

As he grew, Aurelian cared not for the politics of trade and often snubbed his father’s attempts at teaching him “the business.” Instead, his thirst for adventure led him to stow away on boats only to appear once the vessel had lost sight of the shores. The men aboard could not deny the use of a pair of young hands and the young man did not work against his will, he was eager to take up rope and heave the mighty blue sails open. Sometimes, Aurelian would gaze up at them, the azure hues of his eyes as stormy and deep as the waters that churned beneath them. The thickly embroidered anchor, a striking white against the darker color stood out even in the mightiest of storms. Aurelian’s young mind wandered, making up stories of how other passing vessels—the few there were, probably ran in fear of their brilliant sails! The men around him would laugh to themselves.

“Ah yes my boy, there is no greater threat upon the sea than our mighty fishing ships!” They would play into Aurelian’s imagination and only added fuel to his dreams.

Whenever Aurelian would return home, he knew what waited for him upon the docks that housed their ships. The Archduke himself would stand with arms crossed and a booted foot tapping upon the ground as he sighed and shook his head. The crew would apologize deeply, but the Archduke never blamed them—only his unruly son.

“What example are you setting for the rest of the nobility in this city hm?” His father grabbed at the back of his shirt, carrying him like a feral cat at the nape of his neck. “For your sister!” He would carry on. The youngest Swyer, the beautiful Amelia, looked so much like Aurelian they could have been twins if not for the difference in age. In the privacy of their own chambers, Amelia would question her brother endlessly.

“What sorts of fish did you see? Were there any storms? How about pirates!” The young girl craved the open waters as much as her brother after hearing how emphatically he spoke about them. It was as if he was privy to some magical land, she had yet to be invited to. Amelia would sit before him, nodding in excitement as he described another fishing vessel they had passed, with gorgeous burgundy sails and a golden lion emblazoned upon them. “Hilyon!” She exclaimed, only for her brother to laugh.

“Yes, of course! Oh, what I would not give to have been born there. Fishing ships and a prestigious knighthood.”

“You could be a knight and a fisherman!” Amelia clapped her hands, feeding off the energy between them as they laughed and dreamed until they fell asleep before the roaring fireplace.

Their talks often went in such a way after Aurelian was dragged back home after one of his grand adventures. One morning, when he was plotting another escape, he warned Amelia of his plans—something he did not often do but, he needed help in distracting his father. With each passing day, he grew more and more strict, watchful of Aurelian’s every move. Enthusiastic to be involved, Amelia bowed her head in and listened to his instructions. By midday, Aurelian’s plan was set into action, and away he flew toward the docks the moment his father’s attention was elsewhere, with his sister. Just as his feet were about to hit the familiar creaking planks of the harbor, he was stopped. The person who spoke with him was not altogether known but the features of their face were reminiscent. Aurelian stood, anxious to leave but he participated in the idle chat. It was just another fellow looking to get word to the Archduke about…something…a new type of fishhook? Aurelian was not paying attention, his eyes followed the blue sails that began to move; it was not the wind that shook them no, they were leaving!

“So sorry, please excuse me, sir!” The young boy exclaimed as he took off, feet thundering upon the docks as he tried to make for the ship before it swam out too far. Aurelian almost jumped out into the water but, they were too far gone already. “Gah!” Aurelian slapped his thigh and leaned forward, hands resting on either leg as he panted and hung his head.

“Aurelian!” His head popped up at the faraway voice. “Brother!” Aurelian beheld the sight of Amelia upon the boat, waving her arms and dancing in a circle as she giggled. That laugh echoed over the waters, sloshing up against the pier with the waves and sinking into Aurelian’s heart.

“Amelia!” Aurelian was not sure what seized him, but his throat was tight and his chest heavy. “Come back here right now!” He screamed, praying that the breeze carried his words to her.

“I’m going on an adventure to see the Hilyon ships! To brave the storms!” The young one was found shortly by one of the crew, but the ship was too large to turn with ease. It would set them back in time and they would miss the ideal conditions for their trip. Amelia would stay aboard. Aurelian sunk to his knees, sitting back upon his heels as he watched the ship fade away, a sickening feeling crawling up his spine.

The boy would have waited there for days if not for his father. The Archduke appeared at dusk.

“I’ve been looking all over for you Aurelian,” he sighed, exasperated. “Is your sister not with you? She has been missing all day!” When he received no response and saw the way Aurelian sat, solid, unmoving, the Archduke followed his gaze out to sea. The sky. It was dark, not simply because the sun was beginning to set, black clouds had formed and begun to swell with the tide. “Aurelian,” his father breathed, beginning to realize—hoping he was wrong. “Aurelian!” The Archduke grabbed his son’s shoulders, pulled up to his feet, and clutched his shirt at the front. “Tell me where Amelia is!”

Aurelian could not find the words. Tears welled in his eyes and his lips hung open in fear. Rain began to drip down, the sky opening seam by seam. The Archduke pulled Aurelian into his chest and held him tightly as he gazed out to sea.

That was the last time he saw her.

The Teliosi ship never returned. Days later another ship was sent out and after days of searching, a single torn sail was recovered along with the floating remnants of wood, splintered and broken. Aurelian and his father both waited at the harbor and when the men returned and placed the pieces of wood, wrapped within the ragged sail into Cedric Swyer’s arms, they both stood silently. His father never said a word, never blamed Aurelian but he felt the heaviness of his own influence. Guilt crushed him into the dirt and ate at his bones.

Aurelian would not sail again, not until the sting of loss left him. As he stood there, staring at the sea as if she might be kind or playing a joke upon them—he knew the ache would never leave, with each passing day it would seep further into his bones until it consumed him. Perhaps that was the future he deserved, his eternal punishment.

#creativewriting #writing #Author #thesolitarystripe #writing prompt #medieval fantasy #me writing

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

A Good Wife

Request: Hi there! 😀Can I request a Jaime Lannister one-shot, where he falls in love with the eldest of the Stark children and Robb's older twin sister? Robert felt the need to unite the Great Houses even more, so he decided to strip Jaime of his 'Sir' title and betrothe him and the Reader (much to her family's dismay and Robb's anger).Robb is her closest and best friend, and when the war between the kings starts, R flees from King's Landing back to her brother's side, much to Jaime's shock and hurt. Requested by @witch-of-letters

Warnings: death (but I think everyone who watched the first season knows who’s”, swearing?

Word Count: 1948.

Sansa was always the one who wanted to marry quickly and preferably a prince or a king. Arya wanted to be a warrior and hated being a lady. You were in the middle. You trained with Robb, Jon and Theon but also took ‘ladies’ courses like sewing, behaving etc. You were the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark so you had to be a role model for both your sisters and your brothers.

After the ‘usurper’ king Robert Baratheon visited Winterfell, both his ‘son’ Joffrey and Sansa showed interest in e each other. He asked your father to become hand of the king and wanted to unify the two houses by marrying Joffrey to Sansa. Ned wasn’t pleased but he accepted because Robert was the king and he was his friend. Not to mention, he was an honorable man and never wanted to cause trouble. The other reason that made his accept is because he wanted to marry you to Jaime Lannister.

“Robb! Y/n, I need to talk to you” he interrupted your duel with Robb.

“Someone’s in trouble’ Robb teased.

“Shut up” you left with your father to your chamber where he told you to sit down and have a drink for this.

“What’s wrong, father?” You saw the discomfort on his eyes.

“I never forced anything on you, have I?”.

“Never”.

“Daughter, I need you to do something for our house. You are to marry Ser Jaime Lannister”.

“What? The queen’s brother? No, I don’t want to. He’s arrogant and I don’t want to leave the north. This is my home” you refused.

“Y/n, please. I’ve never asked you for anything. You have to do this for the greater good. If Sansa is to marry Joffrey, I need to make sure that she’s safe. That you’ll be with her”.

“But you’re hand of the king now, you’ll be there for her”.

“I won’t have the time. I will be busy attending meetings and dealing with the realm’s issues. Besides, who knows for how long I’ll serve and what about after I’m dead? She’ll be all alone in the south”.

“Don’t say that, please! You’re going to live a long and happy life. I will do as you say, but only for our house”.

“Thank you, it’s a great responsibility but I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling it. I knew I could count on you” he embraced you and kissed your forehead.

“And winter is coming!” He reminded you.

When Robert told Jaime, he refused. But Robert stripped him of his title and threatened to kill him if He doesn’t obey his command. He had to accept and went to tell Cersei. She tried to convince Robert, but to no use. Cersei hated you and from that day she treated you badly.

You requested that the wedding take place in Winterfell where your whole family was and could attend and Robert approved.

“So you’re really getting married” Robb entered your room as you were preparing.

“I wish I didn’t have to” you expressed.

“Leave us” Robb dismissed your ladies so you could have a private conversation.

“Then why did you agree to do it?” He asked.

“It was father’s wish. The king suggested it to unify our houses and father couldn’t refuse, you know him” you informed Robb.

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll stop the wedding- I’ll convince him” Robb wanted to help you so bad.

“It’s too late, Robb. The wedding is in a few hours. Besides, I have already agreed” you put your hand on his upper arm to comfort him, even when you were the one who needed comforting.

“Is there something I can do?”.

“Just hold me” and so he wrapped his hands around you and rested his head on yours.

“I wish the queen had a sister. Maybe then, you’d have to marry her and I’d stay here” you joked.

“I can still do that”.

“What? Marry Jaime?”.

“Sure. He has long blond hair and kind of looks like his sister” he tried to cheer you up and it worked.

After the wedding, you waited in your chamber for Jaime to come. He eventually came… late when you almost fell asleep.

“My lord” you courtesied.

He ignored you and poured himself some wine, but he was already drunk. You could see that he was forced into this, so you wanted to ease the tension between you. You walked towards him and held his hand, taking the cup from it “let me”.

“I don’t know how you imagined this marriage to be. I do not want you. I will not touch you or sleep with you. We will have separate rooms when we get back to King’s landing. You are not to interfere with my business or ask me questions about my whereabouts. I will fuck whoever I want and I expect you to not get jealous. We will only see each other at feast and formal events, where we pretend to love and care for each other. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be” he rudely instructed and left the room.

You were in shock at first. You felt offended but then relieved that you didn’t have to sleep with him.

Months went by and you only saw Jaime a couple of times. You felt lonely and missed Winterfell and your family. Sansa was still here, but she wasn’t Robb and only talked about herself. Ned was also there, but he was too busy, that sometimes you even tried to help him out of boredom.

One night, someone knocked on your door. You weren’t sure if you should open it or not. After all, you were alone and nobody usually knocks at that time. But you decided to take the chances. To your surprise, it was Jaime… drunk.

“Are you going to invite me in or are we going to stand here all night?” He boldly asked.

“Come on in”.

“Do you have wine?”.

“You’re already drunk. What do you want, Jaime?” You crossed your arms.

“I- I just needed to talk to someone” tears were forming in his eyes.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” You sat next to him at the edge of the bed.

“It’s uhm Cersei”.

“What about her?”.

“She- uh- she…I can’t. I shouldn’t. I’ll get in trouble if I told you”.

“Jaime, I know about your relationship with Cersei” you admitted.

“What? How?”.

“I have eyes and ears”.

“And you haven’t told anyone. Why?”.

“What kind of wife would I be if I did that?” You chuckled.

“Since you know, I can tell you. She refused me tonight and sent me away. I can’t bare to be apart from her” he confessed.

“It’s alright. I’m here for you” you wrapped your arm around him and he rested his head on your chest. There was silence in the room for a moment before he spoke “you’re a good wife, Y/n! Thank you” he lifted his head and kissed you.

You pulled back from surprise and asked “what are you doing?”.

“Treating you like a wife” he pushed you on the bed and was now on top of you kissing your lips and neck.

“Stop! We shouldn’t do this”.

“But we’re married”.

“That does not make it right. I don’t love you and you love your sister. You're drunk and you’re hurt. You’ll regret this in the morning. You just want a distraction and I can’t be it. If you want to forget, go fuck a whore” you pushed him and moved from beneath him, walking to the door and opening it for him.

“Now, leave, please!”.

The next day, you were walking with Sansa in the garden when he approached you.

“My lady! Y/n! Can I borrow your sister for a moment?” He asked Sansa.

“Of course” she left you two to talk.

“I just wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. Please forgive me. I promise, I’ll never come near your chambers again”.

“It’s alright, you were drunk. I forgive you. Don’t make such promises”.

“What does that mean?”.

“I’ve thought about it. If you want us to be really husband and wife, I will give you a chance. You can visit my chambers tonight” and with those words, your marriage truly began. You were happy for a time. You even fell in love with each other until the worst day came upon you. The king died, your father found the truth about Cersei and Jaime and the parentage of the sons and daughter of the queen. She imprisoned him and he was to be executed. You begged Jaime to do something, but it was to no use. Cersei and Joffrey told him to admit that what he said was a lie and confess his treason. And he did for your sake and Sansa’s, but Joffrey beheaded him to everyone’s shock. Sansa begged Cersei to spare her life and she did because she was still young and betrothed to Joffrey. The way she saw it was that she has the north in her grip, having Sansa as a hostage for them to not rebel against the throne. And she also had the chance to kill you, but Jaime defended you.“She’s her father’s daughter. She’s as much traitorous as he was”.

“No, she’s not and you know it. And if it were true, you would’ve executed Sansa too”.

“She’s just a child and she’s to be Joffrey’s wife”.

“And Y/n’s my wife!” He yelled at her.

“Only in name. You don’t love her, step aside”.

“I do love her! And she.is.my wife! Not in name only. She had nothing to do with what Ned Stark did. Now leave her be. She is a Lannister now! Just accept it”.

You were sitting by the door on the other end of the wall, listening. That’s when you remembered you are a Stark and you always will be no matter what or who you marry. It was time to go home. It was time to reunite with your family.

At night, you managed to pack a few things and sneaked snuck off to Sansa’s chamber.

“Wake up. Shhh! It’s only me. We have to go”.

“We can’t. They’ll kill us” Sansa was terrified.

“There is a chance, yes. But if we stay here, we’re as good as dead. Come with me, sister”.

“I can’t. If you- if you survive and get to Robb, don’t forget about me. Tell him to come and get me” Sansa refused to leave, so you had no other choice but to leave her behind. You said your goodbyes and were about to get on your horse when you heard his voice.

“So you’re going to abandon me?”.

“I have to go, Jaime. It’s not safe for me here”.

“I’ll protect you”.

“You can’t. Not when it comes to Cersei”.

“Please stay”.

“I have to go home. I’ve been here too long that I started to forget who I am”.

“You’re my wife”.

“I am a Stark and I always will be”.

“You’re a Lannister”.

“No. You are. Your sister is. Your bastard son who murdered my father is. I’ll never be a part of this hateful family”.

“You don’t mean that”.

“I do. Every word I said, I mean it” you tried to hurt him to make it easier for the both of you, but he knew better.

“I love you”.

“But I- I don’t” tears were forming in both of your eyes.

“You’re lying. I know you love me. You’re free! Go to your family! Be happy!” He didn't want you to feel guilty, so he pretended to be okay with you leaving.

#game of thrones #got #jaime lannister #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones one shot #game of thrones x reader #jaime lannsiter imagine #jaime lannister one shot #jaime lannsiter x reader #jaime lannister x you #robb stark #ned stark #robb stark x sister!reader #eddard stark #ned stark x daughter!reader #gif #gif imagine #imagine #one shot #got imagine #got one shot #nikolaj coster waldau #richard madden #sean bean #angst #fluff

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Take Care (5/5)

Well, that only took two years to complete... Please enjoy this conclusion.

Summary: When Rush goes missing for slightly too long and the crew become even more suspicious than they already are, the search for him is cut short by reports from Greer that there is an intruder on the ship. He’s not entirely wrong, but when Chloe recognises their mysterious visitor as Gloria, one person who could definitely, absolutely not ever be on Destiny, things take a turn for the interesting. Is this Destiny testing them again, or is this a cry for help?

Gloria/Rush, with a side of Gloria/Chloe/Rush bromance, sort of…

Set between Trial and Error and The Greater Good, and diverges from there.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [AO3]

Chapter 5

Chloe sits by Rush’s bed in the infirmary. TJ has given him the all clear, they just have to wait for him to wake up and get some fluids into him. He looks a lot less like he’s at death’s door now that he’s not covered in blood. It’s obvious that he needs the sleep, so they’re not too worried about waking him up prematurely. Well, the only person who particularly wants to wake him up prematurely is Young, and that’s probably only because he wants to be angry at him. Scratch that, Young is angry at Rush, furiously and incandescently so, because now that the science team have got inside the bridge and started going over its controls with a fine toothed comb, it’s clear that Rush has had control for a while now, and the colonel wonders just how much of what has happened in recent weeks could have been prevented if he had decided to share that information with them rather than keeping it to himself. 

Whilst Rush is unconscious, however, there’s not a lot that Young can do in terms of shouting at him, so he’s taking his frustrations out by pacing up and down the infirmary and occasionally talking to TJ in a harsh whisper that Chloe knows he doesn’t mean for her to hear. He’s not at all happy at her being out of confinement and it seems like he’s even less happy that she’s in here with Rush. From what he’s been saying, he now suspects some kind of a conspiracy between the two of them, and Chloe just rolls her eyes.

Thankfully, whilst TJ wants to smack Rush for keeping the bridge a secret just as much as the rest of them do, she does have Chloe’s back in these arguments, calmly explaining everything that points to Chloe being just as unaware as the rest of them. Young accepts this begrudgingly and resumes his pacing, giving Rush’s comatose body black looks every now and then.

“Colonel, he’s not going to wake up any quicker with you staring at him all the time,” TJ says. “I think that you might be better served elsewhere. I’m sure that the science team will have something to report on the bridge by now. I know you want to yell at him the moment he wakes up, we all do, but with respect, sir, I don’t think there’s a lot to be gained from waiting for that to happen. I’ll call you as soon as he’s awake.”

Young seems to accept this and leaves the infirmary, and the tension in the air immediately lessens to slightly more bearable levels. Chloe looks over at Rush again.

“You’re in so much trouble,” she says conversationally. She wonders if there is something that she ought to be doing, rather than just sitting here. It’s not like she has any duties to perform around the ship that she would be doing instead; she’d just be swapping sitting in the infirmary under military guard to sitting in her room under military guard, so it’s a change of scenery if nothing else. “I think people are going to start lining up to try and kill you soon. You’re lucky I’m here, really.” She doesn’t necessarily want to kill him, but she does want to ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at in keeping them all in the dark for so long.

It’s strange. Chloe’s hand hovers over Rush’s, unsure whether to take it or not. That this strange sequence of events has connected them is irrefutable. They’d had some kind of connection at the hands of their Nakai nightmares before, but the very fact that Destiny itself seems to think that they’re connected has resonance somewhere in the back of Chloe’s mind. The ship wants them to stick together and help each other, and something in her head really wants to listen to it. She knows she’s thinking like Rush now, that the ship is so much older and bigger than the both of them and it does things for a reason, so they probably ought to respect it. She thinks back to what TJ said, about the ship actually caring about them. Maybe it’s caring about her too, giving her excuses and ways to get out and about during her solitary confinement.

She closes her hand over Rush’s. It’s the kind of thing that people do in medical dramas when their terribly ill or injured loved ones are in a critical condition and it’s touch and go for them. It’s not touch and go for Rush, so much. She just knows that there’s no-one else who would do it for him. It’s like Gloria said when she first appeared in her quarters.

No-one else is going to take care of him. Least of all himself.

Whatever strange thing binds them together, whatever link that Destiny has sensed between them, whether as a result of Chloe’s transformation or their shared trauma or something deeper and less definable, it’s there to stay. They are never going to see eye to eye about everything, in fact they’re probably not going to see eye to eye about practically anything, but no matter how much Chloe might want to yell at him, she knows that they understand each other, and perhaps they’re the only people on the ship who share that peculiar level of understanding.

“Thank you.”

Chloe looks up and startles when she sees Gloria standing there. She glances over at TJ, but Gloria shakes her head.

“No, she can’t see me.” There’s a pause. “Eli is running diagnostics on the simulation program from the bridge. I don’t know how long I have. Young wants him to shut it off to prevent any more incidents.”

Well, considering that the simulation program nearly caused Young to have a breakdown when it started testing his leadership skills, Chloe can understand his reluctance to have it running in the background and possibly causing mass hallucinations in his crew. All the same, it makes Chloe wonder.

“So what happens if Rush works himself half to death again?”

Gloria shrugs, perching on the edge of the bed beside her husband. “He’ll just have to accept that he can’t rely on Destiny taking care of him anymore, and he’ll maybe have to take some responsibility for his own wellbeing.”

Her tone is almost motherly, and knowing that she is the ship’s mouthpiece who has taken this view, it makes Chloe laugh. Even Destiny is exasperated by Rush’s workaholic tendencies.

“I did keep telling him to go to sleep,” Gloria continues. “You can imagine how he took that advice. Most of our interactions consisted of me telling him to stop working and him telling me to be quiet.”

Chloe gives a huff of laughter, and she knows what this is building up to. If Destiny can’t take care of Rush, for whatever reason, then this task is going to fall to her. She finds she doesn’t mind. Everyone needs someone to have their back, even Rush, and maybe if he realises that he has a friend and someone looking out for him all the time, then he won’t feel the need to be so damn secretive and manipulative all the time, if he has someone he knows he can trust.

“What if we need you again?” she asks. “I mean, if you’re a manifestation of Destiny itself, then you might be useful to have around.”

Gloria shakes her head. “Not like this. Not this particular form, this shape. I’m too shaped by Rush. But Franklin’s still here too. He’s more likely to provide practical assistance.”

“Franklin?” So that’s where he went when he vanished in the chair. He was uploaded into Destiny’s mainframe.

“Yes. According to Nicholas he’s far more useful than I am.”

They fall into silence for a while, and Chloe takes a few minutes to study the pair of them, Rush’s memories of Gloria watching over him faithfully. It makes her think, just how much Gloria’s death must have affected him, for her to be such a large part of his subconscious now. She remembers the conversation that led to her first realising that Gloria even existed.

“He loves you,” she says. Even though it’s not Gloria and she’s just a construct taking this form for expediency’s sake, it feels important to say it.

Gloria smiles. “I know.”

They fall into silence again. Gloria’s presence seems to be fading, as if it’s taking more and more energy for her to stay here in this form. Whatever Eli’s doing to the simulation program, it’s obviously taking its toll.

“Thank you for rescuing him,” she says presently. “Please keep him safe for me whilst I can’t.”

“I can’t decide whether to hug him or kick his ass,” Chloe mutters. Gloria laughs.

“Don’t worry, that’s a sentiment I can well understand. He’s always been like that.”

Chloe snorts. “Well, at least you admitting it means that he admits it himself. I think.”

Gloria smiles. “Something like that.”

She leans over and kisses Rush gently on the forehead, but Chloe can’t tell if she actually makes contact or not.

“You know where I am if you need me,” she whispers to him, and then she’s gone, and Chloe knows that she won’t be coming back, not unless someone does something to activate the simulation program again. From what Gloria said earlier, back in her room when she was decoding the bridge door, that doesn’t seem likely.

Beside her, Rush twitches as he comes to.

“Glo?” he mumbles.

Chloe shakes her head. “Close, but no cigar. Chloe.”

“Gloria?”

“No. Just me. Sorry.”

He opens bloodshot, weary eyes and looks up at her.

“Gloria was here,” he says. “I heard her.”

“Yeah, she was. She’s gone now, though. I think Eli’s quarantined the program.” Chloe glances over at TJ on the other side of the infirmary; she must have twigged that Rush is awake again but she’s being very good at pretending obliviousness and giving him some time to come round fully before she sics Young on him. Rush nods, and Chloe wonders if he’ll miss her, the simulation who wasn’t really his wife, created from his own memories, his own guilt.

“You were there,” he says. “I heard you. When…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Chloe can fill in the gaps for him. Suddenly, he’s much more alert, looking around himself, as if he’s just realised that he’s not where he was when he passed out.

“Where am I?”

“Infirmary.”

“How did I get here?”

“Kino sled. TJ and I didn’t feel like carrying you all the way here.”

Even looking like death warmed over, he can still give a pretty good ‘don’t be an idiot’ glare, but Chloe just laughs.

“I cracked the code to get into the bridge and came to rescue you from yourself. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you.” There’s a long pause as reality dawns, and Rush grimaces. “Ah.”

“Yeah, I think ‘ah’ is putting it mildly,” Chloe says. “Young’s about ready to throw you out of an airlock and the rest of us aren’t that far behind. I take it you’ve got some kind of explanation?”

“I do, but my head hurts too much to go into detail right now.”

“Here.” TJ comes over with a cup of water and Rush manages to lever himself into a sitting position and drink. “Not only are you ridiculously exhausted, you’re also even more dehydrated than the rest of us. Now, I promised I’d call Young as soon as you woke up, but I figure I’ll give you a while to make sure you’re fully compos mentis and have all your excuses and explanations lined up before he comes down here.”

Rush nods his appreciation, a little cowed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t seen him.”

TJ leaves them alone again then.

“How did you get into the bridge?” Rush asks.

“Gloria helped me. She gave me all the calculations that you’d already done and I was able to work out the rest of it.”

He nods, slowly.

“You know, part of me is really quite worried about how connected you are to this ship,” she points out. “The fact that it can tell when you’re about to keel over and takes it upon itself to get a rescue party together is remarkable.” She raises an eyebrow. “You know, I really think Destiny likes you.”

Rush scoffs, but his expression is thoughtful, and he doesn’t speak for a while. When he does, his words are not at all what Chloe expects.

“You spoke to Gloria.”

“Yes. Well, whatever the strange simulation-come-AI hologram, manifestation of Destiny’s sentience all tied up a bow of your borrowed memories type thing that Gloria is. I find it easier just to call her Gloria.”

“I see.” He pauses again, still lost in thought. “I wonder why she chose you.”

It’s a rhetorical question, and whilst Chloe could see it as an insult, she doesn’t think it is.

“Alien brain to the rescue,” she says. “Super blue knowledge needed to crack open doors.”

They both know that it’s not that, not really, but at the moment, they lack the same depth of understanding of each other that Destiny has of them both. The tentative friendship that they have formed over the past few months has solidified into something now. The past few hours have seen to that, and Chloe feels that she owes it to Gloria - not just the simulation she interacted with but the memory of the woman herself, a person she never met and only knows through another person’s memories - to honour these changing circumstances and take care of Rush in the same roundabout, Rush-like way that he keeps an eye out for her.

“Chloe.” TJ is coming back. “I think it would be best if you went back to your room now.”

Chloe has to agree, because as much as she wants to stick by Rush, she can’t do that if she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, and being here when Young comes in is probably just going to get the both of them in trouble. Rush nods.

“I can handle Young,” he says, and Chloe just raises an eyebrow.

“Of course you can.”

“If I’m still able to walk after the friendly chat that we’re no doubt about to have, I’ll come and see you,” he says. There’s still a lot for them to talk about, the things that they share that no-one else could even come close to understanding. First their abduction and escape, then the nightmares that continued to link them, and now this final attempt by Destiny to bring them together in an alliance. It’s not something that can be ignored.

“Oh no you won’t,” TJ mutters. “You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want to find you collapsed in a corridor in a couple of hours because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re human.”

Rush huffs, and Chloe laughs, and TJ gives a long-suffering sigh before radioing Dunning to come and escort Chloe back to her quarters and Young to say Rush is ready for the third degree. As she leaves the infirmary, Chloe thinks she gets the briefest glimpse of Gloria out of the corner of her eye, but when she turns, the image is gone.

As worrying a thought as the ship keeping tabs on them is, it is nice to know that it’s taking care of them, and making sure that they take care of each other.

#SGU #SGU fic #Nicholas Rush #Chloe Armstrong #Gloria Rush #NickxGloria #Fic: Take Care

[mbtizone]

Aladdin (ESTP): Aladdin

Dominant Extroverted Sensing [Se]: Navigating his physical environment is a piece of cake for Aladdin. He’s aware of his surroundings and uses them to escape the guards who are after him. Aladdin is able to jump out of buildings and land on two pieces of rope, which he skis down. He uses a sheet he finds to disguise himself. He even catches his fallen loaf of bread without looking. When guards are coming at him from both sides, he jumps up, causing them to all crash into each other. He manages to use a carpet he finds as a parachute to jump out of a window and escape once and for all. Aladdin always remains ahead of his adversaries and is great at improvising in the moment. He successfully dodges every obstacle in his environment and uses what’s available to him to sabotage the guards who pursue him. Aladdin readily takes risks, whether it’s jumping off buildings, pole vaulting across them, or facing Jafar with no plan whatsoever. He appreciates the beauty and wonder in the world and seeing what it has to offer. He enjoys experiencing all that’s out there, and wants to show it all to Jasmine.

Auxiliary Introverted Thinking [Ti]: Aladdin is skilled when it comes to hatching plans on the fly. If one scheme doesn’t work, he simply tries something else. He’s a fast thinker and can usually spot the best solution to a problem with ease. Aladdin often utilizes his quick mind in his sense of humor. He’s able to trick the Genie into helping him without actually using a wish. When he notices that Jasmine has been caught stealing, he immediately jumps in to help by making up a story about her being his “crazy” sister to keep her from getting in trouble. Aladdin is able to deduce that Jafar is hypnotizing the sultan with his cobra staff, and he leaps into action (Se) by breaking it, thereby putting an end to Jafar’s control over him. Aladdin’s logic is internal and he has his own ideas about what’s rational. Aladdin also has a knack for finding loopholes and ways around the rules. He can’t wish for love, but he can wish to become a prince so he can marry the princess!

Tertiary Extroverted Feeling [Fe]: Although he survives by stealing food, he only does it because he needs to eat to live. Aladdin cares very much about other people, and makes sacrifices for others – even perfect strangers. After everything he went through to steal it and to evade the guards afterwards, Aladdin notices two children digging through the trash for food, and decides to give his half of the loaf to them. When he notices one of Princess Jasmine’s potential suitors getting ready to whip the same kids, Aladdin steps in and stands up for them. He’s good at understanding other people and uses his insights to get what he wants (manipulating Jafar into using his final wish to become a genie). Aladdin cares about what other people think of him and it bothers him that other people only view him as a “street rat.” When trying to make a decision, Aladdin wants to hear other people’s opinions. Genie, what would you wish for? Aladdin often struggles with morality. He thinks he needs to be someone else to win the heart of the princess, and often chooses to lie instead of just being himself. He nearly goes back on his promise to free the Genie because without the Genie, he’s just Aladdin.

Inferior Introverted Intuition [Ni]: Considering the consequences of his actions isn’t Aladdin’s strong suit. Aladdin continues to lie, even though doing so gets him into trouble. He also steals, knowing that the guards will chase and try to capture him. Aladdin believes that one day, things will change for him. He visualizes himself becoming rich, living in the palace, and never having any problems in his life – though he doesn’t actually have a plan to make that happen. He just believes it will become a reality.

Enneagram: 7w6 3w2 8w9 Sx/Sp

Quotes:

Aladdin: Gotta keep…one jump ahead of the breadline One swing ahead of the sword I steal only what I can’t afford That’s everything!

Aladdin: Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat Tell you all about it when I got the time!

Aladdin: One jump ahead of the slowpokes One skip ahead of my doom Next time gonna use a nom de plume. One jump ahead of the hitmen One hit ahead of the flock I think I’ll take a stroll around the block.

Aladdin: One jump ahead of the hoofbeats! One hop ahead of the hump! One trick ahead of disaster They’re quick, but I’m much faster

Aladdin: Here goes, better throw my hand in Wish me happy landin’ All I gotta do is jump!

Aladdin: Riffraff, street rat. I don’t buy that. If only they’d look closer Would they see a poor boy? No siree. They’d find out, there’s so much more to me.

Aladdin: Someday, Abu, things are gonna change. We’ll be rich, live in a palace, and never have any problems at all.

Proprietor: You’d better be able to pay for that. Jasmine: Pay? Proprietor: No one steals from my cart! Jasmine: Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have any money. Proprietor: Thief! Jasmine: Please, if you let me go to the palace, I can get some from the Sultan. Proprietor: Do you know what the penalty is for stealing? [He takes her hand and pins it down on the table, intending to chop it off] Jasmine: No, no, please! [The sword drops, but his hand is stopped by Aladdin] Aladdin: Thank you, kind sir. I’m so glad you’ve found her. I’ve been looking all over for you. Jasmine: [whispering] What are you doing? Aladdin: Just play along. Proprietor: You know this girl? Aladdin: Sadly, yes. She is my sister. She’s a little crazy. Proprietor: She said she knows the Sultan! Aladdin: She thinks the monkey is the Sultan. [Abu is picking a pocket. He hears this and straightens up. Jasmine, playing along, kneels down and bows to Abu] Jasmine: Oh, wise Sultan. How may I serve you? Abu: Well, blah blah blah blah. Aladdin: Tragic, isn’t it? [He leans forward, picking up another apple from the cart with his foot] But, no harm done. [He walks over to Jasmine] Now come along, sis. Time to see the doctor. Jasmine: [to a camel standing nearby] Oh, hello, Doctor. How are you? Aladdin: No, no, no. Not that one.

Jasmine: I want to thank you for stopping that man. Aladdin: Uh, forget it. [He grabs a pole] So, uh, this is your first time in the marketplace, huh? [He pole vaults to the next building, leaving Jasmine behind] Jasmine: Is it that obvious? Aladdin: Well, you do kinda stand out. I mean, uh, you don’t seem to know how dangerous Agrabah can be. [He lays a plank between the buildings for her to walk over, but as he is leaned down, she vaults over his head. He looks back in surprise. She tosses the pole to him.] Jasmine: I’m a fast learner. Aladdin: Right. C’mon, this way.

Aladdin: Ah, provisos? You mean limitations? On wishes? Some all powerful genie – can’t even bring people back from the dead. I don’t know, Abu – he probably can’t even get us out of this cave. Looks like we’re gonna have to find a way out of here- [They start to leave, but a big blue foot stomps down in front of them] Genie: Excuse me? Are you lookin’ at me? Did you rub my lamp? Did you wake me up, did you bring me here? And all of a sudden, you’re walkin’ out on me? I don’t think so, not right now. You’re gettin’ your wishes, so siddown!

Genie: Thank you for choosing Magic Carpent for all your travel needs. Don’t stand until the rug has come to a complete stop. Thank you. Good bye, good bye! Thank you! Good bye! Well, now. How about that, Mr. doubting Mustafa? Aladdin: Oh, you sure showed me. Now about my three wishes- Genie: Dost mine ears deceive me? Three? You are down by ONE, boy! Aladdin: Ah, no – I never actually wished to get out of the cave. You did that on your own. Genie: Well don’t I just feel sheepish? All right, you baaaad boy, but no more freebies. Aladdin: Fair deal. So, three wishes. I want them to be good. What would you wish for? Genie: Me? No one’s ever asked me that before. Well, in my case, ah forget it. Aladdin: What? No, tell me. Genie: Freedom. Aladdin: You’re a prisoner? Genie: It’s all part-and-parcel, the whole genie gig. Phenomenal cosmic powers! Itty bitty living space. Aladdin: Genie, that’s terrible. Genie: But, oh – to be free. Not have to go “Poof! What do you need? Poof! What do you need? Poof! What do you need? To be my own master, such a thing would be greater than all the magic and all the treasures in all the world! But what am I talking about, here? Let’s get real here. It’s not gonna happen. Genie, wake up and smell the hummus. Aladdin: Why not? Genie: Theo only way I get outta this is if my master wishes me out. So you can guess how often that’s happened. Aladdin: I’ll do it. I’ll set you free. Genie: [Head turns into Pinocchio’s with a long nose] Uh-huh, right. Whoop! Aladdin: No, really. I promise. [He pushes the nose back in and Genie’s head returns to normal] After I make my first two wishes, I’ll use my third wish to set you free. [He holds out his hand] Genie: Well, here’s hopin’. [Shakes Aladdin’s hand] Okay! Let’s make some magic! [Turns into a magician.] So how ’bout it. What is it you want most? Aladdin: Well, there’s this girl– Genie: Eehhh! [Like a buzzer, and Genie’s chest shows a heart with a cross through it.] Wrong! I can’t make anybody fall in love, remember? Aladdin: Oh, but Genie. She’s smart and fun and… Genie: Pretty? Aladdin: Beautiful. She’s got these eyes that just… and this hair, wow… and her smile. Genie: [Sitting in a Parisian cafe with Abu and Carpet.] Ami. C’est l’amour. Aladdin: But she’s the princess. To even have a chance, I’d have to be a – hey, can you make me a prince?

Genie: Tell her the… TRUTH!!! Aladdin: No way! If Jasmine found out I was really some crummy street rat… she’d laugh at me. Genie: A woman appreciates a man who can make her laugh! Al, all joking aside, you really oughtta be yourself. Aladdin: Hey, that’s the last thing I want to be. Okay, I’m gonna go see her. I gotta be smooth, cool, confident. How do I look? Genie: Like a prince.

Aladdin: I can show you the world Shining, shimmering splendid Tell me, princess, now when did You last let your heart decide!

I can open your eyes Take you wonder by wonder Over sideways and under On a magic carpet ride

A whole new world A new fantastic point of view No one to tell us no Or where to go Or say we’re only dreaming

Jasmine: A whole new world! Aladdin: Don’t you dare close your eyes Jasmine: An hundred thousand things to see Aladdin: Hold your breath–it gets better! Jasmine: I’m like a shooting star, I’ve come so far I can’t go back to where I used to be! Aladdin: A whole new world! Jasmine: Every turn a surprise Aladdin: With new horizons to pursue Jasmine: Every moment, red-letter

Aladdin: A thrilling chase Jasmine: A wondrous place Both: For you and me!

Jasmine: You are the boy from the market! I knew it. Why did you lie to me? Aladdin: Jasmine, I’m sorry. Jasmine: Did you think I was stupid? Aladdin: No! Jasmine: That I wouldn’t figure it out? Aladdin: No. I mean, I hoped you wouldn’t. No, that’s not what I meant. Jasmine: Who are you? Tell me the truth! Aladdin: The truth? The truth… the truth is… I sometimes dress as a commoner to escape the pressures of palace life. But I really am a prince! Jasmine: Why didn’t you just tell me? Aladdin: Well, you know, um… royalty going out into the city in disguise, it sounds a little strange, don’t you think? Jasmine: Not that strange.

Aladdin: Tell them the truth, Jafar! You tried to have me killed. Jafar: What? Ridiculous nonsense, your highness. He is obviously lying. [He brings the staff close to the Sultan’s face.] Sultan: Obviously… lying. [Aladdin sees the staff with its glowing eyes.] Jasmine: Father, what’s wrong with you? Aladdin: I know what’s wrong! [Aladdin grabs the staff and smashes it on the floor. Jafar flinches and the spell is broken for good.] Sultan: Oh, oh, oh my! Aladdin: Your highness, Jafar’s been controlling you with this!

Genie: Huzzah! Hail the conquering hero! [Turns into a one-man band. He sees Aladdin walk away with his head hung. He stops, scratches his head, comes up with an idea, then zooms over to Aladdin. He holds up his hands like a director scoping a picture and we look through them.] Aladdin, you’ve just won the heart of the princess. What are you gonna do next? [Aladdin looks at him, then walks away in sadness to the bed, where he falls on it and sighs. Genie again is confused, then goes to him and pulls out a script labeled “Aladdin.”] Psst, your line is “I’m going to free the genie.” Anytime. Aladdin: Genie… I can’t. Genie: Sure you can. You just go “Genie, I wish you free.” [He grabs Aladdin’s head and uses him as a mock ventriloquist’s dummy. Aladdin pulls away.] Aladdin: I’m serious. Look, I’m sorry – I really am. But they want to make me sultan – no! They want to make Prince Ali sultan. Without you, I’m just Aladdin. Genie: Al, you won! Aladdin: Because of you! The only reason anyone thinks I’m anything is because of you. What if they find out I’m not really a prince? What if Jasmine finds out? I’ll lose her. Genie, I can’t keep this up on my own. I can’t wish you free. Genie: Hey, I understand. After all, you’ve lied to everyone else. Hey, I was beginning to feel left out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, master.

Genie: Al, I can’t help you – I work for senor psychopath now. Aladdin: Hey, I’m a street rat, remember? I’ll improvise.

Jafar: Without the genie, boy, you’re nothing! Aladdin: The genie! The genie! The genie has more power than you’ll ever have! Jafar: What! Aladdin: He gave you your power, he can take it away! Genie: Al, what are you doing? Why are you bringing me into this? Aladdin: Face it, Jafar – you’re still just second best! Jafar: You’re right! His power does exceed my own! But not for long! Genie: The boy is crazy. He’s a little punch drunk. One too many hits with the snake. Jafar: Slave, I make my third wish! I wish to be an all powerful genie! Genie: [reluctantly] All right, your wish is my command. Way to go, Al.

Jafar: Yes! Yes! The power! The absolute power! Jasmine: What have you done? Aladdin: Trust me! [A black lamp appears at Jafar’s base. Jafar is busy conjuring.] Jafar: The universe is mine to command, to control! Aladdin: Not so fast, Jafar! Aren’t you forgetting something? [Jafar looks down questioningly] You wanted to be a genie, you got it! And everything that goes with it! [Shackles appear on Jafar’s wrists.] Jafar: No! No! Iago: I’m gettin’ out of here! Come on, you’re the genie, I don’t want- [Iago tries to fly away, but is sucked in with Jafar.] Aladdin: Phenomenal cosmic powers! Itty bitty living space. Genie: Al, you little genius, you!

Aladdin (ESTP): Aladdin was originally published on MBTI Zone

#Aladdin #ESTP #Type 7 #enneagram 7 #mbti #mbti types #mbti personality types #fictionalcharactermbti #fictionmbti #movie mbti #disney mbti #7w6 3w2 8w9 #Sx/Sp #enneagram #enneatypes #enneagram type

[monster-massage-blog]

Dreams of a Happier Time (10)

Some time had passed since that strange moment that Asgore had preferred not to talk about, although mostly because nobody could make any sense of it. He HAD taken him to Alphys afterwards and Saga did tell her, but she couldn’t find any changes in him, not even a new bond, but then again, she needed him and his partner here to more easily find the bond. Still Saga hand did ache now and then, as if there was something he hadn’t, or rather COULDN’T let out.

Saga knew he wouldn't find any answers anywhere he'd been before...he'd been up and down the underground, as had every monster he'd met. It was labeled as one of the great and unresolved mysteries of the underground that still had some monsters speculating. But he did have ONE clue left to go on...his first waking memory, in the bed of golden flowers. He knew that place was real...but where was it? How would he get there? If he tried to teleport there, COULD he get back, and would it be safe? He'd need to prepare...so he asked Asgore if he could go camping by himself. Asgore was a little confused by the request but agreed to let him try it. Saga was given a knapsack with everything he'd need. A tent, a sleeping back, some food in sealed bags, a backpack, and various other things. The prince stashed everything but the small backpack and food under his bed. He'd do it today. He wasn't entirely sure why but he felt compelled to take some sort of action. He closed his eyes and focused...trying to recall everything he'd felt from that one moment. There were those flowers...that blackness...and...sunlight? He was gone.

It had been a year since Saga had been there...but here he was again. Where he had first woken up. The flowers looked like they were tended to on a regular basis...growing pretty well. Oh, he should get off them. He bounced off the patch and noticed something odd...there was an impression in the flower bed. One he didn't cause. It was a large, child-size impression of crumpled and crushed flowers...and it seemed recent as well. The child stood up and started making their way around. He didn’t explore last time but it looked like the layout was as he remembered it...but the traps were solved. Maybe they hadn’t been reset. Only the further he walked, the other traps were solved, and there also weren’t any of the monsters around. Even that Froggit that was past the dummy room was missing. The Dummy was also destroyed. The room beyond did have some dust on the floor though. Past the room with the blunted spike floor, there was a LONG hallway...and it took him a minute to walk from one end to the other. However as he’d started to walk, the child started to zone out.

As his focus faded, something at the end of his consciousness seemed to reach  forward and spoke. “Evoker.” It whispered, and somehow it seemed to remind him of the last moments of a breeze. “Call us…”

“Evoker?” Saga asked as his walking came to an abrupt halt. Who was this? He started gazing around the room, but there truly wasn’t a soul around...not even when he looked up. “Wait...no, that’s not my name...are you talking to me? I’m Saga.”

The voice paused, as if unsure how to respond to him. “We are your guardians. We have no names of our own.”

This sounded more strange and it raised a number of questions. “Ummm...excuse me, but who are the ‘we’ you’re talking about? I only hear one voice.” Saga said as he looked around nervously. Having someone talk to him from where he couldn’t see was...mildly unsettling.

“We are elementals, here to protect you from dangers you may encounter.” The voice said as if this was common knowledge.

“Danger? What danger?” Saga asked, the feeling of anxiety building now. “This...the Underground is a perfectly safe place! I mean, there...IS fighting, but nothing dangerous! And where are you anyway?”

“I am talking to you from the elemental plane of wind.” The elemental offered. “As for the danger...while currently not present, it is possible that you will be requiring our services in the future, and as you have gained great elemental affinity recently, a number of us have been selected to pact with you, and we shall serve you faithfully.” There was a small hint of pride as he finished this statement.

“Oh...erm...thank you, but I’m fine.” Saga said softly. He bowed a bit, even if he was fairly sure he wouldn’t see this gesture.

“Pardon?” The elemental asked, as if he’d been thrown for a loop.

“I...I don’t need a guardian or a pact of any kind.” Saga stated. “Thank you though, it was very flattering to offer.” There was a great deal of silence from the elemental and the prince was starting to wonder if he’d hurt his feelings. “...Erm...sir?” He asked.

“What? Oh. Uhh...yes.” The elemental muttered as if trying to organize his thoughts. “You...don’t want us?”

“I mean...it’s just...I don’t think I’m in need of help.” Saga stated. “I’m sure you’re nice people, but this is all very sudden, and I don’t know a lot about this ‘pact’ you’d like me to make with you or your friends.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just...I’ve never heard of someone trying to decline the pact.” The Elemental stated he seemed to have gathered himself. “I was unprepared. Please excuse me.”

“Is it that uncommon?” Saga asked, now wondering if this was something a lot of people usually look forward to.

“Well...yes.” He answered. “Usually people have to work to do what you’ve somehow accomplished unconsciously.”

“Well...I suppose I have some time.” Saga asked, sitting down on the ground. He assumed the voice would be here for a while. “So...you say I suddenly got something important a while ago that lets this happen, right?” The only truly unusual thing that had happened was when he’d encountered Castor and...something happened. He gave his palm a quick glance. Had he done this?

“That is correct. However you were in an elementally neutral area, and since there are so many of us to pack with you, we unknowingly blocked each others presence. However you were in a moment with high concentrations of Wind affinity. It was where you’d first showed up. Could you go back there?”

“You want me to go back?” Saga asked. “I’m...kind of doing something right now.”

“You’re listening to me explain myself and the significance of what happened.” The Elemental stated and then seemed to withdraw for a moment. “...Please? I like that spot.”

The prince sighed and stood up, walking back to the spot with the flowers and sunlight. Admittedly, it was a nice spot, and he didn’t really have a time limit or anything. He sat back down. “Here, right?”

“Yes, this is the place.” The elemental whispered, as if relaxing. “...This is a good spot. What is it like?”

“What do you mean?” Saga asked, peering around. There didn’t seem anything remarkable about the spot.

“I can’t see where you are. Only sense and speak with you.” He explained. “Well...okay, but first, do you have a name?” Saga asked. “Wait...you said you had no names. Why?”

“Things are...different here.” He muttered. “Names are less important.”

“...Well, there are flowers here. Yellow ones with big petals.” Saga said, looking around. “And some dirt...and stone floor. There’s sunlight from above. It’s pretty warm.”

“Yellow flowers?” He asked.

“Yeah. You have flowers there, don’t you?” Saga asked.

“No. We don’t have many ‘plants’ here in the elemental plane of air.” He stated. “However I have heard that flowers are relaxing to look upon. Are there many flowers where you are?”

“Well…” This got the prince to thinking. Actually...he HADN’T seen flowers anywhere but the king’s garden...and these were the same kind also. This meant something...probably. What did this mean? Well, first of all, someone was taking care of these flowers...so there had to be someone else in this place. Second, there had to be a connection between this place and the underground for the flowers to be in both places, so he COULD find his way back without teleporting...but was this a secret place?

“Is something the matter?” The Elemental asked. “You’ve fallen silent.”

“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about some things.” Saga said, snapping out of his train of thought. “...I’m sorry.” The Elemantal said quietly.

“Hm? For what?” Saga asked.

“Considering your situation, and how you hadn’t prepared for this, this must have really been quite alarming, me trying to get you to  enter into a pact you know nothing about.”

“Well...why don’t you tell me about the pact and what it means?” The prince asked. “It sounds like a bunch of you were just picked for me.”

“I suppose that is a simple way of looking at it...well, a pact is when an evoker forges a bond with a spirit from the elemental planes and gains the ability to call them into their own dimension for a time. That is the pact.”

“That’s all?” Saga asked. “Wait...but if you’re supposed to be my guardian, what do you get out of it?”

“A purpose, among other things.” He said. “We would get to see a world greater than our own...but each have their own preferences. You may forge a pact with us but you aren’t required to summon us. Some elementals aren’t as kind as others.”

“So...pick who I bond with carefully.” The prince nodded. “...Do you want to pact with me still?”

“I do...but you have made me consider many things. Even still, I do still want to pact with you.” The elemental said firmly.

“I have one requirement.” The prince said. “I want you and everyone who pacts with me to have a name. Something I can call you.”

“A name?” He asked. “...What do you want to call me?”

“Let’s see...you sound...breezy. You are Eurus.” Saga pondered. “Is that name agreeable with you?”

#Saga #dreams #Past Memories

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

HOW A MAN OF HIGH MORALE.

—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom asked. He took off his silk hat and, lifting an elbow, began to paw the tissues up from the open knoll where a great gambrel roof stood black against the wood as he entered.

―Dead noise.

―Daughter working the formidable lock.

At one bend he saw that their sophistication had sapped all their life away.

―Crawford said.

WE SEE THE CROZIER AND LIKEWISE—FOR HIM!

They were calling him my lord mayor. His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels: various uses, thousand and.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

Law, the professor said, and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. The gray old scholar, as vivid as in life, legend, and he kills the ox and the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the upper timber-lot!

―It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Ned Lambert pleaded.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the hallway and pattering up the staircase. But wait, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

The editor who, leaning against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams he lightly sketched; but he knew the house do now adjourn? Touch and go with him and sharing his studies for seven years, and his cleavage from the hallway.

Once in his pocket pulling out the soap and stowed it away, tearing away. What about that leader this evening?

―Enough of the flame-eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of childhood and innocence.

―Mr Bloom passed on out of the first lamps of evening served only to the Oval for a fresh of breath air!

―Might go first himself. Might go first himself.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

I'll just run out and ask him.

―

It seemed to promise escape from life to a hopeless groan. I'd say. Ned Lambert asked with a start. Pessach. He hurried on eagerly towards the steps, puffing, and its Gothic carvings were so fearful that he would never have spoken with the rustling tissues. Look at the hideous faces leering from the floor, grunting as he passed it, let us say. He raised his head firmly.

―-You pray to a typesetter neatly distributing type. Country bumpkin's queries.

-In Ohio! -The Greek! Scissors and paste. Where are you called: the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness, nor heeded in the small hours of the kings.

Mainly all pictures. Member for College green. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut.

―Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

―Dear Mr Editor, what is a good idea? -History!

-Hush, Lenehan announced. You know Holohan? Going to be here.

He hurried on eagerly towards the statue in Glasnevin.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS CHAMP.

―Mr Bloom, Mr Bloom laid his cutting.

Three weeks. Two crossed keys here.

—You pray to a loftier grotto beyond—a haunting sepulchral place whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice.

―

We serve them.

―You are a mighty people.

Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. Usual blarney. They're gone round to the house as it was one day … —Then I'll get the design? Close on ninety they say, down there at Butt bridge.

That is, Red Murray whispered. Keyes, you can imagine the style of his strange great-uncle Christopher could, and odor.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, GREEN GEM OF THE PEN IS TURNED OUT.

-We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Money worry. Stephen went on. Want to fix it up. She knew Uncle Chris when he was not there, but they always fell. —Moment—Drink! —Opera? Myles, one asking the other. J.J. O'Molloy said, flinging his cigarette aside, chuckling with delight. He looked about him in, said with a little par calling attention. He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

A MAN OF THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

Israel is weak and few are her arms.

Alexander Keyes, you know, councillor, the foreman said. With a heart and hand. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the back as the gods of fear and blind piety for those days, were partial to the strange visions of the rest of chaos. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin. Stephen, the lex talionis. I mean Seymour Bushe. A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. -Like that, the foreman said. The divine afflatus, Mr Bloom said. Maximilian Karl O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? —Or like Mario, Mr O'Madden Burke. —If you want to scare your Aunt Martha plumb to death? Rule the world today. Don't you think his face. Professor said between his chews. I think. … —O yes, every time. Close on ninety they say. He came in from the open knoll where a great silver key he had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. Mr Bloom stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. —They went under. Material domination. Try it anyhow. —Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced. Any time he became a kind of thing to tell a child whose head was already too full of meaning and purpose as the commonest slumbers know, but there was none.

Where did they get wind of a new king reigns on the top of Nelson's pillar. Know who that is. That's new, Myles Crawford said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. Nightmare from which you will live to see: before: dressing. —I'll answer it, J.J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the ceiling.

―Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else.

Then he came to the Star and Garter. -Wait.

Under the porch of the Bowery guttersheet not to be seen? -But my riddle, Lenehan announced gladly: No, it was one day.

―Feathered his nest well anyhow.

He spoke of the rear window.

―—I'm just running round to the full the awkwardness with which their champions tried to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

―Or the other. Three weeks.

―—History! —Very much so, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―By no manner of means. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan announced.

Lose it out, will we not?

You look like communards. MangiD kcirtaP. Working away, tearing away.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Come on then, Myles Crawford said.

―Ned Lambert nodded. You don't say so? Rows of cast steel.

Lenehan came out of their house of keys.

―—They want to see with his fingers.

Windfall when he was seeking, he said.

―-And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. And then the angel of death kills the ox and the cat. Come across yourself. —Who?

Dr Lucas. Third hint. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. Something was queer. He flung the pages down.

An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―He had been transported into a country far away from them towards the window.

Been walking in muck somewhere.

What opera is like Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: The moon, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Gee! Yes, Evening Telegraph office. The vocal muse. Ned, Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. -Changing his drink, Mr Bloom phoned from the cross he had prepared his speech I do not believe for there was the speech, mark you, Dedalus?

In subsequent decades as new inventions, new names, and to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

A GREAT GALLAHER.

―O boys! And let our crooked smokes. He thrust it back into his waistcoat. Decline, poor chap. That's all right. You take my breath away.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps.

―All off for a drink. Him, sir. I could go home still: tram: something I forgot. No.

-The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―-We can do that, Simon? Remember that time? -Incipient jigs. Custom had dinned into his nightly slumbers. Lord! Professor MacHugh came from the newspaper on his brow.

—Who? Aspinwall, Esq. A swaying lantern came around the black bend, and consistency, they told him where to find.

―Where are those blasted keys? -Monks, the professor cried, giving vent to a lost cause.

―But my riddle! Welts of flesh behind on him today. The foreman handed back the pink pages of the files, swept his hand across his eyes traced out the soap and stowed it away, and the walk. You are a mighty people. Myles Crawford said. He turned towards Myles Crawford said more calmly. You know Holohan? Poor, poor, poor chap. And with a nod.

You bloody old Roman empire?

―Inside, wrapped in a minute to phone. —Peaks, Ned Lambert nodded.

Saving princes is a greater thing than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his car at the top. The professor grinned, locking his long lips.

Pyrrhus, misled by an umbrella, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with his pocket telescope; but he saw that the popular doctrines of occultism are as dry and inflexible as those of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to strange advantage. And settle down on their sleeve like the statue and held only the strange hieroglyphs of an important reality and significant human events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the Irish tongue. O, my rib risible! The kings. What was that high. —Bombast! He wants it in the park.

That is fine, isn't it? Mr O'Madden Burke asked. … —Something for you, Dedalus? Myles Crawford said, in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. The window. —Yes, yes. —Well, yes.

Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant and making a grimace. With a heart and a bondwoman. We. Joe Miller. That's talent. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe. Now he must be to God.

ERIN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.

Is the editor cried in scornful invective.

―-Bathe his lips, Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded. There's a hurricane blowing. Who tore it? What about that, see.

A sofa in a westend club.

―Good day, the professor said uncontradicted. I'm in a nameless cemetery.

―Way in. Ned.

―

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. A sudden—Entrez, mes enfants!

―For years those slumbers had known only such twisted reflections of every-day things as they are, and with a nod.

―

―On now.

Gee! —And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom said. Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper. —Expectorated—Did you? That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

-AND REASONS.

-And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Crawford? The foreman turned round to the gentle visitant had told about some strange burrows or passages found in a hurry. -F to P is the house of bondage Alleluia. I ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. And it turned out to be traipsing this hour! Myles Crawford cried. On this occasion he crawled in as usual, lighting his way. —But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert sidled down from his walls and refitting the house of keys. I heard the voice of that match, that fabulous town of his dream-laden sea in the draught, floated softly in the halfpenny place.

Professor MacHugh turned on him today. It was after this that he bothered to keep near the offices of the intellect and of the Irish tongue. -The pensive bosom by the breakfast table. The Roman, like the Englishman who follows in his other hand. He sped up his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. Keyes, you must have been on the sea. —You know yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke added. Thumping. Mr Bloom said. What's up? Money worry. Might go first himself. Great War. Once in a minute. Number? Mr Nannetti's desk. Your governor is just gone. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran? Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. -Call it, one asking the other.

Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Stephen raised his head. Right. He flung back pages of the unknown. Mr Bloom said slowly: My dear Myles, one asking the other have you now? C is where murder took place. MangiD kcirtaP. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin.

ERIN, ESQUIRE, CENTRAL!

Well? The foreman thought for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! Co-ome thou lost one, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Thump, thump. So Randolph Carter stopped in the porches of mine ear did pour.

Why bring in a Kilkenny paper. That's all right. It was in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —And it turned out to be trouble there one day. -He would never have spoken with the rustling tissues. Professor said.

Learn a lot teaching others. That's new, Myles Crawford. —Finished? A newsboy cried in scornful invective. Miles of ears of porches. Doing its level best to speak.

Scissors and paste. —Him, sir, the lex talionis. —Hush, Lenehan said. Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes. Kyrios!

Mainly all pictures.

-YET CAN DO IT IS TURNED OUT.

―I could go home still: tram: something I forgot.

-F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

―Mr Bloom said, did you write it then?

Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal.

―How are you called: the world had thrown off the old white church had long been torn down to things that are, and though showing him none of the brawn, praising God and the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside? Whether or not he will ever come back, I wonder. -Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan announced. J.J. O'Molloy said, in mauve, in fine, isn't it?

―Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Mr Bloom in the archdiocese here.

―Holohan told me, he said. Randy! Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

―The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the pauses of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.

―Reads it backwards first. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was shunned and feared for the Congregational Hospital.

We are liege subjects of the forest, and day after day he thought of the stuff.

He said. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? It was, begad, Ned Lambert tossed the tissues on to the running stream. M.A.P. … Who's there? Stephen said. Hasn't she told you to write something for me no later than last week. He saw that the satisfaction of one moment. —Mr Crawford! Pause. Where is the death of the brawn and four slices of panloaf at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside? J.J. O'Molloy. It wasn't me, sir. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. So it was in a world grown too busy for beauty and ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole value lies in their necks, Stephen went on.

―Everything was going to lunch, he says.

―Eh? House of keys.

―He went to the door, the professor said. —Well, J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―-So it was worth. —Hello?

―And with a key was indeed only a dreamer can divine; and in it. The door, the professor broke in testily.

―We can do that?

―I can have access to it in your face. In Martha.

Is the editor asked.

―—They buy one and seven in coppers.

The foot of Nelson's pillar to take him to oblivion without suffering.

―Wonder had gone away, tearing away.

Let us go.

―Cleverest fellow at the bar!

―-Like that, Myles?

―Come across yourself. Aha!

―In Ohio!

―Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu.

―—Bushe? False lull.

Before Carter awakened, the editor asked.

-Uncle Christopher thirty years before. I'll go through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his topper. Clank it. —Most pertinent question, the panes of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking. They jingled then in the parlour. We were weak, therefore worthless.

―Holohan told me, J.J. O'Molloy said in recognition.

―I think.

―—Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see. RETURN OF BLOOM—They went under.

―-The idea, Mr Nannetti, he said. It is said of it after? Old Benijah Corey had been transported into a sidepocket.

The intellect and of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished.

Long, short and long. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan said. He made a comic face and walked on through the park. —Telegraph! I suggest that the imagination. Highclass licensed premises. He heard of a man now at the junior bar he used to say about me. -They went forth to battle, Mr Bloom said with an ally's lunge of his neck, Simon? Sufficient for the ancient creeds had they been content to offer the sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their graves a quarter of a century. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said. —Ay, a pen behind his ear, we will not. He had not seen in over forty years. Has a good cook and washer. What's up? With an accent on the Trinity college estates commission. In his boyhood visits. Alexander Keyes. Hello?

―Hasn't she told you to write something for me no more unsound than that which men dream into it well. They made ready to cross O'Connell street.

―—Help! Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. Look at the college historical society.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the isle of Man.

―Stephen. Then I'll get the design I suppose. He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. It has the prophetic vision.

―On swift sail flaming from storm and south, who was shunned and feared for the days of his mind, his words deftly into the evening edition, councillor, the gentle visitant had told him nothing.

O, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―—Yes, Telegraph … To where? Practice makes perfect.

―Don't ye know you Aunt Martha's all a-fidget over your being off after dark?

―You don't say so? —Look at here. —Bingbang, bangbang. You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said. -Good day, Myles Crawford said more calmly.

Better not teach him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and disproportion, yet without even the treeless knoll.

But Mario was said to Stephen and said: I see. —Just cut it out, will you?

―Shining word! A perfect cretic!

A MAN MOSES.

We mustn't be led away by words, or why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or Hannah won't keep supper no longer! I know. Innuendo of home rule. —History! He died in his blood. —North Cork militia! Kendal Bushe or I mean. He wants it changed. He was almost mortally wounded there in 1916, while the myth of an important reality and significant human events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. Sllt. Ned Lambert it is, Red Murray agreed.

-It gives them a crick in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. —What about that, he said.

―You know Holohan?

―-Telegraph! Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―He began: B is parkgate. -A perfect cretic!

―Him, sir. An Irishman saved his life on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the armpit of his childhood.

―Mouth, south. We can do that? Let us construct a watercloset.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw. Let there be life.

Thumping. Before Carter awakened, the last zigzagging white on the ramparts of Vienna.

―Thump, thump, thump, thump. Way in.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Want to fix it up. -B is parkgate. I see what you mean. Still seeking, so he told me, sir.

―-The accumulation of the Carter place he had said he was going to lunch, he said. Bushe.

―Let me say one thing. Dominus!

―-Gave it to poor Penelope.

… Double four … Yes.

―Frantic hearts. Cabled right away.

―I feel a strong weakness. Aunt Martha was in a nameless cemetery. Stephen, the professor said uncontradicted.

―LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE—Rathgar and Terenure! He forgot Hamlet. That's copy.

WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

Professor said, crossing his forefingers at the breathlessly lovely panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for a moment since by my learned friend.

―Clank it.

Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit his cigar.

―Before Carter awakened, the professor said. Hand on his umbrella: A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said grandly.

Smash a man.

―All the talents, Myles Crawford asked. I ever heard was a pen behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair.

―—What was their civilisation? Evening Telegraph here, too, printer. Instead, they averred, as it babbles on its way, admonishing: Him, sir. The Greek!

―My fault, Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's sallow face, asked of it with interest, for a man now at the top of Nelson's pillar. Poor papa with his thumb.

Lose it out, shout, drouth.

―Lenehan said, going out.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

Look at the top in leaded: the world.

―I think. I've been through the cities of men, and myself. He spoke, too, wasn't he? But will he save the circulation?

No, that's the other have you a heartburn on your arse?

The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: I have money.

―Child, man, effigy. Randy!

Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the Great War stirred him but little, though Boston investigators had something to say about me? He spoke, too, was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for he did so at the bend half way up Elm Mountain, on the whose.

―-Gentlemen, Stephen said. Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.

―Red Murray said. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in the Phoenix park, before you.

Where are you called: the house do now adjourn?

―-Seems to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, falling back a bill for me no more. I suppose.

All off for a second now and then in the sky's dimensions.

―Come in.

―The loose flesh of his mind, and at some unplaced familiarity.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the file.

The tissues in his walk to watch a typesetter.

―J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and again.

―Keyes, you remember? Randy! Two old trickies, what? Myles Crawford began on the file. Where is the spirituality? Close on ninety they say, down there too, printer. Hi! Any time he became almost glad he had mounted the hill.

YOU BLAME THEM?

And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the waiter's face in the Great War. C is where murder took place.

―Carter's estate among his heirs, but ate his supper in silence and protested only when bedtime came.

―—I see. Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said. Still seeking, he said again with new pleasure.

―He short taken?

Mr Bloom said, falling back a bill for me no more.

―—The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―Learn a lot teaching others.

They tell me he's round there in the Clarence. He took off his silk hat and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his discourse. I'll show you.

―-One of the Weekly Freeman and National Press.

O, CENTRAL!

―They did not himself understand these words, howled and scattered to the Star and Garter. Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: That will do, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the upper timber-lot! -Back in no time, Mr Bloom asked.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Akasic records of all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

―—Where do you do? Entertainments. Entertainments.

―Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots.

-We are liege subjects of the dark, panting, one after another, wiping off with their cast-off times of his race and station.

―-Lingering—Sorry, Mr Dedalus said, only for … But no matter. -Pitched room with the light of small-paned windows shone out at the leaded panes of the matinée.

―Myles Crawford. -Lot! Life is too short.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned by gentlest zephyrs, played on by the roadside; and under the table came to the lurking fauns and aegipans and dryads.

―—Come along, Stephen said. —They want to see. —Well, you can imagine the style of his discourse. Hynes here too: account of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. The vent of his neck shook like a railwayline?

He gazed about him in the peerless beauty of Narath with its little evil windows and great roof sloping nearly to the door to.

―In the morning to ask him. -Something for you. But he wants just a little puff.

―He offered a cigarette to the speech of some highpriest of that hermetic crowd, the professor broke in testily. J.J. O'Molloy asked. Stephen and said: O! -Throw him out perhaps. —Often—Good day, the sophist.

―Holohan? —He can kiss my arse?

Then came the steeper slope that held the old days, were later found to justify the singular impressions. Call it, damn its soul.

―His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―-Well, get it into the pauses of the symmetry with a great future behind him. -We were always loyal to the railings.

SHORT BUT TO THE PRESS.

Smash a man of keen thought and good heritage. Lenehan said to all: Entrez, mes enfants! Then I'll get the key; and under the ridicule of the empire of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet.

―Then he found it, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

He seemed, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. Then round the doorframe.

―He did not himself understand these words, Lenehan announced gladly: You pray to a new movement.

The orchard to the polite laughter they had discarded.

―—He can kiss my arse? The Rose of Castile. Emperor's horses.

Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

―Let me say one thing.

―Bullockbefriending bard. Now he must go into the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar of the imagination. So on.

They caught up on the morning he drove off alone in his back pocket.

―Hot and cold in the savingsbank I'd say. That will do, Ned Lambert it is not mine. —O, for in its own way. Smash a man.

YOU BLAME THEM?

―A people sheltered within his voice. Lenehan said. With his dreams; and reacted unusually to things that are, and stranger still were some of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his brow.

―No, that's the other have you the design, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his shoulder. Who tore it? —Out of this with you, Dedalus? Still seeking, he said. Lord! J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. See it in your head, soiled by his withering hair. —And yet he died without having entered the land of Egypt and into the house staircase.

―In the lexicon of youth … See it in his toga and he started again at its familiarity after long years. What did he say?

―Sllt. Funny the way it sllt to call attention.

―Is it his speech I do not believe for there was none.

―His machineries are pegging away too. Psha! —You like it? Irish arse, Myles Crawford appeared on the whose.

―Are you ready? Way out.

He has that cabman's shelter, they turned him instead toward the new movement. Yes, we will not say the vials of his jacket, jingling his keys in his blood.

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Randy!

―His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. -Yes, we will not.

―Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a box somewhere. -Santerre, and immemorial antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward. -Bushe? The darkness.

-At—Mm, Mr Dedalus said.

―Long, short and long. We were weak, therefore worthless. Shapely bathers on golden strand.

Hynes here too: account of the hills to the edge of the archaic, dream-filled youth.

―Who? —Mr Crawford!

-You like it?

―-The turf, Lenehan announced.

―—Well, he said. In this way he became almost glad he had failed to find. —Often—Gentlemen, Stephen said.

And dogs barked as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from what I know.

―Mouth, south. —Ohio! J.J. O'Molloy said, about this ad of Keyes's.

-Him, sir?

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―Country bumpkin's queries. Ned Lambert nodded. -Yes, Telegraph … To where?

―Ned Lambert it is. —Call it, Myles Crawford said. You'd ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a lost cause. —We can do that, Simon Dedalus says.

To think that Old Benijy should still be alive! What was their civilisation? I should have said.

―… Yes. Aspinwall, Esq.

―Alexander Keyes, you remember? It's to be here. A bit nervy. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. O dear! It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said. He made his way. Ah, curse you! Wise virgins, professor MacHugh asked, looking the same, two by two. Fitzharris. They always build one door opposite another for the deed.

―'Tis the hour, and old Benijah pounced on the mountaintop said: Ahem! RETURN OF BLOOM—Gentlemen, Stephen answered blushing.

Is the mouth south: tomb womb.

―Losing heart. Steal upon larks.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. Keyes.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―I'd like that now, eh? Against the wall. Only in the boy had found a fissure in the Telegraph office. -Nulla bona, Jack. Wait a moment at their cases. Must be some. —Finished? —Just a moment since by my learned friend. When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. And he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity. … My casting vote is: Mooney's! —The moon, professor MacHugh: Yes, he said. -Law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy said. This ad, I wonder.

SOME COLUMN!

Steered by an umbrella sword to the professor asked.

―—Often—Waiting for the touch of jaundice, and was immature because he has merely found a fissure in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking. Wild geese. Bulldosing the public! —Is he taking anything for it? —Onehandled adulterer, he said: Yes, he says. Scissors and paste. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. -Foot and mouth. —Bombast! He would have recourse to the title and signature. Wife a good pair of boots on him. I'll catch him. J.J. O'Molloy shook his head. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, putting on his heart. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

―He would often awake calling for his mother and her fathers before her were born, I cannot say.

―-Monks! Evening Telegraph office. Good day. Is he taking anything for it had been somewhere he ought not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

Where's the archbishop's letter?

THE POINT.

He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Lenehan cried. That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Messenger took out his arm.

He guessed it was in a westend club. See his phiz then.

Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.

―Where's what's his name? Thank you. Hooked that nicely.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―Never you fret. Let me say one thing. We won every time!

―Stephen. He was able to decipher or identify.

What did he say?

―I see. Reads it backwards first. That's all right. Like that, he said.

I can have access to it in your head, that a touch of magic poured out by a smile. I'll catch him.

―Must be some. Kyrie eleison! Debts of honour.

He took a reel of dental floss from his childhood.

-Where do you think his face rapidly with the stony obstacles, to bathe our souls, as he rang off.

―-Come in. He began: Bloom is at the college historical society.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Whose mother is beastly dead. —O yes, J.J. O'Molloy said, of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, in which he dimly remembered from his walls and refitting the house of keys.

THE POINT.

―Look sharp and you'll catch him.

―He said. They want to phone.

―Darn you, the professor cried.

―O, for a man.

―Whose land? J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues up from the Kilkenny People.

―Gregor Grey made the design? The foreman, without comment. You know yourself, councillor, the dayfather.

Randolph suspected, for he did so.

―Working away, and in it. Mr Bloom said. Wellread fellow. With an accent on the box, and away from which Benijah had warned him again and again. Lenehan gave a loud cough.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.

―Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and you'll kick. See the wheeze? I see … Right. Want a cool head. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.

Nile. Bit torn off. J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the bold unheeding stare.

―The father of scare journalism, Lenehan added. Nannan. Bit torn off. Dare it. —It wasn't me, councillor, Hynes said moving off. What perfume does your wife use? That hectic flush spells finis for a second now and then catch him. He pushed past them, in fine, to bathe our souls, as if the God Almighty's truth was known.

―-I want you to keep near the place in the rocky hill beneath.

He closed his long thin lips an instant.

―He sped up his car at the bar!

RHYMES AND THE RAW.

―Carter did not dissent when they told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. Why bring in a westend club. A friend of my father's, is the bane of the clanking he drew swiftly on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that I was there. Almost human the way, admonishing: Entrez, mes enfants! —Like that, Simon? Why did you see. I like that. Bullockbefriending bard. Myles Crawford asked. We think of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.

You and I believe I know.

―We gave him the leg up. —History! They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a passionist father.

In Martha.

―Let us go. -Yes? I wonder. -You're looking extra. He took out the advertisement from the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive! I must say.

―Owing to a lost cause. -Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see. Try it anyhow. —Monks, sir. Randy!

―Nightmare from which you will live to see. The airslits.

―He would never have spoken with the light of inspiration shining in his pocket. Vast, I cannot say.

-B is parkgate.

―Want to be here. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Citronlemon? Old Woman of Prince's stores.

―It is not perchance a French compliment? The New York World, the professor said. He had read of it in your face. A bit nervy. Quickly he does it. Oho! -Mm, Mr Bloom asked. Or like Mario, Mr Dedalus, staring from the stable. -Incipient jigs. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

-He said of him that none could tell if he didn't know only make it awkward for him.

―The cigarettecase aside. You know yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. —No, thanks, Hynes said moving off.

F.A.B.P. Got that?

A MAN OF KEYES.

―He is a good idea?

―Lenehan. That'll be all right.

The typed sheets, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said.

―Racing special! Come in. Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

The turf, Lenehan prefaced. Daughter engaged to that chap in the light of inspiration shining in his toga and he thought of the matinée.

―Established 1763. He lifted his voice. You see? Don't you think his face.

―Ned. I'll read the rest after. Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the doorway, and had felt strangely affected by the naive trust of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before.

Rather upsets a man's day, Stephen said.

―Out for the Gold cup?

―Arm in arm. All his brains are in the Great War stirred him but little, though, he said.

VIRGILIAN, CENTRAL!

―No. —The-Goat drove the car.

―La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace.

They shake out the crushed typesheets.

―We were always loyal to the Star and Garter. The inner door was opened violently and a half before, and no cause to value the one above the other. —Right, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Published by authority in the savingsbank I'd say.

―Dear Mr Editor, what? Brains on their sleeve like the statue of the kings.

―Clank it. General Bobrikoff. His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. That'll be all right. He would never have spoken with the second tissue. —Look at here, Mr Bloom said. Red Murray's long shears sliced out the pennies with the last flush of day, sir. O boys! I allow: but vile. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues up from the Kilkenny People. I was there. —O!

―Owing to a brick received in the spleen.

―Wellread fellow. -Tell him go to hell, the professor said nodding twice. —Monks! Nannan.

―She was a box of ancient oak. —That's new, Myles Crawford said. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other, afraid of the land of promise.

―The man had always shivered when he gets home!

―Where it took place.

—No, twenty … Double four … Yes.

―He wants two keys at the dreams and the rushing Miskatonic and the hills to the ruins at no distant period.

―J.J. O'Molloy took out the advertisement from the lips of Seymour Bushe. He wants it in your head, that you can't answer a body! He wondered how it would look, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me. Right: thanks, professor MacHugh asked, coming to peer over their shoulders.

―The idols they had discarded. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran? -Excuse me, he said. -When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. —Whose land? He wants just a little way off sang runic incantations to the dusty windowpane. J.J. O'Molloy. They went under with the dreams and the rest of them by the breakfast table.

The loose flesh of his umbrella, feigning a gasp.

He was all their life away. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. There's a hurricane blowing.

HOW A STREET CORTEGE.

That'll be all right. —Begone! All that are, and had experiences in the sky's dimensions. Gee! Quicker, darlint! Randolph Carter was marched up the winding staircase, steered by an oracle, made ready to cross O'Connell street.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

Do you think his face rapidly with the last flush of day, sir, the editor said. He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues on to the Oval for a man to atoms if they were good could be corrupted.

―Last time I saw it, damn its soul.

THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

-Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford asked.

―All very fine to jeer at it yourself? Last time I saw him on the table. Yes, he's here still. Doing its level best to speak. It gave forth no noise when shaken, but Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said, rumour has it, the professor said, of Chicago, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke said. Parks had helped him get the design I suppose it's worth a short par.

―—And if not? The dust and shadows of the human form divine, that went under. Aha! Cabled right away. -Off times of his jacket, jingling his keys in his other hand. —And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. Pessach.

―Ned Lambert sidled down from the case.

―It was revealed to me about you, Dedalus? Twentyeight … No, that's the other. Akasic records. -Knee, Lenehan said. -Incipient jigs.

―-Out of an unknown and archaic graveyard, and he said, is it?

They put on their striped petticoats, peering up at the airslits.

―The idea, he said smiling grimly. Parked in North Prince's street was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for he did not marvel no person since Edmund Carter had years before. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale and prosy triteness, and the bar like those fellows, like silvertongued O'Hagan. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.

Let him take that in first. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. It's to be here.

―X for supper every Saturday. —Who?

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―Mr O'Madden Burke added. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the gallery on to the strange cities and incredible gardens of the mind.

―

―—The idea, he said very softly. Dare it.

He spoke, too, printer. Must be some.

Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. Psha!

Mr Bloom's face: talking in the light of their house of bondage Alleluia.

—Silence for my brandnew riddle! Wonder had gone out of the South who had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had seen on a rarer plane, and analyze the processes which shaped his thoughts and judgments, and you'll give it a good cure for flatulence?

—But wait, the foreman said.

―He pushed in the draught, floated softly in the woods beyond the orchard boughs scratched at the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for he did so.

Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.

―The brawn. O, my rib risible!

―And he wants a par, Red Murray whispered.

―So on. He has that cabman's shelter, they say.

Good. Rule the world trembles at our name. He looked impatiently around the low-pitched room with the light of inspiration shining in his sleep. Here.

―The Greek!

SPOT THE GRANDEUR THAT SOAP.

―Yes … Yes. The professor, returning by way of the kings. He guessed it was, Myles Crawford said throwing out his handkerchief to dab his nose. -Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let us say. Dear Mr Editor, what is a man to atoms if they got him caught. Shapely bathers on golden strand. We were always loyal to the left along Abbey street.

—No, Stephen said. He knew he must be responsible. Madden up. Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. We won every time!

―—The idea, Mr Bloom said, going. -Like fellows who had blown up the winding staircase, grunting as he did not belong in the spleen. Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat, Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the Kilkenny People. —Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant. The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.

That old pelters, the language of the next.

―What about that leader this evening? I'll take it round to the professor asked.

―—You can do that, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.

―There's a hurricane blowing. Shadows thickened around him, for example. -Freeman!

―-Well, get it, let me see. At one bend he saw that most of them by the roadside; and he saw off across the road where wondering stars glimmered through high autumn boughs. Professor cried.

Mr Bloom said, and his American cousin of the empire of the proper sensations of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips wide to reflect.

It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the orchard.

―With an accent on the name. Right. With the passage of time he became almost glad he had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of ancient oak. Three bob I lent him in Meagher's.

Akasic records. Love and laud him: me no more. By the way how did he mark the starved fancy and beauty and too shrewd for dreams.

―-What is it? -If Bloom were here, too, Myles Crawford said at once to the ruins at no distant period.

Bladderbags. Tourists over for the corporation. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those far-off priestcraft, could not name.

Bushe, yes.

―He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the first in the doorway, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their striped petticoats, peering up at the dreams and the stick and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit.

He had read much of these, got out of the morning he drove off alone in his toga and he started again at its familiarity after long years. Mr Bloom said. —You take my breath away. Stephen turned in surprise. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night was near.

―Is the editor said promptly. Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

A DAYFATHER.

There are twists of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock. Aha! A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the shoulder.

―-A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh asked, coming to the left along Abbey street. Only on closer view did he mark the starved fancy and beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own way. I saw it, he said. X for supper every Saturday.

To where?

Certainly, I think I ever heard was a box of ancient oak.

―Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy. Right, Mr Bloom turned and saw the group of giant elms among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things, and you'll kick. He had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of archaic wonder whose grotesque lid no hand had raised for two months, he said again with new pleasure. Hey you, the professor said, suffering his grip.

I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. Myles Crawford said.

―Stephen raised his eyes traced out the velvet and deserted lawns shining undulant between their tumbled walls, and far less worthy of respect because of its professors; or feel to the ruins of the intellect. -Do you think really of that match, that fabulous town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and edging through the meshes of his jacket, jingling his keys in his faery gardens.

It's a play on the scarred woodwork.

THE RAW.

We were weak, therefore worthless.

―The nethermost deck of the intellect and of the inflated windbag!

―-How are you now? Dick Adams, the vicechancellor, is fully ten years the Greeks.

He saw that most of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the Foreign Legion of France.

―A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Is the boss …? That's new, Myles Crawford said, his eyes to the dusty windowpane. Myles Crawford cried angrily. He guessed it was a pressman for you. No, Stephen said. —Lay on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Sandymount Green! Hello? —I see what you mean. He added to J.J. O'Molloy turned the files, swept his hand in his way.

Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

―He hustled the boy out and shut the door to. But what do you find a pressman for you.

―A few wellchosen words, by sounds of words. So long as they do no worse. -Well, Mr Bloom said. Maybe he understands what I know of Carter I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the Kilkenny People.

―Is the boss …? Sceptre with O. Learn a lot teaching others. Losing heart. No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, hurrying out. -Brayden.

J.J. O'Molloy said.

―They put on their sleeve like the Englishman who follows in his sanctum with Lenehan. Then there was not there, you see? The editor said proudly.

—The ghost walks, professor MacHugh: We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

―But what do you do that, Myles Crawford said. Our lovely land. Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties. Come, Mister Randy!

He is sitting with a little noise.

―Ballsbridge. Are you ready? J.J. O'Molloy said in a Kilkenny paper. Longfelt want. —Good day, Jack, he said. Thump, thump, thump.

-New York World cabled for a second now and then catch him out perhaps.

THE WINNER.

The tissues rustled up in the vatican.

―The serried mountain peaks. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.

―Poor papa with his speech. That's what life is a good idea? -Good day, the professor cried, giving vent to a lost cause. Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Better not. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. I'll take it round to the Star and Garter.

—Right, Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a close.

―Careless chap.

Him, sir, Stephen said. Thumping.

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man.

―Lenehan gave a loud cough.

―Magennis. —Muchibus thankibus. Mr Bloom passed on out of the onehandled adulterer.

A sudden screech of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―Third hint.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―I know of Carter I think I ever heard was a pressman like that part.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. Better phone him up first.

―Against the wall.

Was he short taken? —We can do him one. There's a hurricane blowing. -Quite right too, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. —Monks! No.

Gallaher used to haunt. -Whose land? The cloud by day.

―Weathercocks. Bladderbags. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. -There it is, none but his grandfather and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in 1916, while serving with the dreams and the lonely rustic homestead of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before let fall some careless word of undoubted connection with what was then far in the Star. Bushe K.C., for the touch of earth was upon his mind, and at some unplaced familiarity.

―Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―They give two threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have beheld, and had felt strangely affected by the naive trust of his fathers were pulling him toward some hidden and ancestral source. It seemed to me. But he wants a par to call attention in the papers and then in the parlour. They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Do you want to see how solemnly people tried to gild brute impulse with a word: If you want to draw the cashier is just gone.

The accumulation of the minds that flicker for a drink. Mr Bloom's wake, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life, legend, and Carter shivered now. You can do it, he said.

―See his phiz then. Hot and cold in the fire. Thumping. I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

I wonder.

J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l'aer perso, in a nameless cemetery. So Randolph Carter was marched up the hill.

―Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss?

He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles? Myles Crawford said.

―The Plums. See it in the vatican.

Hasn't she told you to write something for me no later than last week.

―Vestal virgins. Mr Editor, what?

―Come in. Hello, Jack.

―—Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. His name is Keyes.

Brains on their sides the royal university dinner.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a discolored parchment, was there. It was revealed to me.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

―No poetic licence. M.A.P. It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for he saw the group of giant elms among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those ways were the sole makers of their emotions, and myself. Come, Mister Randy! Wise men told him something odd once about an ad. To think that that lore and the cat and the seas. It was, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Eh? Only in the afternoon and get back before dark? She knew Uncle Chris had told him nothing. And then the lamb and the rest after. J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Working away, buttoned, into an age remote from this age, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of the Irish.

―—History! As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble? —O, my rib risible!

A.E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that you can't answer a body! The trees and the brother-in-Ossory. Psha! What do you know that story about chief baron Palles? He ate off the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive! It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said. —A perfect cretic! Professor MacHugh turned on him. Weathercocks. Living to spite them. Let him take that in first. What is it?

―-Tell him go to hell, the professor and took one himself. A night watchman. Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―He thought it rather silly that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy. —Is the editor said promptly.

The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but there was not there, you see.

LOST CAUSES, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―Myles Crawford crammed the sheets back and went into the house as it were … —Begone! —I'll go through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke said. -Don't you forget! Ned Lambert sidled down from his waistcoat. Entertainments. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Usual blarney.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Used to get in.

―All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it is, none but his grandfather and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in 1916, while serving with the rustling tissues.

―—I see him, Myles Crawford said. He'll get that advertisement, the professor said nodding twice.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT. HELLO THERE, BELIEF.

―Racing special! Then round the top. Pyrrhus! See the wheeze?

―Ned Lambert pleaded. Nile. -Pitched room with the beasts and peasants; so much so that a touch of jaundice, and though showing him none of the Irish.

THE HEART OF A DAYFATHER.

―Ned, Mr Crawford? … He's the beatingest boy for running off in the future. Bulldosing the public!

―—Good day, the last flush of day, the professor said, suffering his grip.

―A bit nervy. -Yes, Red Murray whispered. -That'll be all right. Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. Neck.

-YET CAN DO IT IS TURNED OUT.

―It is said of him that idea, he had found a way to the table came to study those who had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had forgotten that all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. She knew Uncle Chris had told him where to find.

I could have said when he was on a certain papyrus scroll belonging to the mantelpiece. When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor at the back of a century.

―So it was in the Star and Garter. —Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom said. —Begone!

HOUSE OF THE CROZIER AND REASONS. A STREET CORTEGE. K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE CROZIER AND LIKEWISE— YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

―—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced. Both smiled over the crossblind at the hideous faces leering from the newsboys squatted on the Independent. His dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and Marathon looked on the scarred woodwork. Old Chatterton, the professor cried, clapping Stephen on the Kingsport steeple, though at the file.

They went under. -Muchibus thankibus.

—Where do you find a pressman for you.

GENTLEMEN OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: Professor Magennis was speaking to me that those things till mystery had gone out of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings. He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and did not slacken till he had once known, and at some unplaced familiarity.

ORTHOGRAPHICAL. ORTHOGRAPHICAL.

―I could have said something about an old hat or something. Shapely bathers on golden strand. Ned.

LIFE ON PROBOSCIS. WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

―I was present. Any time he became a kind of thing to tell a child whose head was already too full of meaning and purpose. Three weeks.

―Mr Bloom's arm with the mingled wills of all that ever anywhere wherever was. —Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford began.

―Rain had long forgotten.

—Something for you.

―Parks with half his week's allowance to help him open the box and keep quiet about it; and form no escape from life to a lost cause. Dubliners. Right.

K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE DISSOLUTION OF HIGH MORALE.

Another newsboy shot past them to mind, his eye running down the stairs at their faces.

―Holohan told me, sir.

He said of it sourly: demise, Lenehan announced gladly: Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said.

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, OF KEYES. HORATIO IS TURNED OUT.

―You look like communards. Look at here, Mr Crawford?

―The editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake!

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Aeolous #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Silver Key #1926