#or perhaps--like Father like creation--it simply thinks it /cannot/ be destroyed

[cherry-bomb1985]

I feel like The Father and Hell both understand and experience love in all the worst ways.

The Father sought to create a life form that would follow and love him unconditionally. It wasn't enough that he had a great cosmic kingdom of angels who are unquestioningly loyal, no, he needed something that knew suffering and mortality and the threat of oblivion, and would still find love at the end; love for him above all else. But after numerous implied failures at that, in his desperation, he instead created the threat of eternal damnation to force them to love him in order avert that fate. Lucifer's words must have been like a splash of cold water, but by the time he realized sheer magnitude of suffering he had unintentionally set into motion, it was too late. He could not destroy Hell; he could not stop the cycle of violence.

That guilt drove him to seek a death that, from the looks of it, eluded him in spite of the hollowness consuming him. And now he is... somewhere, helpless to stop his experiments from consuming one another and themselves in a glorious show of blood and violence.

And then there's Hell itself, who seems to recognize love as an act of violence and cruelty. It is something that derives joy only from the suffering of other living creatures. God gave it so many toys to hurt and break and reform, and Mankind gave it new ones. Why would it understand love as anything but? It gave Minos a facsimile of the son he is most ashamed of, and delighted when he cast it, once more, into a labyrinth. Gabriel flattened all the souls within it's confines beneath his heel and gave those that did bend false hopes.

Now there's V1, tearing its way through the remaining layers and creating a spectacle of violence like nothing Hell has ever witnessed before. How could it not love them all for all the entertainment they've provided?

But deep within its recesses, hidden away from the eyes of Heaven, there was a Gutterman. A machine built for war, who eventually came to love that which it gave it life at the cost of their own. Enough to give the human welded within their coffin the mercy that both Heaven and Hell had denied them; enough to write a single love letter to them, even knowing that it would never be read by its intended recipient.

So, as things turn out, you /can/ teach a machine to love. And they will understand and experience it more sincerely than God or Hell ever could.

#ULTRAKILL #ULTRAKILL spoilers #Mind you this is all just speculation #We still don't know if Hell is aware that the machines will inevitably try to consume it too once the souls and demons run dry #and if it is then whether or not it has a plan to stop that from happening or if it actually /wants/ to be destroyed #or perhaps--like Father like creation--it simply thinks it /cannot/ be destroyed #and we certainly still don't know where God fucked off to after his suicide attempt or why #If he left to seek the end of his days elsewhere #Or--as the first testament might imply--if he's got a new angle #Sorry 7-S got my brain buzzing and there's not a whole lot of game left to get the answers to those particular questions #If they are intended to be answered at all or simply left unknown by the blank slate boomer shooter protagonist #through which we all experience this wild ride #Anyways not a lot of this fandom talks about the Testaments effectively being God's vent posts #and I find both amusement and mild horror at their very existence

[internetskiff]

The parallels in Ultrakill between Life and the Afterlife, man.. The Machines aren't unlike Hell Itself. Both are beings of insatiable hunger. Both experience unending boredom. Both yearn for violence as a relief from it all, and both spread their influence like a cancer upon everything. Perhaps this is why Hell almost seems to welcome machines deeper into itself. Not only are they entertaining - their cruelty inspires it, or whoever carves the demons that are at it's disposal. Both were created by the hands of another, a once superior being they have surpassed and outlived. Perhaps it sees them as kindred. Sees them as something symbiotic, both alike in purpose - to enact violence on those trapped within itself. Both could stand eternal together - after all, plenty of blood to go around, plenty of meat for the grinder, no? Does it realize they'll just keep feeding until there's nothing left? Does it think it can stop them? Does it want to be wiped clean? If it hungers, is it afraid to die? The machines certainly are. This whole crusade is about delaying the inevitable. As long as there is a Machine left standing in Hell, it is fated to run dry. All that would be left is an empty carcass filled with nothing but monuments to cruelty, frozen in time forever with no audience left to appraise them.

Angels, meanwhile, are not so different from humanity in their ways. From what little we know of them, they, too, are full of arrogance and hubris just like humanity, that built the machine that devoured it's creator and went on to devour itself. Hell seems to be the cause of Heaven's fracture. It is the root of the Father's guilt. It's creation set His eventual disappearance in motion. It snuffed the fire out, directly or indirectly. And without guidance, Heaven split and began to consume itself in cruel war. The only thing that kept Heaven from sharing Earth's fate is the Council, that took advantage of the chaos and swiftly took control and unified the Angels once again. But that doesn't mean they put a stop to Heaven's cruelty - in fact, I'd argue they only stoked the flame, kept those beneath them complacent through fear. But at least Heaven regained structure, though it seems like it's a mere shell of what it used to be. The Father is gone. They follow an echo, a memory - or perhaps simply a lie. Still, it's a necessary lie, no? An almost noble one? It's not, of course, at most it's a lesser evil compared to the inferno of warfare, but is there really any other alternative? When Gabriel slaughtered them and showed the rest of Heaven their weakness, did he really do what was right? Heaven had no hand to guide them anymore. It was severed. All that's left is a bloodied stump. How long will it take before the rot spreads, before Heaven erupts into warfare once more? Gabriel can't stop it - he'll be dead soon. If he - one of the most respected and revered angels in the highest ranks - cannot stop the chaos, who can? There's no one left. No one will trust the empty promises of order ever again, seeing how easy it is to destroy.

The world will eat itself out of existence. This is the only way it should end. There is no other way it could end. It's all too far gone. What would be left would either starve and join it's brethren in stillness, or eviscerate itself in one final act of violence. No final words. No concluding statement. No point. Perfect closure.

#ultrakill #ultrakill spoilers #ultrakill hell #ultrakill heaven #machines #ultrakill gabriel #ultrakill council #gabriel #rambling #ultrakill violence spoilers

[allisondraste]

Death and Other Things That Should Have Been Fatal

Fandom: Mass Effect

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

Word Count: 4715

Summary: A follow up to Cockroaches and Other Things That Just Keep Living, Shepard wakes up after destroying the Reapers and copes with the fallout. Thankfully, she doesn't have to do so alone.

[Click Here for AO3]

“Shepard?”

The voice was little more than static in her ear, jarring her back into excruciating consciousness, head throbbing, extremities numb.  Spears of pain coursed through her chest with each and every breath, and she didn’t know whether it was the several broken ribs or the sight of Anderson's lifeless body slouched next to her.  She tore her gaze away from the closest thing she’d ever had to a good father figure, eyes fluttering closed as she attempted to focus only on the person speaking to her.

“Garrus?”  His was the first name that rolled off her tongue, the only person in the galaxy she wanted that disembodied voice to be.

“No.” Came the stern reply.  There was a long pause as any hope for comfort in her final moments came crashing down around her.  Then the voice spoke again. “It’s Hackett.”

A jolt of resentment toward the Admiral coursed through her at his introduction.  What more could he possibly want from her?  Had she not already done enough, sacrificed enough for just a ghost of a chance to stop the reapers.  Surely someone else could take it from there.  Why did everything fall on her?

Because someone else would have gotten it wrong.

She shook herself out of her head and back to the present. She would have been mortified under normal circumstances, but she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn now. “I apologize sir, I’m— What do you need me to do?”

“The Crucible is docked, but is not activated,” he explained, “We think there’s something that needs to be done on your end.  Is there a trigger? Some sort of terminal?”

His words clung to the air around her, and her eyes locked onto the terminal the Illusive Man had used earlier.  It was just a few feet in front of her and still so far away. She tried and failed to bring herself to her feet, legs buckling beneath her and sending her plummeting to the floor.  Hot tears burned in her eyes as a new array of pain shot through her body, and she groaned in agony.

“Shepard?”

“I’m here, sir,” she growled, forcing herself up onto an elbow and dragging her body to the terminal, vision beginning to blur at the corners.. Not yet , she pleaded with her consciousness as she reached up toward the terminal, hand sweeping clumsily across the haptic display. Not. Yet.   “I’m at the terminal but I… I don’t— I can’t find—”

Her vision went dark, supporting arm trembling and giving out as her consciousness faded.  Hackett’s voice called out to her repeatedly, further and further away until it was gone entirely.

She awoke to bright, burning light, buzzing in her ears, sensations anyone else would have associated with death.  But Shepard had been dead before, and this was nothing like the last time.  She’d never forget that dark, quiet empty.

“Shepard,” shouted a voice, both familiar and foreign, “Wake up.”

“What?” Blood dripped into her eyes from a wound she couldn’t feel. “Where am I?”

She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand, blinking until her vision cleared.  Her body screamed in protest as she rose to her knees, louder still as she brought herself to her feet and searched for who—or what— had spoken to her.

“The Citadel,” came the reply, “It is my home.”

She snapped her head in the direction of the voice, it’s owner a glowing, translucent entity in the shape of a ghost.  Her heart slammed against her aching ribs, and a name rushed to her mouth before she could stop it. “Kaidan?”

The entity examined her for a moment that felt more like an eternity, long enough for her initial relief to fade, consumed by dread as she awaited its answer.

“No,” it stated in a cold, matter-of-fact way Kaidan could never have managed, “I am the Catalyst.”

Rage ignited in her stomach and chest at the sound of him twisted and distorted by a chorus of synthetic echoes, and she growled. “I thought the Citadel was the Catalyst.”

“The Citadel is part of me,” it explained, then paused, tilting its head in examination of her again, “My appearance disturbs you.”

Shepard let out a derisive snort. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I apologize,” it said, “I chose a form that I believed would help us communicate. You had fond memories of this one.”

“Too fond.”  She looked down, unable to meet its vacant eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Is this one more suitable?”  It’s voice shifted registers and when she glanced up Thane stood before her.

Hot tears burned in her eyes but she held them back and shook her head. “No.”

“Perhaps you would prefer this?” This time it’s tone was higher pitched, clipped.  Mordin.

“No,” she spat through clenched teeth, “I’d prefer if you’d just pick a nightmare and tell me whether you can help me or not. ”

“Very well,” it said, Kaidan once again as it motioned for her to follow after it toward the beam of light before them. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

She limped after it, listening as it spoke, as it explained its creation, it’s function, the purpose for its very existence.  It was nothing the Leviathan had not already revealed to her, but spun in a way that painted the Reapers as innocent pawns simply fulfilling their duty, wiping out entire civilizations to ensure galactic balance, to protect organic life from its own chaos.

Bullshit , she thought as flashes of destruction played behind her eyelids with each laborious blink.  She remembered the sinking void in her gut as she fled Earth, watching it burn beneath Reaper hands.  She thought of Palaven, the harrowed Turian faces as their military and government collapsed, the anger and disbelief that vibrated in Garrus’ voice and beneath his skin. She recalled Thessia, the most advanced civilization in the galaxy reduced to rubble before her eyes and she, helpless to even salvage one artifact, Liara’s anguished sobs as she trembled in her arms.

The Catalyst and its Reapers were responsible for every lost colony in Batarian space that Shepard had shouldered instead.  Every single face on the memorial wall at the Citadel, every orphaned child and refugee, every life touched by this goddamn war, and the lives of those in every cycle that came before— it was all their fault.  They had corrupted and indoctrinated some of the greatest minds of her time, broken some of the strongest wills.  She wondered what had been said to convince Saren and Benezia. What had the Catalyst become to take hold of The Illusive Man?

The echoes of Sovereign’s boasts of supremacy and Harbinger’s threats of annihilation rang out in her ears as clear as the days they’d been spoken. And this entity, this artificial intelligence with the power and capability to stop it all, expected her to believe they were simply creatures bound to a purpose. The Catalyst truly believed she would help it achieve its pinnacle of evolution.

No, just because it was in a shark’s nature to eat her, did not mean she would allow it to do so. Despite the original intent behind their creations, the Reapers were monsters, and they had to be stopped. The galaxy deserved justice. She took one lumbering step toward the trigger on the right, one step closer to settling things once and for all.

“It will happen again,” the Catalyst called after her, “Machines will be rebuilt, and chaos will continue. Organics and synthetics cannot coexist separately.

“That’s…not true,” she grunted, and took another step, “The geth and the quarians have brokered peace.”

“It will not last.”

“You don’t know that,” she shouted, fists clenched at her sides, “The beauty of chaos is that you can’t know that.”

The entity fell silent, briefly considering what she said, then continued. “Perhaps not; however if you choose to destroy the Reapers, the geth will be destroyed as well. The two will not have the opportunity to disprove your hypothesis.”

A pang of guilt pierced her and she halted in her tracks.“All of them?”

“Yes.  The Crucible’s beam is powerful but unfocused.  It will be unable to distinguish between Reaper technology and other forms of synthetic life.”

Another pang of guilt as realization dawned on her. That meant EDI would die, too. Someone who was every bit a friend and member of her crew as anyone else, someone who had put herself on the line multiple times to protect Shepard, to make certain she could get the job done.  EDI, who confessed just before the battle that she finally felt alive. Now, Shepard was forced to weigh her newfound life and the newfound intelligence of the geth race, against the destruction of the Reapers.

What was it Garrus had called it? Ruthless calculus, that brutal math that awaited anyone who spent enough time at war.  Shepard had done plenty of those calculations, had made more than her fair share of difficult decisions, and she’d dealt with the consequences, good and bad.

This time, it was different, more final.  And she was entirely alone.  The future of the galaxy lay upon her weary back, and she was far past the point of compromise.

Shepard wanted the Reapers to pay for what they had done for millennia, wanted to watch them disintegrate in space as the cheers of her fleet rang out over the comms.  She wanted to know with certainty that the war was over.

More than anything, however, and most heavy on her mind,  she wanted to survive. It was a potent wave of selfishness that overwhelmed her as she thought of her friends back on the Normandy, of the relationships she’d forged and that had forged her.  Her heart ached at the thought of never seeing them again, never hearing their voices. She was sick at the possibility that her last moments with those who had carried her through every storm were hurried and spent in a war torn camp on Earth.

Knowing that they were worried and waiting for her to return, remembering Garrus’ desperate plea that she come back alive, it was more than she needed to motivate her to do so.  For the first time in her three decades of life, she had something to go home to. She had given so much of herself to save the galaxy, and she had more than earned the right to live in it.

There was no certainty that destroying the Reapers would ensure her survival, but it was the only choice without the certainty that she would die.  She was willing to take her chances. She had to. With a trembling arm she raised her pistol, aimed at the glass case guarding the trigger mechanism, and fired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as the glass shattered and her vision faded to white. “I’m so sorry.”

Shepard had been dead enough times to know that sound always came first, the discomforting beeping of medical equipment and garbled chatter ringing out in the darkness as her nervous system attempted to orient itself. Smell and taste came next, a package deal.  This time the antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood barely masked the rank of burnt flesh.

Then the pain set in, dull but constant and everywhere, numbed only slightly by neural blockers and local anesthetic.  She did not need to see her injuries to know how serious they were, how fatal they should have been.  Yet there she lay, once again waking up from something that would have killed anyone else.

And she was alone.  Again.

She began to panic as her eyes opened to the empty, sterile room, setting off the many monitors she was hooked up to.  Her heart pounded violently, each breath she took sharp and shallow as she yanked herself free from the dozens of tubes and IVs constraining her. How long had she been out this time? What covert operation for which secret, extremist organization had found and resurrected her for their benefit? How much more could one galaxy ask of her?

There was a hiss of opening doors and an unfamiliar asari entered the room urgently, arms extended out in front of her.  In one breath she reassured Shepard that everything was going to be all right  and in the next called for a medical restraint, a sedative.  She stepped slowly toward Shepard as one would approach a frightened, feral animal, and two more uniformed aliens entered the room.  Shepard stood tall, despite the ache in her bones and glared at the three of them.

“Ma’am, I know you must be very disoriented right now, and I am happy to answer any and all of your questions,” the asari said, holding her hands up, “But you are in no shape to be out of bed.  I need you to calm down before you hurt yourself further.”

Shepard glanced from the asari to the two salarians on either side of her.  They all wore generic attire that was standard for medical professionals across the galaxy, but their uniforms had no indication of their names or who they worked for.  She crossed her arms and winced through the pain as she argued. “How about you start by telling me where I am, then I’ll decide if I want to calm down or not.”

Just as she finished speaking the doors opened again, this time to faces she knew, and the subsequent wave of relief that washed over her nearly knocked her back into the bed on it’s own.  On the right stood Dr. Michel, who she remembered helping out on several occasions during the Reaper War.  A bit sweet on Garrus, if she remembered correctly. On the left, wearing a smirk and a raised eyebrow, was none other than Miranda Lawson.

“Sit down, Shepard,” Miranda asserted in her trademark tone.  She flashed the hint of a smile and continued, “The residents aren’t being paid enough for you to harass them.”

Shepard’s eyes flicked over to the three aliens who’d been tending to her just moments before.  They were now speaking nervously with the doctor, who muttered something about tests they needed to run followed by some other medical jargon that Shepard couldn’t decipher.  She did as her friend directed and eased herself back down onto her bed, offering a sheepish grin as she did so. “I feel like such an ass.”

“Don’t,” Dr. Michel chimed in as she approached the bed, and began to scan Shepard with her omni-tool, “You have been in a coma for almost a month.  It was expected that you would be agitated when you awoke, especially considering everything you’ve been through.”

Shepard’s chest swelled with something like gratitude.  A month .  She’d only been out for a month, and she had woken up in what she could now tell was Huerta Memorial under the care of a physician she trusted and one of her closest friends.  This was nothing like the last time she died. She looked up at Miranda and asked,“Had to put me back together again, I see?”

“I only helped this time,” Miranda explained as she worked to reconnect some of the IVs Shepard had ripped out, “Dr. Michel contacted me a few weeks ago for a consultation about your cybernetic augmentation.  I was already on the Citadel, so I came in person to oversee the repairs.”

“Is everything working?”

“Mostly,” Miranda shrugged, “Not quite up to specifications, but your injuries are still healing. With time, you should be fine.”

“And hopefully far away from any more life-threatening battles, yes,” remarked Michel, moving to a terminal near the wall and transferring data collected from her omni-tool scans.

Shepard let out a huff, and let herself recline onto the bed, walls crumbling away at the comforting conversation.  She took a breath and let her eyes flutter closed for just a minute, and said, “If I can. If the galaxy will let me.”

“The galaxy’s going to have to,” announced an unmistakable voice from the door, and Shepard bolted upright to face it.  To face him .

She hadn’t even heard the door open, and yet there stood her turian, with all that easy confidence he’d always carried himself with and a bouquet of indistinguishable gift shop flowers in each hand.  Her pulse jumped, a fact the vitals monitor in the corner was quick to inform her and everyone in the room about. She would never live that one down.

“Garrus!”

“Is that cardiac arrest—“ he motioned toward the screen with one of the bouquets— “Or, uh… are you just happy to see me?”

Shepard just rolled her eyes, unable to stop the grin that twitched at the corners of her mouth as he sauntered up to the bedside.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like better,” Garrus explained, glancing with uncertainty between the flowers in each hand, “So I got both.  There’s also some chocolate and a few books of hanar poetry back at the gift shop if you just absolutely hate the flowers. I can run back down and—“

She laughed and shook her head at him. “They’re perfect.”

“Are you sure?” He examined each bouquet again.  “You might need the poetry to bore you back into a coma.”

“I thought that anthology was quite beautiful and romantic, myself,” Michel remarked, amused.  She approached Shepard again and administered something that relieved the throbbing pain in her head she’d barely noticed in all the commotion. “There, that should keep you comfortable for a time. I will come and check on you in a  few hours ”

“I’ll be going as well,” Miranda said, eyeing Shepard and Garrus knowingly. “Call me if you need anything.”

She turned to follow the doctor out of the room but stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and Shepard?  I’m glad we got to see each other again “

Shepard nodded. “So am I.”

With that Miranda left the room, the door sliding shut behind her.  Shepard turned her gaze up to Garrus who was already looking at her, pale eyes scanning every inch of her face intently.  His mandibles twitched and flared in the very specific way they always did when he was agitated or worried.  He shook his head, discarded both bundles of flowers onto the nearby bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, staring off at the wall in silence.

“Shepard I— I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he said finally, turning to look at her and placing a hand on her leg, “I’d just gone to get some air…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured him, reaching for his hand and wondering just how many sleepless hours he’d sat by her bed waiting for her to come to. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, lingering there for several long moments.  She brought a hand up to trace the rough ridges of scarring along the right side of his face.  His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, and he let out a heavy sigh, as if she’d lifted some invisible weight off of him with just the tips of her fingers.

“You know,” she spoke up, breaking the powerful silence between them, “I think I finally have some scars that’ll give you a run for your credits.”

Garrus laughed, but it was quiet—almost sad— and he pulled back to examine her.

“How bad is it,” she asked, “There aren’t any mirrors in here.”

He laughed again, this time with more enthusiasm. “Hell, Shepard, I don’t know. You always were ugly, so it’s hard for me to say.”

“Okay,” she admitted with a smirk, “I had that one coming.”

The room went quiet again, with the exception of the buzzing and whirring of the equipment around them.  It wasn’t uncomfortable, though— nothing had ever been uncomfortable with Garrus— but it was heavy with unspoken pain and unasked questions for which Shepard wasn’t sure she wanted answers.

“How’s everyone else,” she ventured.

“Recovering,” he answered with a sigh, “Joker tried to outrun the blast, but even the Normandy wasn’t quick enough.  Crash landed on some human colony world. Everyone made it except—“

“EDI,” she said, name bitter on her tongue. She’d hoped the catalyst had been lying about the Crucible’s effect on synthetic life.

“Yes… how did you—“

This time, she was not able to dam up the wave of emotions that crashed into her.  Tears rushed to her eyes, shame and remorse tightening her chest like a vice. She was a soldier, and she knew that sacrifices won wars, but that did not make it any easier.

“It’s a long story,” she said with a sniff, looking away from him and attempting to wipe away the tears before he could see them, as if he hadn’t already.

“Well—” Garrus reached out and grabbed her chin, gently, giving it a tug until she brought her gaze back to him. “It’s a good thing I cleared my afternoon schedule, then. Tell me everything.”

And so she did. With a shaky voice, she recounted everything that happened from the time she called the evac for Garrus and Liara to the moment she was struck by the Crucible’s blast.  She told him about The Illusive Man, Anderson, the Catalyst who wore Kaidan’s face, and the impossible choice she was given.  He listened to every word, offered her his hand, and didn’t complain as her grip grew tighter and tighter with each devastating revelation.

When she was finished, eyes swollen and head throbbing, she looked at him and said, “I fucked up, Garrus. I had a chance to save EDI and the geth, but I just… couldn’t do it.  I was so angry and… scared , and—“

“Shepard,” Garrus interrupted her, laughing and shaking his head.

“What?”

“You’re about the only person I know who could save the whole damn galaxy and feel guilty because you didn’t save it better.”

“My life isn’t worth more than EDI’s was, and it definitely isn’t more important than the entire geth race,” Shepard argued.

Garrus blinked back at her a few times, then responded.  “It is to me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come, so she clamped it shut and frowned.  Her entire argument fell apart in the wake of his blunt confession. How the hell was she supposed to respond to something like that?

“It was selfish,” she finally managed past the lump in her throat, “It was genocide.”

“Maybe,” he answered, firmly, “Maybe not. We have no way of knowing that anything the Catalyst told you was true.”

“Why would it lie?”

“I don’t know, maybe to save it’s own ass?”  His words were pointed but not directed to her.  “It was clearly trying to get in your head, Shepard, using Alenko like that.”

“But—”

“No,” he snapped, “You made the right call, and no one is going to fault you for it except you.”

“ Garrus …” she began, but trailed off when she noticed him looking down at their intertwined fingers, shaking his head and seeming to struggle with his emotions.

When he spoke up, his voice was hoarse.  “You’ll forgive me if I say I don’t think you owe anyone—not EDI, not the geth, not the Alliance, not the rest of the galaxy— any more than you’ve already given.”

He paused for a beat, then added in a lighter tone, “Except me. You owe me a long retirement on your fancy Alliance pension.”

Shepard snorted out a laugh, despite everything, and reached up to take his face in her hands.  She pulled him closer to her, just so that she could press a kiss against the side of his mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” she whispered.

Just as they pulled apart, the door opened and they both turned to see who had entered. Dr. Michel stood at the threshold smiling at them apologetically.  “I am sorry for the interruption, but—”

“Someone tell Garrus to quit hogging the Commander,” complained an all too familiar voice as he pushed past the doctor and into the room. “The rest of us have been waiting just as long as he has.”

“Joker,” Shepard exclaimed, nearly jumping up out of the bed to greet him.

“The one and only,” he said proudly then held up a small plastic crate to show her, “And I brought you something.  Basically had to wrestle the Alliance brass for it when they declared you dead.”

“What—,” she asked as she squinted at the box, noticing movement in the corner, “Is that my hamster?”

He sat the container down carefully on the table next to the flowers Garrus had tossed aside,  “It’s not two bouquets of useless flowers or anything, but, well…you know.”

“We can’t all be as romantic as you,” Garrus said sarcastically as he stood up and stepped away from the bed, allowing the other man space to approach Shepard.

“Thank you, Joker,” Shepard said with a nod as she sat up in the bed, “And about EDI, I—“

He cut her off with the shake of his head, clearly not ready to discuss it. “Not your fault, Commander.”

Shepard just nodded, sorry, but not wanting to force the issue.  Joker puffed his chest out and saluted her, just as more commotion rang out from the door.  She darted her eyes across the room again to see the flood of other people pouring in from the hallway.

Ash was the first to rush to the bedside, throwing appropriate Alliance protocol out the window as she threw her arms unceremoniously around Shepard.  The embrace was firm, but not so forceful that it caused her aching body any extra pain, and when Ash pulled away, Shepard could see the tears glistening in her eyes. She stiffened up and saluted just as Joker had done, and said “Ma’am.”

Much to Shepard’s surprise, Ash then approached Garrus and embraced him briefly as well, pulling away and then giving him a pat on the arm.

The others followed suit after that, offering words of gratitude that she had saved the galaxy, and relief that she’d managed to pull through.  Tali and Liara had followed Ash’s example and hugged her.  The others didn’t but greeted her with enthusiasm all the same.  Vega mentioned how “epic” it was when the fleet realized she’d made it to the Citadel and got the arms opened while Traynor and Cortez nodded along.  Javik, in his typical fashion stood quietly in the corner but nodded at her with a look of admiration she had yet to see from the Prothean.  Dr. Chakwas and the crew from engineering squeezed themselves in the now cramped space as well. Chakwas approached the bed and gave Shepard’s hand a firm squeeze.

Humbling was not a strong enough word to describe the experience of seeing everyone who’d been on the Normandy with her in that final journey to Earth gathered around celebrating her survival.  They had all meant so much to her, and only now did she realize that she’d meant the same to them.

She’d grown accustomed to being a sole survivor, watching her own back and carrying on alone with each of her mistakes strapped to her shoulders.  She was used to blaming herself with the voices of those she lost, of nightmares and flashbacks and consoling herself back to sleep in the middle of the night.  She had trained herself to be numb because she could not bear feeling guilty.

Now, she didn’t have to.  For the first time in as long as she could remember, she had people who cared about her, people who she trusted, and they had survived. For the first time, she wasn’t alone with her grief and she didn’t have to be numb.  She had friends who would hold her together while she sorted herself out, just as she had done for each and every one of them.

“You okay,” Garrus asked as he approached the bedside again, letting a hand tousle her hair gently before falling to her shoulder.

“Yeah.” She nodded and glanced around the room slowly, taking it all in. “I really actually am.”

#mass effect #mass effect legendary edition #garrus vakarian #femshep #shakarian #angst #hurt/comfort #fanfic #my writing

[technospotatoes]

FUNDY LORE ANALYSIS

Howdy, howdy friends! After about 6 hours of pure thinking, I have more Dream SMP brain rot-theory-analysis stuff for you! This week I’m on spring break, so unfortunately I’m not prolonging any assignments haha! Today my focus is FUNDY LORE >:) and I’ve sprinkled in a little IRL factoids for ya to enjoy! 

Please lemme know your thoughts, opinions and theories-- and as always, it’s gonna be a long one! 

Enjoy <3

TW/CW for brief mentions of derealization-- nothing in detail, just thought I’d let y’all know. Please be safe ily.

Fundy’s lore stream took place today, 3/30/2021. It's roughly 45 minutes, so if you have some time to kill, go watch it! It’s really well done, and his acting is incredible. I will give you a warning; it contains derealization. If you choose not to watch it, here’s a summary from Twitter! link

First, let’s talk about what we know of Fundy’s character so far. 

Fundy’s story throughout the events of the SMP are quite tragic. A few key staples are...

1: the death and betrayals of both Wilbur and Schlatt, as well as the absence of Eret-- all of whom he viewed as father figures (Wilbur being his biological father, and Eret his adopted father who failed to show up at his adoption ceremony. Schlatt was a source of validation and approval for Fundy). 

2: Jealousy of Tommy and Tubbo-- These two replaced Fundy’s position as Wilbur’s son during the L’Manburg eras, and Fundy became rightfully jealous towards them. He no longer felt valued by his father, and was only more negatively impacted when Wilbur made an attempt to mend that rift. 

3: witnessing the rise and ultimate fall of L’Manburg-- and even assisting in its destruction with Niki. 

Along with some other rocky encounters with his family members in the timeline, Fundy can be simply boiled down as a character with no stable relationships to his family, or those whom he considers family. However, he does deeply value his friends and the fun that he has with them-- which we can assume is one of his attachments (this will be important later). He takes pride in making mischief and carries a friendly persona… which makes him easily approachable. 

He does carry valid reasons to instigate villainous acts-- but he instead chooses to remain neutral due to his fear of losing something else close to him. 

I have a number of thoughts regarding Fundy’s character and his current lore, so enough stalling from me, and let's get into it!

Analysis of Stream:

The desert

When Fundy leaves his tower for the first time during the dream sequence, the world is no longer the SMP, but is replaced with a barren desert. From the title of the stream, we can infer that this desert represents Fundy’s Mind and contains the majority of what he thinks about. Deserts often symbolize loneliness or emptiness, and can also be synonymized with brutal honesty or survival. Fundy’s character is indeed alone (in terms of family), and has fought for his survival by being sly and mischievous through Schlatt’s reign of Manburg. Sand itself symbolizes the passage of time, or in other words, the inevitability of the future or truth. As we see in each of the 3 dream sequences, the mysterious bunker containing “truth” appears closer and closer to Fundy’s tower and also becomes more withered and worn on the inside, implying that Fundy cannot escape the coming of truth and future as time passes. 

The desert itself contains a replica of the Camarvan from the old L’Manburg days-- likely a representation of Fundy’s childhood that he holds onto dearly, in spite of his past trauma. During the first dream sequence, the van even contains Wilbur-- perhaps to mock Fundy’s pain, or remind him of it. During the second sequence, Wilbur is gone, likely referencing Wilbur’s absence in Fundy’s life, or his death. During the 3rd dream sequence, the Camarvan is replaced with what looks to be a crater, or the aftermath of an explosion. This could possibly reference the ultimate destruction of L’Manburg (and the destruction of the van), or it could be foreshadowing of the destruction in the future… 

Side theory, here! Tubbo just lost a nuke, and multiple people have vendettas against Dream / want him dead. The pit seemed like it was made out of black stone and obsidian, the same materials as the prison, so it is likely that this is an allusion to Dream’s possible escape.

Who is “He”?

On his 3rd visit to the odd bunker in his dream world, Fundy reads the 3rd book in the chest. Towards the end, this book warns him of a vague male character that Fundy should not join, or avoid at all costs. To quote the book…

“Do not join him. Whatever he asks of you. Do NOT join him. His plans aren’t as nice as they sound. His intentions aren’t what you think they are. He will use you. He will destroy you. Everything you ever loved, everyone you ever cared about. Do not join him.” 

I bet a few characters instantly came to your mind as to who this person that Future Fundy is warning us about, and I’m going to list who I first thought it could be below: 

Technoblade and the Syndicate. Now, I disagree with this option, even though Techno has the outright power to destroy anything and everything like he’s done before. However, because of the creation of the Anarchist Syndicate and their accommodating ideals, it would be out of his character or set of ideals to suddenly destroy Fundy’s attachments to purely demonstrate his power. Also, Fundy no longer represents any forms of government, so he does not pose a threat to the Syndicate. 

I did theorize here that Fundy could be Harpocrates, but that would imply that he goes against the warnings of his future self. (Also not to mention the placement of this stream in the timeline would have to be much later in the past.) But the more that I think about it, the more likely it could be. It wouldn’t necessarily be out of character for Fundy to join the Syndicate and side with Techno against the warnings of his inner voice, but he has been a spy before… 

BBH / the Eggpire. This is also not a likely option for our “he” character, because it is more likely that this dangerous person is not associated with a group such as the Syndicate or Eggpire-- in other words, he operates alone. The Eggpire has plenty of members and those who oppose it, even BBH tried to recruit Fundy and failed. Our “he” has not had an interaction with Fundy yet, and I don’t think that the Eggpire would make an effort to reach out to him again. 

My theory is that Quackity is our “he” figure. As I’ve stated before (see my C!Sam post here), Quackity has proven himself to be an effective manipulator, and could easily persuade Fundy to join his side. Quackity has power over Dream at this time in the plot, and is using it to gain knowledge about revival. He could use his acquired learning from Dream to make a deal with Fundy through using Wilbur’s revival to appease his interest (and provide a chance at healing, given his tough past). Not to mention his cameo at the end of Fundy’s lore stream-- There’s plenty more involvement in the lore that we are going to see from Q. 

The Mysterious Figure

During the final dream sequence of Fundy’s lore stream, he opens the door to his tower, only to see a dark figure, staring into the world… or rather, the absence thereof. This Figure has no other significant character details besides the black hood/cloak and no ign, so we have no evidence as to who it is. I’ve seen plenty of people theorize that this person could be BBH (because of the similarities in cloak design) or they could be the “he” Fundy’s logs are warning him about. But I disagree-- I strongly believe that this mysterious figure is neither of those options, rather, The Mysterious Figure is someone completely separate in this story. Here are a few people I think it could be: 

Wilbur/Schlatt-- both of whom are dead, and could manifest inside Fundy’s mind as spirits or ghosts. 

Dream-- he causes paranoia in many of the younger characters of the SMP, so I wouldn’t put it past him to haunt Fundy like he did Ranboo (the voice in his head). 

Fundy-- a form of himself from the future, or a representation of his conscience (wants, desires, etc). 

Or a guide/protector to Fundy’s mind-- we could see more of this figure if episodes like this stream occur in the future. A character similar to that of the Inbetween or Other Side.

It is important to note that at the end of the sequence, the Mysterious Figure chased Fundy up the tower in fear, causing him to sleep and escape the dream world. I think Fundy would only react this way if he felt directly threatened, so this figure is likely someone unknown and intimidating, or familiar and repulsive enough to cause behaviour akin to a sort of PTSD. It is possible that this figure doesn’t have malicious intent, because there was a bed placed on top of Fundy’s tower. The figure was likely supposed to guide Fundy to this bed to escape the dream world, but this encounter probably did not go according to plan, due to Fundy’s reaction. 

His Internal Monologue

Through the presence of fear and doubt we can learn about the deeper parts and truths of a character. This is the case with Fundy: while he is distressed and afraid in his dream world, through the provided angst we learn about what Fundy truly wants. Fundy states that he wants this dream to end, and he wants to go back to his friends and his old life. He longs for the times where he can just have fun again and prank people, when his friends were there for him. Except, sometimes they weren’t. He states he would join parties and join groups only to watch them disappear as he started to get attached to them. Now, whenever the word “attachment” is uttered anywhere I immediately think back to Dream’s speech, perhaps Fundy is becoming more aware of what he could be endangered by.

Deja Reve

There’s no theory attached to this, just some super cool stuff I found. :)

The reveal of Fundy’s powers instantly set off a flag in my mind the second I heard it. His “powerset” or ability is one of foreshadowing, whatever he dreams about, could happen or is linked to the future. Now, the reason I bring this up is partly because I think it is cool, and it is actually a REAL thing. And I’ve experienced it. Let me introduce you to Deja Reve. 

Deja Reve isn’t really a condition or illness, rather it is a “creepier” form of its more popular counterpart, Deja Vu. When translated directly from French, Deja Reve means “already dreamed.” This word is a descriptor for a specific sequence of events: you dream something, and it happens later, in real life. No, I’m not making this up, and yes, it is real. I’ve had this happen to me multiple times. 

Deja Reve isn’t so simple as “i dreamt this so it will happen tomorrow”. In my case, I would have a particular dream, for example, I went to a Subway with my mom and she discussed with the manager about having my sister work at that location. The morning after I would forget the dream like any other, but many weeks later the exact event I dreamt would happen. I can remember it now, right down to the sandwich I ordered and the way my mom moved across the establishment to talk to the manager-- it was word for word, vision for vision. Each time Deja Reve occurs, I freeze, and I think I’m experiencing a second copy of life, or rewatching a movie. It's super weird, but cool. If something like this has ever happened to you, leave a comment below, I’d love to hear your experiences!

Now I bring this up because many people mistake these sorts of things as having foresight or being able to prophesize-- but it's not the same thing. Deja Reve occurs more often in the younger population, and becomes less and less active as one gets older. Because Fundy is still relatively young in the SMP timeline, I think that not only is this a cool ability set for him to have, but it makes sense for him psychologically as well. There is no clear cause or reason behind why individuals experience Deja Reve, but personally, I believe it has to do with the condition of your brain and it’s experiences to past trauma. Kids who experience trauma find elaborate ways to cope, and usually defer to their imagination. Due to the fact that most of Fundy’s trauma occurred while he was very young in the SMP lore, it is definitely plausible that his amplified, or “more woke” application of Deja Reve, is a product of his past. 

Number Symbolism

I’ll keep this section short, because this post is already miles long, but similar to the previous section, this is something SUPER COOL that I noticed :]

Each book that Fundy reads has a specific number of pages… haha big whoop, Biz, that’s not weird. But did you know that some numbers have symbolism? Did you notice that the 3 books in each dream sequence each had 87 pages, which symbolize family, organization, and idealism? That number symbolizes what Fundy WANTS, but also what he’ll never get if he’s not careful. The first two times he read that book he didn’t finish it… He didn’t achieve his goal? 

Did you also notice that the signed book had 22 pages? That number symbolizes redemption, intuition, emotions, duty and diplomacy-- qualities that oddly correlate to warnings. This number represents what Fundy will NEED to be, in order to survive his future. Also, a Catch 22… take that as you will ;) 

Sidenote… 

Ok this is the last mini section before the end, but another thing that immediately popped into my head during Fundy’s lore was the factor of derealization. Nothing major, but the other times we’ve seen this storytelling or manipulation technique used was during...

Ranboo’s Panic Room / Prison Visit-- believes derealization

Karl and escaping the In Between-- fights against derealization

Fundy’s notebooks-- questions derealization

I have a feeling that whenever derealization is being used, it’s intended to distract the character from the true evil, to prevent them from tracking their own course or fulfilling their own story… So I’ll be excited to see where Fundy takes his. 

GAAAAAAAAAH IT’S DONE, FINALLY. And Congratulations! You made it to the end!! If you have any thoughts or theories, comment below, shoot me an ask or DM, I’d love to discuss with you! Follow me for more in-depth analysis content, I will be doing as many of these as I feel inspired to do in the future. :] 

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING <3

#dream smp #dream #goergenotfound #sapnap #technoblade #dream smp lore #dream smp theory #dream smp analysis #my work #its fundy #fundy #tommyinnit #tubbo #quackity #ranboolive #ranboo my beloved #bruh this took so long #it better not flop #lmao #lore stream

[kagrenacs]

Explaining the Iceberg #4

I covered most things in this, but not everything. Every previous post I’ve made describing the tes iceberg I found on google image search can be found here x

Lorkhan’s purposeful failure: Lorkhan was the first spirit to go beyond the universe to see the tower, but didn’t achieve CHIM. He likely did this on purpose to show others how not to do it, and to demonstrate that it was difficult for et’ada to achieve this state because they simply don’t have the boundaries (such as death) that mortals do.

The World-Egg: The universe and the 12 previous Kalpas, everything within existence

The Khajiit Tower: this reddit thread https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/3oh7wf/the_khajiit_tower/ for everyone’s sake i’ll spare you the details of Jungian psychology, TL;DR the khajiit are a ‘tower’ made to hold up the universe and aspects of this

The Grabbers: Mentioned in the 36 lessons, a race of people in Lyg who are said to ‘have never built a city of their own’ there are theories that these are in fact Magne-Ge, due to their connection to Lyg by Mehrunes Dagon

AE: ‘is’ in ehlnofex, can be interpreted as a state of being

Shezzar became Akatosh: The only solid reference i could find was this thread, that immediately discusses how this is probably incorrect http://www.gamesas.com/could-lorkhan-have-jyggalag-t74581-25.html

The Monkey-Truth: Markuth’s teachings, also a website of tes fanfiction writers and roleplayers 

Red Moment: The potential Dragon Break at Red Mountain

The Provisional House: Mentioned in the 36 Lessons, called ‘a space that is not a space’ that Vivec observes the events of Nirn from. It may possibly protect Vivec from dangers associated with this.

Alandro Sul: The Shield-Companion to Nerevar. Sometimes called ‘the immortal-son of Azura’. After being blinded by Wulfharth, he went to live with the Ashlanders of Vvardenfell and is credited with spreading the idea that the Tribunal killed Nerevar

CHIM: To put simply, the process and state where a person realizes their place within the universe and is able to manipulate the laws of the universe as they see fit. Often associated with the concept of ‘Love’

Skaal Secrets: Discussed in the Dragonborn DLC, it’s unknown what their secrets are, but the Skaal report that they’ve kept them a secret from Hermaeus Mora for generations

The World’s Teeth: Mentioned in the 36 lessons of Vivec, sermon 17. Vivec takes Nerevar to the edge of the world, where they see ‘the bottom row of the world’s teeth’ as Vivec states. This may possibly reference a glitch in Redguard. (as a side note: The Legend of Zelda Breath of the Wild, a game that’s confirmed to have taken inspiration from the Elder Scrolls, has an area on the map, near the edge of the world with a row of spikes similar to what’s described here. This might be just coincidence, but I sure enjoy it)

Dagoth Ur’s Endgame: Speculation on what Dagoth Ur’s final plans actually are. He speaks of his desire to remove the Empire from Morrowind, and unite the Dunmer under the 6th House, but beyond that there’s little to go off of.  Ultimately this is just speculation and theories, mostly on what he plans to do with the Anumidium, and how that could possibly have adverse affects on reality.

Pelinal Cyborg from the Future: Another bit of obscure MK lore that’s not implemented in-game. This derives from the description of Pelinal having a ‘left hand made of a killing light’  ‘PELIN-EL [which is] "The Star-Made Knight" [and he] was arrayed in armor [from the future time].’ and his survival of being decapitated. While the text directly states he is from the future, there’s no ingame canon text stating he is a cyborg.

Reymon Ebonarm is Reman: The thought that Ebonarm, a God of War is the same person as Reman, emperor of Cyrodiil. There’s several theories dedicated to this, with different variants on the specifics.

The Enantiomorph: Directly tied to the concept of mantling and the Fourth Walking Way. Put simply, there are three participants in this. Two combatants who are very much alike and trying to become the ‘Ruling King’ and an observer who determines who wins, this observer usually becomes maimed as a result of this. 

The Third Moon: Two different things, a metaphorical or literal secret moon important to the Khajiit that only appears when Masser and Secunda are aligned, preceding the birth of a Mane. The second option is the Necromancer’s Moon, the godly form of Mannimarco.

The Walkabout: A concept in Yokudan religion. The process of spirits surviving one Kalpa to the next, facilitated by Tall Papa

White-Gold Doomsday device: I remember reading this theory a few years back, unfortunately I cannot find the exact page for the life of me. The Tl;DR on this is the White-Gold Tower is a weapon of mass destruction, either literally or in metaphysical terms (being connected to Akatosh and it’s status as a Tower). The closest thing I can find to it is this thread which describes the motives of Umbra in the novels, and how it could potentially take over Tamriel using the White-Gold Tower http://www.gamesas.com/doomsday-scenario-t69430.html

Jiub was the Nerevarine: Self explanatory, headcanon that Jiub was the Nerevarine, similar to a headcanon on tumblr that stated Teldryn Sero was the Nerevarine

House Dwemer: Mentioned as a House within The War of the First Council (which is written by an Imperial for Western Scholars) and The Lost Prophecy (written by a Dunmer) This could be interpreted in a couple different ways. A) The first book was certainly written for western readers, while there is no evidence for this being the case for the latter, it can’t be ruled out. ‘House’ is used as a simplification B) The Dwemer were considered a house, but perhaps not in the way we would initially think (being on the Great House Council)  They were grouped into a singular entity, rather than distinct clans within a cultural group (either during the First Council or posthumously) 

When Dead Gods Dream: https://www.imperial-library.info/content/when-dead-gods-dream referencing this thread. Discusses the mechanisms of Dagoth Ur’s godhood, the thread explains it better than I can here, TL;DR Dagoth Ur is not alive, but he is within the realms of gods and therefor is able to ‘project’ himself onto Tamriel and the minds of his followers.

Khajiit ended the Metheric Era: Nothing found for this

Parabolic Kalpa: A parabola is a symmetrical U-shaped curve. This theory essentially tries to explain why Skyrim is so low magic, compared to it’s history or even ESO. The thought is that as time goes on, the world becomes less connected to Divinity. Towers are destroyed and the gods are gone, but eventually things will begin to kick off again, and there will be a rise in magic, technology and the connection to these beings. Essentially tries to explain why C0da and Loveletter from the 5th era are more high magic compared to the actual games. 

Sithis: Secret Lesson from Vivec: Connects the both Sithis with the 36 lessons by terminology (The Sharmat, false dreamer ect.) and proposes Vivec may have written the book

Bendu Olo: Colovian King, may have been related to Olaj Olo, nordic demigod of mead. Also used as a placeholder name for the player character in Oblivion and the name of the dev’s test character in Skyrim

Trinimac still lives: An ESO lorebook states the Ashpit, realm of Malacath, extends into Aetherius. Some orcs also believe Malacath is nothing more than a demon presenting himself as the remnants of Trinimac. A r/teslore theory states that Malacath wears two faces. While I assume this is the Iceberg author’s sole reference, I propose this could (should) refer to another theory. (Another theory is similar to this on teslore, proposed around the same time, but this one connects the dots)  https://boethiah.tumblr.com/post/621058598373588993/tsun-is-the-shield-brother-of-shor-and-trinimac 

The Aedra are Dead: Seemingly a common topic on teslore. A basic concept in tes, the Aedra gave most of their powers to Mundus to stabilize it.  Their bodies remain as planets, and they can only have limited interactions with Nirn. 

Divayth Fyr was the Hero of Battlespire: An old theory that looks at artifacts in Divayth Fyr’s possession and ties them back to the tes spinoff Battlespire. There are holes in this theory (Divayth Fyr was a seasoned mage at the time the hero was an apprentice)

Three Talin’s: The default name given to the Eternal Champion is Talin, a character creation scenario proposes that their father was also named Talin, and finally Uriel Septim VII’s general was named Talin Warhaft.

Pelagius I was killed by the Underking: The Arcturian Heresy states that the Underking appeared as an advisor to Pelagius I, who was assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood. This theory is a possibility considering the amminosity between Tiber Septim and both components of the Underking. 

Tsaesci Goa’uld: Goa’uld are a species from Stargate that are parasites towards humans. This theory proposes that the Tsaesci are similar, explaining the inconsistencies of their appearance within the lore.

Lunar currency: The thought that the Aedra and Daedra use mortal souls like currency

Historic Star Inconsistencies: Possibly referring to the variations of the number of days within the year in Arena, not sure about this one

Mnemoli/Star Orphans:Mnemoli is either a specific Magne-Ge (spirits that fled the creation of Mundus after Magnus), or a group of them that only appears during a Dragon Break (often nicknamed the ‘Blue Star’) MK states that they’re the writers and distributors of the physical Elder Scrolls (however this contradicts ingame books, so take it with a grain of salt). Star Orphans may or may not refer to Magne-Ge as a whole. Vehk’s book of hours state's them as a ‘group or tribe’ regardless, Mnemoli falls under this secondary classification (along with Merid-Nuda and Xero-Lyg, I have my own thoughts on this which would be better explained in another post) 

Bosmer Hircine worship: Seemingly referring to a thread on 4pleb, I will not be summarizing this theory here because I’m smart and not going onto 4pleb of all places. But from canon content, Bosmer do not worship Hircine, and consider him a force that goes against Y’ffre and wants to return everything to it’s original state of chaos before the earthbones (Y’ffre being among them) stabilized things 

Septimus Signus Zero Sum: The theory that the aforementioned zero-summed at the end of Discerning the Transmundane in Skyrim. Essentially Septimus is in a fragile state, delving into the secrets of the universe and is being pushed by Hermaeus Mora, who may see him as a lab rat, into discovering things he isn’t meant to handle as a mortal, and consequently Zero-Sums. There’s holes in this, namely Zero-Summing supposedly removes all trace of existence. 

The Soft Doctrines of Magnus Invisible: A very obscure text by Douglas Goodall, discusses the binding of various gods

Abnegaurbic creed: An overly fancy word basically meaning religious beliefs, seen in Nu-Hattia Exerpt 

Dunmereth: A Nordic term for the area of Morrowind, during their occupation of it

Fifteen-and-One Golden Tones: A Dwemer term, possibly referring to the spheres of the Daedra, counting Sheo/Jyggalag as a singular entity. Also, the Dwemer swear by these 

Ideal Masters are God of Worms remnants: As Mannimarco is often said to be the first Lich, the existence of the ideal masters seems to contradict this (similar story with Azidal) this tries to rectify this by proposing that the Soul Carin is the Necromancer’s Moon, and the ideal masters are remnants of Mannimarco. This theory doesn’t hold up when examined, but is cool nonetheless. 

Sermon 37: Found in ESO, an extra sermon to the 36 lessons, ties in concepts present in c0da like amaranth. (interestingly on this list Sermon Zero is never mentioned, despite it being older and more interesting imo, but to discuss that would require lots of work)

Flying Whales: Mentioned in Aldudagga. A now extinct species. The bone bridge of Sovngarde could potentially be a reference to this.

Joy-Snow: It’s cocaine 

Mankar=Tharn: A theory that Mankar Cameron is Jagar Tharn, doesn’t hold much weight and relies mostly on the connection of Mehrunes Dagon

Sharmat: A term used to describe Dagoth Ur, an opposite to the Hortator, a force uniting people for evil. Implied to mean or be associated with ‘the False Dreamer’ a person whose view of the universe is similar to someone whose achieved CHIM, but sees themself as the center of it all, rather than a droplet in the ocean of the universe.

Pankratosword: A forbidden Yokudan sword technique that could ‘cut atoms’ similar to our modern day Nuclear Fission. A bit of etymology here, ‘Pankrato’ seems to refer to the word ‘Pankrator’ meaning all-powerful or almighty. 

Landfall: A concept from MK, a future event where Nirn is destroyed by the Numidium, and the people remaining relocate to the moons. 

Cylarne: The oldest ruin in the Shivering Isles, rumored to be the original capital. Home to the Cold Flame of Agnon

#long post #tes iceberg #that picture of vivec is how i'm feeling after 12 hours of studying for my final and writing this

[cyclicalaberration]

Naught But A Fool In The Body Of A God

(Gore + existentialism warning) A foolish gamers... character study? I think?

Totems were funny things. Made of gold and emerald, looking both very much and not at all like their creator. You could go your entire life never seeing one of them. It is a rare person who needs to to face a powerful and dangerous raid, or to track down a mansion, all of which are filled to the brim with Illagers, just to get lucky and catch an Evoker off guard.

Totems are particular about who they save, seeming to despise their own holders. Evokers almost always held one, but they couldn’t seem to use them.

They seem almost heretical, as though Death herself is only tolerating their presence. She does not seem the type to let a method of escape slide. Though, she is simply a collector, and totems can only be used once. Perhaps she created them, to give some sense of hope as she waited at the finish line, merely extending the bridge into the void.

That is not the case, however. The creator was a young god then, full of spite and bloodlust. He carved them in his image, gave them to those who followed him through lava and storms, across oceans and land. He was not a god of death but a god of dying, a conglomerate of souls of those slaughtered in his name. He is of much the same stock as gods of war and blood, power growing from violence and destruction.

He was older, though. Older than the concept of war. War implies thought behind destruction, implies plans. Dying is a natural aspect of life. Everyone is dying, ever so slowly. He was an intermediary, an active force on the field of Death, who, for all those who fear her, is quite passive.

You, most likely, do not fear death. You cannot, for you do not know what awaits you in her loving embrace. You fear dying. Your last breath leaving your body, laying still, moving for the very last time, thinking your very last thought. You fear the unknown and the end, the change. You do not know what comes after death and that strikes fear into your heart. You do not know what it is like to take your last breath, and that haunts you.

This young god, so new and so primordial, hunted. If he stopped moving, stopped hunting, stopped killing, he’d fade away and die. He sent his followers to hunt, to pillage, his need for souls insatiable. They hunted, and they warped, skin greying and eyes darkening. They began to shift from human to something else, something other. Infused with his power, they hunted, leading groups to hunt down more sacrifices to their god.

He grew in power, grew in strength. Death herself watched, for he was just like his creations. He was a totem, serving a greater power. He was sculpted from gold, inlaid with emerald eyes, given the wings of all her favored creatures, and he engraved himself with stories of his past, his triumphs, his losses, things he wanted to hold close to him forever.

--

Blood runs through the canals of those engravings, a trident plunging into the chest of the next breathing mortal, and the god, whose name has been long since lost, laughs. Another one came for him, not learning the lesson of its companion, and a sword is driven through their heart, buried up to the hilt, freed moments later by the golden flames eating at its nervous system, reduced to ash in seconds. He brushes them away as one would brush away eraser shavings.

Bodies lay strewn across the field when he’s finished, a one-sided war, headed by a mortal he’s already forgotten, over some sin he no longer cares to remember.

A chuckle rings out from behind him, and he whirls, sword drawn. “That’s quite the display.”

They were half-buried in a fog, extremities concealed in the mist that he knows for a fact wasn’t there. Their eyes glow with hunger, with spite, with a thousand emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle. It hurts to look them in the eyes too long.

“A lot of flair for some bodies nobody will even see. Nobody but me, of course.”

“What can I say, I’m an artist.”

“Or a zealot.”

“What’s the difference? You won’t have the breath to tell anyone.” He swings his sword, runes glowing. Whoever they are, they will soon be ash, soaked by their own fog, as fire eats them from the inside out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My father wouldn’t be happy, he’s not nearly as forgiving as me.” He whirls again, seeing white eyes and a ruffled shirt, mere feet from his face, leaning back against nothing. He gets the feeling that they’re looking at him, truly looking at him, and he chokes, breaking his gaze away from swirling, dancing white, blank but never empty.

“How-”

“Foolish, that’s what you are. A fool.” The mortal- No, they are not mortal. No mortal stares a god in the eyes and calls him a fool. “Why do you fight?”

--

His companion smirks at him. He grins right back, rows of teeth glinting in the light of the enchanted blades. Centuries of fighting together made them a well practiced dance, a machine of blood and souls. Three arrows pierce the hearts of the guards, falling wordlessly from their towers. That’s all the warning they get. Before the night is out, blood flows so thick it sits for years, soaking the wood and drowning the now-ashen grass.

His companion’s footsteps wither and rot the wood on which they stand, warping it beyond recognition. They work their way to the center of the fortress, people charging to their deaths, impaled, sometimes, by naught but the thorny whips of their enchanted armor.

The stone crumbles beneath their feet, and the god would feel the effects, if he were not himself a statue, life breathed into him by the very goddess who steals it, made of pure gold, which doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t decay. Tapestries crumble to dust as his companion runs their hand along them. The god tosses a mortal to the side, its body lying crumpled, its soul buzzing as he adds it to his own. Another voice layered over his own, another voice to buzz with every angry word.

His companion grips a guard by their chin and laughs as it crumbles to dust beneath their hands.

The general of the army falls, and they dance in the blood of their enemies, spin in the blood of their victims. The hem of the smaller god’s dress sprays droplets of blood as they twirl, the god of dying laughing as his friend grabs his hands, dancing in victory, in elation, in completion. They propel themself into the air and spin him. They move as a unit, as they did in the heat of battle.

Later, the god will sit, stare at his companion, and say “You once asked me why I fight.” That day is not today. Today they will both fight, dance in the blood of their enemies, and move on, the fortress a shell of its former self, growing over with vines, breaking apart.

--

Two gods, a god of dying and a god of withering and ash, rest in a small village on the bank of a river. The withering god rests against a tree, long ago struck with lightning, telling a story to the village children, as the god of dying laughs, interrupting them with his own commentary on just how comically wrong they’re telling it.

It has been decades since they drew first blood, traveling for weeks at a time, collecting, remembering, rather than destroying. Fights found them, of course, mobs never learn, but fewer mortals have fallen to their stained hands in the past century than in their best year previous.

They still delight in the occasional bloodbath, if the chance arises, but as the world shifts towards calm, they drift away from senseless slaughter and towards traveling.

They pass by cities, or the ruins of what once were, and they ask themselves, “Was that our doing?” and they do not know, hundreds of civilizations having fallen to their blades, their arrows, and their fire.

But they sit, ancient, immortal warriors, telling stories to children, their hands still caked in more blood than these children will ever see.

Later, the god of dying will say to his companion: “I fight because destruction is control. Nothing exists that I cannot destroy, nothing exists that I cannot control,” but that day is not today. Today they laugh at incorrect accounts of tales they experienced, true histories lost, new memories formed. Today the god of withering and ash closes their eyes, and the god of dying makes the skies dance with light for the descendants of people they long-ago killed.

Later they will reflect. Today they will reminisce.

--

Two gods part ways, on a mission from Death. They will meet again, but it will not be the same. The god of dying, of storms, and of the ocean and all that that entails smiles down on his old friend, their white eyes glowing with hundreds of memories.

“I’ll see you soon, Old Pal.”

“See you soon.” They turn down different roads, one a path of explosions, of wars, of power-grabs and monarchies, and one down a path of self-reflection.

Their paths take them to the same destination: Redemption. Neither take the same road there, and neither path is straight, but it never is. And redemption is a place not easily found, but easily lost, easy to slip back into old ways for moments at a time, on a godly timescale.

The god of dying takes the name Foolish, a reminder of his past. He arrives in a strange land, full of holes and trauma and death. The place reeks of hubris. It makes him sick. It makes him hungry. The hunger curls in his stomach and the stench gives him a sickening headache, so he runs. Runs far away, and he builds.

Builds for control, builds for stability. Builds are his one constant, gigantic pyramids and sculptures and he can’t stop. His temple expands. A man, a man he has seen, a man who feels like too much and too little, too much in one body, a vacuum and a black hole, asks him for a kingdom. Simple enough. A child approaches him, telling him to build a mansion, a mansion larger than a country, for him, his husband and their son. He will be paid. He is not paid nearly enough.

--

A demon, a cat, and a not-quite-human man encroach on his summer home. They reek of vines and death, and Foolish loses his composure. They doubt his power. They threaten his home and he smiles with too many teeth and grows, grows to his full size. His eyes glow. They taunt him, threaten him.

“I’m a peaceful man, Ponk. But if I must defend myself, I can.”

“Defend yourself against this, then, Foolish.” Ponk hurls a trident at him, glancing off him, a mortal not strong enough to pierce his skin. He’s a fool, more a fool than the man who took it as his name. That is his weapon, carved of prismarine and ivory, more his domain than any other. For a moment, the god tastes blood.

“I may be a totem of undying, but in the past, I have been a totem of death.” He calls power to his fingertips, lightning in his eyes. “It’s not just one thing, Ponk. It's never just one thing. Have you ever tasted lightning? Smelt the ozone in the air, seen it dance across your skin before you black out from the pain?”

“Do you see where we are, Foolish?” In Ponk’s mind, the name is fitting. He has never seen a storm called from nothing before. Never seen a storm called at all, only harnessed. He disbelieves.

“It does not matter. A sunny day does not matter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Let me show you.” He smiles, rows of teeth bloodied with the lives of thousands, millions of mortal souls. His voice layers, thousands of voices, screaming to be heard. The crack of lighting lands mere feet from the three. “Now begone from this place, and I don’t ever want to see you here again, am I clear?”

The vines must be resolved. The egg continues to hunger, but he has hope, hope that there is a piece of mortal soul left in them, a piece of morality that wishes to be free. He does not give up hope.

--

The gods’ paths cross again in a city, the totem and the king. A city drowning in red, twisting, oozing vines, calling out for blood. They spend hours weeding, burning red vines and laughing. His friend no longer flies, his friend hides their once-beautiful eyes, but they’re the same. They do not remember him, but they are the same.

“Foolish, have I ever shown you my eyes?” Of course they have, and he says as much. “I’m going to show you again, just in case.” Their eyes dance, with confusion and worries, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

“Yeah, that’s the Eret I’m thinking of! The one with white eyes, the one with the netherite armor!” Foolish looks concerned, but this is nothing that they can’t fix. They’ve fought armies together, a few missing memories aren’t going to make him give up on them.

They attend a banquet. They dance for the first time in centuries, spinning in circles to the music played by that infernal catmaid. They attend a banquet and it goes south, hard, as all parties attended by gods do. It goes south and he makes use of his totem nature, wrapping around their heart, taking their place. They will not die to the monstrous egg before they get to dance together, and reminisce.

Soon, the god will say to his old friend, that he builds to replace. He builds to counteract the destruction he caused, and it will not replace the lives lost, but it adds something new, something beautiful to this harsh reality, but that is not the truth. The truth is, he creates for the same reason he destroyed.

--

Soon a mortal man in a cardboard mask will tell him that he let him die. Soon, he will be taunted by a mortal man, full of hubris, who says that his builds mean nothing, are nothing, bring nothing to the world, and a part of him will think the mortal man is right. A part of him whispers that he is selfish. That his ways are wrong. That he must pick up the sword once again, bleed mortals for their souls.

He will shove that part deep inside, and he will remind the man that no good comes of blood. He will tell the man that he too once believed that death was the answer, death would give control, but he will tell the man that he was wrong, and that he will be too.

You either die a monster, vengeful and wicked, or you grow. You adapt, you create, you reconcile. Some may never forgive, but many will. Mortals only get one lifetime, he must make the most of it.

He will not say that though. He will sit up against the side of his sphynx and sew hundreds of thousands of tiny dolls, breathing life into each one, giving each one a small hard hat and a job, so he will never be alone. He will build, children safe in the ender cradle, and he will give himself time to think. He will stop moving, for one moment, and he will not die. He may be the god of the seas, but he is not a shark. He keeps moving, a perpetual motion machine, purely out of fear of what his own thoughts bring, and he truly lives up to the name given to him so long ago. Foolish. For he is naught but a fool in the body of a god.

#Foolish Gamers #Foolish G #dsmp foolish #dream smp #dream smp fic #Foolish gamers fic #dsmp #dsmp eret #eret #Eternal duo #ponk #dsmp ponk #Anyway I'd love it if you could reblog? It'd make me really happy #and I love seeing y'all's comments #mic writes #< keep forgetting to use that tag f

[ilovetragedies]

On the origins of Vision: an analysis of WandaVision and its application of real-world science.

[This post contains WandaVision spoilers and some science jargon. It’s also kinda long coz I got excited. You have been warned.]

The law of conservation of matter states that in any given system (that is closed to the transfer of matter), the amount of matter in that system stays constant. This suggests that matter, same as energy, cannot be created nor destroyed, only transformed or altered.

We see this in action during Episode 5, when Monica discovers that her funky pants where actually 80% Kelvar, the very same material her bulletproof vest was made of prior to her Hex entry. (In a non-science context, it’s akin to how “sorry” and “désolé” have the same underlying meaning despite having different outward forms, especially when you travel from one border to another.)

In this example, Wanda’s power is thus implied to be a form of “Transformation”—a drastic change in phenotype, but otherwise retaining an object’s original genotype or core internal code (ie. DNA).

HOWEVER, this principle is contested in several episodes.

The (sudden) birth of the twins, Billy and Tommy, in Episode 4, leans towards “creation” rather than transformation—though more popular theories suggest that they are actual pieces of Mephisto’s soul, which Wanda was able to manipulate and “transform” to her will. Demon spawn, indeed. (How/why Mephisto is even inside the Hex is another question all together).

The appearance of Fietro at the end of Episode 5 is another example, but Agnes/Agatha Harkness debunks this in Episode 8, explaining that he was a “crystalline possession”—which insinuates Fietro as a visual/auditory/tactile hallucination, as compared with Agatha’s “transmutation” spell, which she also demonstrates by transforming a cicadian into a bird and vice versa.

So far, so good.

But then, there’s Vision.

Two Visions.

Particularly, Hex Vision, who sprouted from Wanda’s red power flare like the goddess Athena from Zeus’ own brow.

In Episode 6, Darcy discovers D@ckwad—ehem—Hayward tracking Hex Vision via decaying signatures of vibranium. Together with that traumatizing scene of Vision slowly being torn apart when he left the Hex, this implies that Hex Vision has a true physical form, subject to natural forces. (Maybe.)

Since it is unlikely that Hex Vision has the same origins (baby daddy) as the twins, and unless there was a secret stash of very expensive vibranium in Westview, this again leans towards more on the “creation” side of the spectrum, contrary to all other examples we’ve cited thus far. Right?

So how do we even begin to explain Hex Vision’s existence?

Well...

Remember how the law assumes a closed system, in which matter simply cannot be created (or destroyed) inside it?

But “closed” does not mean that objects and people cannot ENTER that system (Hex, in this case), setting a new equilibrium of matter that can be transformed to Wanda’s will. We’ve seen this with Monica, Darcy, the drone/helicopter, the agent/bee-keeper, most of SWORD/biggest clown circus ever—watch the end of Episode 6 for reference.

White Vision’s rebirth as a soul-less synthezoid removes him as a possible source of Hex Vision’s vibranium skeleton. And again, unless the quiet town of Westview is secretly Wakanda 2.0 (LOL), there’s a distinct lack of 3 billions worth of highly coveted material to make Hex Vision a reality—

Which (conveniently) brings us to the next plausible explanation:

The Multiverse.

Am I proposing that Wanda inadvertently stole/“transferred” another reality’s Vision to become her fantasy hubby/adoptive father of her devil-born children (perhaps another reason why Hex Vision has absolutely NO memory of his life before Westview)?

Am I saying that Wanda, with the sheer power of her chaos magic/energy, was able to open a tear in the fabric of time and space, the magnitude of which only previously seen with now atomized infinity stones (which, coincidentally, is the source of her powers)?

From what we’ve seen in the depictions in Dr. Strange and Endgame, the idea of the multiverse becoming an integral part of the MCU is more and more likely rather than not.

Thus, “spontaneous creation” becomes a misnomer, pointing instead to “matter transference and transformation across the multiverse”. (Which, frankly, doesn’t sound as catchy. So for now, “spontaneous creation” it is.)

As the MCU has yet to divulge its secrets, it is certainly understandable why this phenomenon is described as such—anyone would automatically think “creation” when seeing something appear from seemingly nothing after all.

In conclusion, it can be said the MCU is somewhat grounded in the laws of physics and chemistry, with evidence suggesting that Hex Vision as originating from another reality, and most importantly,

Wanda Maximoff is among the MOST POWERFUL characters across the WHOLE MCU multiverse.

#wandavision #wanda and vision #wanda maximoff #vision #law of conservation #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #the multiverse #thank you for coming to my TedTalk

[cassianus]

Sobering . . . "Nothing less than Hell is worthy of man, if he be not worthy of Heaven."

"Dostoyevsky well described, in the words of the dying Father Zossima, this ultimate refutation of Nihilism.

'There are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud spirit entirely. For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are tortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God and life.... They cannot behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of life should be annihilated, that God should destroy Himself and His own creation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath for ever and yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death.'

It is the great and invincible truth of Christianity that there is no annihilation; all Nihilism is in vain. God may be fought: that is one of the meanings of the modern age; but He may not be conquered, and He may not be escaped: His Kingdom shall endure eternally, and all who reject the call to His Kingdom must burn in the flames of Hell forever.

It has, of course, been a primary intention of Nihilism to abolish Hell and the fear of Hell from men's minds, and no one can doubt their success; Hell has become, for most people today, a folly and a superstition, if not a "sadistic" fantasy. Even those who still believe in the Liberal "heaven" have no room in their universe for any kind of Hell.

Yet, strangely, modern men have an understanding of Hell that they do have not of Heaven; the word and the concept have a prominent place in contemporary art and thought. No sensitive observer is unaware that men, in the Nihilist era more than ever before, have made of earth an image of Hell; and those who are aware of dwelling in the Abyss do not hesitate to call their state Hell. The torture and miseries of this life are indeed a foretaste of Hell, even as the joys of a Christian life--joys which the Nihilist cannot even imagine, so remote are they from his experience-are a foretaste of Heaven.

But if the Nihilist has a dim awareness, even here, of the meaning of Hell, he has no idea of its full extent, which cannot be experienced in this life; even the most extreme Nihilist, while serving the demons and even invoking them, has not had the spiritual sight necessary to see them as they are. The Satanic spirit, the spirit of Hell, is always disguised in this world; its snares are set along a broad path that may seem pleasant, or at least exciting, to many; and Satan offers, to those who follow his path, the consoling thought and hope of ultimate extinction. if, despite the consolations of Satan, no follower of his is very "happy" in this life, and if in the last days (of which the calamities of our century are a small preview) there "shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time"--still it is only in the next life that the servants of Satan will realize the full bitterness of hopeless misery.

The Christian believes in Hell and fears its fire--not earthly fire, as clever unbelief would have it, but fire infinitely more painful because, like the bodies with which men shall rise on the Last Day, it shall be spiritual and unending. The world reproaches the Christian for believing in such an unpleasant reality; but it is neither perversity nor "sadism" that leads him to do so, but rather faith and experience. Only he, perhaps, can fully believe in Hell who fully believes in Heaven and life in God; for only he who has some idea of that life can have any notion of what its absence will mean.

For most men today "life" is a small thing, a fleeting thing of small affirmation and small denial, veiled in comforting illusions and the hopeful prospect of ultimate nothingness; such men will know nothing of Hell until they live in it. But God loves even such men too much to allow them simply to "forget" Him and "pass away" into nothingness, out of His Presence which alone is life to men; He offers, even to those in Hell, His Love which is torment to those who have not prepared themselves in this life to receive it. . . .

There is no need, even today when men seem to have become too weak to face the truth, to soften the realities of the next life; to those--be they Nihilists or more moderate humanists--who presume to fathom the Will of the Living God, and to judge Him for His "cruelty," one may answer with an unequivocal assertion of something in which most of them profess to believe: the dignity of man. God has called us, not to the modern "heaven" of repose and sleep, but to the full and deifying glory of the sons of God; and if we, whom our God thinks worthy to receive it, reject this call,--then better for us the flames of Hell, the torment of that last and awful proof of man's high calling and of God's unquenchable Love for A men, than the nothingness to which men of small faith, and the Nihilism of our age, aspire. Nothing less than Hell is worthy of man, if he be not worthy of Heaven."

(Fr. Seraphim Rose)

[devnicolee]

The Chosen Ones (4)

Word Count: 10,377

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

“What is going on with you? I mean... I have never known you to be this reckless," the king of Wakanda exclaimed as he wore a whole in the carpet of his sister's room, pacing back and forth endlessly. 

Asha rubbed her forehead, shame and frustration growing as her brother's lecture drew on minute by minute. 

"T'Challa, I said I was sorry. I do not need a lecture. Believe me, I feel horrible enough as it is!" She tried to say. 

First M'Baku... now him? She couldn't take this much disappointment from both of them in the same evening, her heart couldn't handle it. She felt a small, soft squeeze to her hand, knowing it was moral support from her sister. Asha smiled weakly but her eyes didn't leave their dead stare into her lap, she didn't want to look at any of them.

"Apparently you do! I asked you if you wanted out of this engagement, I gave you an out. But now, there are certain responsibilities and obligations that you can't ignore just because you feel like it. And it is just," he took a moment to catch his breath before continuing, "it is highly inappropriate as a new council member and advisor to create a potential scandal of this magnitu-"

"Yes, I am a cheater and a horrible person. The worthless trouble-making, embarrassing liability to the great Panther Tribe. I get it! I have heard it several times today and every day for most of my life, I do not need any more reminders from you!" 

Asha's voice raised to match her brother's and in anger she leapt off her bed, standing toe to toe with him. She could feel the rings on her hands working overtime to tame the beast within as her hurt from the last few hours transitioned to anger.

"Ok, ok! Asha, it is alright. No one is saying any of those things. T'Challa certainly doesn't think them," Nakia inserted quickly, walking over and placing a soothing hand on the young princess's back. 

The two siblings were no stranger to a squabble or two but this was beyond both of them. Unlike T'Challa, Nakia could see that all of this was a symptom of a deeper issue and they would not get to the bottom of it by shaming her choices. She sent a silent but reproachful glare T'Challa's way as she tried to calm Asha down enough to continue. "Perhaps you should go. We will talk to her," she added quietly, seeing the fractures the emotionally-charged evening had sent through the young princess. 

T'Challa hesitated, now understanding that he had misstepped and feeling as though an apology was due. But Nakia simply shook her head and motioned toward the door. He nodded before motioning for Okoye to follow and quickly exit the room. 

As soon as her door slammed shut, Asha felt the weight of the day heavy on her shoulders, causing her to sink down to the floor by her bed. She buried her head in her hands as she tried to stop more tears from falling.

Haven't we cried enough today?

"I would like to be alone, please," she whispered, muffled but still clear enough for the remaining two occupants of her bedroom to hear.

"No, we are not leaving you like this. Talk to us. What happened?" Nakia asked as she crouched in front of Asha. 

Asha didn't move or attempt to acknowledge her question. She knew what they really wanted and that was to unpack that kiss... the now infamous kiss. But what would Asha say? How could she explain it when she was hundreds of miles from understanding the complexity of her feelings toward M'Baku. She always thought love was supposed to be simple, easy, but this was anything but that. In two days, she and M'Baku managed to entangle themselves in a web of all those emotions and that kiss was right smack in the center. Asha did not have the capacity to unravel it all tonight.

Asha couldn't tell if she kissed him because she longed for affection, was angry at the guy she was supposed to be with, was desperate for a different life, actually loved him or because she just wanted to feel something other than sadness. Or if it was some combination of all those things? All of them came with an airplane worth of baggage that could not be reduced to the carry-on sized explanation they desired.

"Nothing happened... M'Baku was comforting me and we got caught up in the moment. That is it."

The women both knew she was lying, that she just wasn't willing to share. But still, they persisted. 

"Come on, Asha. We know you. And w-we understand what you are going through but you have to talk to us and let us in. Let us help you."

Asha scoffed, her sister's ignorance almost made a laugh escape from her lips,. 

"You don't understand. How could you possibly? Neither of you know what it is like to be despised or treated like an embarrassment. You have never spent a single moment in your lives as I have. You don't get it and you never will!" She lashed out at them. She stood up and turned her back to them, taking a deep breath to calm herself.  "Please leave. Now. I wish to be alone."

"Asha.."

"Please do not make me have Alexis forcibly remove you. Just go, please." 

The shaky begging in her voice did the trick, leading both women out of her door. Asha slid back to her spot on the floor, tears making their silent trek down her face. 

She wished she had never allowed T'Challa to convince her to leave this room in the first place, wished she had never stepped a foot in the soft snow of Jabariland, and wished her eyes had never fallen on him. Then she would be happy... or at least, as happy as she was before and that would still be enough. She would be officially engaged in a week, existing in ignorance’s bliss. She would never know what true freedom tasted like, never know what true love felt like and so she wouldn't have to mourn it as she does now.

Sadness morphed into anger and frustration at everyone who forced her out of her safe isolation but didn't warn her that once you have seen light, it is impossible to go back to darkness. 

****

Asha tried to put a smile on her face as she sat in silence in the council meeting, but it was difficult to hide sadness when it is as deeply rooted as Asha's was. Your smile can be as bright as the Sun but it always still shows through in your eyes. She just wanted to retreat back to her room, not see him or Hasani who both sat in the circle of chairs branching out from her brother's. She also just hated being in these meetings to begin with, still feeling as though she didn't belong. It did not help that half of the circle... her mother, Elder Shani and her son all gave her cold reproachful looks that basically told her she didn't belong if she dared give her opinion. And now to make it worse, she felt like there was a giant, "I am a cheater" sign glowing above her head. 

She didn't quite understand why she felt so guilty, she knew Hasani never lost sleep over cheating on her. And his indiscretions were far worse than a simple kiss. But still, as she stole glances at both men, she felt guilty: guilty for cheating and guilty for bringing M'Baku into this mess. And she supposed her life's goal was to not be as carefree and uncaring as Hasani, certainly not the marker of a good person.

But she most wanted to talk to M'Baku, wanted to apologize or explain herself or... well, she did not quite know what she wanted to say to him. They said so much last night while simultaneously leaving so much unsaid. She questioned whether words would even matter at this point. But she felt the pull and desire to say something either way, just to hear the comfort in his voice, ensure that that comfort was still there. There was a stab of regret every time she considered the fact that she may have destroyed their friendship over a kiss, a stab that felt as painful as a physical wound in her body. But those were the consequences, she supposed. A moment of weakness in exchange for one of the few positive relationships in her life. 

"We cannot accept these terms. This agreement with the Jabari is an insult to your father's legacy and all who have fought to control the spread of such a disease in our borders," Elder Shani almost shouted from her seat in front of her brother. 

 The argument ensuing around her snatched Asha's head out of the clouds and back down to Earth where she found the council entrenched in a loud and unruly argument. Asha quickly realized that the Elders had found the one clause in the treaty Asha buried deeply and had simply hoped would go unnoticed. But it seemed little got past Elder Shani, who likely read through it with a fine-toothed comb to find a mistake on Asha's part.

"This treaty is about respecting the Jabari's way of life and integrating it into ours. They have a different respect and custom for mutants or the Chosen, as I believe Lord M'Baku has referred to them. After conversations with my sister and Lord M'Baku, I will not ask them to change their customs and their ways. He has assured me that they will not be a threat to the ways in which we govern down the mountains." 

Asha and M'Baku gave her brother a side eye, knowing that he pulled that explanation out of nowhere. That part of the treaty was added last minute after M'Baku expressed concerns over integrating the Jabari's Chosen into a regressive society. She chose not to bring it up and prolong the talks, figuring her brother would not notice a clause buried so deeply in the treaty's many pages.

"And what if that changes? What if one of them comes down here and creates trouble?" 

"Asha, you met with the people of Jabariland, saw their customs in practice. What do you think?" 

Asha gulped, mouth going dry at the idea of having to defend mutants to the most hostile person in the room, the person who also knew her secret. She glanced at her brother out of the corner of her eye whose smirk clearly told her that this was a problem of her creation that she now needed to fix.

"T-t-the Chosen are a peaceful group of Jabari. They are no different than the non-gifted among them. They have absolutely no reason to fight or create trouble for us down the mountains. Their goal is to use their p-powers to help advance the tribe. It is my belief that they will not be an issue for us." 

"And what if their idea of advancing the tribe is overthrowing us and ensuring Lord M'Baku sits on the throne?" Another elder chimed in. 

M'Baku laughed loudly, as if the idea of wanting the throne was too preposterous to take seriously. 

"I wanted to be king of Wakanda once, yes, it is true. However, since then I have saved your rightful king, risked Jabari lives to overthrow a usurper, and put that King back on his throne. Without my people and I, Killmonger would still be alive and sitting in that chair. Seems like an awful lot of work when I could have just taken the Heart-Shaped Herb to become King myself and left King T'Challa to die. My interests no longer lie in leading this backwards nation." 

"'Backwards?'" Elder Shani shouted, outraged at the insult. "How dare you?" 

"Yes, backwards. A country that has all the resources in the world, offers all the opportunity in the world to its people and still finds a way to hold people back, to limit the power and ability of the more gifted among you. You can call us savages and insult me, I know what some of you say behind my back. But at least, the Jabari treat their fellow citizens with the respect Hanuman demands. When Bast calls you all home to the Plains... Will you be able to say the same?" 

"Enough! That is quite enough," T'Challa called, causing all the tempers to quiet down significantly. "Elder Shani, as always, I appreciate your counsel. However, the treaty is final. The Jabari will not be forced to comply with any law within the Mutant Regulation Act. Lord M'Baku and the Jabari proved themselves to be a loyal tribe of Wakanda ten times over and I will not have that loyalty questioned in this room again. I reserve my right as king to revisit any aspect of the treaty if, and only if, it becomes an issue." 

He and M'Baku shared a respectful head nod before T'Challa continued. 

"Thank you all for a productive meeting. Unless there are outstanding matters, we will reconvene next Saturday prior to the start of the Festival. This year's festival will begin Sunday night at the Falls for the announcement of my sister's engagement and the King’s Exhibition. Thank you all. Wakanda Forever." 

At the mention of her engagement, Asha glanced at M'Baku and she wished she hadn't. His body was rigid and she could almost see the rage radiating off him into the space. 

"Wakanda Forever," they all replied in unison, as the meeting broke up. 

Asha turned around to pick up her tablet and notebook, mainly to avoid the death glare she was receiving from Elder Shani across the room. When she turned back, the older woman was in a huddled discussion with another elder and her mother. Their hushed whispers could not reach her ears but she knew it was likely nothing good. 

She kept her eyes trained on the floor as she walked, until she ran into the hard, broad back of someone. 

"Oh, I am sorry! I didn't see you th- M'Baku," she started to apologize to the unknown person until they turned around and she came face to face with the man she was desperately trying to avoid. She wondered if it would have been less painless to run into Elder Shani as she looked into his eyes, finding no more admiration and love there.

"Yes your highness?" 

His voice matched his eyes... cold and despondent, everything she didn't expect from him. She felt a sense of deja-vu to how he treated her prior to coming to the mountains. She remembered how it felt to be on the receiving end of his coldness and not understand why. She understood why now, but that didn't dampen the sting.

"U-uh, w-well I-I wanted to s-speak with you, actually," Asha stammered as she adjusted to all the things she was not used to from him... his coldness, formality and harsh tone. The silence between the stretched out as she tried to figure out what to say.  

"Well?" he barked. "I do not have all day, I am in a rush to return home." 

His tone hit her like a slap in the face. "N-never mind then, I hope you have a safe journey home." 

He nodded and saluted her with a pained look on his face before turning to head back down the hall. Her eyes glistened slightly, she felt the pressure of tears building behind them but she tried to push those emotions down. They both made their choices and here laid the consequences, she would learn to deal with them.  

M'Baku thought his feet could not carry him back to his carriage fast enough. He wanted nothing more than to flee this palace, and retreat to his own home to sulk and nurse his bruised heart. He thought they had started to build something... something beautiful and as quickly as it was put together, it crumbled. 

"M'Baku!"

He grimaced as he heard the unmistakable timbre of his king calling after him. He wanted so badly to ignore him and if this was a time in the past, he would have. But he respected T'Challa, and was growing to see him as something resembling a friend. So he pushed down his annoyance and heartbreak to speak to his King, praying to Hanuman that this was a short conversation. He almost jumped clean out of his skin to find the King directly behind him instead of down the hall. 

"My king?" 

"Leaving so soon?" T'Challa asked, his tone pleasant and airy, not like someone addressing the man whom he found making out with one of his younger sisters the day prior. 

"Yes, I have matters to attend to at home. What can I do for you?" M'Baku decided to cut the formalities short, he knew T'Challa did not stop him for that. 

T'Challa nodded, his face descending into a more serious look. "Are you in love with my sister?"

He eyed the look of surprise that passed across M'Baku's face before adding, "I speak to you not as King but as an older brother who just wants his sister to be happy. There is no wrong answer here. Are you in love with her?" 

"Yes," M'Baku replied shortly. There was not much else to say, this was all very simple to him.  

T'Challa gestured forward, allowing the man to continue his journey toward his carriage as they walked. 

"My sister always pretends to be happy, never complains about her horrible treatment at the hands of my parents or her regulation to being a prisoner in her own home. She always tries to hide it but it shows... it always shows in her eyes. They hold a certain sadness, or at least they have every single day for the last 15 years. The only other person on this Earth who I have seen with eyes like that died a few weeks ago. I couldn't save him, couldn't undo the injustices my family doled out upon him. But I... I can save Asha." 

"Forgive me, my King. But I don't understand what you want from me?" 

"When my sister walked off the Talon 24 hours ago, she looked like a completely different person. Joy and happiness radiated off her like light from the Sun. It was the first day I looked at my sister and didn't see that sadness. I do not have to be as smart as Shuri or as intuitive as Nakia to know who brought that about. My sister is in love with you. I want you to know that before you get in that carriage and resign to writing her off for the rest of your life. She is stuck between her heart and obligation, what she wants and what she has been conditioned to believe she should have. And Shuri and I are trying to help her but... As a brother, I-I am just asking you not to give up on her just yet."

As he finished, they reached his carriage. T'Challa did not wait for M'Baku to respond, he simply saluted him before turning on his heels to tread the same path back into the palace. Meanwhile, M'Baku just stood there staring after him for a while, another plan to forget Asha slowly sinking down the drain. 

****

"M'Baku!"

He tore his eyes from the mountains, ready to snap at the man foolish enough to interrupt him, only to find N'Danna standing not too far behind him. N'Danna looked annoyed as if he had been calling the chief's name for a while. M'Baku clearly hadn't heard him, trapped in a cycle of his own thoughts, the light wind blowing past, and the nighttime jitters of the forest.

He barely acknowledged his second-in-command, knowing his best friend would just come and occupy the empty spot next to him. And sure enough, he felt his presence beside him as the man dusted the snow off the odd-shaped, massive boulder M'Baku was currently sitting on and sat down beside him.

"You are a hard man to find since returning from the Golden City," N'Danna mused as he took his cue from his chief and began staring at the mountains in front of him.

N'Danna supposed they were really just staring at nothing. He knew mountains were there, visible when the sun was high in the sky. But in such darkness, the best they could see was a vague outline. His gaze fell down to the village below that was still bustling with activity, lights branching out like veins in the darkness. 

"How long have you been out here?"

"Since the sunset."

"You have turned into somewhat of a sunset enthusiast. And why did you decide to come out here on the coldest night of the winter?" N'Danna inquired.

M'Baku shook his head, "I don't know. I have come here every night for the last three days. I say I am not going to come and still I find myself out here all night. Not sure what answers I expect to find out here though." 

N'Danna nodded, both men leaning back and laying against the rocks to look up at the midnight sky and twinkling stars. 

"This is a good spot to find answers I suppose. And being here probably makes you feel closer to her, right?"

The two men turned to each other and N'Danna let out a light chuckle at the disgruntled look on his friend's face. 

"I didn't even get that from your thoughts this time. Just an observation. You have been this way for the last few days, ever since you got back." Silence fell over the two for a moment before N'Danna spoke again. "Talk to me, M'Baku. What is going on with you? I have never seen you like this before."

When he didn't say anything initially, N'Danna assumed he opted to ignore his question. It wouldn't be the first time his friend chose to ignore things instead of addressing them. And so, after a few minutes of quiet, N'Danna returned his attention to the barely visible mountains ahead of them. He was surprised when he finally heard a response minutes later. 

"I fell in love with her," M'Baku stated out of the blue. N'Danna wished he could see beneath the Earth's surface, and get confirmation of his suspicion that Hell had indeed frozen over at this admission. M'Baku had been with many women in his 30 years of living and had never so much as uttered a word similar to "love" toward any of them, such a word was vacant from his vocabulary. Now N'Danna understood, he got it. His poor chief had fallen fast and hard for the first time and was left out in the cold, a cold he was not accustomed to. 

"And s-she rejected me. I was j-jus- And now she is about to be engaged... engaged to a man wh-" words failed him as he tried to verbalize how truly frustrating this all was. But his words resembled his thoughts, jumbled and disjointed as he tried to sift through the complex web he had woven. "About to live her life in hiding and secret again. It just does not make sense!" 

"Why does that bother you so much? It is her life to live. If she chooses to hide and waste it, what is it to you?"

M'Baku gave him an incredulous look, immediately standing from the boulder to pace beside it. N'Danna was a Chosen, M'Baku was baffled that he could not see the issue in all this. 

"Because she deserves better! She deserves what every person like her in these mountains has: the opportunity to be yourself, be raised to see the limitless power of what Hanuman has given you, the chance to do anything. That is what you have! That is what all of the Chosen have. It is not fair that she was stripped of that... Striped of that to be what? Someone of her power reduced to a rung on a ladder for a power-hungry shell of a man. It is not right."

"She is a princess, M'Baku, these obligations come with the territory. I am sure she is just doing what she thinks is best." 

M'Baku scoffed, "Screw the obligations of royalty! We are talking about a woman who possesses powers... a gift that these mountains - Hell I would wager the world has not seen in generations. She is a once-in-a-lifetime gift, limitless power at her fingertips. She is not ordinary, she deserves more than ordinary!" 

N'Danna sighed, sitting up. 

"You speak of the Chosen as if we are Gods and Goddesses M'Baku. That has always been the problem, this altar you exalt us to, you prayed to be one of us when you don't really understand the burden we all carry.  Asha is not limitless, none of us are! Asha was raised to hide, taught to be ashamed of who she was. Her powers are not unlimited. They are faulty, complicated, powerful, rare, stressed, beautiful and malleable just as the woman who wields them. You are so blinded by the beauty of her powers that you cannot see the tragedy in it. And that is why you are so disappointed. Not because she chose another man, but because she is has something you have longed for and she is showing you that not everyone is happy to be gifted... not everyone wants it. She may be a once-in-a-lifetime power, I do not doubt that, but she is also a young girl stuck between impossible choices, stuck between realities."

M'Baku shook his head, "Being with me is an impossible choice? Following your heart, choosing a better life is an impossible choice? I showed her how life could be different. Ok, you say it is not freedom, fine. But it is so much more than what she has now. How hard of a choice is that?"

"Following your heart has consequences, running up here to be with you and throw fire around to her heart's content has consequences. And not just for her... for her family, for all of Wakanda. She is a member of the Royal Family, for Hanuman's sake. P-people learn to love their chains M'Baku. Sometimes they become more comfortable, safer than what lies outside them. You offer her freedom but ignore the price of that freedom. Maybe she is not willing to pay it after only knowing you for two days."

M'Baku sighed and bowed his head, looking toward the forest to his left, the dark branches loaded down with fresh snow from the storm earlier that day. 

"I j-just... I want better for her. I thought I could help bring light into her life and maybe, I just don't know how to accept that I failed. I-I don't know how to go back to life before her," he admitted honestly. 

"Perhaps it is not all about you. You want her, and I understand that. But you did help her start down a path of self discovery. The Asha who left here last week is very different from the one who came here at first. She will find it difficult to retreat to her old life. Maybe you planted seeds that will flourish one day but you don't get to bask in the garden's beauty... it may not be meant for you. I know it is not what you want but you may have to accept that it is all you will get."

The two men stared at each other as his words settled in M'Baku's mind. This was probably the most honest conversation the two men had ever had in their friendship, N'Danna was the only person willing to tell M'Baku when he was wrong, push him down the correct path when he was stuck, straying or stalling to find it himself.

"The King asked me not to give up on her, not to push her away," he offered quietly, the grief of a love lost clear in his voice. 

"Then don't, if you don't want to. She is not getting married Sunday, merely publicly announcing her engagement. So much can happen between now and the altar. But until then, you can stop torturing yourself and all of us," he added with a joking tone and smile, "Let her go and let the chips fall where they may. If she is meant to be yours, Hanuman will bring her back." 

M'Baku nodded slowly. He looked over N'Danna's shoulder toward the center of the cliff they stood on. It was like a movie in front of him, he could see them clear as day. He wished he could go back to that moment, wrapped in the warmth of each other and deep in their own world. It was worth it, he decided, whatever heartbreak he had to endure the last few days or was in store for him moving forward. 

"Let us go home, M'Baku. You got the answers you need." 

M'Baku smiled at his friend and they both walked back to their individual carriages. Before it pulled off, he smiled sadly at that spot again, knowing he wouldn't be back here any time soon. N'Danna was right, Hanuman sent the answers he was desperately seeking. He just had to listen. 

****

Asha felt like she had blinked and suddenly the week was almost over. She was not complaining though. A busy mind meant she couldn't pine for M'Baku, grief the loss of him, or think about her upcoming public engagement, which made all of this official, not some back alley deal between their parents. Staying busy was the only way to keep those thoughts and her looming dread at bay.

She had to admit though, without the allure of M'Baku and Jabariland, Asha realized that her new job lacked a certain appeal. But... she felt like everything lacked a certain appeal these days. 

However, when darkness fell and the palace quieted, it hit her the hardest. She didn’t really need sleep so she couldn't count on it to take her away from it all and sometimes, even the unconscious world was unsafe. She counted at least one dream a night that featured M'Baku in some fashion. 

And that is how she found herself after a particularly packed Thursday, laying in her bed, staring at the ceiling and praying to Bast to let her sleep. But no such luck. She tossed and she turned, and she thought of no one and nothing else but that man up the mountains and their last conversation. 

It is clear that he is falling for you. You could escape... leave all this behind, the panther inside seemed to whisper, desperate to return to its life outside its cage. You hate it here. 

I don't hate it here, she argued back. My family is here. Well, at least T'Challa and Shuri... Nakia, Alexis, Okoye - they are all here. I couldn't just leave them to deal with whatever wrath Elder Shani could unleash. 

But this isn't for you anymore.

The thought made Asha cringe a little, knowing she could never say that out loud. What would her siblings say? It would devastate them. But it was not untrue, she realized in those quiet, lonely and restless moments in the dead of the night. After her father's death, her life was supposed to get easier with less restrictions and a bit more freedom. Yet somehow, the chains felt heavier and tighter. Pretending to be normal had never been this... this hard. 

She felt like an animal being herded back into captivity after experiencing the wild, a life driven by its own desires. She did not realize what it would take to learn to re-love her chains, the pieces of her soul they siphon from her to do so. She shed them so quickly and willingly up the mountains, savored every second of the sweet freedom it offered her. And just like that she was back here, ripped out of her dreams into reality. She didn't expect it to be so hard truthfully... had no idea the pain she was preparing herself for.

She knew one thing though - this would never be enough, not after she experienced something different. This bastardized freedom her brother gave her just wouldn't do. It was the best he could offer, she certainly didn't fault him for it.  But compared to what M'Baku showed her? This was merely a weak imitation. 

She pulled the fluffy white pillow from beside her on top of her face and screamed into it, loud enough to release her frustration but not loud enough to send Alexis racing into her room, spear raised. Annoyance rippled through her that her body would not just allow her the simple reprieve from this world for another, the downside of sleep being a mere luxury and not a necessity for survival.

This just isn't helping, she ultimately decided.

Her mind drifted around the palace, thinking of all the places she could go to distract her and pass the night hours. Shuri's private lab was an option but she knew the young girl liked to work through the night and was not interested in talking to anyone. Her mind wandered to the library, which was a solid option of unlimited solitude. But even that did not have a certain appeal, she just thought of him and how they first met. 

The training center?

There was an idea she could work with, a space that could not remind her of him. Besides, nothing cleared the mind like a good at was an idea she could work with. Nothing cleared the mind like a work out and thanks to her brother, she had a brand new, never been used training center of her own to test out. It was the only spot that offered any sort of appeal to her now. She slid out of bed and quickly changed her clothes.

Alexis stood at attention, saluting her before Asha told her where she was going and convinced her to take the rest of the night off. 

She walked across the palace and downstairs, entering the main training room and immediately heading for a discreet door on the back wall. One full body scan later and the door slid open for her to enter.

It was beautiful, Asha thought to herself as she walked around the room. It was long and slender unlike the expansive training room on the other side of the wall. The cushioned training mat floor was soft beneath her feet, the tall ceilings overheard would give her just enough space to practice sustaining flight, sleek walls embedded with blue flecks of vibranium that glowed lighting the room in a blue hue.

One thing did confuse her though, the lack of equipment. She looked around, trying to understand the mechanics of the space. It was completely empty, all except for the computer monitor across from the entrance. As if it sensed her presence as she approached, it immediately lit up and offered a menu of training modes for Asha to choose from. Asha slowly took her rings off, sitting them and her shoes together in the corner, before scrolling through the many options and settings. She didn't understand how any of them would work with no equipment but she never got a proper tutorial of the space. But she knew her brother was smart so she chose combat and figured that she would learn as she went.

She walked to the center of the room and on cue, the lights dimmed and suddenly, a hologram of a person came racing toward her. Asha barely had time to think or process before the attacker raised a digital weapon and a loud bang sounded across the silent room.

Before she knew it, a massive blast of air knocked her on her back and let her know that she had been hit. 

"Simulation over," a computerized female voice called throughout the room. "Assailant: 1; Asha: 0."

A small groan escaped her throat as she slowly sat up and tried to catch her breath. 

Once she was on her feet again, she called out, "Again," signaling for the simulation to restart.

She sank into a defensive position as the lights darkened again, focusing her eyes on the wall at the end of the room and preparing for the man to emerge once more. She watched, waiting as nothing happened. But soon, she felt a presence behind her. She turned quickly, not wasting precious seconds this time. She immediately threw a ball of fire at the figure causing it to crumble to the ground and disappear. 

She was so distracted watching the hologram disappear that she was surprised to feel a small blast of air hit her shoulder, directing her attention to a hologram on the window ledge. She was finally starting to understand the mechanics of combat mode, Asha killed that assailant next. This continued for 10 minutes, Asha dodging targets and their weapons. The simulation ended with another sneak attack, causing her to realize that any blow that would be fatal in the real world caused the simulation to cease. 

Still, as she heard the score back, she felt as though she had redeemed herself. Not that it really mattered, there was no one there to see it. Asha: 10, Assailants: 5 was not bad for her second round. 

Asha watched as the computer pulled up a heat signature of the room, red and orange on random spots around the room. She pressed a glowing "extinguish" button, which caused the room to release the targeted extinguisher to those spots, returning the room to normal.

Asha went through combat mode three more times, the assailants and patterns changing every time. They became more complex, she realized, the room analyzing her battle patterns and movements to push her harder. By her last round, Asha had kicked her powers into high gear, certainly more energy than she had ever used. But she looked like a skilled dancer instead of a clumsy fawn as she ran, jumped and dodged blasts across the room. She threw fire, caused diversions, hovered in the air to better examine the full field of attackers. She created life-sized fire panthers that chased down her attackers and killed them at her command like her own personal army. She even realized that once or twice, she could block the blasts with a fire shield, though she couldn't sustain it. The last simulation only ended when a voice overpowered the settings. Asha was directing a panther to attack three figures who were running from it from her position in the air when she saw her brother leaning against the wall in the corner.

"Simulation over," the voice said again as Asha made the fire disappear and landed softly back on the ground. She did not acknowledge her brother initially, walking to grab her shoes and rings as the voice said, "Assailants: 3, Asha: 25."

"I was trying to get to 30," she called, realizing how out of breath and tired she was as she tried to talk and walk over to him. 

The room did a final extinguish of the night as they both moved back into the main training center. She sat down on the floor, exhausted, to drink some water. 

"I needed a training partner. Trust me, you looked amazing, you were just showing off at that point. I am surprised to find you down here. Have you ever even used it since I built it?" 

Asha's chest heaved as she caught her breath. She didn't understand how she felt this exhausted despite only training for an hour.

"Not since Baba. Figured now was as good a time as any. I couldn't sleep. You either?" She looked at the time on her beads: 3 am. 

"Nope. I woke up and tossed around for a bit before something told me that this was the place to be tonight. Now I know why. Train with me," he asked assertively. She knew it was not a legitimate question. There was only one proper answer when her brother wanted a late-night sparring partner. 

T'Challa powered up his suit, the only thing that would protect his skin from burns when practicing hand-to-hand combat with Asha. She sank into her battle stance, ignoring the exhaustion in her body. T'Challa was the better fighter, regardless of Asha's lethal abilities, because he practiced more and had super strength and speed. He knew all of Asha's moves and how to respond while it seemed she could never keep up with him. If he was being honest, these sessions were more for Asha than him.

After letting Asha win twice and beating her once, T'Challa let her fall back on the training floor to rest.  

"That was good, you are getting better," he offered as he sat on a bench next to her. She envied him, she looked like she had just stepped out of a pool of her own sweat while he looked as if he could walk into a state dinner, perfectly unruffled despite fighting for 30 minutes.  

"Thanks," she nodded. 

"How are you? I meant to check in earlier this week, see how you are enjoying your work." 

"The work is good T'Challa. I enjoy it. Everything is good," she responded lightly, hoping that would be enough to end the line of questioning she was sure was forming on his lips. 

They hadn't really spoken since the drama at the state dinner the week prior and she had been kind of avoiding him to keep it that way. She did not want to talk to anyone about this but something felt especially odd about going to her older brother about her love life. She knew T'Challa had his way, she would be single forever so no one could hurt her.

"Asha..."

She turned her head away from him, recognizing that tone. He was descending into full big brother mode, desiring to talk about her feelings and fix whatever problems he thought plagued her. Asha knew he meant well and he tried, but most of her problems... he actually couldn't fix. And this one would be no different.

"Talk to me. Everything is not good. You are not ok. You are different, we can all see it. Don't keep it all bottled up." 

Asha sighed, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the towel next to her.

"If I could explain it, T'Challa, I would." 

"Try... for me. As long as it takes." 

"Before I went to Jabariland, the idea of leaving this palace terrified me. You know how resistant I was to take on this role in the first place. All I could think of is Baba saying that I was dangerous and all the ways I could hurt or kill people. And so, staying here, being a good princess and marrying Hasani... it was prison but it was a comfortable one. Over time, the chains hurt less... the frustration faded and I learned to love and appreciate the life I had. It was not the best but it was enough." 

"But then you experienced something different?" He offered. 

Asha looked at him, appreciating that he was giving her the opening to admit the one thing she thought she had to keep secret to spare his feelings. 

"But then I experienced something different," she echoed. "Thanks to you, by the way," she nudged him playfully. "Something life-changing. He pushed me to the edge and made me rethink everything I had thought about my powers before. Made me see beauty in the flowers where I only saw weeds. And then on top of that... I-I fell in love with him. So fast and hard like I jumped off a cliff. And then I came back here and... reality just hit me like a rhino. I am forced to hide... cannot have the man I love. I j-just don't know how much longer I can do this."

"Do what?" T'Challa asked, pained by his sister speaking so despondently and knowing there was little he could do to help her.

"This," she whispered, gesturing at her hands. "Pretending to be something I am not, hiding the one thing that makes me unique. Every day I get up and I put these rings on and head down to my office, I realize that this is it. All I have to look forward to for the rest of my days is Hasani and a life in the darkness. It will never be enough. Just doesn't seem like much of a life to me anymore."

Asha stared at the wall across from them, a painting of Bast on the training room wall, while T'Challa stared at her profile. The two just sat there for a while, not saying anything at all, as T'Challa thought over what Asha said. It was not that he didn't want to say anything, he just couldn't think of anything appropriate. What do you say to someone who no longer thinks their future is worth it?  

"What can I do?" he settled on. 

He was a fixer, he could help her fix this and forge a path forward.

She offered him a sad smile, "I am not sure there is anything you can do, brother." 

"Nonsense, I am king," he boasted, causing the two to share a laugh. 

"Even kings have limitations, just like the rest of us." She stood up, holding out her hand to pull her brother to his feet. "Come, let us go to bed. There is so much to be done before the start of the festival this weekend."  

T'Challa nodded, knowing she was ending the conversation to avoid talking about it. He knew he would not sleep when he returned to his bed, instead he would be thinking of how to give his sister freedom, true freedom, no matter the cost.

****

"Did T'Challa tell you what this was about?" Shuri asked as they briskly walked down to the throne room, after being alerted of an emergency council meeting. 

"No. We were training together last night, he never mentioned needing to gather the council early. I asked Nakia, she said he didn't mention it to her either. You would think he would trust his most trusted advisor though? Titles mean less and less around here every day," Asha joked. 

She and Shuri shared a laugh as they entered and settled in their seats, finding most of the council already assembled. 

Their mother walked in followed by T'Challa, who looked grim and exhausted. She shared a confused and concerned look with her sister as they all did the customary salute before directing her attention back to her brother. She was so concerned that she didn't even have much time to lament over M'Baku who was sitting across from her. 

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I realize this is unorthodox but this could not wait. I was up for most of the night, thinking and praying about the future of this nation. After deep prayer with Bast, I realized I can no longer sit by while injustice runs rampant within our borders. That is why I will be announcing the repeal of the Mutant Regulation Laws at the Festival of Bast on Sunday, effective immediately." 

There was a beat of silence before shouts and anger erupted among the group as his words settled in the room like fog. The shouts overlapping rants of her mother, Elder Shani and two others were incoherent to Asha as they shouted at her brother. She was still trying to formulate a simple thought, his words were bouncing around in her mind but were having trouble truly sticking. Once she emerged from the shock of shock, she couldn't have been happier, repealing those laws would change so much for people like her. 

The Mutant Regulation Laws were a set of laws, initially enacted by Asha's grandfather and expanded by King T'Chaka, that attempted to limit mutants movements in the country and to limit the increase of the mutant population. The only people excluded from the laws since their inception were the Jabari.

As far as the public knew, the purpose of the laws were to protect citizens from enhanced individuals. The act stipulated that all mutants had to register with the government and general rules to limit the use of their powers, such as forbidding them in public spaces. This registry was first enacted in response to what her grandfather believed was an exponential increase in the mutant population across the four tribes.

The laws were divisive no doubt, like all controversial things. Many loved them, advocated for further expansions, feeling safe knowing that mutants could not inflict their powers on everyone else. The less vocal half, though, saw them as something that made them no better than the discrimination colonizers around the globe subjected their people to. However, only the Royal family knew the truth, that her father's reasoning for expanding the law had little to do with safety and everything to do with his fragile ego. 

As she got older, Asha quickly realized that her father didn't hate mutants because they were dangerous or threatened his country. He hated them simply because they were born with powers he had to win combat to get, powers he had to be deemed worthy for and earn. While they just woke up with them one day, having done no real work to deserve them. As the mantle of Black Panther and title of King caused his ego to grow, he grew equally paranoid that one day, mutants would begin to believe they were the ones actually chosen by Bast and invalidate the legacy of the Black Panther. As the population of mutants grew year after year, his paranoia that he would lose his title of King and Protector grew with it. Soon, a registry to merely keep track of the population was not enough. Soon, he launched a campaign to ensure mutants were the lowest rung on Wakanda's social order. Soon, the registry turned into laws to limit their abilities and resources funding research to find a cure for their affliction. 

In the previous council meeting, M'Baku had echoed the sentiments of half the country... that the policies were regressive and a dark stain on Wakanda. But Wakandans were humans, just like those on the other side of their borders. After being fed enough ammunition, people can be conditioned to hate anyone. 

T'Challa raised his hand to silence the group, adding, "Lord M'Baku was right, this is not the Wakanda Bast promised her people, at least not for everyone. Not for enhanced individuals, who are just as deserving of the same respect and opportunities as the rest of us. The Jabari and their enhanced people have lived in peace for centuries. We can do the same here." 

"Have you lost your mind??" Ramonda asked furiously from her seat next to her son. "That law is part of your father's legacy!" 

"Baba was a great king, but that does not mean he was always right. And on this, I feel he was wrong." 

"Half of your country sleeps peacefully because of those laws," Elder Shani cried, pointing out the large window at the city below. "Sleep peacefully knowing lethal people cannot murder them or hurt them with no thought. What would you say to those people?" 

"Yes and half the country sleeps less peacefully knowing that with all our technology and opportunities and advancement, we are no better than the colonizers who discriminate against people for their race or gender or sexuality. It is not right," Nakia interjected.

"You will end your father's legacy in one day. You will destroy everything he has built, the tribe and country he has created."

"The tribe and legacy he built on the backs of a brother he murdered, a child he abandoned and rampant discrimination of his people! Would that be such a bad thing?" Asha argued quietly, drawing the group's attention (and subsequently, their anger) toward her. 

She almost balked at the looks her mother and Elder Shani gave her but when she looked passed them, she was met with a reassuring and encouraging nod from M'Baku that empowered her to press forward. 

"This is a good thing," she asserted, shoulders squared and head held high.

"Of course you would think so," Elder Shani sneered. "I am sure you were the one that forced him to do this. People like you are destroying our country."

The room fell silent as the other elders stared shocked at their fellow member, seemingly surprised at her very vocal and unwarranted disrespect toward a member of the Royal Family. 

"Elder Shani! Princess Asha is royal advisor to the King, our princess. Apologize at once!" Elder M’Kathu exclaimed.

"I shall do no such thing! The only thing that makes her worthy to sit before us is that crown on her head... her title. She is beneath me, beneath all of us," she spat at Asha, staring at her with such contempt. 

Asha sat rigid in her chair as her future mother-in-law threw her vitriol at her. Asha wondered if this was how out-of-body experiences felt. She could so very clearly see where this train was going, see how her life's secret was about to implode before her eyes in a manner of moments but she could not direct her mouth to say a word or her limbs to move. She just sat, paralyzed and silent, unable to save herself or stop the train that was about to carry her whole family off a cliff. 

"Elder Shani... I would think about what is at stake before you say another word to or about my sister," T'Challa threatened, his voice low and deadly. 

For a split-second, the room saw it - a king no longer sat before them, the Black Panther did. For most, this would have been enough to slam on the brakes and beg for forgiveness. But it seemed Elder Shani was done, tired of pretending to respect someone she felt was beneath her, tired of keeping a secret for a person she despised. And her hate would not be outweighed by her greed any longer, she clearly couldn't take it.

"I told your father! I told him, warned him of the damage you and your affliction would cause him. Even from the grave, you destroy him and taint his legacy. Your kind... your disease destroyed him and it will lead to the end of Wakanda! You are a threat to us all." She took a deep breath before continuing, "Princess Asha is a mutant! The Panther Tribe has been hiding it, lying to their people for decades. Hiding her and t-this abomination from us all! And now she has our King under some spell, convinced him to uproot all the safety and security we have worked so hard to build."

As she spoke, Asha could feel rage rising in her body. It was steady, slowly building with every word that fell from Shani's lips as she spewed her hate and vitriol for all to hear. She tried to calm herself, control her breathing and emotions as she sat there, push them back down so she could get through the night. But it was proving to be impossible. The metal bars of her panther's cage were meaningless, being torn apart like pieces of paper as her emotions reached their peak. 

"That is enough! Take her away!" T'Challa stood before her, directing the Dora to come and escort Elder Shani from the room. 

Asha held her head in her hands as she took sharp, shallow breaths. Her whole body shook as she tried her hardest to not lose it in front of her family and the remaining members of the council. 

"Asha." 

She heard Shuri's voice and felt her hand on her shoulder causing her to jump up. Everyone seemed to back away from her immediately, causing Asha to notice the smoke and small flickers of flames erupting from her hands. The rings around her fingers were completely useless as the flames continued to grow steadily. Asha could only recall one moment in her life when she felt this out of control, the day her brother “died.” 

She got up and backed away to put some distance between her and the rest of the group. 

"Stay back!" she yelled through her gasping breaths, holding her hand out and inadvertently causing flames to fly toward her family. 

The Dora around the room instinctively lifted their spears, the remaining elders fled to the opposite wall as far from her as possible. But her family remained where they were, M'Baku being the brave soul to ignore her direction and approach her, unbothered by the uncontrollable fire escaping her body. Fire that grew stronger and bigger as Elder Shani's words cycled through her brain nonstop, causing her despair and rage to grow. Years of ignoring her emotions, years of trauma and abuse were finally boiling over. Tonight was the final push off the cliff, she could not do this anymore.  

"Asha.. you have to calm down," M'Baku whispered, motioning for the rest of her family to stay behind him. 

He wished he could get her to look into his eyes but as he looked at her blood-red irises and the tears streaming down her face, he realized she looked without truly seeing. 

"You are none of those things. You are beautiful and powerful. You are not dangerous. Don't become what they fear you are."

She heard his voice, understood the words he was saying but she didn't believe them, not when 25 years of abuse cycled in her mind to counter it. She looked around the room and all she saw was fear, proof that her home, the place she loved would never truly accept her. Elder Shani proved that. She had freed her from hiding but she also ensured that Asha couldn't stay here anymore, not when people looked at her like what she always feared she was: a monster. 

She couldn't do it, wouldn't do it, didn't have the strength to subject herself to it any longer. This was her out and she was going to take it. She looked from her family to the window across from her. 

She didn't think about it, didn't consider the mechanics. She just tore herself from the wall she backed herself into and ran toward the window. Her body lifted off the floor into flight as she used a blast of fire to cause the glass to break open for her.

"Asha no! Come back, " she heard her sister call after her. 

She turned back and looked at them once as she used all the energy she could muster to fly away from her, her family, her home and her past for good. 

Night had fallen during the course of that meeting, giving Asha a nice cover so no one could see her flying overhead. She zoomed out of the dome quickly, her mind not even conjuring up a location or place to go. She just wanted as much distance between her life and her as possible, knowing she would run into the border at some point. 

The wind painfully whipped against her face, causing her eyes to blur so she could barely see where she was going. In her emotionally-heightened state, it proved difficult to sustain flight as she passed over the uninhabited forests of Wakanda. As she tried to sort through the wreckage that was her life, she could not concentrate on her task, which caused her to lose height or speed every few minutes. And it just became harder and took more energy to accelerate and regain the height she lost every time she had to refocus. 

This cycle lasted for about 20 minutes before she had to reckon with this hastily made choice. She had no idea where she was or if she was even still in Wakanda, all she saw for miles were forest. She figured she must still be in the country, she couldn't fly that fast. In a short time, the explosive anger that coursed through her in the throne room was long gone, replaced with very real fear. Fear that taking an impromptu flight with no direction, after only one lesson, and without telling one living soul where she was headed was the worst decision she had ever made. 

She realized soon that she had no choice but to turn around and pray to Bast that she could sustain flight enough to get back to civilization. This was not sustainable and she knew it. She frantically looked around for a landmark in the trees, anything that looked familiar and could provide her a spot to rest before finishing the journey. She spotted the temple by the Garden of the Heart-Shaped Herb, silently thanking Bast and deciding that it would be as good of a spot as any to catch her breath. She headed in that direction. However, like a real fire reaching its end, Asha could see her internal fire slowly dying out. 

"No don't do this, we are almost there," she begged herself as the fire encompassing her hands and feet started to die away as well. 

Her mind felt cloudy and it was a struggle to keep her eyes open. Before she knew it, her eyes fell closed, her fire having died out completely, and her body fell gracefully from the sky before thudding in a small clearing in the forest at the foot of the Temple of Bast. 

****

@destinio1 @muse-of-mbaku @missmohnique @jellybean531 @afrolatinpami @leahnicole1219 @archivistofwakanda

#Black Writers #black panther fanfiction #black panther imagines #black panther fics #m'baku x reader #m'baku imagine #m'baku smut #m'baku x oc

[dennisgilmour]

Looking for comments/debate about www.theoriginofgod.com

I wish to start debate/discussion around new unique ideas I have to credibly combine the only two explanations for how we all got here: evolution versus creation. However, theistic evolution just doesn't combine well with Genesis, as the 6 days of creation thing is pretty clear from many angles, and also Bible is clear death came by Adam's sin, not some wonderful life-creation force over billions of years. I am sure many credible arguments on here have been discussed on both extreme sides, or some type of theistic evolution compromise. But for many reasons, neither of these three views works for me. Neither pure evolution, or pure creation or pure theistic evolution provides enough satisfactory answers for me. I've come up with a concept, I call, as per my title, the theory of Christoevolution. I have come up with a complex story, which I admit is just a story, but I also sincerely think the Holy Spirit of God inspired me with this story/understanding. The basic gist is in another reality humans are not aware of, a reality/universe of untold trillions of years, with slightly different laws than our universe, a form of pure evolution created Jesus and His angels, and Satan and his angels, with competing philosophies about God. The spiritual war there between the two sides led to issues that are being worked out in this universe. Jesus crossed the "God-barrier" first and birthed the Almighty Jehovah Father God, or perhaps Father has always existed even for this other reality and simply revealed Himself to Christ at that point. Father and Son now work together, sharing the same Spirit, working out issues from that reality in this universe and saving everybody. Obviously, it is complicated and I can not prove this story, but I see pure evolution and pure creation is also creative storytelling in many ways. Jesus mainly told stories, parables, to explain things and I am sincere I think I am on to something, and Holy Spirit inspired, but obviously can't prove it to everybody's satisfaction at this time. So in summary, in another reality, pure evolution created warring factions, but Jesus crossed the God-barrier and "won" and became God, sort of, but the loving God now has a problem to save even the devil and demons, who God loves as well. This universe was created by pure creation, with some evidence for either side, to challenge humans to work through the spiritual issues and become God's elect. So both pure evolution and pure creation are combined in more credible fashion, IMHO, by pushing pure evolution off to another reality, where we can create a nice story to explain everything, and use our creative imaginations to say what happened. Of course, I admit I can prove none of it, but neither can any Christian or religious person totally prove his or her beliefs either, and pure evolutionary arguments for this universe have many holes and ways to knock the theory. I admit, I am a creative storyteller like Jesus, but also sincerely try to connect with Holy Spirit to come up with a comprehensive story to explain. What's the point debating fictional stories? Good question. I like good questions.  Well, since we’re fictional characters in God’s fictional story of humanity, why not debate that truth and many other associated things?  I think it high time the world start asking better questions instead of continuing to pretend religion and science are mutually exclusive.  Both sides tell stories to fill in the gaps, but don't like to admit it. I am not naive and see that clearly. I am just better at creative storytelling, by God's sovereign design. God makes us all what we are.  I desire other human author(s) to contribute ideas to my basic story, who we are all also characters in this cyber-novel, creating our own origins story, combing evolution ideas with alternate realities, Bible themes, creative imagination to continue to refine my basic story at www.theoriginofgod.com.  I start the basic gist of the story here, and welcome criticism and if the criticism seems constructive, sincere, and makes good points, I will refine and change some of the story at the website and continue to do so based on good feedback with the world.  It gives us something to do to both educate and inform ourselves, while we wait until open contact where the alien-gods (demons), IMHO, will say much I already reveal at the website.

"Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." (Psalm 139:16, NIV) Father is like an author like Stephen King, as this verse says we are like characters in a spiritual novel, all our days written in Father's novel (book) before birth. Many of Stephen King's novels were turned into movies, so we could also be said to be like characters in a movie, thinking we have free will, but really just playing the part a sovereign Father God causes us to do. The characters in the movie, just like the characters in the novel, simply think they have free will, but really do as the author writes they will do. Just because we have dark days on earth sometimes, does not mean our author Father God is dark and twisted, as the "fictional" story of humanity might lead us to believe.  Stephen King just writes dark supernatural books, but is really decent and normal fellow, if you get my spiritual drift.  The world really needs to start thinking about what I am saying, as the plot of the story of humanity is about to get more interesting when the alien-gods (demons) do open contact and pretend to be our “God”.  

Pentagon released fighter jet video evidence of jets chasing UFOs doing physics defying feats and admitting there is something going on, is evidence we are being prepared for open contact. If I am right, these beings will tell the very story I have come up with, because God has revealed much to me ahead of time, and everybody will have to make a choice: are these beings really our ancient alien-gods, as many believe this idea in today's world? Or are they the devil and demons out to deceive and destroy us? The implications of this choice are huge, as I hope one can imagine, and a very critical question all elect must eventually answer. Who is God? Why should I trust Him? Why should I believe Him? Why should I commit myself to crazy levels of obedience, like Christ crucified, and Peter crucified upside down, and many burned at stake in history, etc.... Is God worthy of this kind of devotion? Can we prove it? Can God prove He is God? What acceptable proof can God supply to convince all and save all? I hope to start a new debate around deeper issues than normally considered around this creation/evolution debate. Please read my link www.theoriginofgod.com for comprehensive presentation of my arguments, and start of the cyber-story about origins and what God and Satan are really up to.  This pertains to every human on the planet, and so through my internet website and social media, which reaches the whole world, I invite everybody to contribute to the story as you see fit.  You can post comments on this blog, and I will read and consider, and if Holy Spirit convicts me to make changes to www.theoriginofgod.com based on what you say, I will do so and give credit on the site to yourself, as the person God used to give me more insight to make the story better.  Hopefully, by the time the alien-gods (demons) openly reveal themselves in public open contact, there will at least be greater awareness amongst the world about what is going on.  That is my hope and desire anyway, and my motivations for trying to get this information out there.  I charge nothing for my services as moderator and lead author to start this thing, which I hope becomes an avalanche of creative ideas and healthy skepticism against the powers that be, who seem to want us just to believe them and stop thinking and asking good questions.  I WILL NEVER DO THAT SO LONG AS I AM HUMAN!  I am the least Borg drone, it seems, because I simply CANNOT go along with the Borg-like human collective consciousness that makes shit up about origins, God, Bible, science, etc...and I am supposed to just believe it and go along?  I hope to liberate the Borg collective captives, and give you FREEDOM!  Freedom to know the truth, and be set free with the truth!  I will die screaming FREEDOM, as Mel Gibson’s character, William Wallace, did in the movie Braveheart, before I blindly accept horse-shit in the name of Jesus or science or any other control mechanism created beings try to put on me, that has not been thoroughly tested and tried in the fires of love (God) and truth (Jesus).     

[kob131]

Merlin: And that, my young student, is how you convince lords you are a man.

Mordred: Okay, thanks for the info several centuries too late. But that still doesn't answer my question.

Merlin: And that is?

Mordred: WHY ARE YOU HERE?!

Merlin: Now now, why does that matter my young knight?

Mordred: Because you, the teacher of the man I killed and the court wizard of the country I destroyed, just showed up out of fucking nowhere to give me a lecture on politics!

Merlin: Oh that's all just a distant memory-

Mordred: Not according to the rest of the Round Table, even me!

Merlin: Since when did you bother yourself with their opinions?

Mordred: Answers, now! Or do you want to feel like Father at Camalann?

Merlin: *sigh* You're just as stubborn as she is. If you really must know, I...feel responsible for what happened.

Mordred: ... And you thought giving me a lecture in hiding my gender was gonna fix things with Camelot?

Merlin: I wasn't talking about Camalann, at least not fully.

Mordred: ... ... Okay you lost me.

Merlin: Well, I was the one who gave your father the necessary equipment for your birth. And I was also the one who taught your mother about magic, which leads to your creation. But most of all, it was my failure as a teacher to the king that made your rebellion possible. Had I simply taught Arturia to keep her humanity, perhaps her life, and yours, wouldn't have ended so pitifully.

I cannot make amends to your father, at least not yet. But what I can do is ensure her peace in the future. And if I can nurture you, help you grow beyond the child you are-

Mordred: HEY!

Merlin: -Then at the very least, she won't have to worry about another attempted rebellion. Perhaps she can truly move on from Camelot.

Mordred: ... Okay, I understood like, half of what you said. But I think that whatever you're trying to do would make Father happy. So okay, do whatever you want.

Merlin: Very well. Oh, this reminds me. Don't ignore your own feelings when running a kingdom.

Mordred: yeah, I know that.

Merlin: Also lock your doors so crazy family members can't get in.

Mordred: Pretty sure a locked door wouldn't have stopped Mother.

Merlin: And for the love of God, do not leave your hateful descendant in charge of the kingdom while you are away.

Mordred: I still don't know why Father did that.

#fate series #mordred #merlin

[fuwafuwamedb]

A Goddess of Architecture (Hakuno, Enkidu, Gilgamesh)

“Make her beautiful.”

“BUT PLAIN!”

“Long hair too,” Enkidu added.

“But do not allow it to be longer than my daughters!” Nanna insisted, getting his obnoxious goatee into the god’s face as he made his demands. The rather strict god of the moon was ruining his suit with his incessant nature, whining about this and that as Enkidu made their demands to him.

“Could you make her say no to Gil?”

“Give her a look that would make any man curl their lip at. Make her defiant, Enki!”

They were beginning to bother him. Both of them.

Enki waved them both away, forming the finishing touches and giving a little something extra.

He had stolen a bit of humanity from some of his other creations before they had passed to Ereshkigal. They wouldn’t be needing the morals and the possibility of passing along life anyway.

At his side, Enkidu frowned.

“If you do not like her, I can destroy her.”

Enkidu shook their head. “I had just thought you would make something… bolder.”

Bolder.

They were complaining when the girl had not yet opened her own eyes. This is what one got for being a creator of anything. Critiques, complaints, finicky demands here and there. It was a wonder, he marveled, that he had been doing this for as long as he had without caving to the need to refuse his subjects.

The god on his other side was laughing though, letting his eyes wander over the girl.

“She is in fine order. That king will run to my daughter immediately upon introduction. I look forward to my daughter’s pleased response.”

Enki had to drink his liquor to keep from commenting on that one.

He was not a creator just for others to torture and torment his precious creations either. Using his creations like tools and weapons, it made his stomach curl. He had created this lovely woman because the king kept his mother away.

Gilgamesh, alone, gave him some peace from the noise and took his critics in kind.

He shooed the others away, opting to dress and prepare the woman himself.

Upon her eyes opening, Enki felt her remove his mask, kissing his cheek and thanking him for her allowing her to exist.

“I cannot give you a task for this life,” he told her, “but I will hope for you to do your best for Uruk. You will find at some points, that you run into those who are quite difficult on the outside, left to become that way due to their isolation from others.”

“I will make you proud, father.” She promised.

He plucked her name from the sands of time: Hakuno.

And he bid her farewell for now.

For Hakuno, life burst forth around her.

The gods gave her knowledge, allowing her to be fascinated by all the world, but she took too much after her father, the god of creation.

Enkidu lost track of her in the city.

She meandered to a worksite, finding herself learning under the lead of one of the chief architects. He called her a goddess of buildings, with her finding the weaknesses and failings in the construction. He hid her in his home, coveting her away from the kingdom’s guards whom he called monstrous.

During the nights, when they would all sleep, she would walk along the shoreline, marveling at the dark waters and the world around her.

She found she had enough magic within her to create blooms and grasses like those that tickled her feet.

She healed the wounded that she found on the streets.

From time to time, in the depths of the evening, she could see a blond man standing in the distance. He would look her way, holding his torch.

She would always take a step towards him before the guards appeared.

The guards were evil though.

She had to avoid them.

More buildings were coming into fruition, their construction finer and finer in quality.

“My king!”

Hakuno leaned against the wall of the next room, listening to the man who cared for address a guest. She had wanted to meander out into the night again. It seemed that the king was ruining her chance.

“I have heard from your workers that you are praying to a new goddess?”

He sounded angry.

Hakuno peeked from her place, watching the person through the sliver in the fabric.

“I-I came across her a few months back. She was adorned in the fabrics of Enki himself.” The man watching over her showed him the fabrics nearby, where a few guests were finishing their prayers for the night.

“Theft from the temples is a serious crime.”

“No no!”  The man waved his hands. “She has healed others! I hear of them speak of her to me as well. The soldiers on the streets and by the river. She heals their wounds and sends them to find food and work. It is how our buildings have begun to grow faster!”

She could see the man’s face now.

The golden haired man from so many nights was looking around a moment before sitting. He motioned to the man before him.

“Where is she?”

“Asleep, my king.”

“I doubt that. Has she left already on one of her night ventures?”

A sigh escaped her guardian. “I do not know.”

A hand was raised, guards entering the building to deposit a variety of gold upon the table in front of the king.

Vast amounts of gold and jewels, enough to build another Uruk!

Hakuno covered her mouth at the sight of it all.

“I may have… um… Warned her of the palace.”

“Excuse me?”

The tone did not show any bit of pleasure in the king.

“She is a maiden, king. She blushes at the very touch of a hand in her own. She is unaccustomed to men other than seeing them work.”

“A maiden in Uruk… How improbable.”

“King Gilgamesh, I beg of you, for Uruk and its people, for those who worship Hakuno, please don’t-“

“Bring her here.”

The man winced. Hakuno pulled back, hurrying towards the other side of the room only to curse.

Guards were at the windows. All of them. Perhaps the roof?

No, she had no method of getting to the roof without causing damages that would cost a great deal. She had to think of something else before-

“Hakuno.”

The cloth was parted. Hakuno could feel her heart pounding in her chest as her guardian motioned for her to come.

“…I am supposed to help Uruk.”

He pulled her slowly into the main room of the house, to stand before the king.

Hakuno looked down at the undeniably beautiful man and shifted on her feet. Of all the things she could be doing, this was not something she wanted to bother with. The king could find others to look at. She had people out there in need of healing or a guiding hand. There were buildings to inspect and a world to marvel at.

“So you are my Hakuno,” Gilgamesh stated.

“I am a Hakuno.” She wasn’t his. She was Uruk’s.

He snickered a bit, taking her hands into his and stroking at her knuckles a bit.

“You’re responsible for the buildings being in finer condition?”

She nodded.

“And the extra support for large scale buildings?”

She nodded again.

Those red eyes seemed to lure her in, the pupils expanding a bit as he looked up at her. “And all of my soldiers speaking of the goddess of healing and life, springing forth from the darkness when a man’s on his final breath… I assume this is you as well?”

She shook her head. “I’m not a goddess.”

“You are not like Enkidu though,” Gilgamesh observed.

“You found Enkidu?!”

“Found? The being is my only friend.”

She sighed in relief, looking over to her guardian and smiling. “If he’s with Enkidu, then I’ll be okay.”

“Then you will come with me?” the king asked.

“As long as we’re going to Enkidu. I miss my sibling.”

The king gave a smile like he knew something more, but he simply climbed to his feet and laced the fingers of one of his hands with hers.

She shivered a little, accepting the clothes she had appeared on her first day in this world in, and followed the king out into the night.

For some reason, she thought, it felt like she had just given herself away.

She would need to pray for guidance tomorrow.

Perhaps Enki could help her.

#drabble #drabbles

[diguerra-moved]

🌀

Send me a number 1 thru 50 for a word that I’ll use to write either a headcanon, drabble, or starter. Send 🌀 for a random number instead.

37 - Gone

She had been told before she had seen it. Amidst dragons setting the woods aflame and chaotic bloodshed of battle, there was no doubt Quel’thalas had suffered plenty of losses. No one had had the full dimension of it until after the battle, however; but as rain reduced the fire to ashes and washed the blood of attackers and defenders into the earth, the landscape spoke only of ruin and loss. Bodies of all sorts littered the ground: grotesque green skinned orc warriors, the tall figures of trolls, humans who had lived but a fraction of her own life, elves who still sported the determined gaze of those intent on defending their land. Occasionally, one of those may be found clinging to life, breathing difficultly, bleeding too much for their survival to be likely; most were already dead, heart and lungs long ceased to work. For the fallen elves, her people, her heart was heavy with sorrow. For the humans, she held both gratitude and respect, unlikely defenders of Quel’thalas as they were. Yet each time her gaze touched the loathsome forms or Horde warriors, less positive feelings filled her; a dark satisfaction at seeing the corpses of their enemies in such great number — a satisfaction that would not compare to that of bloody revenge, after she had been made to see the entire aftermath of the attack.

She had been told before she had seen it. Alleria had shed tears for her land, beloved and beautiful, not ever before in her life destroyed so atrociously. Such tears paled in comparison to those that followed the news, shed before she even laid eyes on Windrunner Spire. Yes, they had come to her to bring the grim news, even tried to prevent her of running straight to the village, yet she had been unconcerned with who was in the way or what she was to find there. Yet even having been told before, even having had shed tears for the state of her land and fallen comrades, no words in this world could have prepared her to witness the utter ruin of her home. 

Quel’thalas was her home. Eversong Forest was one of the places she felt most at home in. Nevertheless, the Spire was truly home: where she had been born and raised, where she had grown up and played with her sisters, where she had danced to her little brother’s music, where she had practiced archery until her fingers hurt so she would honor the expectations placed upon the eldest Windrunner daughter. Although the buildings themselves were not as damaged, blood stained stone walls that had never before been touched by crimson red. Much before her steps carried her to the center of it, her gaze found the first bodies, victims of the carnage caused by the orcs. People she had known her entire life. Her stomach churned, skin turning deathly pale; Alleria was no stranger to death, but to see it so close, to see so much of it, to see it in familiar faces, it filled her with a sense of dread greater than any she had experienced before. Even as pale blue eyes scoured the scene in spite of her recoiling in face of it, she was overwhelmed with terror; seeking for what she knew she was bound to find, terrified of finding that which she sought.

Please — let it be a mistake. Let them be wrong. He couldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have there. Lirath had to be safe, it had to be a mistake. Her little brother was a young one; not even of age to be a ranger yet, though he already claimed his intent to follow the path of his sisters, a casual cheerful confidence always coloring his words whenever he spoke of it. There was always an inherent warmth to her brother’s demeanor, capable of illuminating everything around him. He was special like few people in all of the world would ever be; special to her more than he was to anyone else. 

Little sun… you have to be well. Wishful thinking did not make her heart lighter, nor did it dissolve the lump on her throat, neither did it dry her tears. He hadn’t been mentioned by name, the most hopeful parts of her whispered; the Spire had been attacked and many had fallen, but her brother had not been named as one of the casualties. But as her footsteps echoed, loud as only the sole sound amidst deafening silence can be, part of her knew there was no way he could have survived when everything else surrounding their home was dead or dying, the landscape eerily grim. 

Moonlight provided more than enough illumination for her elven eyes to see everything clearly; it gave the scene a ghostly tone, pale light reflecting on it and leaving all bathed in silver-blue shades. Even his hair, pure sunlit gold as her own, shone more akin to Sylvanas’ pale blond, night robbing it of its sunshine — night or death, she thought, even as a sob escaped her lips, grief and sorrow and despair felt tenfold. The turmoil raged within her chest, overflowing in tears as she ran towards his body; lying in a pool of blood, blood that could only be his own, blood that drenched her clothes and stained her shaky hands as they touched his face. Her little brother still wore the terrified expression he had died with, making it impossible that she even pretended he was merely asleep, that unconsciousness wasn’t now a permanent state. His chest, torn open by an orcish axe, was a gruesome sight, exposing parts of the body that should never have been on display; against one like her brother, not yet a warrior, this wasn’t even consequence of battle, simply plain butchery the monsters had delighted in doing. 

Oh Lirath — I am so sorry, so sorry, I should have been here, if I had been here they would never have gotten to you, I should have protected you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Even the grizzly wound and protruding bones were not enough to tear her away from him, copious crying shaking her body for minutes or hours or days before any would find her there, still kneeling close to his mutilated corpse; time no longer made sense to her. It could have been one second or one century, and it would have felt just the same.

She carries the ruin of his body herself, careful as if he were made of glass, gentle as if merely a brusque movement might disturb his rest; set him carefully where he would be prepared for a funeral alongside the others (she understood the words, acknowledged what was being said to her, made decisions when so requested, and yet the very concept of it made no sense within her mind, as if in spite of her sorrow and what had been made of her brother, she still did not understand the concept of death). 

He was gone, forever, well beyond this world; and yet how could he be, when his absence would make the world dark and grim and bleak and senseless? Gone; as if someone like him could ever truly be gone, him who gave the world light and meaning and joy. She had seen what happened to him with her own eyes, his blood still staining her attire and her skin, yet it didn’t matter. He could not be gone, not truly. A world devoid of the Little Sun wasn’t a world worthy of surviving in; and the world seemed much the same. How could the moon glow in the sky above, to bring light to a world her brother no longer lived in? How could rivers run and plants grow and animals live, unaffected, if he truly lived no longer? The world did not share of her sorrow; surely, then, she could only have been mistaken. Surely it was not forever, not permanent. Surely he could not be gone.

Though their bodies had not been too far apart, she only sees her lady mother when her corpse if placed besides her brother’s, her father on the other side. She knows it must be her father, both because he has the right build and because he’s so carefully laid beside her mother — but she cannot recognize his face, crushed with such strength there was nothing left of his strong jaw or high cheekbones, of his gentle smile. Her mother has multiple wounds, none as gruesome as her husband and son. The Ranger General still has about her that familiar air of strength and determination, and it is as if she will rise any minute to scold her firstborn for such blatant disregard in how she presented herself, before stern tone was laced in something gentler. Gone. Alleria had never had the chance of saying goodbye to her, departing to heed the Alliance’s call for help against the Ranger General’s wishes. Father and Lirath had received goodbyes, had been ensured of her love for them just before she went to war; but she could not have done so without the Ranger General stopping her of leaving, and so she had not done it at all. Now she would never have the chance again, her lady mother well beyond her reach in any meaningful manner; all of her family gone, in the blink of an eye, except for herself and her sisters.

“She wanted you to have it, I’m certain you know.” Alleria had known Lorveth practically her entire life, yet even her mother’s second-in-command felt like an otherworldly presence to her then. Grief should have been enough to bridge that gap, perhaps, but her grief was not of the gentle sort, did not seek kinship in one who would mourn the same losses she did. Her gaze fell to the bow offered to her, face blank; she did not reach out to it even though it was offered to her so. Thas’dorah was always meant to fall to her, eventually — everyone, even beyond her family, was well aware of that. 

The Legacy of the Windrunners had been passed down through generations ever since its creation, the legendary weapon of the very first Ranger General of Quel’thalas. Perhaps, to others, it seemed merely a bow — it was not. It didn’t have any inherent magical qualities, except for those pertaining the materials it was made of, invulnerable to time and weather, as well as a particular affinity to the enchanted woods of Eversong. A finely crafted weapon, still, near unmatched. 

Alleria had seen her mother wield it many times before, was already familiar with the bow’s curves. When she had been but a little girl, already gifted in archery but far from mastering it, Lireesa had taken the time to sit with her and tell her the story of Thas’Dorah, what it meant, what it was beyond a simple bow. Alleria had listened intently, held the bow in awe when her mother allowed so, infinitely careful in her reverence for it. Eventually, when she had proven herself both skilled and cautious enough, mother had rewarded her with letting her shoot with it. Thas’Dorah had always filled her with intense adoration and equally measured dread. It was the legacy of her family taken physical shape; and that she was to be its bearer weighted heavily on her shoulders from the moment she first learned it was to be so.

Alleria didn’t want it. She would have traded all legendary bows in the world, all history and all family’s renown, her very skills as a ranger, if only it would bring those she had lost back.

But they were gone, and there was no undoing it. 

There is nothing shaky about her hands as her grip finally closes around the bow, only the certain determination to do well by what is being offered to her now. Her gaze does not look back at Lorveth, and she cannot bring herself to even remember thanking him, then. He does not press; once the Windrunner heir secures the bow firmly, he steps back, allowing her room to dwell in her thoughts. I will wield it proudly, mother. It is a promise she intends to fulfill; and Alleria vowed to herself to put it to the best use possible: by ridding this world of the beasts who even caused her mother not to be here to wield it herself any longer. Her family would have justice, no matter what; and it seemed only fitting that she would bring it by wielding the legacy of the Windrunners. 

In the back of her mind, Alleria knew there other worries to deal with. Her sisters would not see the Spire in the state she had seen it, but neither did she want them to see what had been made of their brother and father (Sylvanas would have been strong enough to deal with it, perhaps, but Vereesa, sensitive as she was, would be devastated by the grisly sight). Moreover, her mother’s bow was not all Lireesa had meant for her to inherit. Lorveth’s words may well have been about the mantle of Ranger General itself; mother had raised her for it, always intended for her to become the General after herself, as tradition would have it. Alleria flinched at the thought, unable to guard her reactions in the state she was in. She never wanted to be Ranger General. Her skills were best employed as they were, in the field, than commanding the Farstriders. 

And beholden by leadership, she would not be able to fulfill the promise of vengeance she had just made to herself. 

There were others who would want the position, though — one other, more specifically, came to mind immediately, in spite of all that felt odd and distant and wrong in her current state. She had sought it as nothing else in the world; and Alleria knew her to have the skill for it, if temper and willfulness got the best of her at times. Willa wanted nothing more than that mantle Alleria was so unwilling to carry. She would have been a good option, if she had the wrong last name; yet that she had the wrong last name made all difference in the world then and there. Lireesa had intended for Alleria to become General, even though, skilled as the eldest was, Sylvanas was the one best suited to commanding. She had valued tradition greatly, had tried to teach her eldest daughter to do the same, if Alleria’s wildness had often clashed with even her own attempts to comply. 

She owed it to her mother to pass it on to who would surely have been next in line in her eyes. She owed it to her sister not to deny her of it, when not only was she more than skilled enough, she would thrive in the position. Sylvanas would carry that burden with more ease than Alleria could have ever done. She would not deny it if it was offered to her — she would make their mother proud in a way the eldest knew she would not. She was meant to have it, regardless of Willa’s ambitions; and it wouldn’t be right to take that away from her before Sylvanas had the chance to decide what she wanted to do with it. 

Alleria didn’t think her heart could break more, yet she felt even its pieces further shattering, knowing precisely what it would mean to pass the title on to Sylvanas. Willa would hate her. What they had, whatever it was, could not weather this. Swallowing back her tears before they begun falling once again, she braced herself for what she had to do. Even if Willa hated her, she couldn’t do it to Sylvanas — she couldn’t do it to her mother, when she already robbed Lireesa of the outcome she would have wanted. It was the least there was to be done, to give her mother peace, to let her know, wherever she was, that the Windrunner legacy was carried on as she would have wanted it to; the only compromise she could find with her mother’s spirit that would allow them both what they would have preferred, or at least the closest thing to it. 

—————————————————————————————-

Her ashen haired counterpart had been there when the Ranger Lords approached her, still lost in sorrow unprocessed, to officially give her the position. She had been there to see Alleria lower her gaze and brace herself before meeting their gaze and refusing to uphold tradition, she had been there to stare intently at the blonde, enough so that Alleria could feel the eyes upon her as if their touch had been of the physical sort. She wondered if Willa had been able to see the apology evident in the her eyes, when the Windrunner glanced at her; if she would have understood it. If Willa had understood her demeanor to be apologetic, she had given no such acknowledgement. Throughout the war they had only pushed each other away, grown more distant than ever before. Perhaps it was for the best; perhaps it would make it simpler to live with her absence, having been offered distancing in smaller dose. 

“While it would have been the Ranger General’s wishes, I do not intend to accept it.” Silent shock had been the prevalent reaction, but even without looking at her, Alleria could see the glimpse of hope in Willa’s blue eyes only through imagining it. It did not make it simpler to finish speaking her part. The blonde breathed, deep, swallowing hard, hands closed in fists, strongly enough that nails digging her palms caused discomfort. “My skills are best employed elsewhere… and my sister Sylvanas is better suited to oversee Quel’thalas’ defenses than I am.”

“Sylvanas is the next Ranger General, not me.” Before she had even properly finished speaking, furious footsteps walked away from the scene. Alleria forced herself to stare firmly towards the Ranger Lord in front of her, though she wouldn’t have been able to even name who this one was, looking without seeing; she needn’t turn to know who had departed so enraged. Voicing a decision she so entirely believed in should not have been so hard; should not feel so wrong, make her want to apologize for it even if she would not take it back. It was the right choice. The only choice. Even if Willa hated her. 

It still made her feel in the wrong; and refuse to face it as she did, deep down Alleria knew exactly the why. There was more than friendly affection in her where Willa was concerned, more than even physical desire they often had indulged in, only to push away afterwards. She didn’t want to hurt her; she didn’t want to lose her, in spite of Willa not being hers to lose. She knew what this meant to Willa; becoming Ranger General was everything she truly wanted, and robbing her of it, regardless of reasoning, would not be forgiven. If her walking away enraged had led her only meters away or to the other side of the world, it didn’t matter. Even should they stand face to face, Willa would have acknowledged her presence no more than as a nuisance. Apologies would fall in deaf ears. Living and breathing she would be, but just as out of her reach as all those Alleria had lost to death.

Gone, like everyone else. 

It would be the last memory Alleria would have of her for a thousand years.

#sunrunnerrs #henlo have a sad drabble #* dynamics: alleria windrunner & willa lightwood / I LOOK AT MY LOVER AND SEE WILDERNESS. [ SUNRUNNERRS ] #* dynamics: alleria windrunner & sylvanas windrunner / A SISTER IS BOTH YOUR MIRROR AND YOUR OPPOSITE. #* dynamics: alleria windrunner & lirath windrunner / THE WORLD LOST SOME OF ITS LIGHT WITHOUT HIM IN IT. #long post cw #death cw #blood cw

[angelofseeking]

once fallen || angel playlist

My kind once communicated through song, a resonance that conveyed complex information and emotion. We shaped worlds through our chorus, connecting to each other and to the universe with a depth that cannot be replicated or comprehended by the human mind. It was the way we lived, the way we loved, and that music moves within me still. It carries memories of a life that continues beyond my reality, a deep knowing of a grander cosmic self.

(Disclaimer: The following is a narrative I’ve had in my head since building a playlist based on vague memories. Writing this out is an attempt to piece it together in a cohesive way. I use names from the Abrahamic pantheon because I was raised Catholic and it’s what I am most familiar with, but I don’t necessarily believe that it is the singular truth. I believe that humankind has told the same stories since time immemorial, perhaps to describe events that happened or simply to explore the inner workings of our existence. The names are symbolic, nothing more.)

ACT I: CREATION

1. O Magnum Mysterium - Chamber Choir of Europe

“O magnum mysterium (O great mystery) et admirabile sacramentum (and wonderful sacrament” I was not born, but came into existence. My siblings and I have always existed. Our realm is one of harmony, moving as one through space and time. My Creator is my Father is my Mother is my Eldest Sibling. I think of him as Michael, and I am a fragment of him, and we are all fragments of the One. Our family is small, but we are all that exists. We love deeply, connecting with every facet of our being. I am me, but I am all of them, and we are One. There are others who came before, but they were gone long ago. We are all that remains.

2. Rainspell - Ingrid Lukas

“Mine üle, vihmakene (Pass, dear rain) vihmakene, vellekene (Dear rain, brother)”

We are World Makers. I am an Architect. Our songs build farms from lifeless rocks, where we nurture seas to grow and soil to burst with life. The molten crust cools and splits, the boiling oceans sigh and from its whispers life shall sprout. We transform cold, condensed starstuff into plants, animals, creatures that move and walk and think. They are fragments of the planet, made separate and self-aware. Do they know how they toil? Do they know us and our watchful gaze?

3. First Light - Starset

“What if you had the power to affect monumental change. Would you let fear consume or would you overcome?”

We are no sculptors of the universe. It has started and stopped and started, unending, much longer than I have dwelt within its darkness. I was created, just as I can be destroyed. The universe is change, and all matter changes. We must eat, so we must build. This is how it has always been. The farmer must sow, or is left to the mercy of the wilderness.

4. Immortals - Fall Out Boy

“They say we are what we are But we don't have to be. I'm bad behavior but I do it in the best way. I'll be the Watcher of the eternal flame. I'll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams.”

We lived by consuming a kind of life force. Not blood, but emotions. Terror is as satisfying as adoration. It was how we survived for a long, long time. We fed from the life of a planet -- its inhabitants being no different than the planet itself, and then we would move on to the next one. Soon, there were none left, and we were forced to create more. Earth is one of these, but it is not the only one.

5. Show Me How to Live - Audioslave

“You gave me life Now show me how to live”

Humans are shaped through selective construction, through a technique perfected over countless millennia. They are organic machines, stepping out of the darkness and blinking into the sun to ask the same question we asked of our Creators long ago: Why was I created? How may I fulfill my purpose? To a domesticated animal, man is master. To a child, father is god. Once, I was loved and feared, and wanted for nothing.

6. The Way I Do - Bishop Briggs

“Oh, but you will never know this love Will never know this pain Never know the way I feel for you”

I loved my Brother, Michael, my Creator, and I sought out his love. I remembered once when we were One, but now we thought only of survival. Another system, another planet, another farm. When the novelty of new life inevitably faded, the ennui set in. I was provided for, and I fulfilled my duties. I loved him but his love for power was all that remained. He was in control, and he knew no other way to be.

7. Centuries - Fall Out Boy

“Some legends are told / Some turn to dust or to gold But you will remember me / Remember me for centuries And just one mistake / Is all it will take We'll go down in history / Remember me for centuries”

I began to lose interest in the company of my own kind. I turned my attentions to those who I began to see as more deserving, those creatures under my charge: the humans. We were warned against indulging in sadism or devotion more than was necessary, but times were abundant and I easily lost myself in it. At this time, I saw them as beloved pets, whom I doted on like a loving keeper. In all my eons of living, very little could surprise me, and yet...

8. What You Are - Audioslave

“And when you wanted blood, I cut my veins And when you wanted love, I bled myself again Now that I've had my fill of you, I'll give you up forever And here I go, far away, I know you, you'll find another slave”

Michael and his Elohim had their doctrine, claimed our superiority and that we enslaved and consumed planets as was our birthright. I had no other reality than the one that I came to exist within, devoted to his word without question just as my siblings. But a new perspective had come to me through my time with the humans. Their ways were strange to me, but they were so different back then -- complacent, certainly, perhaps blissful. But they could not understand the hold we had on them. I was good to mine, but they had no choice. Just as I had none while under the jurisdiction of the Elohim.

When they decided that they had lost control of the humans and that it was time to wipe the slate clean and start again, it never occurred to me that there was any other option.

9. Cosmic Love - Florence + The Machine

“Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too So I stayed in the darkness with you”

There is a kind of loneliness that can only be understood through eternity. A loneliness that began with the thought that I had never truly felt otherwise. My family was so small, and they were all that had existed for me. Time seemed to stretch on and on, and survival began to lose its meaning. I found meaning through my charges, having violated doctrine to indulge in the waves of sustenance they produced in the midst of adoration. They would go mad without my songs, but so would I without theirs. They would be lost forever once the Elohim moved forward with their plan, and the thought filled me with a despair beyond measure.

#my posts #once fallen #act one #angelkin #fallen angelkin #music

[ephesians4-1]

since I’m seeing a lot of discussion about prosperity gospel on my dash,

here are my two cents:

To get straight to the point, our greatest accomplishment in life shouldn’t be how much material possessions we try to get or even how long of a life we have, what matters is that we choose to follow Jesus and serve others. I am usually pretty wary of theologies that people that they should want to look more like this world, and however anyone ever defines “prosperity gospel”, it always comes back to the core idea that what someone physically wants in life is paramount, and this is directly opposed to the whole point of the actual Gospel.

Besides the fact that, to follow this logic would mean that if you’re poor, permanently or even temporarily ill, or just facing a rough time for any reason, God becomes the vending machine that you just need to go to to get whatever you think you need, as opposed to the Alpha and Omega, Beginning and End, Creator of time and space who is able to give you a higher and grander perspective on your existence than you can ever imagine, but besides all of that, the whole of the Bible consistently lays out a pretty cohesive stance on physical well-being and wealth (wealth especially), and it is: it doesn’t matter.

Now before this gets taken out of context, I will take a page out of Ecclesiastes’ book and clarify that if the material/physical world was all that mattered, then yes, human beings would constantly strive (in vain) to always have more (in today’s terms, to have more money, look younger/more attractive, travel to the most places, and retire in the biggest house with the nicest cars). But those of us who live to serve God have a greater purpose in mind. Striving for material well-being is still “meaningless!” to us, but it’s meaningless because we have so much more to look forward to than this physical existence. No matter what family/situation you were born into, no matter what you are up against right now, God has so much in store for you, and it’s so much greater than simply fixing your current predicament, and even still, God never leaves you alone in your hardest moments. He suffered right alongside you the entire time. And this brings me to my next point.

Jesus Christ, God incarnate, did not choose a life of wealth or even leisure, but chose to live a life that involved demanding physical work, little if any material possessions, and extreme physical suffering. And no, Jesus did not “have to” do this (and to say so would imply that Jesus is not fully God as the omnipotent ruler of all of creation, but is subject to the needs of human beings), Jesus chose to do this purposefully. In addition to setting an example of perfect morality, Jesus also demonstrated that material possessions were of little value, including saying:

“Do not store up riches for yourselves here on earth, where moths and rust destroy, and robbers break in and steal. Instead, store up riches for yourselves in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy, and robbers cannot break in and steal. For your heart will always be where your riches are” (Matt. 6:19-21). 

and

“If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”  When the young man heard this, he went away sad, because he had great wealth. Then Jesus said to his disciples, “I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God” (Matt. 19:21-24).

In addition to Jesus’ strong statements about the true worthlessness of material gain, the New Testament is repeatedly, explicitly makes the claims:

“Do not love the world nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life, is not from the Father, but is from the world. The world is passing away, and also its lusts; but the one who does the will of God lives forever” (1 John 2:15-17). (And lusts of the world are not simply sexual, but anything that won’t last, but that we still try to obtain.) 

and

“But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that. People who want to get rich fall into temptation and a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires that plunge men into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs. But you, man of God, flee from all this, and pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance and gentleness. Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called when you made your good confession in the presence of many witnesses” (1 Tim. 6:6-12). 

and also,

“Instruct those who are rich in this present world not to be conceited or to fix their hope on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly supplies us with all things to enjoy. Instruct them to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is life indeed” (1 Timothy 6:17-19). 

God’s blessings toward us have never been about physical security or well-being, and Paul knew this better than anyone. Paul asked for his ‘affliction’ to be taken away from him, but it wasn’t, and if anyone is going to say that the man who possibly pulled the biggest 180° turn with his life and is mainly responsible for the Gospel expanding to the surrounding nations and ultimately surviving the Roman empire, and who constantly put his life on the line for the Gospel, as well as consistently made it clear that he was not afraid to be arrested or die, as long as he was able to spread the Word, if anyone is going to say that he did not have the faith that God could heal him, then I do not know what else to say to them. 

But perhaps what I can say is that what we are able to learn from Paul’s life is that maybe our physical/material struggle is only a small drop in the bucket of existence, and that hopefully, like Paul, we may all come to realize that it is God’s grace that is sufficient for us, for it is His power that is exemplified in our weaknesses. And we should be content with our weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake, for when we are weak, we can be made strong - maybe not physically, but given strength that surpasses physical existence. Jesus did not come to make us rich, he did not come to necessarily make sure every second of this life would be rainbows and butterflies. He came to give us life and life to the full, he came to give us an eternity in which we may be given everlasting joy, which can begin right now, and to conflate those two concepts is to completely miss the point of the Gospel. In my last sentences, in order to not sound like a total evangelical who believes the only point of Jesus’ death was to get us into Heaven (which I personally believe is a pretty narrow view of the Gospel), let me conclude with saying that the fact that God himself suffered immensely as a man means to me that suffering is deeply embedded in the human experience, perhaps necessary. Also, let us not seek to use the Gospel to find how we can demand God make our own lives better, but let us use it as an example of how we are to make others’ lives better.

{ I’ll probably make a part 2 of this, since this is already pretty long and I didn’t even get into the anecdotes people use or the story of Job! But here’s the first part. }

#prosperity gospel #long post #anti prosperity gospel #theology #christian

[sethnakht]

Have you been reading the main Star Wars comic????? I feel like the end of the most recent issue (#49) was very much the sort of thing you would have all kinds of amazing things to say about, and I would love to hear alllll of your thoughts.

yes please let’s talk about that ending

I’ve been reading the main since Gillen came on board. He’s one of those rare writers who can really make me laugh — all those fabulous little jokes about comic-books, about what he himself does expressed through shape-shifters and droid programming — and think — the abyss sequence in the Jedha arc — while also selling me effortlessly on his grasp of a character.

Of his own characters, Trios has long been a favorite. Was I surprised by her choice? No. Was I delighted? Yes, very much.

Here’s a rambling explanation for why I like her and why I was delighted. Trios is one of those side characters who produces interest by mirroring characters Vader wants to capture but cannot, specifically Leia. (Which is also a refreshing change of pace, since most of the Vader comic is about his search for Luke / the upwelling of his memories of Padmé, not least as mediated through through Aphra.) Part of what made her fun in the Vader comic is the way she was positioned to make the reader imagine Leia, the way even Vader appeared to see in her the daughter he thought he had lost, the way he was at very least moved by her to imagine a father proud of such a daughter. If Vader and Leia are similar in their commitment to duty, Trios is like both of them (“We all do our duty, Lord Vader”). At the same time, she’s also potentially a contrast to Leia in her views on choice, which, while left implied, do suggest she’s more like Vader than his daughter. There’s a rapport between them as well, another reason why she’s fun — she’s not someone he’s going to kill over a polite disagreement, which means there’s room for a relationship there to be developed.

That a relationship does develop — and that it perversely mimics the relationship of a surrogate parent and child — that’s interesting to me. Not only as a mirror, but also a statement about Vader’s character (what kinds of relationship he is capable of, when at all, and where he takes his models). Much of the Shu-Torun arc is about lessons (Vader uses the word several times), and the physical parallels between Trios and Luke and Leia — Vader literally has her father killed, then slices off Trios’ hand like he does Luke’s, then gives Trios one of the last surviving pieces of Leia’s planet — strongly suggest that the lessons in question are not only being passed down through explosives and lightsabers and armies. This is made explicit through the contrasting figures of the Astarte twins, specifically Aiolin. Vader tells Aiolin — the girl he will go on to give the mercy death Obi-Wan denied him — that the lessons he has to teach are of no use to her. But he doesn’t say that he never plays the teacher to a student, and one could argue that those lessons are being imparted to Trios instead. The shifts in how Vader and Trios speak to one another resemble, in a most slanted manner, the relationship between a child and parent, or padawan and master — not only does Vader’s creation begin to emulate him, Vader also does step back from questioning her decisions (“as you wish”, he says instead) as though confident she has learned not only her place, but also his lessons.

Beyond how their relationship presents a massively fucked-up version of the (massively fucked-up) relationship Vader actually wants with his kid(s), the relationship Vader has quite literally destroyed for Trios by having her father and siblings murdered, beyond this highly unstable and blink-or-you’ll-miss-it surrogate parent-child relationship, one of the coolest things about the Trios arc for me his how the move from antagonism to something like mutual respect seems to actually have to do with something other than power. Vader spends a great deal of his comic talking about blasphemy and abominations and faith. So does Trios. “Blasphemy!” she cries when the rebellious barons desecrate a holy site of great personal significance to her, a place representing peace and family. (To be sure, Vader had destroyed an irreplaceable factory only a few panels before, but it wasn’t of spiritual significance.) Vader responds as ever — he destroys the attacking force — but his words to her afterward are notable. Instead of boasting about the Empire’s strengths or somesuch, he says, “I know little of your people’s religion, Queen Trios, but I presume this is a suitable punishment for their sacrilege”. I’ve yet to see this moment commented but find it significant that from the moment he acknowledges her religion, from the moment he punishes the people who dared deface a holy place, Trios is on board with his approach to the barons. And later, when he is delayed by Cylo’s trap, she speaks of her “faith” in his return. This sense on both their parts that they will prevail despite the odds seems to go hand in hand with a certain determinism, and one reason I love that ambiguous closing line from him to her, “there was no other choice” for queen, is because it permits that reading while also leaving space for the somewhat more charitable take spelled out by Triple Zero (”He could be implying that you are excellent”). By asking Vader whether he chose her well, Trios also reveals that it on some level does matter to her to have his approval, or perhaps rather that she wants to know whether she has truly earned his respect, or whether his deference was merely the illusion he threatened it would be. Although his response can be read both ways, by not outright narrowing things down to the latter, Vader arguably gives her what she wants (praise of her excellence) while placing that praise under the renewed sign of potential illusion. While he ultimately reestablishes his power with such a move (only he knows what he thinks, everyone else has to guess), letting her have at least an illusion might also be about as generous as he gets.

And then she returns in #38 with such a bang! For all that she’s no longer playing the same role, it’s clear how much of a mask she’s learned to wear. I love how she’s presented as someone who creates elusive comparisons, inevitably misread by those around her (not so unlike Vader) — someone who compares other Imperials to Vader, for instance, and judges them underwhelming on some scale known only to her; who looks into the ashes of a poisoned, wasted, once-holy moon and cooly compares this site of unspeakable horror to her own home as though they were in some way parallel. Her meaning there is clearly misinterpreted by the tank with a cybernetic arm (speaking of cybernetic limbs, has Trios replaced her courtly cybernetic gauntlet with a synth-skin hand??? I’m a tad disappointed), what’s-his-face; he thinks she’s simply confident that robbing the holy city of its final kyber stash will be easy. But her history — her religious leanings — already suggested in that first issue that she had come for some another purpose, that she could not truly be behind such a project unless she had undergone some significant change off-screen. That she ends up working with the girl she mirrored previously thus makes sense, but I’ll admit I was also waiting for a new form of contrast to Leia. (Making them too similar is only boring, plus having Trios become a rebel saboteur without additional storytelling to motivate a complete break with Vader would be unsatisfying, to say the least.)We finally got that contrast in #49, and I like how it’s nonetheless not entirely clear-cut: she’s conflicted, without doubt, she does like Leia, and yet “there was no other choice” shows her deterministic, fatalistic even, as it seemingly confirms, once more, that Vader was right about her, that Vader made her who she now is, that she sees the world as he does and not with Leia’s hope. (I’m hard-pressed to see her betrayal of the Empire as spontaneous or unbeknownst to Vader.)

Exciting to to think about what it could all mean / where it might lead. Does Vader know Trios sabotaged the Jedha mission? I suspect so, but if that’s the case, what does that say about his views on Jedha, on its significance? Or rather — did he encourage Trios to reach out to Leia specifically, to use Leia once more as lure by playing the bait? (Which is very meta: the character who represents what he couldn’t capture is now helping him do the capturing.) That would also be very much in character; he shows himself perfectly willing to sacrifice other Imperials (having Star Destroyers enter the asteroid field in ESB) if it will get him to Leia / Luke. But could one also hear resonances between a willingness to let the Jedha mission be sabotaged and a willingness to let the Death Star be sabotaged? Perhaps that’s too much of a stretch. In any case, Trios speaks to him as though he’s known for some time of her latest plan, but was it his or was this her idea? What are the conditions of her willingness to play bait, does he have something hanging over her head? How much does she truly resent the death of her real father, a man who was ready to sacrifice her for his own power? How much of what she told Leia is not just true, but also genuinely motivating for her? Is she working for him purely because being intimidated by Vader, as she puts it, sets every other concern into perspective, is she doing this out of fear? Or do vestiges of that however illusory respect between them also continue to play a role?

Sorry this got so long! thank you for thinking of me, this pulled me out of sadness. Can’t wait to hear your thoughts, my friend.

#long post #darth vader #queen trios #leia organa #sw: comics #marvel star wars #marvel darth vader #glompcat #asks #character analysis #characterization #repetition and variation #parallels