#but the people at the grove held him in such high regard...it was like he wasn't a person anymore. just a “leader.”

[forcedhesitation]

it’s completely bananas to me that halsin's sex scene features a moment where he somehow loses control of his druidic powers and wildshapes into a bear, because he’s apparently that horny. like...gale had to be infected with a mindflayer tadpole for him to make mistakes in his spellcasting, even though he already carried a small nuclear bomb of evil, weave-consuming magic in his chest. what THE fuck is halsin’s excuse? like, as funny as it is for an archdruid to be so overcome with lust upon seeing a tdick that he loses his grip on his abilities, it makes absolutely no sense! what do you mean that this guy has enough power to open a portal to the shadowfell, and rescue a little fey boy from it, but he can't control his wildshaping because "bear horny?" HUH?

#bg3 #thoughts about media #the more I think about halsin and SH. the more I grow resentful of their writer in specific. #genuinely. what the hell was this guy thinking. #like how is this scene meant to be sexy? #as a monsterfucker- I GET the appeal of a man fighting his “inner beast” to be with his partner. #but it doesn't come across that way in the halsin scene. it feels...silly? nonsensical? #he's an extremely powerful druid....losing control of his wildshape because he's aroused makes him look...immature. #is the appeal of halsin not that he is an experienced but lonely older man? #when confessing to your player character- he expresses his appreciation for the care with which the PC has treated him. #which I LOVED because it developed upon that initial dialogue of his where he reveals how alone he really is! #his family is all gone...so he only had the grove. #but the people at the grove held him in such high regard...it was like he wasn't a person anymore. just a “leader.” #it makes perfect sense to me that he would fall for someone who treats his feelings as important...who treats him like a person! #but the sex scene devolves so rapidly into...god...something out of a badly written fanfic? #honestly- forget the wildshaping. your PC should have had the opportunity to top halsin. #it would have made MUCH more sense given why he's even attracted to your PC in the first place.

[ichorai]

mishipeshu ; namor.

read part one ; amor.

pairing ; namor x mutant!gn!reader

synopsis ; one rotten fruit does not mean the entire grove is to be thrown away.

words ; 2.0k

themes ; angst, fluff, mutant au, married au

warnings / includes ; black panther: wakanda forever spoilers, more or less a sequel to this fic, reader is a mutant and can transform into a creature known as the mishipeshu, mentions of colonizers and mutant bigotry, descriptions of blood and injuries

main masterlist.

Pain was not a feeling you were unfamiliar with. 

Your entire life, pain followed just behind you like a dark, stormy cloud hanging over your head. It was there when you left Talokan for the surface-world. It was there when the humans turned against you once they found out you were a mutant. It was there when Namor found you amongst them.

And for a short period of time, Namor acted as a barrier to the constant pain—a salve to your wounds. With him, you had duped yourself into thinking that the pain was gone. 

Now, as you stared him down with wide eyes and a clenched jaw, you realized just how foolish you’d been.

“You want to attack Wakanda…” you said, deathly calm, “because they won’t fight your war with the surface world?”

Narrowing his eyes, Namor stepped closer to you. The vibranium-tipped spear clutched in his fist glinted menacingly—you were lucky to have caught him just before his strike on Wakanda. “They killed our people.”

“In self defense!” you retaliated, throwing your arms up. “You were going to kill the girl! She is a kid!”

“I knew it,” your husband sneered. “I knew you still cared for the land-dwellers. After all they’ve done to you!”

There it was. Pain flared within your chest, crawling through the crevices of your ribcage and winding taut. The deep scars that ran down your abdomen and legs never went away, not after all this time—not even with your mutant powers. They were a reminder of their hatred. Of why you left with Namor and came back to Talokan.

“One rotten fruit does not mean the entire grove is to be thrown away, mi amor,” you whispered. Tears pricked the corner of your vision, and you swallowed the heavy lump in your throat. Head held high, you swam over to him, closing the short distance between the two of you. You placed a hand on his chest, just above where his heart laid. “Do not do this. You spared me when we first met—you showed me mercy. Do not tell me the person I fell in love with is gone.”

Conflict warred within his dark irises. This was tearing him apart, you could see it as clear as day. He gazed upon you with part frustration, and part longing. 

For you, only for you, did he take a second to reconsider. 

After a lengthy pause, he spoke again. “If I do not stop them now… we will never be safe from them.”

It seemed that his mind was made. 

“Is this what you want to be?” you spat out, stumbling away from him. “A king that rules through fear? The almighty K’uk’ulkan?” The last word was practically dripping with venomous animosity. 

“I love my people,” hissed Namor. It seemed like he wanted to get closer, but he stopped when you only drew yourself further away. “I love… I love you, mi vida.”

Scoffing, you shook your head. “Perhaps you do. But not more than your hatred for the surface-dwellers.”

The stagnant silence that stretched between the two of you was thick, bordering on torturous. Your husband could only helplessly stare at you. 

“I’m not going to let you attack an entire nation for protecting themselves.” Your words shattered the fragile quiet, like a hammer through glass. Namor’s eyes hardened. The fingers on his spear flexed.

“You can’t stop me,” he warned, uncharacteristically soft.

“I can die trying,” you replied, determined. 

Without having to vocalize it, you knew he was pleading with you to stand down. He tilted his head, regarding you with a wounded expression of betrayal. “You would die for them?”

“No, amor. I would die for you.” Locking your jaw, you rolled your shoulders and morphed into your mutant form—a Mishipeshu, as the land-dwellers called you.

And with that, you lunged. 

You dove at him with unsheathed claws, catching him by surprise and raking your talons down his face with a snarl. Despite his initial shock, he recovered quickly, effortlessly dodging your second strike, grabbing the dagger-like ridges on your spine, and yanking you back out of his way. 

“I will not fight you!” your husband roared. There were deep, jagged gashes running down the side of his face from where you scratched him, steadily leaking dark ichor and dissipating out into the ocean water. It broke your heart to see one of his pointed ears bleeding profusely—it seemed one of your claws had torn clean through half of the cartilage. 

His words fell upon deaf ears.

You swooped downward, sharp fangs sinking into the meat of his shin until you heard a sick crack of his bones cave in with the pressure, and you jerked back, trying to put as much distance between him and the shore as you could. An ear-splitting bellow erupted from his lungs at the pain, but you didn’t let go, only clamping down harder. The bitter taste of his blood hitting your tongue nearly made you gag with revulsion. Your spiked tail, thick and lined with scales the color of fire, was quick to come around and wrap tightly over Namor’s neck as you swam as quickly as you could.

Deep down, you knew there was no way you could hold him off, but you couldn’t ever live with yourself if you at least didn’t try to stop him. The Mishipeshu was more than twice his size, sure, but Namor had the strength of a thousand Talokan fighters combined. 

Sudden pain erupted through your front paw and a caterwaul of fury echoed from your lungs upon seeing his vibranium spear sticking out of webbed foot. Namor grabbed your tail, now limp around his throat, and shoved you away once more, ripping the staff out of your flesh.

“DON’T!” he ordered when you growled, preparing to jump at him once again. The wounds you’d inflicted on his shin and the broken bone made him swim with a minor limp, though you knew that must’ve hurt more than words could describe. “I’ve cut your tail off before—don’t make me do it again.”

It seemed all the commotion alerted the rest of the Talokan warriors nearby and they were by his side in an instant. They pointed their vibranium-arrowed staffs at you, fanning out around your husband. 

Namor studied you for a minute longer, noticing the genuine fear flicker behind the amber eyes of your Mishipeshu form. Slowly, you morphed back to your Talokan form—a clear sign of surrender. 

“I love you, mi amor,” you said to him with a trembling voice, despite the dozens of warriors and spears between you. “Never forget that.”

Swiftly, you turned and swam away. Away from Talokan, away from the war, away from him. You left a trail of blood in your wake, seeping from the gaping hole in your foot. 

“Stop,” Namor barked at the Talokan as they began advancing after you. “Let them go.” They halted immediately. There was a war to win—and he’d fight it with or without you. 

His own words rang in his head.

Let them go.

He found you on the warm beaches of Angola.

It’d been a year since you left Talokan.

He watched you from the ocean as you walked along the shore, stopping every so often to pick up small sea shells. It was a good thing it was nighttime, or else you would’ve seen him lurking amongst the clear waters. 

Perhaps a year ago, he would’ve stormed right up to you, wrapped his arms around you in a way that seemed almost foreign to him now, kissed you until the sun rose once more.

But he was a changed man now. 

He spent an entire year searching—and he knew better than to scare you away like that.

So he waited. 

A couple hours later, the early morning stained the sky with a tangerine haze, and you stepped out of your small beach-side hut in a matching orange tank-top. Around your neck were the seashells you collected the day prior, clacking against your sternum with each step as you made your way back to the shore. There was a figure among the horizon, and initially, you had just assumed it was an ambitious surfer, or a deep-sea diver of some sorts. 

But as the figure grew closer, you began to recognize the dark silhouette. After all—you fell asleep beside the very same body every night for years. 

When your husband emerged from the waters, you stood your ground, staring him down as he strode towards you. Droplets of water meandered down his tan skin, dripping down onto the fine golden sand. The vibranium jewelry he wore shone beneath the daylight, unchanged from when you last saw him.

You noted, with particular interest, that he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“Took you a while to find me,” you said, so quietly that your words were nearly lost to the whispering wind. 

He studied you silently, dark eyes roaming over you, soaking you in. You’d changed quite a bit—hair cut significantly shorter than it used to be, a few more sun-kissed freckles spotting your skin, and a small tattoo etched into your bicep depicting a pointed ear. But you were still the same in many more ways; your eyes were wide, just like the way they always were when you were watching him, the small, faded scar on your jaw was still there, and you still had that gentle slope to your lips that Namor was never able to resist kissing.

Noticing his gaze directed at your tattoo, you shifted slightly so he could see it better.

“I had it tattooed so you’d always be with me, in a way,” you said, a hesitant smile gracing your lips. 

He stepped closer to you, still quiet.

“K’uk’ulkan—” you started, but he lifted a finger, effectively silencing you.

“Amor,” he croaked out, voice hoarse. “You call me amor.”

And then, he kissed you. It was nearly visceral, how he hooked his arm around your abdomen, and tucked his other hand against the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he leaned into you. His nose knocked into yours almost painfully, but neither of you minded. Both of your hands were splayed over his chest, digging your nails into his pectorals, brushing against his warm jewelry. You trembled against him, a scalding tear slipping down your cheek, mingling with the salt water still dripping down his hair. 

“I missed you… so much, mi vida,” he whispered once you parted ways, his forehead slanting over yours as he gazed at you with blatant affection. “I am so sorry—I was blind with hatred. And I didn’t want to listen to you because I thought backing down from a fight was weak. I didn’t know that living with that… that anger, and being merciful to your enemies is the strongest thing a leader can do. Shuri had every opportunity to end my life a year ago. She wanted to—I could see it in her eyes. But she didn’t. And for the longest time, I was left wondering why. I realized that if we succumbed to our hatred, we would be no better than the surface-colonizers. You were right, mi vida. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, amor,” you uttered, breathless, snaking your arms over his neck and pressing your nose against the column of his throat as you embraced him, breathing in his scent. He smelled of sunlight, of coconuts, of salt. How you missed him. “I missed you, too. I love you so much.”

He grasped your chin between his pointer finger and thumb, lifting your face so he could meet your gaze. He kissed you again, softer this time, his septum piercing grazing your cheek.

“Come home,” he mumbled, gently stroking your jaw with the back of his fingers. “Come back to Talokan, Mishipeshu.”

You bowed your head, hiding a brilliant smile. “If you’ll have me, K’uk’ulkan.”

#namor x reader #namor fanfiction #namor fanfic #marvel fanfiction #namor imagine #namor drabble #namor angst #namor fluff #namor x you #black panther fanfiction

[averagedeadinsomniac]

"𝕴𝖙'𝖘 𝕬 𝕻𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘 𝕷𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝕸𝖊" | potc! Jack x reader

Chapter- 2 |𝘼𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙡

chapter-1||chapter-2||chapter-3||chapter-4

He hauled her up to atop the mast along with him. The winds blew on there faces along with the salt of the sea. Together they stared out to the on coming land approaching rapidly, they weren't far now. Time passed and Jack jumped back down to the boat with a splash. Water had begun to fill up the ship and Jack grabbed  a nearby pale and begun shoveling water out of the boat and back into the ocean. Something had caught  their eye when they went by rocks groves. There had been a wooden pillar with hanging corpes of long dead pirates shown from the bear bones and the rags they had on. A sign hung beside them warning "Pirates, ye be warned". In honor, Jack took off his hat and placed it along his heart, showing some respect and tapping his head with his fingers showing how it was a bit of a over kill.

They approached the port along with other boats and ships supplying themselves for their next journey. People stared at the two as if they were two lunatics. 

Well to some point they were

Jack had joined Echo atop the miniature crows nest. The boat was now sinking into the harbor water and when the reached a dock the both set foot without a care, walking away when they hears a voice. "wha-? Hold up there you two!" Echo groaned as they both turned around.  The docksman speedily walked to them. "It's a shilling to tie up your boat to the dock." They looked back to the sunken bot that was deemed. useless now. "- And I shall need to know the owners name." Jack reached into his pocket, a few things jingling and pulled out three coins. "What do you say to three shillings, and we forget the names" Jack placed the coins on the book he held. The dockman though about it for a moment and the boy beside him shrugged his shoulders. He closed the book encasing the coins and greeted "Welcome to port royal Mr and Miss Smith". The two walked away bouting to turn the corner when Echo snatched a small pouch standing on a podium shacking the bag.

The town was buzzing. People all around gossiped and chatted about the ceremony announcing to the rising of the soon to be Commodore Norrington along with is proposal to the governors daughter. Music could be heard playing in the background well as marching. they made their way to under the docks to see a nearby boat. An upgrade from their previous accommodations. Two guards rushed in front of them, blocking off the path way to the boat. "This dock is off-limits to civilians." Im terribly sorry. I didn't know. If I see one, I shall inform you immediately." Jack regarded and tried to walk pass but they blocked him once more and Jack raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps there's some high-toned and fancy to-do at the fort, eh?" 

""How could it be that two upstanding genteel men such as yourselves did not merit an invitation?" Echo said in a tone entrancing the men abit.  "W-We have to make sure this dock stays off-limits to the civilians miss." Murtogg spoke fixing himself. "It's a fine goal to be sure, but it seems to me a ship like that-" Jack began again and the men moved again "makes this one here a bit superfluous, really." He said pointing at a ship that was not too far off in the distance. "Ah, the Dauntless is the power in these waters, true enough" "But no ship can match the Intercepter for speed" The Mullroy. "I've" heard of one. It's suppose to be fast, nigh uncatchable"

"The Black Pearl"

Echo whispered. The men look to each other and the first man laughs. "There's no real ship as can match the Intercepter" The Mullroy looks at him. "The Black Pearl is a real ship"Mullroy continues to laugh. "No. No it's not" "Yes it is. I've seen it" Murtogg The second defends. "You've seen it?" "yes". The two continue to argue in front of the pair as Jack rolled his eyes a bit. "So you've seen a ship with black sails, that's crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that hell itself spat him back out."  "No"  "-But I have seen a ship with black sails." Echo slowly stepped away to the boat the were once guarding and Jack was close after. After they finished one man said

 "Like I said, there's no real ship that can match the speed of the Intercep-" When he went too look back at the two he realize they weren't sending there anymore. They looked to the ship and saw Jack at the wheel examining it and Echo just standing off a bit. They quickly ran to the ship with their guns point

 "Hey! You!"

Jack looked over with an exaggeratedly look of innocents and surprise with his hands resting on the wheel. They ran across the connecting ramp pointing their guns threateningly at them. "Get away from there! You don't have permission to be aboard there, mate!" Mullroy warns. "I'm sorry, it's just, it's such a pretty boat- ship!" He corrects himself holding his hand. "Whats your name?" Murtogg demanded. "Smith. Or Smithy if you like. Then little ladies name is Vivian." Jack explained waving his hands. "Whats your business in Port Royal, 'Mr. Smith' ?" "Yeah, and no lies!" Murtogg added.

"Well then. We confess." Echo sighed dramatically.

"It is our intention to commandeer one of these ships, pick up a crew in Tortuga, raid, pillage, plunder and otherwise pilfer our measly black guts out."

.

.

.

" I said no lies"

"I think they're telling the truth."

"If they were telling the truth he wouldn't have told us"

"Unless of course, we knew you wouldn't believe the truth even if they told it to you."

______________________

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If you buy me a Ko-Fi I'll be sure to give you a shoutout. Just tell me your account

#potc #pirates of the caribbean #pirates #yo ho ho #oc #jack sparrow x you #x reader #jack sparrow x reader #William turner #elizabeth swann #pirates x reader #pirates of the carribean x reader

[ejzah]

Can you do a Drabble about alternate events regarding the Mexico Hit List where either Kensi or Deeks are attacked or kidnapped. It always bothered me that story ended way too quickly.

A/N: Once again, this has been sitting in my inbox for way too long. I had to go back and refresh my memory on that storyline. This starts out rather light, so don’t caught off-guard.

***

Caught Off-Guard

“You know what, I changed my mind,” Deeks decided, dipping his head to press a kiss to the top of Kensi’s head. Her arm rested on his back beneath his jacket and he tugged her into his side as they walked.

It was a cool night out, at least in LA terms, and perfect for an evening walk in the park.

“Changed your mind about what?” she asked, sounding relaxed and happy.

“We should have a cake at our wedding.” Kensi gasped at him and smacked his chest.

“Really? After the giant stink you made about no one liking wedding cake?”

“That might be a slight exaggeration...”

“You said people would rather have a giant Rice Krispie treat instead,” Kensi reminded him. They’d stopped in front of a bench and she turned to face him, hands on her hips.

“Ok, maybe I did, but in my defense, I was just cranky because I was on a sugar high.” He took her hand, squeezing it until her upper lip started to twitch. “I actually really liked the mango. That was freaking delicious,” he said.

Shaking her head in apparent disbelief, she used her free hand to poke him the chest.

“You are ridiculous and I should totally choose something that you hate. Like the coconut or caramel.”

“Oh god, please not the caramel,” he groaned.

“It would serve you right.”

Narrowing his eyes, he shifted closer, watching Kensi’s eyes darken.

“I bet I could persuade you with, uh, my charms.” He dropped his voice on the last word and was rewarded when Kensi finally smiled, looping both arms around his waist.

“Hm, that all depends on what you mean by “charms”,” Kensi said.

“Well, I was thinking about that thing I did last week that made you-” Something flashed behind Kensi and he instinctively grabbed her arm, yanking her into a grove of bushes. “Get down!” he shouted just before a bullet flew past them, burying itself in a nearby tree.

He placed himself between the Kensi and the line of fire, tugging his gun free from his waistband.

“Did you see who it was?” she hissed, holding her own gun as she crouched as low as possible. He shook his head, swallowing harshly.

“I don’t know. I just saw a gun.”

Pulling in a steadying breath, he chanced a glance above the lowest bush.

“Crap.” There’s about five guys out there with major fire power. Even as he said it, a round gunfire ripped through the foliage around them. He winced drawing his body inward instinctively.

“The cartel,” Kensi said.

“That would be my guess.” She knelt beside him, giving him a slow nod, and then he popped above up, firing twice. He saw one man fall before he ducked down again and Kensi took his place.

Bits of branches and leaves flew around them as bullets sprayed around them. Something fiery sliced through his upper arm and when he glanced down, blood spreading down his sleeve.

“Son of a-”

Kensi glanced back at him in concern, but he waved her off, ignoring the pain as he pulled his cell from his pocket.

“I wouldn’t do that Detective,” a gravely voice warned. He turned slowly as Kensi stilled, her gun still held in mid-air. Three of the men he’d seen before surrounded them, automatic rifles aimed directly at his and Kensi’s heads.

“Can I help you gentleman?” Deeks drawled to cover his pounding heart. Kensi discretely grasped his the back of his shirt, her fingers tense and he knew she was trying to think of a plan of escape.

“Where are Shay and Derrick Mosley,” the man demanded. He was tall and built like Sam, his face expressionless as he glared down at them.

“No idea,” Kensi said firmly. “She left without telling us anything.”

“Then that’s very unfortunate for you.” Jerking his head over his shoulder, the lead man took a step towards them. Deeks blindly reached for Kensi’s hand, gripping it briefly, knowing he was about to do something incredibly stupid.

***

A/N: Again, sorry for the wait. Thanks for the prompt!

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #densi #hit list AU #drama #Deeks whump #anonymous prompt #ejzah fanfiction

[some-dr-writings]

Kokichi and Kiibo x the SHSL Strategist

Kokichi Oma:

·       You were a fascinating case to Kokichi. Despite being called the Super High School Level Strategist, no matter how hard he looked, he saw no sign of your talent anywhere. You never went about doing things in the most efficient way, you seemed to only be average in games like chess or backgammon, you didn’t even seem interested in anything that used much cognitive activity, most daydreaming in class, the teacher having to go to extremes to regain your attention. Your eyes were never focused, always just staring off in the distance at something only you perceived. You were also oblivious of your surroundings, often bumping into things or tripping and falling over. What exactly were you always day dreaming of he wondered.

·       At first he pulled some pranks on you, quickly escalating in intensity, but you never seemed to notice. He soon just started following you. Mimicking your actions, wondering if he could understand you better through this. Well, he learned you walked a lot. You’d often wander off campus, just going wherever your feet lead you. Sometimes you’d find your way onto a construction site and balance along those surprisingly thin beams, other times you’d slip onto a ship, sit on the railing and lean back, looking to the sky or the bridges the boat passed under. When you’d inevitably get caught, you never acted guilty of sneaking aboard, nor did you act like you had no idea where you were, “I just happen to be here.” Was the only explanation you’d ever give.

·       You never spoke much either, you’d only answer questions, and those questions were always met with no response or single sentences.

·       It was so strange it was as if you were here, yet not at the same time. You were aware of your surroundings, and not.

·       Wanting to learn more, he kept following you, wherever you went, no matter how far or downright dangerous the path you tread or how long it had been since either of you last slept or ate. He kept following. You found so many beautiful sights in the most unexpected of places. Some hidden grove in a park, amongst the scaffolding of a draw up bridge, atop the roof of some person’s house, hidden away in an abandoned town where plants had begun to take over, a railway that ran along a lake where the city in the distance appeared to float atop it.

·       One time the pair of you sat atop a tram for a while. Kokichi reflect on his time with you. You had met a lot of people, many were very kind, some not so, but… those kind acts outshone the bad so much. It was rather nice seeing. “Sometimes, you need to be reminded the world is not as bad as others try to make you think.” Kokichi’s gaze snapped to you. For a moment he thought he was hearing things before you turned to him. “Thanks for reminding me of that.” You smiled, holding you hand out to him. “Uh, you know my name, but I never introduced myself. My name, it’s Y/N.” With a beaming smile, and wide sparkling eyes Kokichi took your hand into both of his. “I’m Oma Kokichi!”

·       You began to talk sometimes, mostly little comments about your surroundings. At school you started approaching him, but you’d simply watch mindlessly. “Hey, Y/N, what do you think?” Laying on his bed, crayon in hand he turned to you, presenting his sketch book. You looked to him inquisitively before pointing to yourself. “Yeah silly! Show me your talent! I want to see the ultimate strategist at work!” “… But it won’t be fun anymore.” “Huh?” You pointed to the sketchbook. “If I think, if my head’s not empty, you won’t have fun. Making the plan is fun, but if I think, I’ll get everything done in the best way, there’ll be no surprises or challenges. I’ll forget people are people and not board pieces again.”

·       So that was why…

·       After that Kokichi started asking for your input more and more. He’d keep you up all night, making scheme after scheme together. Eventually you gave in and went all out when planning. You were brilliant, terrifyingly, spine-chillingly so, getting the most amount of victims while using the least amount of materials, even sketching out escape routes. If Kokichi didn’t know any better, he would have thought you were a completely different person with how you so logically chatted away, going through your thinking processes and explaining everything in such detail while still being engaging, but… Kokichi knew you. This was the side of yourself you feared, always trying to run away from. After all, in a world of pure logic, if your mind was always buzzing with how most efficiently to do things, likely, you’d be awfully bored and lonely, you could maybe even do something crazy because of that maddening boredom like destroy the whole world over night.

·       Kokichi would follow your plans, but sometimes, he’d add some twist, not tell you completely what he was planning, and he managed to even catch you off guard a few times and you became his sole victim. You soon took to trying to out smart him, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. You were much more present after that. You’d freely speak with others, always so cheerily smiling. Sometimes you overly pragmatic side would seep out, which when left unchecked could scare others and yourself with how little regard you held for others, but you managed to hold it back most of the time.

·       One day during one of your many escapades off the campus you and Kokichi were loving the view sitting atop the bus, that was till some cops spotted you. Kokichi took your hand and the pair of you ran. The pair of you used your surroundings to your advantage and managed to lose then, but your excited laughter kept giving your location away. You only managed to escape when you dashed into a train just as it was leaving the station. You and Kokichi kept giggling to yourselves watching as you sped past the cops. “That was so exciting!” “Yeah, yeah! We should do that again!” “Great idea! My goodness we should have started this long ago! We could have been running all this time instead of just being caught, but I guess the younger me probably wouldn’t have seen the point, but I had no idea this could be so fun!” You looked to him, a light blush spreading on your cheeks as you hesitantly squeezed his hand. “Everything is always so fun and exciting with you. No matter what it is. Heh, heh. At this point I can’t tell if it’s just because you are you or because I have a crush on you.” You chuckled at yourself, finding this situation rather silly, not noticing how Kokichi was a giggling mess, hugging and nuzzling into you. “Aw~ Y/N~ You just made the WORST mistake in your life. You’re stuck with me now! I like you too.”

   Kiibo:

·       You hummed thinking over the question. “Well, Humans as a whole, as a collective are predictable. That’s how I can misdirect people, lead them away so I can be the only person in line and just get my shopping done with. Such predictability is so boring, and sad. The only excitement I can find anymore is interacting with others on an individual basis, learn of their past, see if they’ll open up to me, find out what makes them tick, when in the context of interpersonal relationships, each person is so unique and unpredictable. It’s the only excitement I can find anymore honestly. Connecting with others. It may seem cold, like I only see others as entertainment, but… Hmm, I’m not sure how to explain it any other way. Even if I don’t like a person, I still want to get to know them, who knows, maybe I’ll find some trait in them I could admire, you’ll never know till you try! So, even if I’m more fond of certain individuals, I want to know everyone, and everyone deserves to be treated with decency, you never know what exactly others have been through, it could possibly make their day if you treat them like a fellow human being.”

·       You were a social butterfly, always smiling and friends or were at least on friendly terms with just about everyone. You always were able to read people. You were everyone’s confidant, their best friend. Kiibo was quite impressed with how you were able to keep up with everyone. It did get him to wonder though… Did you like anyone more than the other? Like, say, have a crush on anyone, like how he had a crush on you? You didn’t seem to have a biases towards anyone, but… could you maybe? And that was your answer, the answer of the Super High School Level Strategist.

·       You were so smart, able to manipulate people. You weren’t that great at battle tactics or making plans or at board games, but you absolutely knew how to control the masses. You understood people, their emotions, their thoughts. This fascinated Kiibo, you seemed to be what Kiibo wished he were. He was still learning about people and himself, about emotions and how it could relate too and affected logic. Kiibo was desperate to learn all he could from you, and about you. You seemed to see emotions in a logical way, a way most other people didn’t seem to perceive it as. “Oh, well, a good way to start is to see things from their perspective and position.”

·       It was not often, but when Kiibo got a moment alone with you, he always learned so much and had fun. In the moment he didn’t think of it, but he wondered. Since you treated everyone the same, even those you didn’t like… Was he your friend? Did you, in fact, not like him at all? He certainly liked you, but… he had no idea what you thought of him, at all. And would you even tell him the truth if he asked? Would you lie so you could still be with him and learn more about him? The more he thought about it, he soon realized that he had a crush on the you he had made in his mind, not… not the real you, whoever that was. Then as he thought more on it, he wondered if you were lonely. If you had any real friends. Were you happy like this? You said that connecting with others was the only excitement you had anymore, so what if you weren’t happy, but this was just the best you could find…

·       How were you… the real you, he wondered.

·       And so he had a new resolve to know you. “You connect with others, but what about the other way around? Do others know you?” “Well, people are more inclined to open up if the other does so too.” “But how deep is that connection! Does anyone really know you?” “… What’s gotten you so curious?” You leaned your elbows on your desk, resting your chin on the back of your interlaced fingers. “I want to know you, the mastermind behind the strategist seeking excitement.” Your gaze sharpened, turning to something dark. It wasn’t much, so simple, just the tiniest shift in expression and yet that single look terrified him. You also smiled, a smile practically inviting him with how naturally kind it was. “I’d like to see you try.” There was a light chuckle bubbling up in your voice as you spoke. It was deadly serious and threatening, yet playful.

·       Though slightly confused and scared Kiibo went ahead befriending you again. You wondered what Kiibo would find out. What he would think of you. This was certainly not a development you were expecting, you were curious to see where this would lead.

·       And so this sort of game between you and Kiibo began. And well… Kiibo only fell for you the more and more he got to know you. Nothing about you was fake. You were able to appease others and get to know them while still being honest with yourself. You used your skill set so much without other’s notice, mostly stopping fights before they could even begin. You also acted a little differently with Kiibo than with others. You were a bit colder and more methodical while still having that warmth in your voice. Everything, your entire world, was logical. Every last aspect was like that.

·       It was a bit of a slow process through. Despite being able to so fluidly move through any social situation, you didn’t feed off of it, in fact it drained you being an introvert. You liked people, but you couldn’t stand to be with too many for too long. It was also a very slow process for you to open up. You were blunt and honest, like Kiibo himself, but you didn’t just freely share yourself, a sort of unspoken trust had to be built up before you’d go into more detail.

·       With Kiibo and you spending so much time with one another everyone just sort of assumed the pair of you just started dating. It also certainly didn’t help that Kiibo became a flustered, blushing mess when you were teased about it. “I mean, it only makes sense, ANYONE can see we’re crushing on each other.” “W-w-w-w-wait! Hold on a second! You, you know, and like me too!?” You smiled, leaning over and kissing his forehead. “What do you think?” Your smile only grew as you started to snicker seeing Kiibo’s blush grow.

#kokichi oma #kokichi ouma #kiibo #keebo #k1b0 #kokichi x reader #kokichi oma x reader #kokichi ouma x reader #kiibo x reader #keebo x reader #k1b0 x reader #Mod Gundham #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #danganronpav3 #New Danganronpa V3 #danganronpa imagine #danganronpa imagines #danganronpa v3 imagines #danganronpa v3 imagine #dr imagine #dr imagines #dr v3 imagine #dr v3 imagines #danganronpa x reader

[margoshansons]

Desperate Measures: 16/?

MASTERLIST

Summary: Things between Finn and Y/N get tense as they search for their friends and come across an unwanted visitor.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, guns, swearing

Notes: based on 2x03 “Reapercussions”

***

“Your dad isn’t very happy with me.” Bellamy spoke beside her, his gaze trained on the forest in front of them. Y/N scoffed, “Yeah, well Marcus isn’t happy with me either.” She shoved the growing unease back down into her stomach, weighing her body down as she struggled forward, her leg giving her more trouble than she expected.

“Add that to the short list of things we have in common” Bellamy smiled, jostling her shoulder playfully. She threw a tight lipped tug back at him, unsure how to interpret the sentence he had just uttered.

Did he really think they had that little in common? After the battle with the grounders she thought they had come to an understanding, at least. Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe they were just friends.

Nothing more.

Maybe he had been lying when Murphy had hung him.

“Alright Murphy” Bellamy shuffled to a stop in the middle of a grove of trees, “where to next?”

Murphy bit the inside his cheek before offering up his hands, “I say we lose these first, alright?”

“No” Bellamy and Y/N uttered at the same time, the latter rolling her eyes at Murphy’s snickering expression.

“So, finishing each other’s thoughts now are we?” Murphy shot at the pair, the two leaders sharing an annoyed gaze as he continued, “Look, if we get caught out here, I have nothing to defend myself with.”

Y/N grumbled to herself, sighing as she snapped back, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Murphy moved to place his bound hands on her arm, throwing them up at the sight of Bellamy pointing his pistol at the prisoner, “Hey relax, just wanted to remind sparky of our precious time in the dropship,”

“Every time I walk you remind me of our special time in the ship” Y/N spoke, sarcasm dripping off her tongue as she gestured to her leg, the bound wound still throbbing in pain. Before Murphy could respond, Finn moved forward, using a knife to cut the bonds.

“What the hell?” Bellamy asked, speaking the exact thoughts that were running through her head.

Finn’s cold eyes locked with Bellamy’s blazing ones, the two men experiencing similar emotions on the opposite side of the scale. “It was your idea to bring him, and we have to keep moving.” His voice had lowered, gruff and commanding as he took the lead, leaving the rest of the group staring after him.

Y/N creased her eyebrows. Finn wasn’t like this. He never had been. So what changed him? She turned toward Bellamy for answers only to see him shove Murphy in the back, sending him tumbling forward as they continued the search for their friends.

Every step she took felt like it was agony, the painkillers Abby had given her were close to wearing off, and she hadn’t brought that many in her jacket pockets. She leaned her weight against a tree, pulling out the pills she had packed in the small pockets of the blue jacket, devastated to find that the bottle was empty.

Y/N closed her eyes, hanging in her head as she bit her lip to ward off the pain. It had reached her hip now, spreading through the right side of her body.

“Here” A familiar voice reached her ears and she lifted her gaze to the clear bottle of pills being rattled at her. Bellamy’s eyes smiled softly, almost pleading with her to take them. She didn’t need to be told twice. She downed the painkillers along with the cool water collected in her canteen, ignoring the worried gaze from Bellamy.

“Stop that” She threw out, capping her canteen as she hooked it onto her pack once again. Bellamy shifted his gaze, throwing an innocent expression on his face, “Stop what?”

She lifted an eyebrow, a skeptical gaze meeting his playful one, “Stop looking at me like I’m going to break.”

“Just let me look at your leg,” Bellamy sighed, ignoring her previous statement, “Please?” Knowing he would never give up, she made a point to sigh as loud as possible before sliding down the tree, extending her leg out for Bellamy to look at as he called after the group.

“Five minute break!” he announced, leaning down to untie the wound, revealing the hole still torn in her pants. A gasp of pain left Y/N’s lips as the wind gently flew past her now open wound, the crescent shaped hole reddening from the inflamation.

The blood had dried around her thigh, but the stitching was threatening to break apart if she moved any further. Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Abby’s sloppy job, knowing that she probably did it minutes before she had woken up.

“Before you say anything,” Y/N told Bellamy through gritted teeth, “I know how bad it looks.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Bellamy smirked, grabbing new bandages from the pack Abby had lent them. “If I was, perhaps I’d point out that Abby gave us both a salve and extra bandages, but I’m not so…” A chcukled almost forced itself out of her mouth, his dumb sarcasm allowing an escape from real life for a while.

“Why are we stopping?” Finn asked, anger streaming out of his mouth as he glared at the medical session happening before him.

Bellamy stared up at Finn, a stoic expression crossing his face. “Y/N needed to change her bandages, besides, we could all use a break.” He threw a nod at Monroe and Sterling, whose sweat gleamed as the sunlight shone on it, their breaths heavy and shallow, nodding to agree with Bellamy.

Finn’s glare shifted from Bellamy to the injured girl on the forest floor, the inflamed wound moving up and down as she breathed. “If it was so bad, she should’ve stayed home.”

She creased her eyebrows incredulously, what the fuck kind of response was that? “You asked me to come Finn!” She brought up, reminding him of how they got out in the first place, “You were the one who wanted my help breaking them out!”

“And now you’re slowing us down!” He yelled, towering over her as anger blazed through his frame, breathing deeply. “You’re becoming a liability Y/N.” He announced, his fiery demeanor evaporating until he stood there arms crossed, coldly staring at the girl on the ground.

“That’s enough.” Bellamy growled, standing up to meet the Spacewalker’s eyes, “You need to get a hold of yourself,” he whispered urgently, grasping Finn’s shoulder, “I cannot be out here with two loose cannons.”

Finn sniffed in a gesture too reminiscent of Murphy before ripping his shoulder out of Bellamy’s grasp, “I’m going to scout the area, we wrap her wound and then we go, no more stops.”

The other leader nodded, leaning back down as Finn stalked off, leaving a trail of heat as he left. A sigh of frustration left Bellamy and Y/N’s mouths as he reached for the salve, eyes darkening when he focused on her wound again.

“It’s not your fault,” She reassured him, the cool of the salve sending a wave of relief through her body. “You can’t predict what people are going to do”

Bellamy refused to meet her eyes, focusing on rewrapping the wound, Finn’s warning ringing in his ears. “I used to.” His gaze shifted toward Murphy as he said that, recalling the events regarding Charlotte.

Y/N shrugged, placing a hand on his arm, “We’re out of our element here.” She told him, a small smile cracking on her face, “War changes people Bell,” His eyes snapped up to meet hers at the sound of his nickname falling from her mouth, sliding his arm out of her grasp until his hand intertwined with hers, squeezing it for comfort as he tied off the new bandage.

***

Under any other circumstance, a candlelit bunker with Bellamy would be a dream come true (not that she would admit it), but instead they stood in a semi-circle, interrogating the one-eyed grounder who had stolen Clarke’s watch.

The same watch that Y/N now held.

The last reminder of one of her closest friends.

She palmed the relic, not wanting to let go of it as Bellamy and Finn moved closer to continue the interrogation.

“We’re gonna do this again, and this time you’re going to stop screwing with us!” Bellamy threw a punch at the grounder, unable to contain the worried rage he felt, “Where did you find that watch?”

The one-eyed man steeled his gaze, “I told you,” He spat, “I found it outside your camp.”

“He’s lying,” Finn snarled, “She would never take it off voluntarily.”

The longer haired kid grasped a fistful of hair and pulled the grounder’s head back to meet his own gaze. “I’m going to ask again.” Finn’s voice was calculated, “Where is the girl who was wearing that watch?”

The grounder spat in his face before answering the question, “There was no girl.”

Murphy scoffed, “You know maybe you should stop asking him nicely,”

Y/N whirled in rage at what he was suggesting. “We’re not torturing him,” She announced, meeting Bellamy’s gaze, “We already know that doesn’t work.”

He nodded, creasing his eyebrows in thought, “Y/N’s right,”He supported, moving closer to her, “Lincoln proved that torture does nothing.”

At the sound of her name, the grounder perked up, tilting his head at the girl. “Y/N of Skaikru.” He whispered, a sense of reverence crossing his tongue. “The natblida.” He spat, finally getting her and Bellamy’s attention.

“What the hell did you say?” Bellamy asked, Y/N shaking her head as she approached him.

“How do you know my name?” She grit her teeth, ruthlessness returning as she stared at the beaten up grounder.

His chuckle sent chills spiraling down her spine, a smirk crossing his face, “Everyone knows your name. The commander made sure of it.”

She swallowed, holding her head up high as a tense pause lingered between the two, until Finn stole the watch from Y/N’s palm, holding it up the grounder in one last attempt to get answers.

“Tell me where Clarke is” He warned, the safety of the gun clicking off as he pointed the pistol directly in between his eyes, “Or I put one in your head.”

“Finn what are you doing?” Bellamy shouted, eyes widening as the delinquent turned around, the gun now facing Bellamy’s chest.

Y/N stepped forward, “Finn, this isn’t who we are!” She screamed at him, heart racing at the thought of losing Bellamy for good this time. She placed her body in front of the pistol, ready to get shot again if it meant saving him. Her eyes pleaded, catching the crazy look in Finn’s bright eyes.

“It is now.” He announced, echoing the same words Bellamy had before they tortured Lincoln. Y/N shook her head fruitlessly until the grounder stepped in.

‘Wait!” The one eyed man called, “I- I know where your friends are. A village, east of here, where we take our prisoners of war.”

Finn returned to point the gun at the grounder once more, before instructing him to draw a map, a sigh of relief exiting Y/N’s mouth.

The group waited in a tense silence as the only sound in the bunker seemed to be the sound of crayon on paper, drawing the path to their friends.

Drawing the path to Clarke.

He ended his drawing with a flourish before handing it off to Y/N, who stared at the path, disbelief coursing through her. They were so close. They were almost reunited with Clarke, with Miller.

They would be home soon.

“What do we do with him?” Murphy asked, nobody else wanting to field the question. “If he escapes, he knows exactly where we’re going.” Y/N spun on him again, “We’re not killing him.” She spoke vehemently, refusing to execute him after he helped them.

“I don’t really see another option,” He continued to argue, “If he gets out he’ll tell his people exactly where we’re going.”

Bellamy stepped forward, “Y/N’s right, we can’t kill him.”

Murphy scoffed, “What a surprise, the king agrees with his queen.” he brought his hand up to his nose again, “You know this is going to blow back on us right?”

“He’s unarmed,” Bellamy justified, “We’ll lock the bunker, that way he can’t follow.”

“You really think that’s going to be enough?” Murphy continued to press, irritation rising in Y/N’s stomach at the argument, “What’s up with you? You’re acting like you haven’t killed a grounder.”

Bellamy was almost nose to nose with Murphy as he moved closer, “That was in battle, this would be an execut--”

The two men were cut off by a gunshot, and Y/N turned just in time to see the body of the grounder thud against the floor, Finn standing above him.

He tucked the pistol into his waistband, his eyes emotionless.

“Let’s get moving.”

***

A/N: uh ohhhhhh. also, what’s up with the grounders knowing Y/N’s name? interesting....

DM Taglist (closed): @chloe-skywalker​ @im-a-writer-right​ @clarkewithameme​ @shatteredlovesick​ @your-typical-giggle​ @rhyxn​ @amongthewildthingss​ @furiouspockettoad​ @niammain​ @cxddlyash​ @lena-davina @kaylinfayezink​ @gingerxarmy​ @super-marvel-dale​ @travelnottogoanywherebuttogo​ @nerdbookish​ @valeskasecco @strangerliaa​ @simsvetements​ @molethemollie​ @thebookisbtr​ @im-a-stranger-thing​ @jordangdelacruz​ @oopsiedoopsie23​ @multifandombookstore​ @okj232 @asian-male-enthusiast​ @minigranger​ @jooheonbee​ @libraryoffandomsuniverse​ @pancakefancake​ @weird-pale-blonde-person​

#the 100 imagine #the 100 imagines #bellamy blake imagine #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake imagines #bellamy blake x kane!reader #bellamy blake x franco!reader #reader x bellamy blake #bellamy blake x nightblood!reader #fic: desperate measures #series: desperate measures #the 100 fic #the 100 fanfic #the 100 fanfiction #bellamy blake fanfic #bellamy blake fanfiction #bellamy blake fic #otp: you have me #my fics

[alliesweetsong]

Under the Moonlight

There hadn't been a day that she could remember since the war had begun that Allue had slept all through the night. Long before she had truly been witness first hand to the horrors of war, the recurring nightmares of her encounter with a warlock plagued her sleep. Now even that single event didn't seem to phase her even on nights like this, where her body and mind refused to relax.

Despite the curtains being drawn, moonlight flooded into her room through the crease of the fabrics casting long shadows on the furniture as she stared at the wall. How long she had been awake was anybody's guess including hers. The thought alone brought a frustrated sigh from her lips while she threw the blankets from her bare form. Walking to a nearby chair she grabs the robe Rian had provided her and slips it over her shoulders, tying off the fabric around her midsection. 

Typically when she couldn’t sleep, a walk around Boralus’s waterfront would do the trick. The ships in the harbor and personnel ferrying equipment and goods on and off them seemed to bring calm to her. Right now, that wasn’t an option for the woman, but after a small stroll down the hall to check on her sleeping son, the ranger began to hear the faint melody coming from an adjacent room from a piano. Curious who could be playing at this time of the night, she lofts an eyebrow and heads towards the music. 

The magus had kept his distance from the bustle of the manor, usually tucked away in a study or his room while others waded through the common areas. Once everyone had gone to bed or so he'd thought did he take a quiet leave from the modest room. The soft thud-tap of his steps echoed along the wood floors and down the stairs to the common room below. 

Dressed in little more than dark loose breeches and an untucked linen shirt, dark unkempt tresses hung just below his shoulders. Calloused fingers hovered over the ivories of the piano, hesitant to find the peace they often brought. He'd been the image of a scholar when he'd left on his mission to research Azerite. On his return the young baron held a worn appearance, more muscle and new scars mostly mended though they served as reminders of his time in orcish captivity. 

Silence had filled the halls a long while till the absent tapping of his steps was replaced by the quiet sound of the piano coming to life in the den below. The melody was nothing overly exciting, but rather a soft thrum more fitting for the night that's fallen over the grove.

(Mood Music)

As she made her way from the nursery down the hallway in the direction of the music, Allie pulled the robe tighter to maintain a modicum of decency around whoever was flooding the home with such hauntingly beautiful melodies. As she steps into the den and spots the dark haired man behind the keyboard. The melody was soothing to her and she didn’t wish to interrupt his playing. Opting to instead to take a seat nearby and just listen to the music. 

Though Theron felt the presence enter the room, he kept on with his playing assuming it only Rian with another lecture. Pretending he'd not heard or known she was there was easier than indulging what felt like a fruitless conversation. Part of the melody picked up if only briefly before returning to its softer resonance letting his own emotion flow from his thoughts to his fingers and into the music.  The last little came slower until with a final breath the last key was struck. 

The man was quiet a long moment before canting his head to the side, speaking over his shoulder without looking back, "I'm really not in the mood for another lecture." The tone was firm but not unkind, most telling of a weary soul.

Allie just sat there entranced by the gorgeous music and skill the human was exhibiting. The song was haunting in some parts, yet exciting towards the end before she felt the emotion as the final key was struck. Lofting a brow upwards though at the statement she let the quiet linger for a few seconds before inhaling softly. 

"I don't see any reason why I should lecture you after a gorgeous piece like that." she replies softly and warmly. "Surely that will be in my head when I attempt to sleep once more." she finishes with a soft smile. 

"I don't believe we have met before, are you one of the servants here?"

Theron gazed down at the keys before the voice answered his and found it to be one he'd not expected. Turning, brows furrowed as they found the elven woman confused. Not without some sense of manners Theron took up his cane and found his feet to offer a hastened bow of his head and chest, "My apologies Miss, I thought you were my sister."

When he rose up to meet her gaze once more, "I hope I didn't wake you, I was careless and forgot we had company." Lips quirked slightly though he held a solemn gaze as she asked just who he was. He'd lost track of how long he'd been gone, expecting anyone in the home  to recognize him when he hardly recognized himself seemed a silly notion, "I am, yes." While he knew she meant something entirely different, it was in his mind the truth.

Though she looked like a High Elf, the soft spectral echo in Allie’s voice would betray what she truly was as she laughs softly and bows her head in return to his own bow. "No, atleast I don't think I'm your sister, your ears aren't long enough." she replies with a chuckle. 

"My name is Allie Sweetsong, I'm a friend of the uh, owner, Rian." she replies lofting an eyebrow unsure if she was using the proper common there. 

"Ah! that makes sense, you must play for company and such?" she replies not assuming he was in fact a servant.

A huffed laugh met her chuckle, as he shook his head, "Ha.. No you're certainly not my sister. The eyes are a little different." He lifted a hand upward gesturing two fingers towards his own eyes then at her. 

Swaying some where he stood as she introduced herself, he decided to let the omission of his own name continue. At least a little while longer. "It is a pleasure Miss Sweetsong. The lady of the house hasn't had much company aside from this new suitor of hers. It's good to see she's expanding the doors a bit further."

He gave a nod at her assumption, "I do sometimes. Though truth be told I've not had anyone really to play for for a few years now. Probably for the best given it's only been recently I've been able to find hints of inspiration again." Theron lifted the cane and gave a tap to his leg he avoided putting the weight on.

Allie smiles brightly as the man brings a hand to his eyes and nods in agreement before her attention turned to the leg and cane slightly frowning. "Did you fight in the war as well?" she inquires tilting her head to the side as she leans back to get comfortable beginning to unfold her arms no longer feeling like she was in any sort of danger. 

"Lady Rian is one of my best friends. I can say I wouldn't be the person I am today without her wisdom, or her strength. I feel horrible I couldn't give her my company sooner, and now we have...this mess." she replies waving a hand in the direction of the woodline. 

Humming in thought letting that fester she gently shrugs. "You can play for me, i found that song to be beautiful, and soothing."

"A few of them. Though this last... I wasn't exactly a willing participant." HE confessed. "I do not recommend playing party to orcish camps." His words had hesitated before he simply cleared his throat and chose to speak on something else entirely. 

"Not your fault, there's quite a few who used to frequent and do not so much. In part for their lives being full of their own adventures or...  Part of me wonders if she's pushed people away. Not that it's any of my business or place to say." 

As she waved off, Theron glimpsed towards the boarded up windows, knowing full well what lay on the other side and beyond, regarding the elven woman's intent. "There always seems to be another brewing." His attention drew back to the woman as she requested he continue his playing. Bowing his head, though when he spoke, he did so in her home language, "As the lady wishes."

Once more Theron settled himself back to the Piano and settled his cane along the upper ledge. "I apologize if my playing is a little rusty." He offered a small smile before settling into a new melody for Allie.

(Mood Music)

Allie bites her lip remembering her own run in with being a forced participant in a camp. "I'm sorry you had to endure that. No one should play part to an orc war camp unwillingly." she replies before she falls silent while he begins to resume playing once more. 

Inhaling Allie couldn't help but smile as he spoke to her in her native language. "A human with education." she replies in Thalassian not straightening up some. "Rare to find someone who can speak elven fluently outside of Silvermoon." she continues in common obviously impressed. 

Though she did take note of his mentioning of Rian potentially pushing others away she made a mental note of it deciding best not to let heavy conversation bring down the magnificent song coming from his fingertips. 

"How did you end up serving Lady Rian and the house being so well educated?" she asks curiously

There was a subtle shake of his head at the apology for the mention of the camp. Letting the comment rest where it fell. A small smile pulled at the scruff along his chin as he managed to smile a little. Holding to the language for the woman's sake, "I did some growing in Dalaran. My mother insisted I know the language if I was to do some schooling there."

He continued to play a moment more before her last question brought the music to pause. Considering his words, he glimpsed back at Allie, "You could say we sort of grew up together. Here. In Dalaran. In Hearthglen. I'm no good for war at present, she's let me come here. Nearly insisted on it." He chuckled softly as he continued to play quietly for the woman

Allie's smile turned to a blush as he continued to talk in Thalassian.  It wasn't everyday she ran into a human who could actually speak her own language, and while she thought if she had ever met anybody who could do so fluently he mentioned Dalaran. 

"The city of Mages? I've heard stories though I can't think of a time I have been there myself. I would see its glow on the horizon when I ventured from Quel'thalas as a small girl." she replies warmly. "I would hear tales of how beautiful it was, rivaled only by Silvermoon itself, but I never got a chance to see it." she replies remembering fondly. 

Letting that thought steep for a moment she smiles now and nods in agreement. "So you two are childhood friends?" she asks in a curious manner. Yup he really had her believing he was a man servant "And that certainly sounds like her. Everytime we would see each other, She would always extend an invitation to come to her home."

Most of the magus' attention held on the piano, leaving him ignorant of her blushing demeanor. He gave a rocking nod as she asked about Dalaran. "Mhmm.  We had both started at he academy. Her ladyship fought for a different path. It's not for everyone of course."

He gave an agreeing nod, "It is lovely, and the rumor is true. Not that I've seen more than pictures of Silvermoon. But I've ventured to Quel Danas once or twice. I have assumed it is similar to the same thing."

When she continued to press about his sister he wavered with a so-so  gesture. "Not always but once we were older. We had a fair bit in common despite a mutual distrust of each other." He chuckled. "She likes taking care of people and playing the part of the hero. I'm guessing you two have that in common?"

The void elf hums before shrugging. "I wouldn't consider myself a hero. I just...enjoy helping others. Even if it has landed me in some...troubling situations." she replies smiling at the hand wave. "But yes, I do believe we share a common bond to make sure those around us are safe, healthy, and above all alive." she replies now leaning forward. 

"Wait, are you saying you went to the school of mages in Dalaran? And you're a servant?" she re-iterates mentally pressing x to doubt

"Surely there is more to the story than just being something of a guardian to a childhood friend." she replies humming as she leans her head back against the chair smiling at the beautiful music

"Does any hero that is worthy of the title ever truly accept and acknowledge that they are indeed a hero?" his counter came inquisitive with a more pointed look towards the elf as his hands continued to run the lines he'd memorized years prior. 

Focusing back on the music he let his eyes close in welcome distraction before letting off a chuckle of his own, "Dalaran has many schools, not just for mages. It just happens that is the path I studied for." His playing stopped for a moment enough that he lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his noes and wipe some of the humor from his face, leaving some though more even tempered. 

"There is always more to the story. Always. Mage is simply a skill or pursuit in many cases. I could be a writer and still be a servant. Or a marksman..." He lilted a glance towards her. Had he heard of the woman before their meeting? Or been eavesdropping it was hard to say. Perhaps it had simply been a guess at her own skillset.

"Servitude is usually a matter of perspective. I have served the King as a soldier. I have served the Kirin Tor as much the same. Now I serve the people of my home and do so with much fuss despite it being an honor."

Allie thinks on the question the musically inclined mage posed to her as her eyebrows furrowed in thought while pulling her her legs under her form getting more relaxed as the conversation continued. 

"Well no, I suppose not.." she reluctantly agrees before shrugging. "I never wanted a title of 'hero' I just wanted to show people that if a small elven girl who watched her people decimated could grow strong and help others, so to could they." she replies with a shrug before her eyes go wide. 

"Wait how did you know?" she asks of him now when he makes the comment about a marksmen

Though she chuckles "Oh so now its your house?" she asks in a taunting manner "I know you're not Kenric, or erm, the other human I met some years back serving as her guard." she replies having already long put Thaylynns name out of her memory. 

"Seriously, who are you?" she inquries

Theron continued to play as the elven woman worked through her answers. When she questioned his regard for the house, he pressed against a small grin. "I would never claim to be Kenric or any other men Rian's claimed as a suitor. Though I never said it was my house, just that this is home. I could very well just as easily implied that this land is my home." He countered. 

"Who am I? Not satisfied with my simply being a servant to the household?" Hands mindfully worked through the last few notes of the song before he redirected his attentions more properly on Allie. "My name is Theron, if that is what you wish to know."

The reply gives Allie a pause as she just looks at him trying to place if the name and relation to Rian, a look Theron would likely pick up on. Inhaling deep and clearly confused she shrugs. "Theron, that name sounds vaguely familiar," she replies ignoring his first comment for now. "Like I saw you on a report, or someone mentioned the name to me at some point." she replies frowning as she clearly couldn't remember

"Regardless, it is nice to meet you, and listen to your talents, I haven't felt this at ease in oh...awhile." she replies. shaking her head 

"So you studied to be a mage, you can fluently speak to Quel'dorei in their native tongue, and you are experienced at playing music. Either Rian purposely hires well educated help or you are purposely being vague, to which I don't understand why you would be." she replies as the gears in her head spin.

The magus watched Allie try to sort out who he was. That she hadn't pinpointed him by now had him both intrigued as well as relieved. "It is not an uncommon name in truth. There are at least three others I have passed with the name in Stormwind." he admitted. 

"It is my pleasure, Miss Sweetsong." He reached for his cane letting it rest idly with his palms curled over the top. "Perhaps a little of both. Rian doesn't much care for education in the sense that the world does. She sees actions as qualifiers. Not terribly unlike myself. Though I should apologize for being vague. Please know that I do have my reasons. It is easier to gain a more genuine interaction when there is not the wait of expectation that comes with names."

"If you'd like the truth of it, my mother was a magister, professor at the academy for a time. Thus the education, the expectation of learning other languages, in particular those known to better call on arcane. There was also a requirement that we learn an instrument. Small odds and ends she thought we needed to be rounded out." There was a roll of his shoulders as if it wasn't as much as it may have seemed to be. 

"I should not keep you any longer. I'm sure keeping up with a little one leaves you wanting in terms of rest." The man eased upward with the aide of the cane.

Still trying to process things, in part due to the time of night it was, Allie inhales and places a hand on the robe so as to maintain a level of decency in front of the man, she uncurls her legs from under her form and rises to her feet with him giving him a proper bow of her head.

"It has been a pleasure Lord Theron," She replies in kind. Hoping she was not disrespecting the human by addressing him with a title that ill suits him

"Though i do understand now, but I hope with time you'll see I am like Rian in a similar manner. I care not for the history of the name of someone. I only care if their intentions are for the boon of others, or to bring others down around them. I would like to speak more  during my time here. As I stated before Rian is a dear friend of mine. And if she trusts you to walk the halls of her home at all hours of the night and play the piano, I too will do so in kind." she replies warmly. 

"I do hope you trust me during my time here, I love learning about others. Their histories, where they have been." she finishes with a bow and a chuckle. "He has been good the last few days, though that is in no small part because of the new surroundings we find ourselves in, I suspect he will test the limits of my energy in a few days." she states while walking to the door she entered through. 

"Sleep well, Theron." 

And with that the Ren'dorei departed, heading to her chambers once more to attempt sleep, humming the melody she had listened to the man play the entire time.

A brow lofted as she used his title, it was enough that he assumed she'd sorted out just who he was. As she prattled on about how similar she was to his sister, he offered a small smile. "You do not need to sell me on her qualities. Or feel the need to measure yourself against her. So you know. We all have our flaws." A finger was waved in Allie's direction. 

"I'm sure we will cross paths again Miss Sweetsong." With that he bowed his head more formally to mach the slight change in her demeanor as she excused herself. "Blessed dreams to you as well." 

Only when she was well out of sight and on her way did the Lord see himself from the den. Taking an alternate route to his quarters rather than give himself away through the halls.

Thank you @theron-valteric​ for writing this with me​

@lady-rian​ for mentions

#ic #arc #wra roleplay #moonguard roleplay #starlight #the arcane

[dgfhhgh]

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Martial, Epigrams. Book 1. Bohn's Classical Library (1897)

BOOK I.

TO THE READER

I trust that, in these little books of mine, I have observed such self-control, that whoever forms a fair judgment from his own' mind can make no complaint of them, since they indulge their sportive fancies without violating the respect due even to persons of the humblest station; a respect which was so far disregarded by the authors of antiquity, that they made free use, not only of real, but of great names. For me; let fame be held in less estimation, and let such talent be the last thing commended in me.

Let the ill-natured interpreter, too, keep himself from meddling with the simple meaning of my jests, and not write my epigrams for me.1 He acted honourably who exercises perverse ingenuity on another man's book: For the free plainness of expression, that is, for the language of epigram, I would apologize, if I were introducing the practice; but it is thus that Catullus writes, and Marsus, and Pedo, and Getulicus, and every one whose writings are read through. If any assumes to be so scrupulously nice, however, that it is not allowable to address him, in a single page, in plain language, he may confine himself to this address, or rather to the title of the book. Epigrams are written for those who are accustomed to be spectators at the games of Flora. Let not Cato enter my theatre; or, if he do enter, let him look on. It appears to me that I shall do only what I have a right to do, if I close my address with the following verses:----

1 Let him not make them his own, by the false interpretation which he puts upon them.

TO CATO.

Since you knew the lascivious nature of the rites of sportive Flora, as well as the dissoluteness of the games, and the license of the populace, why, stern Cato, did you enter the theatre? Did you come in only that you might go out again?

I. TO THE READER.

The man whom you are reading is the very man that you want,----Martial, known over the whole world for his humorous books of epigrams; to whom, studious reader, you have afforded such honours, while he is alive and has a sense of them, as few poets receive after their death.

II. TO THE READER; SHOWING WHERE THE AUTHOR'S BOOKS MAY BE PURCHASED.

You who are anxious that my books should be with you everywhere, and desire to have them as companions on a long journey, buy a copy of which the parchment leaves are compressed into a small compass.1 Bestow book-cases upon large volumes; one hand will hold me. But that you may not be ignorant where I am to be bought, and wander in uncertainty over the whole town, you shall, under my guidance, be sure of obtaining me. Seek Secundus, the freedman of the learned Lucensis, behind the Temple of Peace and the Forum of Pallas.

1 That is, a copy with small pages; a small copy.

III. THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK.

You prefer, little book, to dwell in the shops in the Argiletum,1 though my book-case has plenty of room for you. You are ignorant, alas! you are ignorant of the fastidiousness of Rome, the mistress of the world; the sons of Man, believe me, are much too critical. Nowhere are there louder sneers; young men and old, and even boys, have the nose of the rhinoceros.2 After you have heard a loud "Bravo!" and are expecting kisses, you will go, tossed to the skies, from the jerked toga.3 Yet, that you may not so often suffer the corrections of your master, and that his relentless pen may not so often mark your vagaries, you desire, frolicsome little book, to fly through the air of heaven. Go, fly; but you would have been safer at home.

1 An open place, or square, in Rome, where tradesmen had shops. 2  Have great powers of ridicule, which the Romans often expressed by turning up or wrinkling the nose. 3  People will take you into their lap, and then jerk you out of it, as if you were tossed in a blanket

IV. TO CAESAR.

If you should chance, Caesar, to light upon my books, lay aside that look which awes the world. Even your triumphs have been accustomed to endure jests,1 nor is it any shame to a general to be a subject for witticisms. Read my verses, I pray you, with that brow with which you behold Thymele 2 and Latinus 3 the buffoon. The censorship 4 may tolerate innocent jokes: my page indulges in freedoms, but my life is pure.

1 In allusion to the jests which the soldiers threw out on their generals while they were riding in the triumphal procession. 2  A female dancer. 3 A dancer in pantomime; a sort of harlequin. 4  Alluding to Domitian having made himself perpetual censor.

V. THE EMPEROR'S REPLY.

I give you a sea-fight, and you give me epigrams: you wish, I suppose, Marcus, to be set afloat with your book.

VI. ON A LION OF CAESAR'S THAT SPARED A HARE.

While through the air of heaven the eagle was carrying the youth,1 the burden unhurt clung to its anxious talons. From Caesar's lions their own prey now succeeds in obtaining mercy, and the hare plays safe in their huge jaws. Which miracle do you think the greater? The author of each is a supreme being: the one is the work of Caesar; the other,2 of Jove.

1 Ganymede. 2 Comp. Eps. 14, 22.

VII. TO MAXIMUS

The dove, the delight of my friend Stella,3----even with Verona4 listening will I say it, ---- has surpassed, Maximus, the sparrow of Catullus. By so much is my Stella greater than your Catullus, as a dove is greater than a sparrow.

3 A poet of Patavium, who wrote an elegy on the dove of his mistress Ianthis. See B. vi. Ep. 21; B. vii. Ep. 13. 4 The birth-place of Catullus.

VIII. TO DECIANUS

In that you so far only follow the opinions of the great Thrasea and Cato of consummate virtue, that you still wish to preserve your life, and do not with bared breast rush upon drawn swords, you do, Decianus, what I should wish you to do. I do not approve of a man who purchases fame with life-blood, easy to be shed: I like him who can be praised without dying to obtain it.

IX. TO COTTA.

You wish to appear, Cotta, a pretty man and a great man at one and the same time: but he who is a pretty man, Cotta, is a very small man.

X. ON GEMELLUS AND MARONILLA.

Gemellus is seeking the hand of Maronilla, and is earnest, and lays siege to her, and beseeches her, and makes presents to her. Is she then so pretty? Nay; nothing can be more ugly. What then is the great object and attraction in her? ----Her cough.

XI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Seeing that there are given to a knight twice five pieces,1 wherefore is twice ten the amount which you spend by yourself, Sextilianus, in drink? Long since would the warm water have failed the attendants who carried it, had you not, Sextilianus, been drinking your wine unmixed.2

1 Ten sesterces, the usual sportula, or donation from the emperor. 2 The Romans used to drink their wine mixed with warm water.

XII. ON REGULUS.

Where the road runs to the towers of the cool Tivoli, sacred to Hercules, and the hoary Albula 3 smokes with sulphureous waters, a milestone, the fourth from the neighbouring city, points out a country retreat, and a hallowed grove, and a domain well beloved of the Muses. Here a rude portico used to afford cool shade in summer; a portico, ah! how nearly the desperate cause of an unheard-of calamity: for suddenly it fell in ruins, after Regulus had just been conveyed in a carriage and pair from under its high fabric. Truly Dame Fortune feared our complaints, as she would have been unable to withstand so great odium. Now even our loss delights us; so beneficial is the impression which the very danger produces; since, while standing, the edifice could not have proved to us the existence of the gods.

3 A plain near Tivoli.

XIII. ON ARRIA AND PAETUS.

When the chaste Arria handed to her Paetus the sword which she had with her own hand drawn forth from her heart, "If you believe me," said she, "the wound which I have made gives me no pain; but it is that which you will make, Paetus, that pains me."

XIV. TO DOMITIAN.

The pastimes, Caesar, the sports and the play of the lions, we have seen: your arena affords you the additional sight of the captured hare returning often in safety from the kindly tooth, and running at large through the open jaws. Whence is it that the greedy lion can spare his captured prey? He is said to be yours: thence it is that he can show mercy.

XV. TO JULIUS.

Oh! you who are regarded by me, Julius, as second to none of my companions, if well-tried friendship and longstanding ties are worth anything, already nearly a sixtieth consul is pressing upon you, and your life numbers but a few more uncertain days. Not wisely would you defer the enjoyment which you see maybe denied you, or consider the past alone as your own. Cares and linked chains of disaster are in store; joys abide not, but take flight with winced speed. Seize them with either hand, and with your full grasp; even thus they will oft-times pass away and glide from your closest embrace. 'Tis not, believe me, a wise man's part to say, "I will live." To-morrow's life is too late: live to-day.

XVI. TO AVITUS.

Of the epigrams which you read here, some are good, some middling, many bad; a book, Avitus, cannot be made in any other way.

XVII. TO TITUS.

Titus urges me to go to the Bar, and often tells me, "The gains are large." The gains of the husbandman, Titus, are likewise large.

XVIII. TO TUCCA, ON HIS PARSIMONY.

What pleasure can it give you, Tucca, to mix with old Falernian wine new wine stored up in Vatican casks? What vast amount of good has the most worthless of wine done you? or what amount of evil has the best wine done you? As for us, it is a small matter; but to murder Falernian, and to put poisonous wine in a Campanian cask, is an atrocity. Your guests may possibly have deserved to perish: a wine-jar of such value has not deserved to die.

XIX. TO AELIA.

If I remember right, Aelia, you had four teeth; a cough displaced two, another two more. You can now cough without anxiety all the day long. A third cough can find nothing to do in your mouth.

XX. TO CAECILIANUS.

Tell me, what madness is this? While a whole crowd of invited guests is looking on, you alone, Caecilianus, devour the truffles. What shall I imprecate on you worthy of so large a stomach and throat? That you may eat a truffle such as Claudius ate.

XXI. ON PORSENA AND MUCIUS SCAEVOLA.

When the hand that aimed at the king mistook for him his secretary, it thrust itself to perish into the sacred fire but the generous foe could not endure so cruel a sight, and bade the hero, snatched from the flame, to be set free. The hand which, despising the fire, Mucius dared to burn, Porsena could not bear to look on Greater was the fame and glory of that right hand from being deceived; had it not missed its aim, it had accomplished less.

XXII. TO A HARE.

Why, silly hare, are you fleeing from the fierce jaws of the lion now grown tame? They have not learned to crush such tiny animals. Those talons, which you fear, are reserved for mighty necks, nor does a thirst so great delight in so small a draught of blood. The hare is the prey of hounds; it does not fill large mouths: the Dacian boy should not fear Caesar.

XXIII. TO COTTA.

You invite no one, Cotta, except those whom you meet at the bath; and the bath alone supplies you with guests. I used to wonder why you had never asked me, Cotta; I know now that my appearance in a state of nature was unpleasing in your eyes.

XXIV. TO DECIANUS.

You see yonder individual, Decianus, with locks uncombed, whose grave brow even you fear; who talks incessantly of the Curii and Camilli, defenders of their country's liberties: do not trust his looks; he was taken to wife but yesterday.

XXV. TO FAUSTINUS.

Issue at length your books to the public, Faustinus, and give to the light the work elaborated by your accomplished mind,----a work such as neither the Cecropian city of Pandion would condemn, nor our old men pass by in silence. Do you hesitate to admit Fame, who is standing before your door; and does it displease you to receive the reward of your labour? Let the writings, destined to live after you, begin to live through your means. Glory comes too late, when paid only to our ashes.

XXVI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Sextilianus, you drink as much as five rows of knights  1 alone: you might intoxicate yourself with water, if you so often drank as much. Nor is it the coin of those who sit near you alone that you consume in drink, but the money of those far removed from you, on the distant benches. This vintage has not been concerned with Pelignian presses, nor was this juice of the grape produced upon Tuscan heights; but it is the glorious jar of the long-departed Opimius 2 that is drained, and it is the Massic cellar that sends forth its blackened casks. Get dregs of Laletane wine from a tavern-keeper, Sextilianus, if you drink more than ten cups.3

1 Seated on the benches allotted them in the theatre. See Ep. 12. 2  The vintage of B. C. 121, in which year L. Opimius was one of the consuls, was extremely celebrated, and is frequently mentioned by the Roman writers. 3  The number to which persons at feasts usually restricted themselves.

XXVII. TO PROCILLUS.

Last night I had invited you----after some fifty glasses, I suppose, had been despatched----to sup with me to-day. You immediately thought your fortune was made, and took note of my unsober words, with a precedent but too dangerous. I hate a boon companion whose memory is good, Procillus.

XXVIII. ON ACCERRA.

Whoever believes it is of yesterday's wine that Acerra smells, is mistaken: Acerra always drinks till morning.

XXIX. TO FIDENTINUS.

Report says that you, Fidentinus, recite my compositions in public as if they were your own. If you allow them to be called mine, I will send you my verses gratis; if you wish them to be called yours, pray buy them, that they may be mine no longer.

XXX. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus had been a surgeon, and is now an undertaker. He has begun to be useful to the sick in the only way that he could.

XXXI. TO APOLLO, OF ENCOLPUS.

Encolpus, the favourite of the centurion his master, consecrates these, the whole of the locks from his head, to you, O Phoebus.1 When Pudens shall have rained the pleasing honour of the chief-centurionship, which he has so well merited, cut these long tresses close, O Phoebus, as soon as possible, while the tender face is yet undisfigured with down, and while the flowing hair adorns the milk-white neck; and, that both master and favourite may long enjoy your gifts, make him carry shorn, but late a man.2

1 Encolpus, a favourite of Aulus Pudens the centurion, had vowed his hair to Phoebus, is order that his master might soon be made chief centurion. Martial prays that they may both obtain what they desire. 2 Extend his youth as long as possible.

XXXII. TO SABIDIUS.

I do not love you, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, I do not love you.

The following lines, in imitation of this epigram, were made by some Oxford wit, on Dr John Fell, Bishop of Oxford, who died in 1686:

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell; The reason why I cannot tell. But this I'm sure I know full well, I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

XXXIII. ON GELLIA.

Gellia does not mourn for her deceased father, when she is alone; but if any one is present, obedient tears spring forth. He mourns not, Gellia, who seeks to be praised; he is the true mourner, who mourns without a witness.

XXXIV. TO LESBIA.

You always take your pleasure, Lesbia, with doors unguarded and open, nor are you at any pains to conceal your amusements. It is more the spectator, than the accomplice in your doings, that pleases you, nor are any pleasures grateful to your taste if they be secret. Yet the common courtesan excludes every witness by curtain and by bolt, and few are the chinks in a suburban brothel. Learn something at least of modesty from Chione, or from Alis: even the monumental edifices of the dead afford hiding-places for abandoned harlots. Does my censure seem too harsh? I do not exhort you to be chaste, Lesbia, but not to be caught.

XXXV. TO CORNELIUS.

You complain, Cornelius, that the verses which I compose are little remarkable for their reserve, and not such as a master can read out in his school; but such effusions, as in the case of man and wife, cannot please without some spice of pleasantry in them. What if you were to bid me write a hymeneal song in words not suited to hymeneal occasions? Who enjoins the use of attire at the Floral games, and imposes on the courtesan the reserve of the matron? This law has been allowed to frolicsome verses, that without tickling the fancy they cannot please. Lay aside, therefore, your severe look, I beseech you, and spare my jokes and gaiety, and do not desire to mutilate my compositions. Nothing is more disgusting than Priapus become a priest of Cybele.

XXXVI. TO THE BROTHERS LUCANUS AND TULLUS.

If, Lucanus, to you, or if to you, Tullus, had been offered such fates as the Laconian children of Leda enjoy, there would have been this noble struggle of affection in both of you, that each would have wished to die first in place of his brother; and he who should have first descended to the nether realms of shade would have said, "Live, brother, thine own term of days; live also mine."

XXXVII. TO BASSUS.

Yon deposit your excretions, without any sense of shame, into an unfortunate vessel of gold, while you drink out of glass. The former operation, consequently, is the more expensive.

XXXVIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

The book which you are reading aloud is mine, Fidentinus but, while you read it so badly, it begins to be yours.

With fruity accents, and so vile a tone, You quote my lines, I took them for your own.  Anon.

XXXIX. TO DECIANUS.

If there be any man fit to be numbered among one's few choice friends, a man such as the honesty of past times and ancient renown would readily acknowledge; if any man thoroughly imbued with the accomplishments of the Athenian and Latin Minervas, and exemplary for true integrity; if there be any man who cherishes what is right, and admires what is honourable, and asks nothing of the gods but what all may hear; if there be any man sustained by the strength of a great mind, may I die, if that man is not Decianus.

XL. TO AN ENVIOUS MAN.

You who make grimaces, and read these verses of mine with an ill grace, you, victim of jealousy, may, if you please, envy everybody; nobody will envy you.

XLI. TO CAECILIUS.

You imagine yourself Caecilius, a man of wit. You are no such thing, believe me. What then? A low buffoon; such a thing as wanders about in the quarters beyond the Tiber, and barters pale-coloured sulphur matches for broken glass; such a one as sells boiled peas and beans to the idle crowd; such as a lord and keeper of snakes; or as a common servant of the salt-meat-sellers; or a hoarse-voiced cook who carries round smoking sausages in steaming shops; or the worst of street poets; or a blackguard slave-dealer from Gades;1 or a chattering old debauchee. Cease at length, therefore, to imagine yourself that which is imagined by you alone, Caecilius, you who could have silenced Gabba, and even Testius Caballus, with your jokes. It is not given to every one to have taste; he who jests with a stupid effrontery is not a Testius, but a Caballus.3

1 See Juvenal xi. 163, and Mayor's note. 3 A play on the word Caballus, which, as an appellative noun, meant a hack-horse.

XLII. ON PORCIA.

When Porcia had heard the fate of her consort Brutus, and her grief was seeking the weapon, which had been carefully removed from her," You know not yet," she cried, "that death cannot be denied: I had supposed that my father had taught you this lesson by his fate. She spoke, and with eager mouth swallowed the blazing coals. "Go now, officious attendants, and refuse me a sword, if you will."

XLIII. ON MANCINUS.

Twice thirty were invited to your table, Mancinus, and nothing was placed before us yesterday but a wild-boar. Nowhere were to be seen grapes preserved from the late vines, or apples vying in flavour with sweet honey-combs; nowhere the pears which hang suspended by flexible twigs, or pomegranates the colour of summer roses: nor did the rustic basket supply its milky cheeses, or the olive emerge from its Picenian jar. Your wild-boar was by itself: and it was even of the smallest size, and such a one as might have been slaughtered by an unarmed dwarf. Besides, none of it was given us; we simply looked on it as spectators. This is the way in which even the arena places a wild-boar before us. May no wild-boar be placed before you after such doings, but may you be placed before the boar in front of which Charidemus was placed.1

1 By Domitian, to be torn in pieces. See Sueton. Life of Domit.

XLIV. TO STELLA.

If it seems to you too much, Stella, that my longer and shorter compositions are occupied with the frisky gambols of the hares and the play of the lions, and that I go over the same subject twice, do you also place a hare twice before me.

XLV. ON HIS BOOK.

That the care which I have bestowed upon what I have published may not come to nothing through the smallness of my volumes, let me rather fill up my verses with Τὸν δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.1

1 Let me rather use frequent repetitions, just as Homer frequently repeats these words.

XLVI. TO HEDYLUS.

[From the Loeb translation]

When you say "I haste; now is the time," then, Hedylus, my ardour at once flags and weakens. Bid me wait: more quickly, stayed, shall I speed on. Hedylus, if you do haste, tell me not to haste!

XLVII. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus, lately a doctor, is now an undertaker: what he does as an undertaker, he used to do also as a doctor.

XLVIII. ON THE LION AND HARE.

The keepers could not snatch the bulls from those wide jaws, through which the fleeting prey, the hare, goes and returns in safety; and, what is still more strange, he starts from his foe with increased swiftness, and contracts something of the great nobleness of the lion's nature. He is not safer when he courses along the empty arena, nor with equal feeling of security does he hide him in his hutch. If, venturous hare, you seek; to avoid the teeth of the hounds, you have the jaws of the lion to which you may flee for refuge.

XLIX. TO LICINIANUS.

O you, whose name must not be left untold by Celtiberian nations, you the honour of our common country, Spain, you, Licinianus, will behold the lofty Bilbilis, renowned for horses and arms, and Catus1 venerable with his locks of snow, and eased Vadavero with ita broken cliffs, and the sweet grove of delicious Botrodus, which the happy Pomona loves. You will breast the gently-flowing water of the warm Congedus and the calm lakes of the Nymphs, and your body, relaxed by these, you may brace up in the little Salo, which hardens iron. There Voberca 2 herself will supply for your meals animals which may be brought down close at hand. The serene summer heat you will disarm by bathing in the golden Tagus, hidden beneath the shades of trees; your greedy thirst the fresh Dercenna will appease, and Nutha, which in coldness surpasses snow. But when hoar December and the furious solstice shall resound with the hoarse blasts of the north-wind, you will again seek the sunny shores of Tarraco and thine own Laletania. There you will despatch hinds caught in your supple toils, and native boars; and you will tire out the cunning hare with your hardy steed; the stags you will leave to your bailiff. The neighboring wood will come down into your very hearth, surrounded as it will be with a troop of uncombed children. The huntsman will be invited to your table, and many a guest called in from the neighbourhood will come to you. The crescent-adorned boot 3 will be nowhere to be seen, nowhere the toga and garments smelling of purple dye. Far away will be the ill-favoured Liburnian porter 4 and the grumbling client; far away the imperious demands of widows. The pale criminal will not break your deep sleep, but all the morning long you will enjoy your slumber. Let another earn the grand and wild "Bravo!" Do you pity such happy ones, and enjoy without pride true delight, while your friend Sura is crowned with applause. Not unduly does life demand of us our few remaining days, when fame has as much as is sufficient.

1 Catus and Vadavero are names of mountains near Bilbilis. Botrodus is a small town; Congedus and Salo, riven.   2 The name of a town. Dercenna and Nutha are fountains.   3 Worn by senators. 4 See Juvenal, iv. 75.

L. TO AEMILIANUS.

If your cook, Aemilianus, is called Mistyllus, why should not mine be called Taratalla?1

1 A meaningless jest taken from Homer's words (Il. i.465).

LI. TO A HARE.

No neck, save the proudest, serves for the fierce lion. Why do you, vain-glorious hare, flee from these teeth? No doubt you would wish them to stoop from the huge bull to you, and to crush a neck which they cannot see. The glory of an illustrious death must be an object of despair to you. You, a tiny prey, canst not fall before such an enemy!

LII. TO QUINCTIANUS.

To you, Quinctianus, do I commend my books, if indeed I can call books mine, which your poet recites.1 If they complain of a grievous yoke, do you come forward as their advocate, and defend them efficiently; and when he calls himself their master, say that they were mine, but have been given 2 by me to the public. If you will proclaim this three or four times, you will bring shame on the plagiary.

1 A poet that recited verses to Quinctianus; the same, probably, that is mentioned in the next epigram. 2 Manumitted; released from my portfolio.

LIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

One page only in my books belongs to you, Fidentinus, but it bears the sure stamp of its master, and accuses your verses of glaring theft. Just so does a Gallic frock coming in contact with purple city cloaks stain them with grease and filth; just so do Arretine1 pots disgrace vases of crystal; so is a buck crow, straying perchance on the banks of the Cayster, laughed to scorn amid the swans of Leda: and so, when the sacred grove resounds with the music of the tuneful nightingale, the miscreant magpie disturbs her Attic plaints. My books need no one to accuse or judge you: the page which is yours stands up against you and says, "You are a thief"

1 Earthen pots from Arretium, a town of Etruria.

LIV. TO FUSCUS.

If, Fuscus, you have room to receive still more affection, (for you have friends around you on all sides), I ask you one place in your heart, if one still remains vacant, and that you will not refuse because I am a stranger to you: all your old friends were so once. Simply consider whether he who is presented to you a stranger is likely to become an old friend.

LV. TO FRONTO.

If you, Fronto, so distinguished an ornament of military and civil life, desire to learn the wishes of your friend Marcus, he prays for this, to be the tiller of his own farm, nor that a large one, and he loves inglorious repose in as unpretending sphere. Does any one haunt the porticoes of cold variegated Spartan marble, and run to offer, like a fool, his morning greetings, when he might, rich with the spoils of grave and field, unfold before his fire his well-filled nets, and lift the leaping fish with the quivering line, and draw forth the yellow honey from the red1 cask, while a plump housekeeper loads his unevenly-propped table, and his own eggs are cooked by an unbought fire? That the man who loves not me may not love this life, is my wish; and let him drag out life pallid with the cares of the city.

1 Stained with vermilion.

LVI. TO A VINTNER.

Harassed with continual rains, the vineyard drips with wet. You cannot sell us, vintner, even though you wish, neat wine.

LVII. TO FLACCUS.

Do you ask what sort of maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy, and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures, nor that which cloys.

LVIII. DE PUERI PRETIO.

[Untranslated]

LIX. TO FLACCUS.

The sportula1 at Baiae brings me in a hundred farthings; of what use is such a miserable sum in the midst of such sumptuous baths? Give me back the darksome baths of Lupus and Gryllus. When I sup so scantily, Flaccus, why should I bathe so luxuriously?

1 Sportula. A present from the richer class to the poorer; nominally the price of a supper. See Dict. Antiqq. s. v.

LX. ON THE LION AND HARE.

Hare, although you enter the wide jaws of the fierce lion, still he imagines his mouth to be empty. Where is the back on which he shall rush? where the shoulders on which he shall flail? where shall he fix those deep bites which he inflicts on young bulls? why do you in vain weary the lord and monarch of the groves? 'Tis only on the wild prey of his choice that he feeds.

LXI. TO LICINIANUS, ON THE COUNTRIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS.

Verona loves the verses of her learned Poet; Mantua is blest in her Maro; the territory of Apona is renowned for its Livy, its Stella, and not less for its Flaccus. The Nile, whose waters are instead of rain, applauds its Apollodorus; the Pelignians vaunt their Ovid. Eloquent Cordova speaks of its two Senecas and its single and preeminent Lucan. Voluptuous Gades delights in her Canius,1 Emerita in my friend Decianus. Our Bilbilis will be proud of you, Licinianus, nor will be altogether silent concerning me.

1 See b. iii. Ep. 20.

LXII. ON LAEVINA.

Laevina, so chaste as to rival even the Sabine women of old, and more austere than even her stern husband, chanced, while entrusting herself sometimes to the waters of the Lucrine lake, sometimes to those of Avernus, and while frequently refreshing herself in the baths of Baiae, to fall into flames of love, and, leaving her husband, fled with a young gallant. She arrived a Penelope, she departed a Helen.

LXIII. TO CELER.

You ask me to recite to you my Epigrams. I cannot oblige you; for you wish not to hear them, Celer, but to recite them.1

1 To plagiarise them from me, and then to recite them as your own.

LXIV. TO FABULLA.

You are pretty,----we know it; and young,----it is true; and rich,----who can deny it? But when you praise yourself extravagantly, Fabulla, you appear neither rich, nor pretty, nor young.

LXV. TO CAECILIANUS.

When I said ficus, you laughed at it as a barbarous word, Caecilianus, and bade me say ficos. I shall call the produce of the fig-tree ficus; yours I shall call ficos.1

1 An untranslatable jest on the double meaning of the word ficus, which, when declined ficus, -i, means piles or someone afflicted with it; and when ficus -lis, a fig-tree.

LXVI. TO A PLAGIARIST.

You are mistaken, insatiable thief of my writings, who think a poet can be made for the mere expense which copying, and a cheap volume cost. The applause of the world is not acquired for six or even ten sesterces. Seek out for this purpose verses treasured up, and unpublished efforts, known only to one person, and which the father himself of the virgin sheet, that has not been worn and scrubbed by bushy chins, keeps sealed up in his desk. A well-known book cannot change its master. But if there is one to be found vet unpolished by the pumice-stone, yet unadorned with bosses and cover, buy it: I have such by me, and no one shall know it. Whoever recites another's compositions, and seeks for fame, must buy, not a book, but the author's silence.

LXVII. TO CHOERILUS.

"You are too free-spoken," is your constant remark to me, Choerilus. He who speaks against you, Choerilus, is indeed a free speaker.1

1 Free from all restraint, for he may say all sorts of things against you without fear of contradiction.

LXVIII. ON RUFUS.

Whatever Rufus does, Naevia is all in all to him. Whether he rejoices, or mourns, or is silent, it is ever Naevia. He eats, he drinks, he asks, he refuses, he gesticulates, Naevia alone is in his thoughts: if there were no Naevia, he would be mute. When he had written a dutiful letter yesterday to his father, he ended it with, "Naevia, light of my eyes, Naevia, my idol, farewell" Naevia read these words, and laughed with downcast looks. Naevia is not yours only: what madness is this, foolish man?

LXIX. TO MAXIMUS.

Tarentos,3 which was wont to exhibit the statue of Pan, begins now, Maximus, to exhibit that of Canius.

3 Tarentos, a place in the Campus Martius, in which was a temple consecrated to Plato, and filled with statues of Pan, the Satyrs, and other deities or remarkable personages. On Canius, a humorous poet of Gades, whose statue, it appears, was put there with Pan's, see above, Ep. 61; B. iii. Ep. 29.

LXX. TO HIS BOOK.

Go, my book, and pay my respects for me: you are ordered to go, dutiful volume, to the splendid halls of Proculus. Do you ask the way? I will tell you. You will go along by the temple of Castor, near that of ancient Vesta, and that goddess's virgin home. Thence you will pass to the majestic Palatine edifice on the sacred hill, where glitters many a statue of the supreme ruler of the empire. And let not the ray-adorned mass of the Colossus detain you, a work which is proud of surpassing that of Rhodes. But turn aside by the way where the temple of the wine-bibbing Bacchus rises, and where the couch of Cybele stands adorned with. pictures of the Corybantes. Immediately on the left is the dwelling with its splendid facade, and the halls of the lofty mansion which you are to approach. Enter it; and fear not its haughty looks or proud gate; no entrance affords more ready access; nor is there any house more inviting for Phoebus and the learned sisters to love. If Proculus shall say, "But why does he not come himself?" you may excuse me thus, "Because he could not have written what is to be read here, whatever be its merit, if he had come to pay his respects in person."

LXXI. TO SLEEP.

Let Laevia be toasted with six cups,. Justine with seven, Lycas with five, Lyde with four, Ida with three. Let the number of letters in the name of each of our mistresses be equalled by the number of cups of Falernian. But, since none of them comes, come you, Sleep, to me.

LXXII. TO FIDENTINUS, A PLAGIARIST.

Do you imagine, Fidentinus, that you are a poet by the aid of my verses, and do you wish to be thought so? Just so does Aegle think she has teeth from having purchased bone or ivory. Just so does Lycoris, who is blacker than the falling mulberry, seem fair in her own eyes, because she is painted. You too, in the same way that you are a poet, will have flowing locks when you are grown bald.

LXXIII. TO CAECILIANUS.

These was no one in the whole city, Caecilianus, who desired to meddle with your wife, even gratis, while permission was given; but now, since you have set a watch upon her, the crowd of gallants is innumerable. You are a clever fellow!

LXXIV. TO PAULA.

He was your gallant, Paula; you could however deny it He is become your husband; can you deny it now, Paula? 1

1 He was said to be your gallant when your first husband was alive. You then denied it. You married him as soon as your husband died. Will you deny it now?

LXXV. ON LINUS.

He who prefers to give Linus the half of what he wishes to borrow, rather than to lend him the whole, prefers to lose only the half.

LXXVI. TO VALERIUS FLACCUS.1

Flaccus, valued object of my solicitude, hope and nursling of the city of Antenor,2 put aside Pierian strains and the lyre of the Sisters; none of those damsels will give you money. What do you expect from Phoebus? The cheat of Minerva contains the cash; she alone is wise, she alone lends to all the gods. What can the ivy of Bacchus give? The dark tree of Pallas bends down its variegated boughs under the load of fruit. Helicon, besides its waters and the garlands and lyres of the goddesses, and the great but empty applause of the multitude, has nothing. What have you to do with Cirrha? What with bare Permessis? The Roman forum is nearer and more lucrative. There is heard the chink of money; but around our desks and barren chairs kisses 3 alone resound.

Though midst the noblest poets you have place, Flaccus, the offering of Antenor's race; Renounce the Muses' songs and charming quire, For none of them enrich, though they inspire. Court not Apollo, Pallas has the gold; She 's wise, and does the gods in mortgage hold. What profit is there in an ivy wreath? Its fruits the loaden olive sinks beneath. In Helicon there's nought but springs and bays, The Muses' harps loud sounding empty praise.

1 The author of the Argonautica. 2 The city of Patavium, founded by Antenor 3 As tokens of applause.

LXXVII. ON CHARINUS.

Charinus is perfectly well, and yet he is pale; Charinus drinks sparingly, and yet he is pale; Charinus digests well, and yet he is pale; Charinus suns himself and yet he is pale; Charinus dyes his skin, and yet he is pale; Charinus indulges in [infamous debauchery], and yet he is pale.1

1 That is, he does not blush at his infamy.

LXXVIII. ON FESTUS, WHO STABBED HIMSELF.

When a devouring malady attacked his unoffending throat, and its black poison extended its ravages over his face, Festus, consoling his weeping friends, while his own eyes were dry, determined to seek the Stygian lake. He did not however pollute his pious mouth with secret poison, or aggravate his sad fate by lingering famine, but ended his pure life by a death befitting a Roman, and freed his spirit in a nobler way. This death fame may place above that of the great Cato; for Domitian was Festus' friend.2

2 Cato said that he died to avoid looking on the face of the tyrant Caesar.

LXXIX. TO ATTALUS, A BUSY-BODY.

Attalus, you are ever acting the barrister, or acting the man of business: whether there is or is not a part for you to act, Attalus, you are always acting a part. If lawsuits and business are not to be found, Attalus, you act the mule-driver. Attalus, lest a part should be wanting for you to act, act the part of executioner on yourself..

You act the pleader, and you act the man Of business; acting is your constant plan: So prone to act, the coachman's part is tried; Lest all parts fail you, act the suicide.       L. H. S.

LXXX. TO CANUS.

On the last night of your lift, Canus, a sportula was the object of your wishes. I suppose the cause of your death was, Canus, that there was only one.1

1 He had hoped for several largesses; he died of mortification at receiving only one.

LXXXI. TO SOSIBIANUS.

You know that you are the son of a slave, and you ingenuously confess it, when you call your father, Sosibianus, "master".2

2 The mother of Sosibianus had been guilty of adultery with a slave. When Sosibianus calls his reputed father Dominus, as a title of respect, but which was also a term for a master of slaves, he confessed himself a verna, or born-slave.

LXXXII. ON REGULUS.

See from what mischief this portico, which, overthrown amid clouds of dust, stretches its long ruins over the ground, lies absolved. For Regulus had but just been carried in his litter under its arch, and had got out of the way, when forthwith, borne down by its own weight, it fell; and, being no longer in fear for its master, it came down free from blood-guiltiness, a harmless ruin, without any attendant anxiety. After the fear of so great a cause for complaint is passed, who would deny, Regulus, that you, for whose sake the fall was harmless, are an object of care to the gods?

LXXXIII. ON MANNEIA.

Your lap-dog, Manneia, licks your mouth and lips: I do not wonder at a dog liking to eat ordure.1

1 A sarcasm on the foulness of Manneia's breath.

LXXXIV. ON QUIRINALIS.

Quirinalis, though he wishes to have children, has no intention of taking a wife, and has found out in what way he can accomplish his object. He takes to him his maid-servants, and fills his house and his lands with slave-knights.2 Quirinalis is a true pater-familias.

2 Equitibus vernis. (See Heinrich on Juv. ix. 10.)  Eques verna, the offspring of a knight and a slave.

LXXXV. ON AN AUCTIONEER.

A wag of an auctioneer, offering for sale some cultivated heights, and some beautiful acres of land near the city, says, "If any one imagines that Marius is compelled to sell, he is mistaken; Marius owes nothing: on the contrary, he rather has money to put out at interest." "What is his reason, then, for selling?" "In this place he lost all his slaves, and his cattle, and his profits; hence he does not like the locality." Who would have made any offer, unless he had wished to lose all his property? So the ill-fated land remains with Marius.

LXXXVI. ON NOVIUS.

Novius is my neighbour, and may be reached by the hand from my windows. Who would not envy me, and think me a happy man every hour of the day when I may enjoy the society of one so near to me? But, he is as far removed from me as Terentianus, who is now governor of Syene on the Nile. I am not privileged either to live with him, or even see him, or hear him; nor in the whole city is there any one at once so near and so far from me. I must remove farther off, or he must. If any one wishes not to see Novius, let him become his neighbour or his fellow-lodger.

My neighbour Hunks's house and mine Are built so near they almost join; The windows too project so much, That through the casements we may touch. Nay, I'm so happy, most men think, To live so near a man of chink, That they are apt to envy me, For keeping such good company: But he's far from me, I vow, As London is from good Lord Howe; For when old Hunks I chance to meet, Or one or both must quit the street. Thus he who would not see old Roger, Must be his neighbour----or his lodger.    Swift

LXXXVII. TO FESCENNIA.

That you may not be disagreeably fragrant with your yesterday's wine, you devour, luxurious Fescennia, certain of Cosmus's1 perfumes. Breakfasts of such a nature leave their mark on the teeth, but form no barrier against the emanations which escape from the depths of the stomach. Nay, the fetid smell is but the worse when mixed with perfume, and the double odour of the breath is carried but the farther. Cease then to use frauds but too well known, and disguises well understood; and simply intoxicate yourself!

1 Cosmus: a celebrated perfumer of the day, and frequently mentioned.

LXXXVIII. ON ALCIMUS.

Alcimus, whom, snatched from your lord in your opening years, the Labican earth covers with light turf, receive, not a nodding mass of Parian marble,----an unenduring monument which misapplied toil gives to the dead,----but shapely box-trees and the dark shades of the palm leaf, and dewy flowers of the mead which bloom from being watered with my tears. Receive, dear youth, the memorials of my grief: this tribute will live for you in all time. When Lachesis shall have spun to the end of my last hour, I shall ask no other honours for my ashes.

LXXXIX. TO CINNA.

You always whisper into every one's ear, Cinna; you whisper even what might be said in the hearing of the whole world. You laugh, you complain, you dispute, you weep, you sing, you criticise, you are silent, you are noisy; and all in one's ear. Has this disease so thoroughly taken possession of you, that you often praise Caesar, Cinna, in the ear? 1

1 When his praise ought to be proclaimed aloud everywhere.

XC. ON BASSA.

Inasmuch as I never saw you, Bassa, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and report in no case assigned to you a favoured lover; but every duty about your person was constantly performed by a crowd of your own sex, without the presence of even one man; you seemed to me, I confess it, to be a Lucretia.

XCI. TO LAELIUS.

You do not publish your own verses, Laelius; you criticise mine. Pray cease to criticise mine, or else publish your own.

You blame my verses and conceal your own: Either publish yours, or else let mine alone!                                                   Anon. 1695.

XCII. TO MAMURIANUS.

Cestus with tears in his eyes often complains to me, Hamurianus, of being touched with your finger. You need not use your finger merely; take Cestos all to yourself if nothing else is wanting in your establishment, Mamurianus.2 But if you have neither fire, nor legs for your bare bedstead, nor broken basin of Chione or Antiope;3 if a cloak greasy and worn hangs down your back, and a Gallic jacket covers only half of your loins; and if you feed on the smell alone of the dark kitchen, and drink on your knees dirty water with the dog;

Non culum, neque enim est cuius, qui non cacat olim, Sed fodiam digito qui super est oculum.4 Nec me zelotypum nec dixeris esse malignum: Denique paedica, Mamuriane, satur.

2 Mamurianus is ridiculed for his sordid and licentious life. He had but one eye, as appears from what is said below. Cestus was Martial's servant. 3 Names of courtesans, from whom Martial intimates that Mamurianus would accept broken vessels. 4 A play on the words culus and oculus. A common threat was, "Oculos tibieffodiam," often used in Plautus.

XCIII. ON AQUINUS AND FABRICIUS.

Here reposes Aquinas, reunited to his faithful Fabricius, who rejoices in having preceded him to the Elysian retreats. This double altar bears record that each was honoured with the rank of chief centurion; but that praise is of still greater worth which you read in this shorter inscription: Both were united in the sacred bond of a well-spent life, and, what is rarely known to fame, were friends.

XCIV. TO AEGLE THE FELLATRIX.

[Not translated in the Bohn - adapted from the Loeb]

Badly you sang while you fornicated, Aegle.  Now you sing well; but I won't kiss you.

XCV. TO AELIUS.

In constantly making a clamour, and obstructing the pleaders with your noise, Aelius, you act not without an object; you look for pay to hold your tongue.

That bawlers you out-bawl, the busy crush, No idler you, who bring to sale your hush.                                        Elphinston.

XCVI. TO HIS VERSE, ON A LICENTIOUS CHARACTER.

If it is not disagreeable, and does not annoy you, my verse, say, I pray, a word or two in the ear of our friend Maternus, so that he alone may hear. That admirer of sad-coloured coats, clad in the costume of the banks of the river Baetis, and in grey garments, who deems the wearers of scarlet not men, and calls amethyst-coloured robes the dress of women, however much he may praise natural hues, and be always seen in dark colours, has at the same time morals of an extremely flagrant hue. You will ask whence I suspect him of effeminacy. We go to the same baths; Do you ask me who this is? His name has escaped me.

XCVII. TO NAEVOLUS.

When every one is talking, then and then only, Naevolus, do you open your month; and you think yourself an advocate and a pleader. In such a way every one may be eloquent. But see, everybody is silent; say something now, Naevolus.

XCVIII. TO FLACCUS, ON DIODORUS.

Diodorus goes to law, Flaccus, and has the gout in his feet But he pays his counsel nothing; surely he has the gout also in his hands.

XCIX. TO CALENUS.

But a short time since, Calenus, you had not quite two millions of sesterces; but you were so prodigal and open-handed, and hospitable, that all your friends wished you ten millions. Heaven heard the wish and our prayers; and within, I think, six months, four deaths gave you the desired fortune. But you, as if ten millions had not been left to you, but taken from you, condemned yourself to such abstinence, wretched man, that you prepare even your most sumptuous feasts, which you provide only once in the whole year, at the cost of but a few dirty pieces of black coin; and we, seven of your old companions, stand you in just half a pound of leaden money. What blessing are we to invoke upon you worthy of such merits? We wish you, Calenus, a fortune of a hundred millions. If this falls to your lot, you will die of hunger.

C. ON AFRA.

Afra talks of her papas and her mammas; but she herself may be called the grandmamma of her papas and mammas.

CI. ON THE DEATH OF HIS AMANUENSIS DEMETRIUS.

Demetrius, whose hand was once the faithful confidant of my verses, so useful to his master, and so well known to the Caesars, has yielded up his brief life in its early prime. A fourth harvest had been added to his years, which previously numbered fifteen. That he might not, however, descend to the Stygian shades as a slave, I, when the accursed disease had seized and was withering him, took precaution, and remitted to the sick youth all my right over him as his master; he was worthy of restoration to health through my gift.1 He appreciated, with failing faculties, the kindness which he had received; and on the point of departing, a free man, to the Tartarean waters, saluted me as his patron.

1 I.e. I wish my gift could have restored him to health.

CII. TO LYCORIS.

The painter who drew your Venus, Lycoris, paid court, I suppose, to Minerva.2

2 Represented Venus less beautiful than she is, in order to please Minerva, her rival for the golden apple.

CIII. TO SCAEVOLA.

"If the gods were to give me a fortune of a million sesterces," you used to say, Scaevola, before you were a full knight,1 "oh how would I live! how magnificently, how happily!" The complaisant deities smiled and granted your wish. Since that time your toga has become much more dirty, your cloak worse; your shoe has been sewn up three and four times; of ten olives the greater portion is always put by, and one spread of the table serves for two meals; the thick dregs of pink Vejentan wine are your drink; a plate of lukewarm peas costs you a penny; your mistress a penny likewise. Cheat and liar, let us go before the tribunal of the gods; and either live, Scaevola, as befits you, or restore to the gods your million sesterces.

1 That is, before you had four hundred thousand sesterces; which was the fortune that a man must have before he could be a knight

CIV. ON A SPECTACLE IN THE ARENA.

When we see the leopard bear upon his spotted neck a light and easy yoke, and the furious tigers endure with patience the blows of the whip; the stags champ the golden curbs; the Libyan bears tamed by the bit; a boar, huge as that which Calydon is said to have produced, obey the purple muzzle; the ugly buffaloes drag chariots, and the elephant, when ordered to dance nimbly, pay prompt obedience to his swarthy leader; who would not imagine such things a spectacle given by the gods? These, however, any one disregards as of inferior attraction who sees the condescension of the lions, which the swift-footed timorous hares fatigue in the chase. They let go the little animals, catch them again, and caress them when caught, and the latter are safer in their captors' mouths than elsewhere; since the lions delight in granting them free passage through their open jaws, and in holding their teeth as with fear, for they are ashamed to crush the tender prey, after having just come from slaying bulls; This clemency does not proceed from art; the lions know whom they serve.

CV. TO QUINTUS OVIDIUS.

The wine, Ovidius, which is grown in the Nomentan fields, in proportion as it receives the addition of years, puts off, through age, its character and name; and the jar thus ancient receives whatever name you please.1

1 Being mellowed by age, it maybe called Falernian, Cecuban, or any other name given to the best wines.

CVI. TO RUFUS.

Rufus, you often pour water into your wine, and, if hard pressed by your companion, you drink just a cup now and then of diluted Falernian. Pray, is it that Naevia has promised you a night of bliss; and you prefer by sobriety to enhance your enjoyment? You sigh, you are silent, you groan: she has refused you. You may drink, then, and often, cups of four-fold size, and drown in wine your concern at her cruelty. Why do you spare yourself, Rufus? You have nothing before you but to sleep.

CVII. TO LUCIUS JULIUS.

You often say to me, dearest Lucius Julius, "Write something great: you take your ease too much." Give me then leisure,----but leisure such as that which of old Maecenas gave to his Horace and his Virgil -- and I would endeavour to write something which should live through time, and to snatch my name from the flames of the funeral pyre. Steers are unwilling to carry their yoke into barren fields. A fat soil fatigues, but the very labour bestowed on it is delightful.

CVIII. TO GALLUS.

You possess----and may it be yours and grow larger through a long series of years----a house, beautiful I admit, but on the other side of the Tiber. But my garret looks upon the laurels of Agrippa; and in this quarter I am already grown old. I must move, in order to pay you a morning call, Gallus, and you deserve this consideration, even if your house were still farther off. But it is a small matter to you, Gallus, if I add one to the number of your toga-clad visitors; while it is a great matter to me, if I withhold that one. I myself will frequently pay my respects to you at the tenth hour.1 This morning my book shall wish you "good day" in my stead.

1 The tenth hour from sunrise, corresponding to our four o'clock is the afternoon. SeeB. iv. Ep. 8.

CIX. ON A PET DOG AND THE PAINTER.

Issa is more playful than the sparrow of Catullus. Issa is more pure than the kiss of a dove. Issa is more loving than any maiden. Issa is dearer than Indian gems. The little dog Issa is the pet of Publius. If she complains, you will think she speaks. She feels both the sorrow and the gladness of her master. She lies reclined upon his neck, and sleeps, so that not a respiration is heard from her. And, however pressed, she has never sullied the coverlet with a single spot; but rouses her master with a gentle touch of her foot, and begs to be set down from the bed and relieved. Such modesty resides in this chaste little animal; she knows not the pleasures of love; nor do we find a mate worthy of so tender a damsel. That her last hour may not carry her off wholly, Publius has her limned in a picture, in which you will see an Issa so like, that not even herself is so like herself. In a word, place Issa and the picture side by side, and you will imagine either both real, or both painted.

CX. TO VELOX.

You complain, Velox, that the epigrams which I write are long. You yourself write nothing; your attempts are shorter.1

1 Imperfect; abortive; ending in nothing.

CXI. TO REGULUS, ON SENDING HIM A BOOK AND A PRESENT OF FRANKINCENSE.

Since your reputation for wisdom, and the care which you bestow on your labours, are equal, and since your piety is not inferior to your genius, he who is surprised that a book and incense are presented to you, Regulus, is ignorant how to adapt presents to deserts.

CXII. ON PRISCUS, A USURER.

When I did not know you, I used to address you as my lord and king. Now, since I know you well, you shall be plain Priscus with me.

CXIII. TO THE READER.

If, reader, you wish to employ some good hours badly, and are an enemy to your own leisure, you will obtain whatever sportive verses I produced in my youth and boyhood, and all my trifles, which even I myself have forgotten, from Quintus Pollius Valerianus, who has resolved not to let my light effusions perish.

CXIV. TO FAUSTINUS.

These gardens adjoining your domain, Faustinus, and these small fields and moist meadows, Telesphorus Faenius owns. Here he has deposited the ashes of his daughter, and has consecrated the name, which you read, of Antulla;----though his own name should rather have been read there. It had been more just that the father should have gone to the Stygian shades; but, since this was not permitted, may he live to honour his daughter's remains.

CXV. TO PROCILLUS.

A certain damsel, envious Procillus, is desperately in love with me,----a nymph more white than the spotless swan, than silver, than snow, than lily, than privet: already you will be thinking of hanging yourself, But I long for one darker than night, than the ant, than pitch, than the jack-daw, than the cricket. If I know you well, Procillus, you will spare your life.

CXVI. ON THE TOMB OF ANTULLA.

This grove, and these fair acres of cultivated land, Faenius has consecrated to the eternal honour of the dead. In this tomb is deposited Antulla, too soon snatched from her family: in this tomb each of her parents will be united to her. If any one desires this piece of ground, I warn him not to hope for it; it is for ever devoted to its owners.

CXVII. TO LUPERCUS.

Whenever you meet me, Lupercus, you constantly say, "Shall I send my servant, for you to give him your little book of Epigrams, which I will read and return to you directly?" There is no reason, Lupercus, to trouble your servant. It is a lone journey, if he wishes to come to the Pirus;1 and I live up three pairs of stairs, and those high ones. What you want you may procure nearer at hand. You frequently go down to the Argiletum: opposite Caesar's forum is a shop, with pillars on each side covered over with titles of books, so that you may quickly run over the names of all the poets. Procure me there; you will no sooner ask Atrectus,----such is the name of the owner of the shop,----than he will give you, from the first or second shelf a Martial, well smoothed with pumice-stone, and adorned with purple, for five denarii "You are not worth so much," do you say? You are right, Lupercus.

1 The pear-tree. The name of some spot near which Martial lived.

CXVIII. TO CAEDICIANUS.

For him who is not satisfied with reading a hundred epigrams, no amount of trouble is sufficient, Caedicianus.

This text was transcribed by Roger Pearse, Ipswich, UK, 2008. This file and all material on this page is in the public domain - copy freely.

Greek text is rendered using unicode.

Early Church Fathers - Additional Texts

#latin poetry

[caelum-in-the-avatarverse]

Katara's still reeling after learning about bloodbending. Aang tries to help. 

~~~

This one's gonna have discussion of how bending can kill people and allusions to death and stuff, just fyi.

Enjoy!

~~~

“Teach me how to heal?”

Katara blinked a few times and looked up at him. It took her a few seconds to focus on his face. “What?”

“Teach me how to heal,” Aang said again, and then he added, “please.”

She blinked again. “Why?”

Because you cried for hours last night. Because you kept apologizing to Yue. Because your hopes were completely shattered. Because I know how badly you wanted to learn Southern-style waterbending. Because one of your greatest heroes turned out to be the worst kind of villain. Because you’ve been staring at a field of fire lilies all afternoon. “You taught me how to fight...for obvious reasons. But...I know I’d prefer healing over fighting. And...I think we both could use it.”

Katara graced him with a weak smile. “Okay,” she said, straightening up. She already looked better at the prospect of a goal - a mission, something to make the world a better place. “Give me your arm.”

Sokka and Toph left them to it and stuck to the other side of their campsite, Sokka drawing out diagrams for sky bison armor while rattling off ideas, and Toph practicing her metalbending and telling Sokka that, as much as her skills were progressing, she would not be able to created mounted arrow-launchers, nor would they be able to train Momo to use them in time.

Katara spent the better part of an hour tracing her finger up and down her and Aang’s bodies, talking about the twelve standard meridians and chi flow and applying waterbending as a conduit. Aang soaked the information up like a sponge, watched Katara sink her focus into healing, and all the ways you could fix a person.

But eventually her words trailed off halfway through an explanation of how waterbending could keep a person’s heart beating, and she stared at her fingers hovering over Aang’s chest. “It’s...not so different, is it?” she whispered.

Aang took her hand in his. “It’s very different, Katara.”

She shook her head. “I just...can’t believe someone would use waterbending for something so evil.”

“I know,” Aang said gently. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s - we’re supposed to be better than the Fire Nation. Waterbending isn’t evil, it’s good.”

“No bending is good or evil,” Aang said. “It just...is.”

“I’ve never seen firebending used for good,” Katara said dryly.

“Kuzon used to make shapes with it,” Aang shrugged. “People, animals. They’d dance around the campfire. It was cute.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Anyone who knows enough about the human body to heal it is also going to know how to hurt it,” Aang said. “Bending is just an ability, it doesn’t have morals. What’s good and evil is people’s choices on how to use it.”

Katara sighed. “I guess I’m just...so used to the idea of fire being the element that causes pain,” she said. “I never thought water…”

Aang hesitated - but she looked so lost, and she’d cried so much last night, and he cared about her so much. He glanced towards Sokka and Toph, saw they were still engrossed in their own conversation, hopefully far enough away that Toph’s hearing wouldn’t pick anything up. He leaned closer to Katara and said, very quietly but all in a rush, “Airbending can be used to suck the breath right out of someone’s lungs.”

It took a moment for it to sink in, but when it did she stared at him, horrified. “...What?”

Aang hunched his shoulders a bit. “Yeah.”

“You can - ”

“I can’t,” he said immediately. “That’s - it’s forbidden, and even if it wasn’t I wouldn’t want to know how! But it’s...definitely possible. There were old stories. Legends.”

She took another moment to process it. “That’s... awful, Aang.”

“Yeah,” he said, and with a rueful grin added, “there’s reasons why we’re pacifists.” If you listen hard enough you can hear every living thing breathing together, Hue had said, back under the banyan-grove tree. The old Swampbender had no idea how true that had been for Air Nomads.

“I’d never heard that about Airbenders,” Katara said.

“It’s not like it was common knowledge,” Aang shrugged. “We didn’t even talk about it amongst ourselves much. I don’t think anyone even actually knew how to do it, just that it was possible.” Maybe a skilled master could have figured it out on their own, but none of them would ever have attempted it. And now there was definitely no one who knew how to do it - maybe no one who even knew it was possible, if Katara’s reaction was anything to go by.

If Aang never said anything about it, maybe no one would ever know again.

Aang had been grieving the loss of his people and the destruction of his culture for months, but if the knowledge of the asphyxiation technique disappeared, it would be one loss he wouldn’t mourn.

“Even knowing it’s possible is scary,” said Katara, who’d bloodbended a whole human fifteen minutes after learning the technique was possible.

“But we didn’t, Katara. We could, but we didn’t. It’s not the power that’s evil, it’s the choices you make in how to use it.”

Katara mulled it over. Eventually, she nodded, and they spent a long, silent moment gazing out over the field of fire lilies. The flowers were just as red and beautiful as they’d been in another field, several islands behind them now. Katara held a hand over the nearest flower, slowly moving her wrist and her fingers, and the lily’s petals opened and closed a few times, it’s leaves shifting in slow wavy motions.

It didn’t whither or dehydrate under her hand, but when she released it, the lily suddenly fell limp to the ground, unable to stand upright anymore, leaves and petals haphazardly splayed. Katara blinked. “I...must have hurt it somehow,” she realized, frowning. “Maybe I burst something inside.”

“It’s okay,” Aang said quickly. “It’s not like you bend plants much.”

“...Yeah,” Katara said after a moment. “You’re right, I don’t.”

At least it wasn’t a person, Aang didn’t say, because now was not the time to bring that up.

“They’re just flowers,” Katara said quietly. Sadly. She stared out at the fire lilies again. The field looked like a massive army of little red soldiers.

They were quiet again, for a little while. On the other side of the camp, Toph was telling Sokka that two horns was enough for Appa and they didn’t need to give him any more on his helmet no matter how cool he claimed it would look. It would not look cool, it would look stupid. She didn’t know much about looks but she knew for a fact she would be able to feel the stupid.

Finally, Katara sighed. “She didn’t even teach me any actual Southern-style waterbending.”

Aang wrapped an arm around her shoulders and thought of the way the nuns raised at the Western Air Temple had been able to walk around on the ceiling, perfectly upside-down with the rest of their home, how they’d laugh at anyone who attempted to mimic them, and how jealously they’d guarded that unique art. “I’m sorry, Katara.”

~~~

Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated.

Meridians are the paths chi flows through in the body, according to traditional Chinese medicine. I think when Katara attends that healing lesson, the dummy Yugoda is demonstrating on has the meridians carved into it. Also why did no one ever teach Aang healing I think he would've loved it and also I think healing deserves a bit more in-depth exploration as an art. The fantasy genre tends to just treat healing as another thing in the characters' bag of tricks and I'm getting tired of it.

Also I've spent all these years wondering "how did Sokka manage to make armor for Appa they didn't have a forge and we just see him working on it like once but it didn't make sense" and while I was writing this I was like "oh wait Toph can metalbend, duh."

It seriously kills me that Hama doesn't seem to have actually taught Katara any actual Southern Water Tribe techniques. Everything they talked about had to do with Hama learning to survive in the Fire Nation and pulling water from unconventional sources. No moves, techniques, or philosophies. So sad.

Also I kinda headcanon that Hama died very shortly after her arrest of either an aneurysm or a heart attack or something. It was Katara's first time bloodbending and she was under a lot of stress. :( I also don't think that the Gaang is aware of this - I think they high-tailed it out of Hama's village immediately. A bunch of disappeared villagers return home in the middle of the night with the old innkeeper in chains saying she's a witch who controlled them somehow and these strange kids saved them? That would probably launch an investigation, or at the very least a lot of questions, and no one knows Hama and Katara are Waterbenders. Bad enough some of the prisoners probably saw Toph bending her space rock into a key. The Gaang wasn't gonna wait around for someone to poke around the inn and find a flying bison.

Regarding asphyxiation, unfortunately for Aang, there actually is surviving literature regarding that old Airbender tale - a few mentions in anthropological texts, a few recorded bits of folklore, and some Sozin-era anti-Air Nomad propaganda. Fortunately, these records are really only known in academic circles, and even there it's pretty obscure knowledge. So just as long as no well-read martial arts experts with a deep appreciation/obsession over Air Nomad culture suddenly obtain airbending abilities, the knowledge of asphyixiation techniques is safely unusable! :D *cough*gdiZaheer*coughcough*

#kataang week #atla fanfic #avatar fanfiction #aang #katara #caelum writes

[wild-aloof-rebel]

There has been a lot of fic published in the last couple weeks--116 completed fics since mid-July--which means today’s rec list is a little longer than usual. 

Not that that’s anything to complain about...

<1k words

give me one good movie kiss and I’ll be alright by imbrokelyn99 (rated G) It's pouring rain and David is dancing around the store and lip-syncing to "Nobody" by Mitski. Patrick loves him so, so much. 

1 - 3k words

Bring It Back by pennilesspoet (rated T) David once heard that no sense triggers sharper memories than the sense of smell. He is not sure if that’s true, but he does know that certain scents do tend to instantly bring him back to a very specific time and place.

fools rush in (and i’ve been a fool before) by withkissesfour (rated T) ‘Babe.’ ‘Oh no, I like husband.’

house and home by couldaughter (rated T) But there were still special occasions, and special occasions warranted special meals. Like, for example, 'You came out to your parents yesterday, and it was kind of emotionally exhausting? And I kind of feel guilty about it and need to mediate my guilt by pouring orange juice into a champagne flute and burning your toast to shit just the way you like." Sadly, Hallmark didn't make cards for that.

I am at rest with you by leupagus (rated T) “One of these days, you’ll listen to the doctor when she tells you to lift with your knees,” David says. He gets up, taking Patrick’s empty glass with him. “Do you want some more orange juice, or would you rather just skip to combining liquor and pills?” There’s a pause from the direction of the kitchen. “Oh, god, Twyla left the cake here.”

The IKEA Test by HolmesApothecary (rated T) When it came time to furnish his new apartment, Patrick knew he was going to need some additional furniture to what he had in storage—namely a bed. He also knew that an extra set of hands were key. And that even with all his bluster, he respected and even envied David’s sense of taste and eye for décor in the store. So, dear god, Patrick was going to drag David Rose to IKEA—possibly kicking and screaming.

Mad About the Boy by imbrokelyn99 (rated G) David gives Patrick a watch as a wedding present.

Symbol of Hospitality by kt_rose28 (rated T) “It’s just, I trusted you with the purchase of a tasteful housewarming gesture and I’m confused why you decided to bring this fugly, textured fruit to my parent’s new home”. Patrick gets a gift for Johnny and Moira's housewarming, and David has some very strong opinions.

Unknown Caller by WellSchitt (rated G) Patrick, 10:03 am: Alexis get here NOW. Please. Patrick, 10:03 am: David’s having a panic attack and he’s asking for you. I don’t know what to do. Please.

when you lie to me it’s in the small stuff by goingmywaydoll (rated G) “So I’m having a little back pain,” Patrick says and David has to resist every urge he has to let out a laugh. Instead, he sets his lips in a thin line and nods, patient and stoic. “What gave it away?” David asks and maybe he’s not being so patient.

You gotta let me read just a page of you baby by cromarty (rated G) 5 times Patrick tells David a bedtime story, and one time David tells Patrick one.

3 - 5k words

Funny Meeting You Here by Aelia_Weasley (rated M) “Nice night,” he said to David without looking away from the Leafs game playing on one of the TVs over the bar. “Yeah it is,” David replied a little too quickly. They caught each other’s eye and laughed nervously. The other man held his hand out. “Patrick.” “David, hi.” They shook hands.

How to Take it Slow by Basingstoke (rated M) David has a few questions for Patrick regarding what he's looking for in their new relationship. Set between 4x1 and 4x2.

How You Know by Distractivate (not rated) It's hard to miss the double take from the man in a golf polo and shorts as he passes him on the way back to the store. David rolls his eyes and switches Patrick’s tea to his other hand. Normally, David would assume it’s his less-than-bucolic wardrobe that caught the man’s attention. Today, he suspects it has more to do with the way he’s grinning at the blank space in front of him like he’s slightly deranged. God, maybe he is. Or, a few snippets of (mostly) marital fluff.

learned behaviors by goingmywaydoll (rated G) Brewers don't like to be taken care of. David tries anyway.

talk to me, come to me, hurry up by livelyvague (rated M) Patrick decides to use Grindr when he first gets to Schitt's Creek, ready for an opportunity to embrace his new life.

5 - 10k words

I’ve got the feeling you’re the right thing after all by JessX2231 (rated G) Once they arrived at the drive-in, Patrick insisted they get more comfortable in the backseat. He knew there was no way to offer that without sounding suggestive, but he took it all in stride.“ And what are we going to do back there that we can’t do here?” David asked. “I don’t know, David,” Patrick said with a telling grin. “Why don’t you join me and we’ll find out?” Or, Patrick takes David on their second date.

no matter what the storybooks say by wardo_wedidit (rated T) “What if I read that too?” Patrick asks one day over breakfast, setting David’s coffee down carefully on the table as he watches his husband flip his book over to concentrate on his breakfast. David shoots him a startled look. “Do you want to?” Or, five times Patrick reads a book of David’s, and one they read together.

10k+ words

1, 2, 3, 4, tell me that you love me more [series] by sloganeer (various ratings) One story per year of marriage, inspired by the traditional anniversary gifts. The series title is from the Feist song.

The Last Rose Video by Distractivate (rated M) “Unlike most of the people David was typically drawn to, Patrick’s edge wasn’t about high fashion or shitty manners or a twisted game of use or be used. Patrick’s edge was his mouth, the sharpness of his tongue. David would do pretty much anything at this point to see what else that tongue was capable of.” A story about Patrick Brewer, who owns the last Rose Video franchise in the world, and David Rose, who has been sent to Schitt's Creek by his father to close the store for good. When David meets Patrick well... things do not go to plan. Banter, sex, sweetness and soulmates finding each other in any universe.

A Very Specific Store by startswithhope (rated T) What if Christmas World didn't pull out? How would David and Patrick meet? And what would that mean for Rose Apothecary? Come along, for a little holiday tale, a Christmas in July story of first meetings, flirting, some misunderstandings, dreams lost and maybe found, along with a whole lot more (with some bed sharing, because that's always an extra special gift for us all).

Yellow Moon on the Rise by cromarty (rated T) “David was about to take his chances again when he looked up at the next float and saw the kissing booth boy, waving genially in a blue button down and slacks, with a plastic crown and a sash that said, unbelievably, ‘Corn Crown Prince.’” Or, Stevie and Alexis drag David to Elm Grove’s 4th Annual Corn Festival, where Patrick is working their college baseball team’s kissing booth fundraiser.

#long post #fic recs #rebel fic round up #schitt's creek #schitts creek

[araitsume]

The Desire of Ages, pp. 698-715: Chapter (75) Before Annas and the Court of Caiaphas

This chapter is based on Matthew 26:57-75; Matthew 27:1; Mark 14:53-72; Mark 15:1; Luke 22:54-71; John 18:13-27.

Over the brook Kedron, past gardens and olive groves, and through the hushed streets of the sleeping city, they hurried Jesus. It was past midnight, and the cries of the hooting mob that followed Him broke sharply upon the still air. The Saviour was bound and closely guarded, and He moved painfully. But in eager haste His captors made their way with Him to the palace of Annas, the ex-high priest.

Annas was the head of the officiating priestly family, and in deference to his age he was recognized by the people as high priest. His counsel was sought and carried out as the voice of God. He must first see Jesus a captive to priestly power. He must be present at the examination of the prisoner, for fear that the less-experienced Caiaphas might fail of securing the object for which they were working. His artifice, cunning, and subtlety must be used on this occasion; for, at all events, Christ's condemnation must be secured.

Christ was to be tried formally before the Sanhedrin; but before Annas He was subjected to a preliminary trial. Under the Roman rule the Sanhedrin could not execute the sentence of death. They could only examine a prisoner, and pass judgment, to be ratified by the Roman authorities. It was therefore necessary to bring against Christ charges that would be regarded as criminal by the Romans. An accusation must also be found which would condemn Him in the eyes of the Jews. Not a few among the priests and rulers had been convicted by Christ's teaching, and only fear of excommunication prevented them from confessing Him. The priests well remembered the question of Nicodemus, “Doth our law judge any man, before it hear him, and know what he doeth?” John 7:51. This question had for the time broken up the council, and thwarted their plans. Joseph of Arimathaea and Nicodemus were not now to be summoned, but there were others who might dare to speak in favor of justice. The trial must be so conducted as to unite the members of the Sanhedrin against Christ. There were two charges which the priests desired to maintain. If Jesus could be proved a blasphemer, He would be condemned by the Jews. If convicted of sedition, it would secure His condemnation by the Romans. The second charge Annas tried first to establish. He questioned Jesus concerning His disciples and His doctrines, hoping the prisoner would say something that would give him material upon which to work. He thought to draw out some statement to prove that He was seeking to establish a secret society, with the purpose of setting up a new kingdom. Then the priests could deliver Him to the Romans as a disturber of the peace and a creator of insurrection.

Christ read the priest's purpose as an open book. As if reading the inmost soul of His questioner, He denied that there was between Him and His followers any secret bond of union, or that He gathered them secretly and in the darkness to conceal His designs. He had no secrets in regard to His purposes or doctrines. “I spake openly to the world,” He answered; “I ever taught in the synagogue, and in the temple, whither the Jews always resort; and in secret have I said nothing.”

The Saviour contrasted His own manner of work with the methods of His accusers. For months they had hunted Him, striving to entrap Him and bring Him before a secret tribunal, where they might obtain by perjury what it was impossible to gain by fair means. Now they were carrying out their purpose. The midnight seizure by a mob, the mockery and abuse before He was condemned, or even accused, was their manner of work, not His. Their action was in violation of the law. Their own rules declared that every man should be treated as innocent until proved guilty. By their own rules the priests stood condemned.

Turning upon His questioner, Jesus said, “Why askest thou Me?” Had not the priests and rulers sent spies to watch His movements, and report His every word? Had not these been present at every gathering of the people, and carried to the priests information of all His sayings and doings? “Ask them which heard Me, what I have said unto them,” replied Jesus; “behold, they know what I said.”

Annas was silenced by the decision of the answer. Fearing that Christ would say something regarding his course of action that he would prefer to keep covered up, he said nothing more to Him at this time. One of his officers, filled with wrath as he saw Annas silenced, struck Jesus on the face, saying, “Answerest Thou the high priest so?”

Christ calmly replied, “If I have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil: but if well, why smitest thou Me?” He spoke no burning words of retaliation. His calm answer came from a heart sinless, patient, and gentle, that would not be provoked.

Christ suffered keenly under abuse and insult. At the hands of the beings whom He had created, and for whom He was making an infinite sacrifice, He received every indignity. And He suffered in proportion to the perfection of His holiness and His hatred of sin. His trial by men who acted as fiends was to Him a perpetual sacrifice. To be surrounded by human beings under the control of Satan was revolting to Him. And He knew that in a moment, by the flashing forth of His divine power, He could lay His cruel tormentors in the dust. This made the trial the harder to bear.

The Jews were looking for a Messiah to be revealed in outward show. They expected Him, by one flash of overmastering will, to change the current of men's thoughts, and force from them an acknowledgment of His supremacy. Thus, they believed, He was to secure His own exaltation, and gratify their ambitious hopes. Thus when Christ was treated with contempt, there came to Him a strong temptation to manifest His divine character. By a word, by a look, He could compel His persecutors to confess that He was Lord above kings and rulers, priests and temple. But it was His difficult task to keep to the position He had chosen as one with humanity.

The angels of heaven witnessed every movement made against their loved Commander. They longed to deliver Christ. Under God the angels are all-powerful. On one occasion, in obedience to the command of Christ, they slew of the Assyrian army in one night one hundred and eighty-five thousand men. How easily could the angels, beholding the shameful scene of the trial of Christ, have testified their indignation by consuming the adversaries of God! But they were not commanded to do this. He who could have doomed His enemies to death bore with their cruelty. His love for His Father, and His pledge, made from the foundation of the world, to become the Sin Bearer, led Him to endure uncomplainingly the coarse treatment of those He came to save. It was a part of His mission to bear, in His humanity, all the taunts and abuse that men could heap upon Him. The only hope of humanity was in this submission of Christ to all that He could endure from the hands and hearts of men.

Christ had said nothing that could give His accusers an advantage; yet He was bound, to signify that He was condemned. There must, however, be a pretense of justice. It was necessary that there should be the form of a legal trial. This the authorities were determined to hasten. They knew the regard in which Jesus was held by the people, and feared that if the arrest were noised abroad, a rescue would be attempted. Again, if the trial and execution were not brought about at once, there would be a week's delay on account of the celebration of the Passover. This might defeat their plans. In securing the condemnation of Jesus they depended largely upon the clamor of the mob, many of them the rabble of Jerusalem. Should there be a week's delay, the excitement would abate, and a reaction would be likely to set in. The better part of the people would be aroused in Christ's favor; many would come forward with testimony in His vindication, bringing to light the mighty works He had done. This would excite popular indignation against the Sanhedrin. Their proceedings would be condemned, and Jesus would be set free, to receive new homage from the multitudes. The priests and rulers therefore determined that before their purpose could become known, Jesus should be delivered into the hands of the Romans.

But first of all, an accusation was to be found. They had gained nothing as yet. Annas ordered Jesus to be taken to Caiaphas. Caiaphas belonged to the Sadducees, some of whom were now the most desperate enemies of Jesus. He himself, though wanting in force of character, was fully as severe, heartless, and unscrupulous as was Annas. He would leave no means untried to destroy Jesus. It was now early morning, and very dark; by the light of torches and lanterns the armed band with their prisoner proceeded to the high priest's palace. Here, while the members of the Sanhedrin were coming together, Annas and Caiaphas again questioned Jesus, but without success.

When the council had assembled in the judgment hall, Caiaphas took his seat as presiding officer. On either side were the judges, and those specially interested in the trial. The Roman soldiers were stationed on the platform below the throne. At the foot of the throne stood Jesus. Upon Him the gaze of the whole multitude was fixed. The excitement was intense. Of all the throng He alone was calm and serene. The very atmosphere surrounding Him seemed pervaded by a holy influence.

Caiaphas had regarded Jesus as his rival. The eagerness of the people to hear the Saviour, and their apparent readiness to accept His teachings, had aroused the bitter jealousy of the high priest. But as Caiaphas now looked upon the prisoner, he was struck with admiration for His noble and dignified bearing. A conviction came over him that this Man was akin to God. The next instant he scornfully banished the thought. Immediately his voice was heard in sneering, haughty tones demanding that Jesus work one of His mighty miracles before them. But his words fell upon the Saviour's ears as though He heard them not. The people compared the excited and malignant deportment of Annas and Caiaphas with the calm, majestic bearing of Jesus. Even in the minds of that hardened multitude arose the question, Is this man of godlike presence to be condemned as a criminal?

Caiaphas, perceiving the influence that was obtaining, hastened the trial. The enemies of Jesus were in great perplexity. They were bent on securing His condemnation, but how to accomplish this they knew not. The members of the council were divided between the Pharisees and the Sadducees. There was bitter animosity and controversy between them; certain disputed points they dared not approach for fear of a quarrel. With a few words Jesus could have excited their prejudices against each other, and thus have averted their wrath from Himself. Caiaphas knew this, and he wished to avoid stirring up a contention. There were plenty of witnesses to prove that Christ had denounced the priests and scribes, that He had called them hypocrites and murderers; but this testimony it was not expedient to bring forward. The Sadducees in their sharp contentions with the Pharisees had used to them similar language. And such testimony would have no weight with the Romans, who were themselves disgusted with the pretensions of the Pharisees. There was abundant evidence that Jesus had disregarded the traditions of the Jews, and had spoken irreverently of many of their ordinances; but in regard to tradition the Pharisees and Sadducees were at swords’ points; and this evidence also would have no weight with the Romans. Christ's enemies dared not accuse Him of Sabbathbreaking, lest an examination should reveal the character of His work. If His miracles of healing were brought to light, the very object of the priests would be defeated.

False witnesses had been bribed to accuse Jesus of inciting rebellion and seeking to establish a separate government. But their testimony proved to be vague and contradictory. Under examination they falsified their own statements.

Early in His ministry Christ had said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” In the figurative language of prophecy, He had thus foretold His own death and resurrection. “He spake of the temple of His body.” John 2:19, 21. These words the Jews had understood in a literal sense, as referring to the temple at Jerusalem. Of all that Christ had said, the priests could find nothing to use against Him save this. By misstating these words they hoped to gain an advantage. The Romans had engaged in rebuilding and embellishing the temple, and they took great pride in it; any contempt shown to it would be sure to excite their indignation. Here Romans and Jews, Pharisees and Sadducees, could meet; for all held the temple in great veneration. On this point two witnesses were found whose testimony was not so contradictory as that of the others had been. One of them, who had been bribed to accuse Jesus, declared, “This fellow said, I am able to destroy the temple of God, and to build it in three days.” Thus Christ's words were misstated. If they had been reported exactly as He spoke them, they would not have secured His condemnation even by the Sanhedrin. Had Jesus been a mere man, as the Jews claimed, His declaration would only have indicated an unreasonable, boastful spirit, but could not have been construed into blasphemy. Even as misrepresented by the false witnesses, His words contained nothing which would be regarded by the Romans as a crime worthy of death.

Patiently Jesus listened to the conflicting testimonies. No word did He utter in self-defense. At last His accusers were entangled, confused, and maddened. The trial was making no headway; it seemed that their plottings were to fail. Caiaphas was desperate. One last resort remained; Christ must be forced to condemn Himself. The high priest started from the judgment seat, his face contorted with passion, his voice and demeanor plainly indicating that were it in his power he would strike down the prisoner before him. “Answerest Thou nothing?” he exclaimed; “what is it which these witness against Thee?”

Jesus held His peace. “He was oppressed, and He was afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth: He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so He openeth not His mouth.” Isaiah 53:7.

At last, Caiaphas, raising his right hand toward heaven, addressed Jesus in the form of a solemn oath: “I adjure Thee by the living God, that Thou tell us whether Thou be the Christ, the Son of God.”

To this appeal Christ could not remain silent. There was a time to be silent, and a time to speak. He had not spoken until directly questioned. He knew that to answer now would make His death certain. But the appeal was made by the highest acknowledged authority of the nation, and in the name of the Most High. Christ would not fail to show proper respect for the law. More than this, His own relation to the Father was called in question. He must plainly declare His character and mission. Jesus had said to His disciples, “Whosoever therefore shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before My Father which is in heaven.” Matthew 10:32. Now by His own example He repeated the lesson.

Every ear was bent to listen, and every eye was fixed on His face as He answered, “Thou hast said.” A heavenly light seemed to illuminate His pale countenance as He added, “Nevertheless I say unto you, Hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.”

For a moment the divinity of Christ flashed through His guise of humanity. The high priest quailed before the penetrating eyes of the Saviour. That look seemed to read his hidden thoughts, and burn into his heart. Never in afterlife did he forget that searching glance of the persecuted Son of God.

“Hereafter,” said Jesus, “shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.” In these words Christ presented the reverse of the scene then taking place. He, the Lord of life and glory, would be seated at God's right hand. He would be the judge of all the earth, and from His decision there could be no appeal. Then every secret thing would be set in the light of God's countenance, and judgment be passed upon every man according to his deeds.

The words of Christ startled the high priest. The thought that there was to be a resurrection of the dead, when all would stand at the bar of God, to be rewarded according to their works, was a thought of terror to Caiaphas. He did not wish to believe that in future he would receive sentence according to his works. There rushed before his mind as a panorama the scenes of the final judgment. For a moment he saw the fearful spectacle of the graves giving up their dead, with the secrets he had hoped were forever hidden. For a moment he felt as if standing before the eternal Judge, whose eye, which sees all things, was reading his soul, bringing to light mysteries supposed to be hidden with the dead.

The scene passed from the priest's vision. Christ's words cut him, the Sadducee, to the quick. Caiaphas had denied the doctrine of the resurrection, the judgment, and a future life. Now he was maddened by satanic fury. Was this man, a prisoner before him, to assail his most cherished theories? Rending his robe, that the people might see his pretended horror, he demanded that without further preliminaries the prisoner be condemned for blasphemy. “What further need have we of witnesses?” he said; “behold, now ye have heard His blasphemy. What think ye?” And they all condemned Him.

Conviction mingled with passion led Caiaphas to do as he did. He was furious with himself for believing Christ's words, and instead of rending his heart under a deep sense of truth, and confessing that Jesus was the Messiah, he rent his priestly robes in determined resistance. This act was deeply significant. Little did Caiaphas realize its meaning. In this act, done to influence the judges and secure Christ's condemnation, the high priest had condemned himself. By the law of God he was disqualified for the priesthood. He had pronounced upon himself the death sentence.

A high priest was not to rend his garments. By the Levitical law, this was prohibited under sentence of death. Under no circumstances, on no occasion, was the priest to rend his robe. It was the custom among the Jews for the garments to be rent at the death of friends, but this custom the priests were not to observe. Express command had been given by Christ to Moses concerning this. Leviticus 10:6.

Everything worn by the priest was to be whole and without blemish. By those beautiful official garments was represented the character of the great antitype, Jesus Christ. Nothing but perfection, in dress and attitude, in word and spirit, could be acceptable to God. He is holy, and His glory and perfection must be represented by the earthly service. Nothing but perfection could properly represent the sacredness of the heavenly service. Finite man might rend his own heart by showing a contrite and humble spirit. This God would discern. But no rent must be made in the priestly robes, for this would mar the representation of heavenly things. The high priest who dared to appear in holy office, and engage in the service of the sanctuary, with a rent robe, was looked upon as having severed himself from God. By rending his garment he cut himself off from being a representative character. He was no longer accepted by God as an officiating priest. This course of action, as exhibited by Caiaphas, showed human passion, human imperfection.

By rending his garments, Caiaphas made of no effect the law of God, to follow the tradition of men. A man-made law provided that in case of blasphemy a priest might rend his garments in horror at the sin, and be guiltless. Thus the law of God was made void by the laws of men.

Each action of the high priest was watched with interest by the people; and Caiaphas thought for effect to display his piety. But in this act, designed as an accusation against Christ, he was reviling the One of whom God had said, “My name is in Him.” Exodus 23:21. He himself was committing blasphemy. Standing under the condemnation of God, he pronounced sentence upon Christ as a blasphemer.

When Caiaphas rent his garment, his act was significant of the place that the Jewish nation as a nation would thereafter occupy toward God. The once favored people of God were separating themselves from Him, and were fast becoming a people disowned by Jehovah. When Christ upon the cross cried out, “It is finished” (John 19:30), and the veil of the temple was rent in twain, the Holy Watcher declared that the Jewish people had rejected Him who was the antitype of all their types, the substance of all their shadows. Israel was divorced from God. Well might Caiaphas then rend his official robes, which signified that he claimed to be a representative of the great High Priest; for no longer had they any meaning for him or for the people. Well might the high priest rend his robes in horror for himself and for the nation.

The Sanhedrin had pronounced Jesus worthy of death; but it was contrary to the Jewish law to try a prisoner by night. In legal condemnation nothing could be done except in the light of day and before a full session of the council. Notwithstanding this, the Saviour was now treated as a condemned criminal, and given up to be abused by the lowest and vilest of humankind. The palace of the high priest surrounded an open court in which the soldiers and the multitude had gathered. Through this court, Jesus was taken to the guardroom, on every side meeting with mockery of His claim to be the Son of God. His own words, “sitting on the right hand of power,” and, “coming in the clouds of heaven,” were jeeringly repeated. While in the guardroom, awaiting His legal trial, He was not protected. The ignorant rabble had seen the cruelty with which He was treated before the council, and from this they took license to manifest all the satanic elements of their nature. Christ's very nobility and godlike bearing goaded them to madness. His meekness, His innocence, His majestic patience, filled them with hatred born of Satan. Mercy and justice were trampled upon. Never was criminal treated in so inhuman a manner as was the Son of God.

But a keener anguish rent the heart of Jesus; the blow that inflicted the deepest pain no enemy's hand could have dealt. While He was undergoing the mockery of an examination before Caiaphas, Christ had been denied by one of His own disciples.

After deserting their Master in the garden, two of the disciples had ventured to follow, at a distance, the mob that had Jesus in charge. These disciples were Peter and John. The priests recognized John as a well-known disciple of Jesus, and admitted him to the hall, hoping that as he witnessed the humiliation of his Leader, he would scorn the idea of such a one being the Son of God. John spoke in favor of Peter, and gained an entrance for him also.

In the court a fire had been kindled; for it was the coldest hour of the night, being just before the dawn. A company drew about the fire, and Peter presumptuously took his place with them. He did not wish to be recognized as a disciple of Jesus. By mingling carelessly with the crowd, he hoped to be taken for one of those who had brought Jesus to the hall.

But as the light flashed upon Peter's face, the woman who kept the door cast a searching glance upon him. She had noticed that he came in with John, she marked the look of dejection on his face, and thought that he might be a disciple of Jesus. She was one of the servants of Caiaphas’ household, and was curious to know. She said to Peter, “Art not thou also one of this Man's disciples?” Peter was startled and confused; the eyes of the company instantly fastened upon him. He pretended not to understand her; but she was persistent, and said to those around her that this man was with Jesus. Peter felt compelled to answer, and said angrily, “Woman, I know Him not.” This was the first denial, and immediately the cock crew. O Peter, so soon ashamed of thy Master! so soon to deny thy Lord!

The disciple John, upon entering the judgment hall, did not try to conceal the fact that he was a follower of Jesus. He did not mingle with the rough company who were reviling his Master. He was not questioned, for he did not assume a false character, and thus lay himself liable to suspicion. He sought a retired corner secure from the notice of the mob, but as near Jesus as it was possible for him to be. Here he could see and hear all that took place at the trial of his Lord.

Peter had not designed that his real character should be known. In assuming an air of indifference he had placed himself on the enemy's ground, and he became an easy prey to temptation. If he had been called to fight for his Master, he would have been a courageous soldier; but when the finger of scorn was pointed at him, he proved himself a coward. Many who do not shrink from active warfare for their Lord are driven by ridicule to deny their faith. By associating with those whom they should avoid, they place themselves in the way of temptation. They invite the enemy to tempt them, and are led to say and do that of which under other circumstances they would never have been guilty. The disciple of Christ who in our day disguises his faith through dread of suffering or reproach denies his Lord as really as did Peter in the judgment hall.

Peter tried to show no interest in the trial of his Master, but his heart was wrung with sorrow as he heard the cruel taunts, and saw the abuse He was suffering. More than this, he was surprised and angry that Jesus should humiliate Himself and His followers by submitting to such treatment. In order to conceal his true feelings, he endeavored to join with the persecutors of Jesus in their untimely jests. But his appearance was unnatural. He was acting a lie, and while seeking to talk unconcernedly he could not restrain expressions of indignation at the abuse heaped upon his Master.

Attention was called to him the second time, and he was again charged with being a follower of Jesus. He now declared with an oath, “I do not know the Man.” Still another opportunity was given him. An hour had passed, when one of the servants of the high priest, being a near kinsman of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked him, “Did not I see thee in the garden with Him?” “Surely thou art one of them: for thou art a Galilean, and thy speech agreeth thereto.” At this Peter flew into a rage. The disciples of Jesus were noted for the purity of their language, and in order fully to deceive his questioners, and justify his assumed character, Peter now denied his Master with cursing and swearing. Again the cock crew. Peter heard it then, and he remembered the words of Jesus, “Before the cock crow twice, thou shalt deny Me thrice.” Mark 14:30.

While the degrading oaths were fresh upon Peter's lips, and the shrill crowing of the cock was still ringing in his ears, the Saviour turned from the frowning judges, and looked full upon His poor disciple. At the same time Peter's eyes were drawn to his Master. In that gentle countenance he read deep pity and sorrow, but there was no anger there.

The sight of that pale, suffering face, those quivering lips, that look of compassion and forgiveness, pierced his heart like an arrow. Conscience was aroused. Memory was active. Peter called to mind his promise of a few short hours before that he would go with his Lord to prison and to death. He remembered his grief when the Saviour told him in the upper chamber that he would deny his Lord thrice that same night. Peter had just declared that he knew not Jesus, but he now realized with bitter grief how well his Lord knew him, and how accurately He had read his heart, the falseness of which was unknown even to himself.

A tide of memories rushed over him. The Saviour's tender mercy, His kindness and long-suffering, His gentleness and patience toward His erring disciples,—all was remembered. He recalled the caution, “Simon, behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat: but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not.” Luke 22:31, 32. He reflected with horror upon his own ingratitude, his falsehood, his perjury. Once more he looked at his Master, and saw a sacrilegious hand raised to smite Him in the face. Unable longer to endure the scene, he rushed, heartbroken, from the hall.

He pressed on in solitude and darkness, he knew not and cared not whither. At last he found himself in Gethsemane. The scene of a few hours before came vividly to his mind. The suffering face of his Lord, stained with bloody sweat and convulsed with anguish, rose before him. He remembered with bitter remorse that Jesus had wept and agonized in prayer alone, while those who should have united with Him in that trying hour were sleeping. He remembered His solemn charge, “Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.” Matthew 26:41. He witnessed again the scene in the judgment hall. It was torture to his bleeding heart to know that he had added the heaviest burden to the Saviour's humiliation and grief. On the very spot where Jesus had poured out His soul in agony to His Father, Peter fell upon his face, and wished that he might die.

It was in sleeping when Jesus bade him watch and pray that Peter had prepared the way for his great sin. All the disciples, by sleeping in that critical hour, sustained a great loss. Christ knew the fiery ordeal through which they were to pass. He knew how Satan would work to paralyze their senses that they might be unready for the trial. Therefore it was that He gave them warning. Had those hours in the garden been spent in watching and prayer, Peter would not have been left to depend upon his own feeble strength. He would not have denied his Lord. Had the disciples watched with Christ in His agony, they would have been prepared to behold His suffering upon the cross. They would have understood in some degree the nature of His overpowering anguish. They would have been able to recall His words that foretold His sufferings, His death, and His resurrection. Amid the gloom of the most trying hour, some rays of hope would have lighted up the darkness and sustained their faith.

As soon as it was day, the Sanhedrin again assembled, and again Jesus was brought into the council room. He had declared Himself the Son of God, and they had construed His words into a charge against Him. But they could not condemn Him on this, for many of them had not been present at the night session, and they had not heard His words. And they knew that the Roman tribunal would find in them nothing worthy of death. But if from His own lips they could all hear those words repeated, their object might be gained. His claim to the Messiahship they might construe into a seditious political claim.

“Art Thou the Christ?” they said, “tell us.” But Christ remained silent. They continued to ply Him with questions. At last in tones of mournful pathos He answered, “If I tell you, ye will not believe; and if I also ask you, ye will not answer Me, nor let Me go.” But that they might be left without excuse He added the solemn warning, “Hereafter shall the Son of man sit on the right hand of the power of God.”

“Art Thou then the Son of God?” they asked with one voice. He said unto them, “Ye say that I am.” They cried out, “What need we any further witness? for we ourselves have heard of His own mouth.”

And so by the third condemnation of the Jewish authorities, Jesus was to die. All that was now necessary, they thought, was for the Romans to ratify this condemnation, and deliver Him into their hands.

Then came the third scene of abuse and mockery, worse even than that received from the ignorant rabble. In the very presence of the priests and rulers, and with their sanction, this took place. Every feeling of sympathy or humanity had gone out of their hearts. If their arguments were weak, and failed to silence His voice, they had other weapons, such as in all ages have been used to silence heretics,—suffering, and violence, and death.

When the condemnation of Jesus was pronounced by the judges, a satanic fury took possession of the people. The roar of voices was like that of wild beasts. The crowd made a rush toward Jesus, crying, He is guilty, put Him to death! Had it not been for the Roman soldiers, Jesus would not have lived to be nailed to the cross of Calvary. He would have been torn in pieces before His judges, had not Roman authority interfered, and by force of arms restrained the violence of the mob.

Heathen men were angry at the brutal treatment of one against whom nothing had been proved. The Roman officers declared that the Jews in pronouncing condemnation upon Jesus were infringing upon the Roman power, and that it was even against the Jewish law to condemn a man to death upon his own testimony. This intervention brought a momentary lull in the proceedings; but the Jewish leaders were dead alike to pity and to shame.

Priests and rulers forgot the dignity of their office, and abused the Son of God with foul epithets. They taunted Him with His parentage. They declared that His presumption in proclaiming Himself the Messiah made Him deserving of the most ignominious death. The most dissolute men engaged in infamous abuse of the Saviour. An old garment was thrown over His head, and His persecutors struck Him in the face, saying, “Prophesy unto us, Thou Christ, Who is he that smote Thee?” When the garment was removed, one poor wretch spat in His face.

The angels of God faithfully recorded every insulting look, word, and act against their beloved Commander. One day the base men who scorned and spat upon the calm, pale face of Christ will look upon it in its glory, shining brighter than the sun.

#egw #Ellen G. White #Christianity #God #Jesus Christ #Bible #conflict of the ages #the desire of ages #foreshadowing to the crucifixion #persecution #annas #caiaphas #sanhedrin #judgment #hypocrisy #conviction #bravery #patience #calm under pressure #prophecy #misinterpretation of prophecy #false accusations #envy #injustice #levitical law #type meets anti-type #God's law vs. man's laws #simon peter #john the beloved #denial

[jennycalendar]

very really married (5/?)

read it on ao3!

credit to @cantspeakfae for appearing apropos of nothing in my messages n starting up a lovely chat; one last scene needed writing n her enthusiasm for this fic inspired me to do so. <3

If he was being completely honest with himself, Giles’s primary concern when it came to Buffy was her tendency to prioritize external activities over her sacred calling. Her visible frustration with her cause perturbed him, and her attempts to seek out other things outside of her destiny, even more so. He had never heard of a Vampire Slayer who balanced her Slaying with extracurriculars. Most were raised and then homeschooled by their Watchers, and none saw their preternatural strength and powers as the hindrance that Buffy seemed to label them as. She patrolled sloppily and without precision, she wouldn’t train with him for longer than an hour, and she butchered the English language with her Americanisms. It was true that she was efficient in the end, but her utter disregard for tradition frightened Giles in how much it reminded him of himself.

Which was perhaps why, when she arrived in the library brandishing pom-poms, he was a bit more horrified than he had any right to be.

“Absolutely not,” he said immediately.

“I’m sorry?” said Buffy.

“This is utterly unbecoming behavior for a Vampire Slayer,” said Giles, and he knew he was being ridiculous, but his mind was jumping from cheerleading to demon-summoning to someone ending up dead. “You cannot possibly distance yourself from your calling like this!”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Buffy, and shook the pom-poms a little, her mouth twitching.

“I am not—kidding,” said Giles, speaking the distastefully American word with an involuntary shudder. “This is madness! What can you have been thinking? You are the Slayer! Lives depend upon you!” All but lost in his fury and fear, he began to pace. “I make allowances for your youth,” he continued, “but I expect a certain amount of responsibility, and instead of which you enslave yourself to this, this...” He stopped, turning to face her. “Cult?”

“You don't like the color?” Buffy asked innocently.

“I d..” Sometimes, it truly felt as though Buffy was taking a leaf out of Jenny’s book. “Do you ignore everything I say as a rule?” he asked thinly.

“No, I believe that's your trick,” Buffy countered, unfazed. As Giles attempted to push a cart of books over towards the counter, she skipped in front of him, posing with pom-poms in hand. “I told you, I'm trying out for the cheerleading squad!”

“You have a sacred birthright, Buffy,” Giles persisted, determined to make her see reason. “You were chosen to destroy vampires, not to...wave pom-poms at people. And as the Watcher,” he added, attempting to infuse the statement with as much finality as possible, “I forbid it.”

Buffy, unbothered and almost amused, looked expectantly up at him. “And you'll be stopping me how?”

Giles hadn’t expected this response. “Well, I...” He sat down on the edge of the table, crossing his arms. “By appealing to your common sense,” he said finally, “if such a creature exists.”

“I will still have time to fight the forces of evil, okay?” Buffy reassured him. “I just wanna have a life. I wanna do something normal. Something safe.”

It was perhaps the last word that softened Giles, just a bit, though he of course had no intention of revealing that to his Slayer. He felt a bit silly, now, thinking that Buffy’s cheerleading attempts were an act of rebellion akin to his own demonic exploits. “Regardless,” he said, still attempting to sound as though he was completely opposed to the concept. A proper Watcher, according to Travers, was a strict disciplinarian, imparting upon their Slayer the importance of knowledge and tradition. “I expect your primary focus to at all times be your Slaying. It won’t do for this town to have a distracted protector.”

The tentative softness in Buffy’s expression vanished. “You know you’re being ridiculous,” she informed him. Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel, striding briskly out of the library and nearly colliding with Jenny. “Hey, Ms. Calendar, can you tell your husband he’s being totally ridiculous? Cool! Thanks!”

Weaving around Buffy, and making sure not to spill the contents of the two paper cups she was holding, Jenny gave Giles a small grin as the library doors swung shut. “I don’t need context to agree with Buffy,” she said. “You are ridiculous.”

Giles, still frustrated, let out a furious breath. “Teenagers,” he said. “I can’t abide them.”

“You picked the wrong career for that attitude, love muffin,” said Jenny, handing him one of the paper cups. “And don’t you dare get all snobby about how American this tea is. I used up the last bag for you and I had to deal with the entire English department giving me death glares.”

“Hmm,” said Giles. “Tea bags. Haven’t had these in a while.”

“This is why I don’t do nice things for you,” Jenny informed him, taking a sip of her own coffee.

“Didn’t you just?”

Jenny held up a finger, swallowed, then said, “It was convenient. Nice is when I go out of my way for you.”

“Lovely,” said Giles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cheerleading, as it turned out, was not as safe as Buffy had claimed. The day after tryouts brought the news that one of the cheerleaders had burst into flame mid-routine, which, of course, merited serious discussion regarding whether this combustion was mystical in nature. Which then led to Willow bringing up illegally hacking into the school database to see if Amber Grove had burst into flame before, Giles saying without thinking, “Oh, no, I can just ask Jenny to look,” and then Giles spending the entire morning attempting to figure out how to either ask Jenny to breach privacy laws or ask Jenny to teach him how to do it himself.

He eventually decided that dealing with Jenny telling him off for breaking laws was much preferable to dealing with Jenny very smugly teaching him how to use a computer, and as such brought the subject up when she stopped by his office for lunch. What he was not expecting was for her to say, “Oh, um,” and go very pink.

“What is it?” said Giles.

“Well,” said Jenny uncomfortably, “I—kinda already did that.”

“What?”

Jenny bit her lip, then said, “I mean, look, it was what everyone was talking about all day yesterday, and then this morning I started thinking about it and I was like does that just happen to her sometimes? And I know it’s not the most ethical thing to do, but I was curious—”

“So did she?”

Jenny blinked. “You’re not gonna get all British about me breaking rules?”

“Oh, please,” said Giles. “I’d have broken them first if I knew how. Did Amber burst into flames before this?”

Jenny bit her lip and gave him a smile the likes of which he hadn’t seen since their argument on the plane. “Sometimes I really can’t pin you down,” she said.

“I much prefer it that way,” said Giles, and clinked his cup of tea against her mug of coffee. “And about Amber—”

“Never,” said Jenny. “This is the first time it’s happened to her.”

“Hmm,” said Giles, bothered.

“Yeah, that was my reaction,” said Jenny, frowning. “Do you think it’ll happen again?”

“I—don’t know,” said Giles truthfully.

“Not to Amber, I mean,” said Jenny carefully. “To someone else.”

Giles took another look at Jenny, who was looking almost purposefully ahead. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Do you know anything about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny lightly, “it’s just that you’re writing a book about creepy stuff that goes down in this town. I figured you might know about the weird history this high school has when it comes to unexplained deaths and ghost stories and stuff like that.”

“Oh,” said Giles, and almost laughed with relief. “Jenny, there’s—there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Jenny’s shoulders relaxed, and she gave him a small, strange smile, one that seemed almost protective in nature. “Yes,” she said, and wound her arms around his shoulders, kissing the top of his head without offering any explanation for it (even when a blushing Giles all but demanded one).

The day after that, Cordelia was afflicted with a terrible and mystical blindness, and Jenny happened to be with Giles when the children came to inform him of this. “Giles!” Buffy shouted, bursting into his office, then skidded on her heels and stopped, looking nervously up at Jenny. “Uh—hi, Ms. Calendar!”

“Giles, we have to talk about Cord—” Willow, too, stopped, throwing her arm out in front of Xander. “Ms. Calendar! Is here! Which makes total sense since she’s Giles’s wife! We should, we should maybe come back later?”

Jenny, who was sitting on Giles’s desk, looked quizzically at him.

“I’m hosting a—study group,” said Giles helplessly. He really didn’t like lying to Jenny this early in the morning. Or at all. “They’re a bit overzealous in the morning.”

“Wish that were the case for me,” said Jenny, and gave the kids a warm smile. Buffy, looking a little startled, smiled back. Willow, not looking startled at all, beamed. “Hey, are you guys hungry?”

“Yes,” said Xander, ducking under Willow’s arm to snag one of the cookies that Giles had made especially for his wife and no one else. “Thank you. Giles always has killer snacks and he doesn’t let us have them.”

“Rupert!”Jenny whacked his shoulder. “They’re growing kids! I don’t know what I’d do if my study group hadn’t had snacks back in high school.”

“Yeah, Giles, we should have snacks in the library,” said Buffy, her face lighting up. “We’re here a lot, aren’t we?”

Good lord, Giles could already see the damage they would do to his books. Pizza grease, popcorn kernels… “Jenny,” he said, “this is a library, a place of sanctity—”

“Knowledge shouldn’t be restricted to non-snackers!”

“Is this really the argument you want to have?”

“Now more than ever, if you’re gonna judge me about it,” said Jenny, kissing Giles on the cheek. Giles blushed. “Kids, you have my express permission to eat in this library,” she added, “and he isn’t going to change that, because he loves me sooo much.”

“Jenny—”

Jenny gave him a frankly unfair look, one with innocent eyes and a hopeful smile and her finger tracing quiet circles around Giles’s heart. That could be a rather pretty metaphor for something, he thought. “Um,” he said, and tried to remember exactly what it was that he’d been in opposition to.

“Oh my god, Ms. Calendar, you have superpowers,” said Xander. “Can you be in the library all the time?”

“Unfortunately, I have class to teach,” said Jenny, her hand stilling and sliding up to gently grip Giles’s shoulder. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek; his heart sped up. “Look, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said, quiet enough that only he would hear, “but I know them, and they’re good kids. They’ll do their best to keep your books neat.”

Giles stared at her, stunned, as she pulled away. Had she just…ended an argument without insisting on him doing things her way?

“Xander, that homework really is due Monday,” Jenny added, patting Willow’s shoulder as she exited the office. She turned to look back, once, her expression unusually and genuinely appreciative, and then she left the library.

“Your wife is the best,” said Xander, who had somehow polished off all of the snacks while Giles and Jenny had been talking.

“Seconded,” said Willow.

“Can she marry me?” said Buffy emphatically.

Lovely. His Slayer liked his fake wife better than him. Not that he needed his Slayer to like him, that wasn’t the point—“Anyway,” said Giles. “What exactly was it that you wanted to inform me of with such urgency?”

“Oh,” said Buffy. “Yeah. Can we have snacks first?”

“…yes,” said Giles, and found the microwave popcorn that Jenny had hidden in one of his desk drawers. “Go sit at the table and I’ll make you all popcorn.”

“Ms. Calendar’s probably the only person who could have pulled that off,” he heard Willow whispering to Buffy as he started the microwave.

“How did she end up with Giles?” Buffy whispered back. “I mean, they’re total opposites. Ms. Calendar’s all cool and pretty, and Giles is all…books and tweed.”

Giles decided to take that as a compliment.

Giles spent most of the night researching witchcraft as covertly as possible. If the witch was in fact Amy, and if said powerful witch, with the capabilities to blind, mute, and do who knows what else to her enemies, was after a spot on the cheerleading squad…well, suffice it to say that he would not be in favor of Buffy being part of such a dangerous extracurricular. That, and Amy very badly needed to be stopped.

Jenny, who had been playing video games next to him on the couch, paused, taking a second look at the book he was reading. “What’s that?” she asked, almost guarded.

“Hmm?” Giles looked up. “Oh—your supernatural talk got me thinking,” he said, attempting a self-deprecating laugh. “Doing a bit of, um, pleasure reading.”

Jenny cocked her head. “It’s just that that’s a pretty rare book,” she said finally. “Pretty unusual for pleasure reading.”

Giles blinked, startled. “How did you know of its rarity?” he asked. “It’s a family heirloom.”

“Huh?” Jenny looked uncomfortable. “I-I read a lot of occult stuff, that’s all.” Before Giles could fully digest this rather startling information, she added, “When you’re done with your book, can you make dinner? I’d make a microwave meal, but we don’t have any, because you wouldn’t let me buy any last time we went grocery shopping.”

“Microwave meals are terrible,” said Giles, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. “And yes, I will. Just let me mark my place and I’ll be right on it.”

“Great,” said Jenny awkwardly. “I might run a few errands while you’re working on dinner. If that’s okay?”

Giles looked nervously out at the setting sun. “Bit dark for that,” he said.

“You go out after dark all the time,” said Jenny, raising an eyebrow.

This was a fair point. “All right,” said Giles. “Just—” and without thinking, he reached out to gently touch Jenny’s shoulder. “Be careful,” he said.

Jenny looked down at his hand, then looked back up at him, genuinely taken aback. “I’ve taken care of myself for a while now,” she said finally. “I’ll be okay.” Shrugging off his hand, she got up from the couch, but she looked a little flustered and she forgot to turn the television off on her way out.

“Waste of electricity,” said Giles, smiling slightly, and shut off the television himself.

Jenny didn’t come back until late that night, and hung a pair of dollar-store binoculars quietly by the door. Giles’s curiosity was piqued, but it felt thoroughly hypocritical to ask her questions when he himself was hiding such a large secret from her, and so he held his tongue.

Giles had barely gotten into the library the next morning when he was met with a panicked Willow and Xander, holding between them a pale, woozy Buffy. “What on earth happened?” he demanded, anxiety making his voice sharper than it needed to be. He wasn’t used to seeing Buffy look this small.

“Amy,” said Buffy simply, letting Willow and Xander lower her down into Giles’s chair.

“Willow, get her a wet cloth for her forehead,” Giles directed, then turned to look again at Buffy, his heart in his throat. He found, suddenly, that he was no longer thinking about what it might mean for his Slayer to die, or his reputation in the eyes of the Council, or any of his usual worries—worries that now seemed like foolish, bureaucratic, heartless nonsense, straight from the mind of a man who had never truly understood being a Watcher until now. She was a girl. She was tiny, strands of hair plastered to her face, eyes unfocused, and he was terrified that he would not be able to save her.

“We have to get her to a hospital!” said Willow, loudly, but still with that panicked compassion that seemed to characterize her every action.

“They can’t help her,” said Giles heavily. He knew this spell quite intimately. He and Ethan had come across it in their studies, looking for things that might get them high. They had stumbled upon this one before Eyghon, but upon reading of its aftereffects… “This is a bloodstone vengeance spell,” he said, taking Buffy’s pulse. As he’d expected, it was thready, weak, but still present. They had time. “Hits the body hard like a, a quart of alcohol, and then it eradicates the immune system.”

“A vengeance spell,” Xander echoed, “like she’s trying to get even with Buffy?”

“Cause she knows I know she’s a witch,” said Buffy, level and almost resigned. Giles thought his heart might shatter—she was so—she was too small, this girl, to be this accustomed to death. Even he had not been quite so comfortable with his calling at her age—and yes, she played at rebellion, but she was—she was a good Slayer. She was a good Slayer.

“The others she wanted out of the running,” he said, surprised at how steady he was keeping his voice. “You, she wanted to…” Here, he couldn’t continue.

“Kill?” Buffy finished. It wasn’t really a question.

“How much time do we have?” Willow asked nervously.

“Oh, uh, I’m sure, uh…” Giles fumbled, not wanting to give them the answer.

“Truth,” said Buffy. “Please.”

He felt so hopelessly inept, now. This job wasn’t an honor if they had so easily given it to someone so unprepared as him. “A couple of hours,” he said quietly. “Three at most.”

The moment that stood out, to Giles, in the bewildering story that unfolded over the course of the next hour, was the way a pale, weak Buffy reached over to Amy Madison and said, “Amy, it’s going to be okay.” She blew him away, in that moment: this child, this sixteen-year-old small enough for him to lift up and carry to his car (and did, and had to, because the spell had weakened her immune system quite extensively), this girl weighed down by her sacred duty that might very well kill her that day, reaching out to make sure another girl received comfort.

Giles was not prepared to be a Watcher, he thought. Buffy, however, was most certainly prepared to be a Slayer.

He would do anything to protect this girl. He had to remind himself that, in the chemistry classroom, the boiling mixture bubbling and reminding him that this was his first real casting since Eyghon. He would do anything to protect this girl, because it was his sacred duty, but this day had started with him being afraid and it seemed it would end in that same way. He was afraid of so many things, in this moment: that he would succumb to the magics yet again, that this wouldn’t work, that Buffy would die, that he would be alone in his failure—

But he wouldn’t be quite alone, he realized. Jenny had wanted to attend today’s basketball game. He was sure she’d be all but furious at him for dropping off the face of the earth all day. She was probably at the game right now, that or turning Sunnydale upside down looking for him.

It wouldn’t do for a Watcher, a husband, a librarian to be afraid. Giles closed his eyes for half a second, opened them, and began to read, stirring the mixture as he did so.

“The center is dark,” he read. “Centrum est obscurus. The darkness breathes. Tenebrae respiratis. The listener hears. Hear me!”

“It’s working,” said Mrs. Madison (Amy?), almost reverent in her relief.

“Unlock the gate,” Giles read, and felt the familiar, heady sensation of magics running through him. He thought, determinedly, of Buffy, and of Jenny, and of the thousand and one reasons he had not to throw himself into liking the sensation. “Let the darkness shine. Cover us with holy fear.”

Behind him, Amy (Mrs. Madison?) staggered back, covering her face.

“Show me...” The power was building behind his eyes. The lights in the classroom went out.

“She’s coming!” gasped out Amy.

Giles felt a flicker of worry break his concentration, and focused on holding tight to the magics, throwing his arms up with a half-ironic thought regarding Jenny’s attempts to attach an antenna to the television the night before. “Corsheth and Gilail!” he shouted. “The gate is closed! Receive the dark! Release the unworthy! Take of mine energy and be sated!”

And then he plunged his hands into the mixture and was quite sure he got some rather horrible burns. Ah, well. That turned out to be the least of his worries.

“Rupert,” said Jenny as soon as she saw him. He was rather expecting her to begin yelling at him, but instead she let out a strangled noise, pushed past the students leaving the basketball game, knocked Xander out of the way, and flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Giles, stunned, hugged her back, inadvertently lifting her off her feet.

“Aww,” said Willow, and grinned. Buffy grinned too.

“I’m going to kill you,” Jenny said, raising her head to glare at him. “Also, I’m buying you a pager.”

“Absolutely not,” said Giles, affronted. “I have gone through enough today without having to deal with those—little—beepy things.”

“Yeah, beepy things are the technical term,” said Jenny, giving him a frustrated smile. “You understand that vanishing completely for the whole day in a town like this is extremely stressful for me? I’ve been asking around about you all day.”

Though Giles and Jenny had discussed creating the illusion of convincing intimacy, the genuine concern in Jenny’s eyes was well past anything either of them could invent. It made Giles feel rather guilty, especially considering how generally unflappable Jenny was. He really must have worried her. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I never mean to trouble you.” Setting her down, and not quite sure what to do with his hands, he nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll leave you a note next time,” he said.

“Page me,” said Jenny.

“No,” said Giles.

“I think that’s our cue,” said Buffy, giving Giles a small, amused smile. “I kinda feel like going home, pigging out on junk food…you know. Self-care kinda stuff.”

“Good,” said Giles, who was vaguely aware of the fact that his arm was still tucked around Jenny’s waist, and didn’t mind. It did make them look rather married, after all. “You deserve it.”

“Rupert!” He felt Jenny tug reprovingly on his hand, and winced. “What the hell happened? Did you put your hands into a deep fryer?”

“Pretty much,” said Buffy, her mouth twitching. “Good luck explaining that one, Giles.” Throwing an arm around Willow’s shoulder, she headed off, striding with purpose and energy that more than comforted Giles. She, at least, didn’t seem worse for wear.

“First aid,” said Jenny. “And explanation.” She let go of his hand, tugging at his sleeve instead. “Do you have a kit in the library?”

“I—believe so—”

“No, you know what? Band-Aids aren’t gonna cut it. I got this amazing heavy-duty first-aid kit from the pharmacy last week, we are using that, I think it has burn cream—” Jenny led him down the hall, finally stopping at her classroom to open the door. “But what happened?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” said Giles truthfully, stepping in after her. It really had been that kind of day.

Jenny seemed satisfied with that answer. “So the kind of weirdness on par with, say, random acts of blindness?” she asked. “Well. I’m just glad you got burns and nothing else. I like your eyes plenty as they are, and I would one hundred percent divorce you on the spot if your mouth got replaced by smooth skin with no opening. That kind of stuff is for B-list horror movies only, thank you—”

Shutting the door, Giles caught Jenny by her waist, pressing a quiet kiss to her cheek. She stopped talking, her eyes huge. “After a day like this,” he said, “it is quite nice to see you again.”

“Oh,” said Jenny. “Oh. Okay,” and sat down on the edge of her desk, looking a bit stunned.

“Um, Jenny?”

“Yeah?”

“First aid?”

“Oh!” Blushing, Jenny jumped up, hurrying around her desk to rummage in one of the drawers. “Okay—here, just grab a chair and sit down.”

Giles obliged, sitting on the other side of the desk and waiting until Jenny and the first aid kit were settled. “How was the game?” he asked.

“Amy Madison took a pretty nasty tumble,” said Jenny, wincing sympathetically as she dabbed at his burns with a moist towelette. “I’m thinking I might check in on her tomorrow, maybe see how she’s doing.”

“I think that’d be an excellent idea,” said Giles honestly.

“Shock!” Jenny clapped a hand dramatically to her chest, “Wonder! Rupert Giles, thinking one of my ideas is excellent!” She grinned. “Am I gonna get you to say yes to that pager?”

“When hell freezes over,” said Giles primly.

“Oh, whatever,” said Jenny, and began to bandage one of his hands.

#fic #very really married #GOSH i'm exhausted. lot of stuff that happened today

[lord-archon]

Dreams of Shal’assan

It’s always cold in Northrend.

It doesn’t matter where or when I visit this cursed continent. It either reeks of death or chills bone to the marrow… whether or not my physical self is really there. Ruins rest at the frigid heart of it all, unforgotten by restless specters and the champions of the world who dwelt here for the perilous conflicts that brought them here- including myself. Contrasting against crystalline groves, Moonsong’s autumnal forests thrived, defiantly standing as a testament to nature’s unwillingness to bow before reckless unchecked magic, nor the undead that scuttled and scratched through the charred remains of Shal’assan as I stand before it.

It was beautiful still in spite of the tragic tales captured in cracked stone. It would always be a time-capsule of how even the arrogant folly of elves could enrapture the senses and turn one’s imagination loose with the untold history of these lands. But I knew. Through my father’s blunt recollections of peers he’d held in high regard now counted among the lost spirits wandering between mana enriched thickets. These “noble” elves- in an act of desperation traveled to the western reaches of Northrend- plundering the lair of the Blue Dragonflight and thus earning the ire of a just retribution.Sworn to safeguard and protect their people, they did what they felt was their only option: toy with magic beyond their comprehension, dooming themselves, their people, and the nature around them.  What beauty I saw before me came at a cost- one I aspire not to repeat as I stand looming over what is by name rightfully mine.

How fitting that my ascension from the bog of nepotism was written in the blood of dragons and their traitorous conspirators; brutal serendipity bred from an incessant need to stake my worth. When I first laid eyes on the fruits of my parent’s labors I was a hero; a champion of my Order honorably titled Knight-Archon. I was something to be proud of… but even that pride paled in comparison to my father’s when the shores of North and South Shal’assan were rebuilt. The spire of Lord Alairius Stillwater was restored in the shadow of the Great Tree’s boughs, and you couldn’t have convinced him he was anything less than a benevolent ruler. People from far off lands made the tumultuous journey to the frozen north to live in Shal’assan: a beacon of neutrality where factional divides never took root. It was as if Dalaran never left the continent and the governing bodies were content with a snowy skyline in every direction. It was almost utopian. Holiday gatherings were jovial affairs suiting father’s desire to throw a shindig in spite of my mother’s insistence for quieter get-togethers over crystal goblets of the finest Thalassian vintages. 

That is all gone now. No more shindigs, no more parties. No more smiling faces to greet me after waiting too long to visit family and friends. No more quaint cottages or traveling traders peddling wares to wealthy friends. Only grim gray ashen earth and mindless husks of the unluckiest among the former inhabitants; risen in servitude to a walking dead man. Why was my mind here again? Don’t I have far lovelier memories to reminisce? I have a GREAT love! Someone precious and protected and far removed from this shattered canvas of pain brushed wide upon a once-addled mind. New friends and found-family with which I’ve already orchestrated many a warm memory. 

So why am I here? Why do I keep revisiting these moments behind a veil of quiet darkness marked only by the sounds of my love sleeping beside me peacefully- unknowingly yet knowingly huddled beside a tormented soul behind knitted elven brows. Why was the spectral form of my dreamscape body gravitating towards the ruin to relive the aftermath of that day, to see friends and loved ones perished beyond a shadow of a hope of saving. I happened across the first of countless charred skeletal remains near the outskirts of Shal’assan’s feeble fortifications; likely belonging to the first to fall in the siege. They never stood a chance. For years my father felt Shal’assan couldn’t possibly have any enemies, that even if it had that the power of the crystal trees drawn upon by the powerful magi of his house would be more than enough to ward off all comers that dared encroach on his ancient estate. So poorly prepared were we all for the devastation that began with this poor soul’s crushed skull. I knew I couldn’t touch any of it, I’ve had this nightmare enough times to know better… but still I tread through the husk of South Shal’assan’s gate.

From this point forward the skeletal remains became more numerous. The shepherd of death’s march spared no one in the initial assault. Everyone died- not even to be raised into undeath to be used against the more powerful magefolk of North Shal’assan. I drift forward noiselessly while knowing what I was seeing I couldn’t look away from. Though I’d seen it all before I would see it time immemorial until death took me or justice was dealt to those who still claimed the realm of her father’s house. Such justice could not be dealt from my incorporeal dreamwalking form, however. Doomed was I to walk through the ruins and down the scarred and corrupted trail that led to North Shal’assan. The bodies became fewer but the shambling ghouls became increasingly present- traipsing and tripping over uprooted trees and dislodged stone as they mindlessly scraped and scrounged at whatever hadn’t already been destroyed. I walked through one of these mindless remains of someone who’d likely been living their quiet life on the serene shores of the Mirror of Twilight in South Shal’assan… someone I likely knew at some point but was too mangled and decayed to recognize. When the time came for me to reclaim these lands I would grant who these people once were the peace of an overdue final death. It was a small mercy, but it’s the only mercy I can give. 

The corrupting scar deepened and my ethereal dream form would step through more ghouls and geists- skeletal mages and haunting banshee specters starting to appear among the grotesque menagerie the closer to North Shal’assan I noiselessly approached. This was the point where the alarm had been raised… I remember exactly where I was then. I was keeping my mother company in the spire whilst my father visited the cathedral with his parade of feline familiars that followed him everywhere he went. My father… gods he’d always hoped to one day have grandchildren- though never once did he ever pressure me into producing the future of his house. Even here my heart broke for him again in remembrance of how charmed he was by the children who swarmed from the church after their lessons in the Light’s grace towards him as he approached while conjuring candies and toys and Light knows what else he could to usher smiles and giggles from the would-be future denizens under his benevolent lordship. His feline menagerie was equally as charmed as him to have youngsters to chase them.It was just that time of day when the alarm sounded and my father was taking his stroll. My mother and I could hear the clattering of his staff as it fell to the ground in shock at the plumes of smoke rising from the South. The screams- gods spare me of the screams, I beg you, please! Even in the caverns of my mind the cries of the fallen and freshly risen filled my ears. For a fleeting moment it almost feels as if reality itself has warped me back to this atrocity; the smells of burning wood and flesh filling my nostrils, and the calls of coordination among my father’s elite magi to safeguard the middling defenses. I remember the moment my mother sent me to find my father while she set about securing the mage tower itself- the restoration of which she played a large hand in and of which she would never see the fall of if it was within her great power to do so. I remember the panic as what few citizens remained fled through the cathedral gates and behind the stony fortification of its sturdy stone structure… and even in this dreamscape I can see the specters of those who were too late appearing to run in place where they were cut down. I remember my father’s booming voice sounding over the panic, ordering all capable magi to erect a magical barrier to defend what was left of the innocents. I counted among those who stood to defend the last bastion of Shal’assan.

I recall the magic being so thick in the air that I could taste it. I recall the sound of cawing ravens as they were freed from their roosts in the rafters… I recall sensing rifts opening within the cathedral to evacuate survivors- some to Dalaran, some to Stormwind, and others to Silvermoon. Anywhere but here to be subjected to the slaughter and the terror. It was everything those we stood in opposition of reveled in. I remember those moments coming to terms with death as it stared me in the eyes again. I remember how I’d come here broken-hearted to begin with, and that I would die alone and with nothing left to my name but broken vows and a tarnished legacy painted in the inky blackness of the void. I remember the chill running down my scarred spine, hot tears streaming down my face as I turned off all feeling and embraced the gifts of the Ren’dorei to reinforce my portion of the barrier- doing as we children of the void vowed to do: to use the dark magics of the eldritch lords beyond reality to safeguard all that we hold dear. I remember silence suddenly falling on Shal’assan as the last of the survivors were safely evacuated, and all but one portal remained open for the last of Shal’assan’s defenders. Even as I stand here in this hellish dreamscape in a warm bed more than half a world away- my incorporeal form walked beyond the mana-scorched line that marked the last barricade of defense from the onslaught. And it was here again that I saw my past self. Hair a deep indigo and pulled in a long tail that slung over my shoulder with skin starry and black as I embraced the ethereal. There I was. The progeny of the House of Shal’assan, the Violet Coven. 

I was the last line of defense. 

I’d insisted upon it. Without the ability to shed tears I stared at my past self’s resolute grimace as a single towering darkness loomed over me. The dark lord who’d ushered this march through my family’s home like a devouring plague. Death’s shepherd. Runed scars marring a hairless scalp crowning lichfire eyes that glared through me… just waiting for the barrier to break. I could see it in my own eyes. I’d forgone all hope of a future. In that moment I was resigned and ready to die- a perfect sacrifice to cap off a tragic self-important tale to spare my family of the legacy I’d so easily tarnished with my foolishness. So lost was my self-worth beyond martyrdom that the front I’d sustained in alcohol and bloodstained knuckles through my one-hundred and sixty-four years (at that point) that no ounce of vulnerability was left. My value would lie in a musty tome to collect dust as my crushed bones would as a testament to my willingness to lay my life down again… and I was resigned to never learning my true worth. In the silence of my nightmare I watched again as magic sprung up around me- the makings of a teleport I’d scarcely noticed in my staredown with the creator of our ruin. I watch now as helplessly as I could then as my sturdy countenance was replaced by the gentle kindness of my father’s. I watched as I appeared afar in the open doorway of the cathedral where he’d previously stood and watched me defend the legacy of his name in needless sacrifice, and he just… Couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to watch his miracle baby die in front of him. His only daughter, one he’d never missed a wintery birthday picnic with as his timelessly charming gaze watched me grow into the woman I became.Never once forsaking me for my shortcomings. 

I witnessed again the realization upon my face and my collapse from exhaustion. The fear of comprehension as I see the barrier surrounding my father start to crack. A cloaked figure grabbed my shoulder and yanked me inside the cathedral, and my crumpled starry visage vanished within… while my incorporeal sight remained fixed on my father’s steeled resolve. The same look on his face as the one I’d sported- the look of someone who knew they were about to die while knowing fully in their heart of hearts this was how it had to end. The barrier shattered, and an iron-gauntleted fist fired through first to grab Alairius Stillwater by the throat- pestilence quickly seeping through his open orifices from the Death Shepherd and spelling his doom under no uncertain terms… but he wasn’t dead yet. I followed in the steps of the aggressor as he sauntered through the cathedral gates, and I saw how the massive doorway that barred his path cracked under the weight of his furious pursuit. 

Time stopped- dreams allowed that much, and as with every other instance of this dire recollection it did so again expectedly. Without needing to I stepped around the monolithic butcher as he held my father aloft for all inside to see, and there my past self was again. I was huddled with… someone I struggled to remember. The cowled figure stood at the forefront with hands outstretched and a torch in a mechanical prosthetic to light the drapes over the windows ablaze while a pyromancer who’d remained spread the flames with characteristic precision to the other curtains. Elsewhere there was a Ren’dorei bowman with arrows nocked and ready to sling into any of the mindless former residents that clawed their way past their dark lord. Time unfroze. A blaze began and a fusillade of  shadowy bolts erupted from the marksman’s bowstring- each one finding their mark and engulfing the zombified remains in shadowflame.

Time stopped again, or at least… it seemed to, I think. I see my past self staring at the front of the entryway where Death’s Shepherd held my father above the ground with the most insidious of smirks marking his runic features. I beheld my father’s lips as they moved to form words but I would hear nothing  then or now but the din of the pyre that started to engulf the church. I could read them perfectly. My father reached towards my past self, and I towards him. My resolve broke in imminent agony. My past self reached out for him as I had when I was a little girl begging to be carried on his shoulders so I could see the world from on high. I watched as his features started to shrivel as his lifeforce rapidly left him and the last words his lips would ever create reached my sight again.

“Do not cry my starlight, my little enchantress. I'll never be far.”

I watch again as his eyes roll back and the last breath of my father is taken. I watch as his body is consumed in righteous fire- the inquisitor granting him a mercy to never be risen in undeath. I turn and see the silent scream on my face as I’m pulled through a rift away from the cathedral as the ceiling caved in around us. My incorporeal view then shifted to the spire when an agonized scream came from the pinnacle- my mother and her realization that her beloved was now dead. And this was where it ended. I would soon wake up as a slurry of sweat and tears to seek comfort from Nyassa, my beloved future bride.

But then something happened that had never occurred in any iteration of this nightmare- my vision was pulled back into the dream as my father’s magely spire cracked at its middle thunderously as an explosion of magic separated each half of the tower from the other! Violent energies swirling about as what could only be described as an anomaly formed at the center of the carnage. The center of the carnage. There was a shape… humanoid. I could make out arms and legs, but… it was so far away and the brilliance of the magic on display so bright that it was impossible to ascertain- was… was my mother the creator, did she create this anomaly in the throes of immense grief? Something dark and gentle then passed over my dream form’s vision as it passed through my incorporeal presence to the ground. Black feathers. Feathers from the ravens released from the cathedral… I looked to the sky just as their bodies started plummeting to the ground with sickening thuds, bodies twisted even before their velocitous spirals ended on cracked and burnt stone. I then felt a sudden warmth at my back. Something bright shone behind me, casting a shadow off my dream presence. But.. I wasn’t actually here, how was this possible?

Before I could ponder the query further in my subconscious mind my vision was ripped back to the doorway of the cathedral. And there he was: the ghost of Alairius Shal’assan. The ghost of my father. Spectral, but wreathed in sanctified flames, he reached out towards me again, his lips parting to speak- My eyes opened.

The new nightmare was finished.

So now I lie here troublingly awake. I turn towards the comforting presence beside me where my Nyassa still slept- as usual unperturbed by my fitful rest. The misty halo crowning her ebon-blue tresses that even in her sleep framed a beautiful face with her perennial mischievous smirk that always inspired the best and worst in me. I wrap my arms around her and pull her tightly to my larger frame, breathing deep of her serenading scent until I’m lulled back to sleep by the melody of her peaceful slumber.

One day I’ll liberate the shores of the Mirror of Twilight and the rivulet that fed it from the clutches of the mindless. But not today. Today will be like any other: peaceful, busy, joyous, and meaningful. I have my great love- and she has me. We elves live many years, and gods knew when the time should come where the last enchantress of my father’s depleted house would take the estates of North and South Shal’assan once again and build them into something greater.

I will endure. And it was no small comfort to know that I would do so with the knowledge that I have a future rooted in happiness.

I am at peace.

For now.

[tinyghanouj]

The Giant of Rainy Grove (GT story) - Chapter 3

“What is this?” Grace’s jaw dropped. A large, wooden cart sat behind Woodcutter Sam’s shop. Something huge covered with a white cloth lay on top of the wooden cart. Could this be his son? Grace did not want to know what was hidden under the cloth. She looked at the man next to her, only to see his eyes widen with rage. He snarled, “Remove the cloth!” Owen, his body shivering in terror, untied the ropes that bound the covered body. As he removed the white material, Grace gasped and placed her hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to scream. It was a giant. A giant child. Cuts and scratches marred the dead boy’s face, and Grace stared at Owen in complete horror. “Owen...did you do this?” Owen dropped to his knees, covered his face, and began sobbing. Grace refused to believe her brother was a killer. She glared at Randy, who was still in the man’s grip. The stranger’s reaction astounded her. What had begun as pure rage faded to sadness and shock. He dropped Randy and slowly approached the dead child’s body. He laid his hand on the boy’s pale face and strongly exhaled. Grace blinked tears. The whole situation made her feel helpless, and she wished to God that everything happening around her was a dream. “Owen? Answer me, dammit, was it you?” Owen shook his head. “I didn’t kill him with my own hands. But I won’t deny that I was involved.” He pointed at the sprawled hunter. “It was Randy.” Grace gaped at Randy as he pulled himself up and shot a glance at the big corpse. “Yes, it was me. But this isn’t something I necessarily regret, my dear Grace. We all know that giants don’t live in Rainy Grove, and they certainly don’t belong here either.” He glanced at the stranger, who was still focused on the dead giant. Silent. “Besides, if you truly did care for this ‘child,’ then you wouldn’t have let him out of your sight. Ha! Who would have thought that a man like you would end up raising a giant boy? I don’t care how tough you are. What I did was for Rainy Grove’s protection and safety!” The stranger ignored Randy, his eyes never leaving the child’s face. “Fuck you, Randy!” Owen hissed. “I never wanted to be your stupid decoy!” “And yet you agreed to do it anyways. You’re no less guilty than I am, boy,” he pointed out. Randy unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the man. “You want to avenge your so-called child? Come fight me!” Grace looked around and realized that the whole village surrounded them, eyes riveted on Randy, the stranger, and especially the dead boy. People whispered to one another, some pointing at the pale body of the giant child. Randy’s group, suddenly sober, made a path through the crowd and joined their leader, swords unsheathed and daggers drawn. The man darkly chuckled as he turned to face Randy and his group, his eyes locked on Randy’s. The aquamarine eyes turned a deep crimson red. Someone screamed, and a woman near Grace pointed. Grace covered her mouth. The already-large man grew larger and larger, towering over the houses and trees. The villagers screamed and backed away in horror. Owen pulled his sister behind him. This man was no human. He was indeed the child’s father. A monstrous, colossal giant. The giant stood seventy feet tall, the wind blowing through his long blond hair, staring venomously at his child’s murderer. Most everyone except Randy and his group ran for their lives, rushing into their homes to escape. For the first time in her life, Grace witnessed Randy at his weakest. His eyes widened, his lips trembled, his legs shook, and the hold on his sword wobbled. Realization that he was not going to survive showed on his face. A hand landed on her shoulder, and Grace turned to see Will behind her, huffing. “No time to argue,” he whispered, glancing from her to Owen. “Both of you, into the tavern. Now.” Owen nodded, seized his sister’s hand, and rushed them both to the tavern as Will followed them.Grace took one last look at the scene unfolding behind them. The giant ignored them as they fled. Randy was his primary focus. It was the giant’s turn to smirk. “Not feeling so brave now, are we, human?” his voice boomed. “Sounds like all this talk of you being the protector of the village is a load of rubbish. Now come on.” The giant dropped to his knees, causing the ground to shake under them. He folded his arms across his chest and growled, “Give it your best shot.” One of Randy’s men stepped forward and pointed his weapon at the giant. “Giant or not, we will kill you!” He stormed to the sitting giant and slashed his sword back and forth across the knee, leaving tiny marks. The giant sighed as he reached for the little human and grabbed him, wrapping his fingers tightly around his torso. The man screamed as he rose higher and higher above the ground until he was mere inches from the giant’s wild countenance. “Looks like you’re the first volunteer.” The giant sneered, and before the man could even let out a scream, the big hand clutching him grew tighter and tighter, cutting off his breath. The giant placed two of his fingers around the man’s neck and gave it a little snap before dropping him casually. Randy’s men whimpered as they retreated, no longer willing to challenge the giant. Randy tried to back away, but the giant grabbed him and held him high in the air at face level. Randy shrieked and tried to swing his sword at the giant’s face. The giant bit into the sword and crushed it with his teeth, spitting out the pieces. “P-P-Please have mercy!” The giant regarded Randy for a moment before choking him with the hand he held him with. “You mean the mercy which you bestowed upon my son?” His grip tightened, and Randy’s eyes bulged. “Giving you a quick death would certainly be considered an act of mercy. But that's not what I want," he hissed. Randy gulped. "I want you to suffer.” _______________________________________________________________

Grace yanked the curtains shut and turned her back to the window. The giant had just killed one of Randy’s henchmen, and it wasn’t a pleasant scene. Fear overcame her as she placed her hand on her chest. Rainy Grove was now under the giant’s mercy, and no one could dare to fight him. Owen sat at a table, the traces of tears on his face, and Grace couldn’t help but ache for her brother. Will sat across from Owen, trying to calm him down. “Take it easy, son. There was no way you could have known.” He looked at Grace. “Has he told you anything about all this?” “I-I was going to tell her,” Owen replied. “But I was too late.” Will cursed. “What was Randy thinking? He kills a giant child, and now we’re all dead meat.” “This is indeed a difficult time.” Everyone turned to the new voice. Village Chief Emery sat at a table near a window, observing the events that were transpiring outside. "Chief Emery," Grace said. "Thank goodness you're safe. We've got to do something about this. What should we do?" Emery nodded slowly. "I am aware, child. But if the giant decides that Randy must die for his actions, then he deserves his fate." He peered at Owen. "And that includes you too, son." Owen covered his face, sobbing. Grace sat next to her brother and clasped her arms around him. "It's going to be alright, Owen. I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you." Will stared at Emery. "He can't possibly do anything to Owen, can he? After killing Randy’s men, what more could he want?" Emery let out a sigh. "The only way to find out is to speak with the giant himself.”

#g/t #g/t community #g/t fluff #gt #gt fluff #gianttiny #Giant/tiny #giants #gt community

[mybukz]

Fiction: The Craving by Tutu Dutta

Photo by Rac Cr on Unsplash A retelling of a dark folktale from Kadazan-Dusun folklore, about a headstrong girl who defied her father’s advice about her choice of husband, and the horrific consequences.

Tears pooled in her dark eyes. Her heart ached with the disappointment. Then she clenched her hands over the black fabric of her tapi and twisted the material, knuckles protruding against her tanned skin. How could he do that to her? He had no right!

The events of that afternoon played out in her mind.

He had summoned her to the family hall. As the chief, he was entitled to the largest and most ornate living quarter in the longhouse, a large, vacant space partitioned off from the rest of the quarters by woven wall tapestries. Her soft-spoken, doting, middle-aged widowed aunt, who had raised her in her late mother’s stead, was sitting beside him, face lowered.

The chief cleared his throat. “My daughter, we have wonderful news! We have received an offer for your hand in marriage and I have agreed to it. The young man in question is most suitable.”

Kinambura’s face lit up. Her full, soft lips curved into a smile. But she suppressed it; it was inappropriate to show too much happiness at a wedding proposal. She assumed modesty. “I’m happy if you and Aunt are happy with this proposal, father.”

“Indeed, we are! The young man concerned is well-mannered, wealthy and has blood ties with us, as well.” he said, a look of satisfaction on his face.

Surprised, Kinambara smiled wider. “I didn’t know that Montuk was related to us.”

“Montuk? Why do you mention his name?” A deep frown took over the pleased look on her father’s face. Her aunt looked up sharply and scrutinized Kinambura’s face.

Kinambura remained silent, her heart sinking while her father continued, “I’m referring to Tingoran, of course.”

Kinambura gasped, turning ashen. What possessed them to think that she would ever be interested in marrying Tingoran? While it was true that they had known each other since childhood, she regarded the other more as a brother than anything else. In fact, they were distantly related. She said, warily at first, “I thought it would be Montuk.” Then, she tilted her chin up. “I’m in love with him, Father.”

Her aunt entreated, “Kinambura, please be reasonable. Tingoran is the son of a wealthy chieftain and is known to be good natured and kind. Montuk is not a good match for you. He is known to be a harsh man and there are rumours about him practicing dark magic.”

“Aunt, you can’t believe what people say! They are jealous of him! Montuk is a wonderful man. And he loves me!” Her dark eyes flashed, and her lips thinned with indignation. “You can’t force me to marry Tingoran! I will not spend the rest of my life with such a boring person!”

Her father dropped all semblance of patience and snapped, “Please return to your bed and calm down! You are not to leave the longhouse to see Montuk ever again. Do you understand, Kinambura?”

Before he could say more, she jumped to her feet, ran out of the room and climbed up the ladder that led to her bed, high above in the loft, just below the thatched roof of the longhouse. She pretended to fall asleep.

The afternoon warmed. When the sun set and enveloped the peaceful valley in a warm glow, her aunt brought her a plate of food: rice with chicken roasted with bamboo shoot. As the heat of the day gave way to cool evening air, she heard members of the longhouse gather in the long open space along the verandah to sing and tell each other tales and jokes. It was a convivial time enjoyed by all—except Kinambura.

When their quarters were finally empty, she tossed aside her blanket. She climbed down the ladder to the main room below, and crept to the back door of the longhouse. Once her feet touched the bare earth, she ran through the tapioca and melon farm to the edge of the luxuriant bamboo grove behind the longhouse. As night descended, the air cooled and a slight breeze blew through the bamboo leaves. She waited impatiently. Then her heart missed a beat. Montuk appeared a few feet away, looking more wickedly handsome than usual in the dim light. She ran to him and they embraced.

She laid her head on his shoulder, tears running down her cheeks. “They’ve arranged for me to marry Tingoran!”

“Who? What are you talking about?” He held her by the shoulders. His eyes bore into her.

“My father has arranged for me to marry Tingoran! He will be coming with his men in a few weeks’ time. They will be bringing the bridal gifts and we will be married on the same day!” Kinambura’s finely etched eyebrows drew together in anxiety. “What am I going to do?

“Tell me more about this. Exactly when are they expected to arrive and which route will Tingoran and his men be taking?” His rough voice surprised her.

“I don’t know. I suppose if they start in the morning, they will arrive before sunset. I think my aunt and the maids are preparing to cook a feast for their arrival.”

“There are a few routes from the village of Tambunan to here. Which route are they most likely to take?”

She frowned, then laughed. “Of course Tingoran will probably take the route through the hill side. He always did hate to get his feet wet. He will have to wade through the stream in the route through the valley. Why?” She teased, “Are you planning to scare him away?”

“I will give him the scare of his life.” He laughed, twisting his lips. She saw a strange expression as he said, “Tingoran will never ask you to marry him again!”

He pulled her to him and looked closely into her eyes. His dark eyes gleamed with resolve. “You are mine, Kinambura! You will always be mine, no one can take you away from me.”

Kinambura felt dizzy with excitement at being so close to him. What was it about him that set her heart racing? Was it the musky smell or the smooth handsome features which look like they had been carved out of wood and polished to perfection?

Kinambura sighed and pulled away from Montuk. The night was wearing on, and she had to sneak back into the longhouse. She could not risk being seen by anyone.

In the weeks that ensued, Kinambura willingly participated in her wedding preparations. She kept her face from showing her relief that this affair was never going to come to fruition.

On the day of the wedding, her father and relatives waited expectantly, but Tingoran and the wedding party from Tambunan never showed up. Kinambura felt relieved but, at the same time, a strange sense of apprehension crept over her. Her father’s and Aunt’s increasing consternation as time passed almost made her regret ever scheming with Montuk.

It was dark when members of the bride’s entourage who had been tasked to greet the groom appeared. Their shocked expressions and pale faces told everyone it was going to be dreadful news. The leader said in a shaken voice, “They’re dead, they are all dead! We dare not even… their heads were hacked off… and Tingoran… his head is missing!”

Kinambura felt a wave of nausea. She blinked. Tingoran’s disembodied head materialized, inches from her face, blood oozing from its severed neck. The apparition looked at her with anguished, accusing eyes. She heard a piercing shriek. She realized, shocked, that it came from her own mouth. Her knees gave and she collapsed onto the bamboo floor. When she woke up, she was resting on a mat on the floor, covered with a blanket.

Her aunt gazed at her anxiously, wiped her brow with a damp cloth and whispered, “Don’t take it too hard. We know you are devastated but these things happen. According to Montuk, it was a group of headhunters from across the mountains. There has been bad blood between them and the village of Tambunan for a long time.”

Kinambura turned her head. She didn’t want her aunt to see the look of anguish and fear in her eyes. It was Montuk, of course. She knew that with certainty. He had tricked her into giving him the information about the wedding entourage, and had lied to her. Tears sprang into her eyes. She had never meant any harm to come to Tingoran. She had not wanted to marry him, but had never wished this gruesome death upon him. She knew a missing head meant that his spirit would never be at peace, not without a Bobohizan to calm and tame his restless spirit. Montuk was just supposed to scare him away.

Weeks passed and Kinambura lived in seclusion. She only left the longhouse in the company of her aunt and a few of the other ladies. She was careful to avoid Montuk, who tried in vain to see her. She told her aunt that she was devastated by her fiancé’s death. Everyone had no doubt that she was unwell; she had grown thin and wan. Gone were her flashing eyes, uninhibited laughter, and most of all the vitality which had previously attracted so many admirers.

When she finally recovered, her father asked to see her again. “I cannot bear to see you suffering like this. Montuk has asked for your hand in marriage and I have agreed, in spite of my reservations. I remember that you expressed your love for him, some months ago.”

Her aunt nodded and smiled at Kinambura, but Kinambura felt all the blood drain from her face, and she thought that she would faint. How could she tell her father that she no longer wanted to marry a cold blooded murderer, without implicating herself? When she finally found her voice, she said, “Of course, father. If you really think this is for the best. Maybe this is what I deserve.” She tried her best but she could not stop her voice from wavering slightly. Her aunt looked at her in surprise.

There was nothing she could do; they were married within weeks. On the wedding night, she had a hysterical fit and had to be taken to her father’s quarters again. During which time, Kinambura developed a strange, inexplicable craving which could not be assuaged by either food or drink.

Her aunt attended to her. “Only a few months ago, you wanted to marry Montuk more than anything in the world. So what has changed?”

Kinambura was silent for a long time. She could not face her aunt when she said, haltingly, “It was my fault… that Tingoran is dead. I told Montuk when the wedding party was coming.”

“What? But we all know that Tingoran was killed by headhunters from across the mountains. It would be impossible for Montuk to kill seven men all by himself,” she said, disbelief in her eyes.

“I know it was Montuk. He asked me a lot of questions about Tingoran’s route to our village and the day he was expected to arrive. And I have no doubt he can kill seven men by himself. He once he told me that he could make himself invisible,” Kinabura’s voice trailed off.

Her aunt looked disturbed but she tried to calm her niece down. “You are upsetting yourself for no reason, Kinambura. A few other people knew about Tingoran’s route.”

“But they were all a part of the marriage party… and… and I know where Tingoran’s head is hidden.” Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “His spirit spoke to me and told me where Montuk had hidden his head.”

Her aunt turned pale and was too shocked to speak.

“I can’t return to him, and you can’t tell anyone what I told you, otherwise we will both die!”

Her aunt believed her. She told everyone that a strange wasting illness had gripped her niece and she had to be confined to her father’s quarters. This was quite true because Kinambura felt ill all the time, the insatiable craving only intensifying. Her father grew worried about her steadily deteriorating health. The chief told his sister-in-law, “I fear for my daughter’s life. Please save her because she is all I have.”

She nodded but decided not to tell him what Kinambura had confided to her about Montuk. Instead she said, “Kinambura craves the rare mushrooms which only grows on the other side of the mountain. Perhaps you could ask Montuk to collect some for her? I can make her a special dish which might cure her hunger.”

The chief instructed Montuk to gather those mushrooms as soon as possible. Early the next morning, after Montuk had set out on his errand, Kinambura and her aunt surreptitiously entered his quarters. Kinambura climbed up to the loft and located the rattan basket where he kept Tingoran’s head preserved in layers of dried leaves. She carefully lowered it to her aunt, and the two of them quietly left the longhouse, unnoticed by anyone. With both women bearing the weight of the basket and its macabre contents, the two walked the entire day until they finally came to the Tambunan longhouse, the deceased’s family home. They were greeted by the chieftain and the Bobohizan of Tambunan. Kinambura sorrowfully handed them Tingoran’s head, and the old chieftain wept over his dead son.

The two women were given a room at the farthest end of the longhouse. Before everyone retired for the night, the Bobohizan walked around the longhouse and placed a protective spell over the place. Kinambura was exhausted and retreated into a recess in the room to rest for the night. She slept on a thick mat on the floor while her aunt took the loft. Before going to sleep, she lighted the hearth and placed a pot of water over it and added some rice to the pot. The night would get chilly and it would be nice to have food ready in the morning.

In the middle of the night, Kinambura was roused by a soft, scuttling sound. She opened her eyes and sat up soundlessly. There was a large rat on the floor, sniffing around unawares. Kinambura sank silently to the floor and crawled forwards on all fours, like a giant reptilian feline, her black eyes fixed on the rat. When the rat finally sensed her presence, it was riveted to the spot, unable to move in sheer terror. Kinambura caught it in her hand and threw the animal into a pot of boiling water on the hearth. The rat screamed before it died. Kinambura then plucked the creature out of the water with her bare hands and ate it greedily, leaving behind only hair, nails and bones. Sated at last, the young woman then crawled back to her bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The next morning she was awakened by her aunt. She was shaking her and gesticulating wildly at the hearth. Kinambura got up and walked calmly over. There was a skeleton lying there, bones stripped bare of all flesh. Peering at the skull, she remembered Montuk’s ghostly face—she knew at once that it was him. She was horrified, shaken by what she saw.

The Bobohizan rushed into their quarter at that moment. She turned pale at the sight. “Who is it? Who could have done this to him? How did he break my spell to enter this place?”

Kinambura said, “He is not a man, he is a dark shaman. It is Montuk.”

The memory of what happened last night came back to her. She felt sick but her illness and nameless craving were gone.

She also remembered what Montuk had told her on their wedding night. “You have no idea how much I wanted to marry you. It’s not just because of your beauty but you have magic in your veins. I sensed it the first time I met you. I just couldn’t let any other man marry you… ever. We belong together, I need you!”

*

Tutu Dutta has a B. Sc from Universiti Putra Malaysia and an M.Phil from the University of Malaya. She is the author of nine books, ranging from a picture book, Phoenix Song, published by UK-based Lantana Publishing; to a collection of dark folktales, Nights of the Dark Moon, published by Singapore-based Marshall Cavendish Editions. She draws inspiration from Asian folklore, for her books.

#Tutu Dutta #The Craving #folktale #Kadazan #Dusun #short story #fiction #paranormal #Malaysian fiction #Malaysian literature #folklore