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lilac-amethyst-skies · 10 months

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Holiest |England x Reader|

Notes: nsfw

Overview: With the gentle lighting of the fireplace, you and Arthur spend the night in one another's arms and passion. You suppose the two of you could have made it to the bed only a set of stairs away, but you both figure the couch will do.

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She could feel his eyes on her, grazing over her body with such tenacity. It made her shiver. Her heart was fluttering restlessly about her chest in such a way that it practically begged to be free. But, of course she would never wish for herself to be anywhere else. Nowhere else, but with him.

So very aware of the way he neared closer to her, she read the way his footsteps moved forward with careful, but intense purpose. There, in his steps, was a determination that was surely meant for her, and only her. It was only when he stood just in front of her, from her place on the modestly colored couch, that she finally met his eyes.

Those eyes, so emerald in color, reflected the flickered, dancing light of the fireplace that was set to warm the room. Though its gentle heat was one deserving thanks, the woman found that she surely didn’t need a fire to keep her warm any longer. This was especially found true as a gentle, but deliberate hand fell upon the side of her face, his fingertips blazing a trail along her skin even though he was barely touching her. They found entertainment by tucking away a few rogue strands of hair behind her ear.

Arthur didn’t miss the way she immediately careened into his touch. As simple as it was, there was an undeniable tension that continued to arise. He knew she could sense it as well, as he watched the eyes that so desperately bore into his own. This woman would be the death of him, he was sure of it.

His resolve was slipping as he watched shadow and light amalgamate across skin. The skin that was so soft, supple;

Undeniably inviting.

Something must of have shifted in his stare because the woman already gave in a sharp inhalation of breath, as he watched her. The hand at her face, brought itself to the back of her head and time seemed to slow as his face became closer, his breath fanning amongst her nose and cheeks. She could suddenly feel his other hand upon her shoulder, adding a weight that prompted her to shift to the side and fall backward, her perspective of the room tilting outside of the view of Arthur’s face. And in one swift motion his lips found her own as her back make contact with the soft fabric of the couch. She was so hyperaware of the pressure of his body upon hers. Arthur’s mouth moved languidly, with an expertise that took her breath away and she couldn’t stop her body from writhing beneath.

Arthur groaned.

That drove him absolutely crazy. His brows knitted together and his body sagged against her more, as much as she could handle without it being uncomfortable. Her lips suddenly left his and it felt so cold. His eyes involuntarily opened, he was already breathing so heavily, but it was caught in his throat as her hand weaved into his hair. There was a tug, enough force for him to listen, to tilt his head back for her. That in and of itself sent a heat rushing to his groin, but that breath caught in the back of his throat came rushing out in a gasp as she brought her mouth up to his neck. His heart sped up even more, if that was even possible, and he sighed at her touch, all the while her fingers were raking against his skull. Arthur was getting so drunk off of her ministrations, trailing him off into a gentle pleasure. Suddenly, he felt her teeth sink themselves into the sensitive part of his neck, catching him off guard into a jolt. He knew she surely loved his reaction. But he wouldn’t let it last long.

Yes, Arthur indeed, was sure he had a problem with pride, but he wouldn’t entertain that thought for now.

Instead, he chose to give her a taste of her own medicine, grasping the hair about the back of her head and pulling it downward. She gasped at the gentle sting, her lips disconnected from his neck. The two of them were once again staring into each other eyes, but this time around, looked much more disheveled. She loved that mess of blond hair, going every which way, and that she was the one to see him this way. She wanted to reach up once again, kiss him furiously, but the grip upon her hair was rather tight, at least enough to express who had the authority in this moment. As if to further prove this point, Arthur brought his mouth down to the shell of her ear. He loved way she shivered beneath him. God, he was already so hard.

“Love.”

She could only close her eyes and listen to him speak. The gravel in his voice had her pressing her legs together, hoping to give her sex some sort of relief.

This didn’t go unnoticed by Arthur. He chuckled against her ear, purposefully exhaling hot breath. She was getting desperate; Arthur could tell, and their clothing still had yet to be removed. Deciding to push her further, his hips suddenly rutted, dragging against her lower half, taking care to show her just how hard he was. This lit a fire in the both of them. Her hands fell to his chest, hastily unbuttoning his dress shirt. Arthur was quick to help, removing his shirt completely. He then asked her to sit up, his hands finding the bottom of her shirt. Understanding his intention, the woman rose her arms above her head as Arthur pulled the fabric off of her. She immediately laid herself back down, expecting him to follow, but to her surprise he didn’t. As Arthur moved himself downward and off the couch, he caught the curious look in her eyes. She noticed the mischief hiding within his gaze and her heart picked up. The woman began to bring herself up on her elbows to shift closer to him but was stopped by Arthur’s hand pressing the middle of her chest, right above her breasts, pushing her back down. He could feel the way her body heaved.

“I want you to lie down.” Arthur took notice to the tension that took over her body as she lay down. He knew they were due to nerves, her previous bravado having passed.

“Relax,” he drawled, something of a promise fell from his lips, even though he didn’t say so directly. But the thing is, he didn’t have to. She knew that in the way he looked at her, the way his fingertips traced along the valley of her breasts, then downward over the flat of her stomach and to the front of her pants, she was going to be in for a hell of a night. At sound of her zipper, she let her head fall back, her eyes fluttering shut. She gladly chose to surrender.

“Good girl,” he watched the blush blossom across her face as he allowed himself to fully kneel down onto the ground beside her, “I’m going to make you feel so good, tonight.”

Excitement flushed the rest of her body, as Arthur peeled the pants off of her lower body. Slinging one of her legs of his shoulder, he immediately began kissing the inside of her thigh. He relished in the softness, closing his eyes. She couldn’t help but sigh, his mouth slowly making way towards the place where she really wanted him to be…Arthur suddenly nipped at her skin, her surprised yelp filling the room.

Their eyes met for just a moment in a mirthful understanding that this was surely payback from earlier.

She expected nothing less from Arthur. That even in the heat of the moment, if he felt there was a point to be made, he would surely get it across.

His eyes continued to catch her own as his tongue dragged along her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail in its wake. She had been so distracted by the heat in his gaze that she hadn’t even noticed his other hand, abruptly dragging along her clothed entrance and taking care to add pressure to the most sensitive part with his thumb.

Arthur was rewarded with the delicious moan that left her lips, her hips attempting to grind down towards the attention she received.

“Patience, love,” he breathed, bringing his mouth closer to her sex, but still not exactly where she wished. Arthur laid open-mouthed kisses right beside her entrance, lazy and hot. The woman could only grasp helplessly onto the fabric of the couch, especially as he dragged his tongue where the cloth of her panties and skin met. He held onto the leg over his shoulder a bit tighter as she fought for more freedom to move. To her, it felt so long until Arthur gave her at least a fraction of what she wanted, even though in reality it was most likely only a few moments. She found him suddenly flattening his tongue against her entrance, his hot breath spilling over.

“Arthur!”

He only hummed in response pressing a deep kiss to where his tongue just was, the vibrations causing her to tense and quickly fall lax. Arthur’s mouth kept working and the sighs that filled the room from the woman he loved rang beautifully. He was finding that he couldn’t deny her what she wanted any longer. He retreated, releasing his hold of the leg over his shoulder. She wanted to whine at the lack of contact, but she decided to latch onto whatever patience she had left. She was quickly rewarded by his fingers hooking to the hem of her underwear, successfully pulling them down to be discarded to some other place in the room.

Arthur delved himself between her legs once again, his tongue running along her uncovered slit. The rough, uninhibited moan that left her lips made his cock strain even further in his pants. He too, was losing patience, but Arthur kept going. She could barely keep her breathing in check as his tongue danced along her most sensitive parts, dipping into her folds. Another groan left her when one of his fingers took the place of his tongue. Her arm fell over her face as her back involuntarily arched, her hips shifting in such a way that his finger went deeper inside of her.

Arthur’s head was spinning watching his lover break down like this. No, he really couldn’t wait for much longer. She was just so wet. He would fit inside of her so well and she would call his name in the way that he loved so very, very much. His inner thoughts led him to bring a second finger inside of her, his tongue moving over the bundle of nerves right above. Her hands immediately fell to Arthur’s head, intertwining her fingers into is messy blond hair.

Oh, that did it for her.

“Arthur.” She tugged him upwards towards her, and Arthur obeyed crawling over her body once again, “I need you. Right now.”

Her hands fell to sides of his face. There was such intensity in her words and stare, that he would surely do whatever this woman asked of him for forever and an eternity. Arthur grasped one of her hands that found his cheek and brought it to his lips,

“As you wish.” There was a gentleness that was found there as he held her gaze, clashing with the ferocity of the room. It was just so Arthur, and it was one of the many things she loved about him.

A few moments later, his dress pants were discarded along with his boxers. He felt his lover shiver as he pressed his weight onto her, his hand reaching around to her back, unclipping her bra. Her breasts finally fell free, a blush creeping on her face from Arthur’s unabashedly wandering gaze. Arthur dipped down, kissing one of her breasts while his hand gently massaged the other. He then began to rut against her, not yet inside of her but still getting lost in the wetness of her. The both of them closed their eyes, the room filled with their sighs. His fingers tweaked her nipple for the last time, his hand then travelling downwards to finally wrap around his cock, unable to not pump himself a few times, already so soaked from his lover. His face was suddenly at her neck and breathing so heavy, her hands immediately finding the muscle of his back. There was a moment where nothing happened, of tense anticipation.

And then, she felt his tip reach her entrance, drawing a sharp inhale from her. Arthur pushed himself in with little resistance from how wet she was already. He groaned at the feeling. Once he was finally, fully hilted, he stayed for a moment relishing in the heat. He could feel his lover’s nails begin to rake the skin of his back and he shivered in response.

“Please.” She begged. Arthur somehow found it in him to begin pressing kisses along her neck, forcing himself to remain still.

“Arthur, please.” His lover continued to plead and as much as Arthur wanted to move himself, he was getting even hotter from her desperation. His lips carried to junction of her jaw to the shell of her ear. She was practically shaking and he found his hands on her hips to see that she didn’t move herself. She knew the game that he was playing.

“Fuck. Arthur I—” she choked on her frustration as Arthur suddenly removed himself only to quickly fill her once again with such ferocity she was practically seeing stars. The sound that left her mouth had him craving more and he was overcame with such a need to watch her. Arthur brought his hands to find support on the armrest above her head. They locked eyes. Her face was contorted in such pleasure. He was the only one who got to see her like this, and the thought was sending him closer to release as he kept a steady pace.

She could easily see the expanse of Arthur’s body this way, as well, allowing her eyes to wander. The way that his muscle moved and strained, as well as the sweat glistening against his skin, shown easily by the lighting of the fireplace was absolutely intoxicating. And as she looked back up at his face again, she couldn’t help but find herself swooning over the man above her. As he continued his pace, she raked her nails along his sides. The sensation prompted Arthur to immediately dip his head downward, resting his forehead against her own with brows furrowed. His lips found and kissed her temple as they continued to both search for their release. It was going to be soon.

Arthur’s pace was getting sloppier and he could feel the tightness growing around his cock. He once again lifted his head and at the sight of his lover’s ragged, uneven breathing—she was so close. Arthur saw her eyes fluttered shut, her head turning to the side, losing herself. But his voice broke her out of her stupor.

“I want you to look me in the eyes.”

Her body was growing in tension, that coil in her lower body threatening to snap. The pleasure that was wracking through her body was almost too much. Too much for her to have any sense of control, but somehow, someway, she managed with much effort to meet Arthur’s request. In meeting the passion of his gaze her entire body went rigid to then release, arching into the naked form above her. Looking into her eyes, Arthur lost his own control moaning loudly along with her. She felt the heat that spilled inside of her as she rode out the rest of her high.

Arthur collapsed. Though, he at least had half the mind to collapse slightly to the side as to not entirely crush her under his weight. There wasn’t a whole lot of room, but they made it work as they held onto one another in a loving laziness that only an after-sex scene could provide. She could feel his fingers brushing back the strands of hair that fell about her face and she couldn’t help but sigh and close her eyes. A chuckle rumbled through his chest as he pressed a lingering kiss upon her lips. He finally pulled away and she opened her eyes to the man before her. Neither said a word as they read the emotions in one another’s gaze. She brought her own hand to graze her fingertips lightly upon the skin of his cheek. The love that Arthur made her feel was unparalleled and she would surely do anything for him. She then saw a lovely smile blossom across his face. He must have read her mind somehow because it was only a few seconds later that Arthur spoke,

“I love you, too.”

#hetalia #aph hetalia #hws hetalia #aph england #hws england #arthur kirkland #fanfiction #hetalia x reader #oneshot #⚠️ smut

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bells-of-black-sunday · 1 year

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An empty space filled with nothing, but the fluid stars above revealing every footstep placed on the glass floor like falling rain. Not many people were allowed in this chamber. Though illuminated by the dim sky light was the incubus who went by many names. Silks clung to his form barely masking the flecks of gold that adorned his white skin a wolf in sheep's clothing to anyone who wasn't the dreaming prince.

"Belphegor..." His delicate hands caressed every insect wing being careful of the eyes hidden in the scales, he was so gentle in his ways holding his skull in his hands, "The dreamer, prince of slothfulness, prince of change, prince of magic. Is there a title you don't have yet dear?" The demon chuckles leaning into the tendril that caressed his face.

"Many that I should take. Not the insults Mephistopheles puts on us all..." The prince hums, "He favors humans too much. Pitiful things. God could snap it's orbiters and all their problems would be solved, yet they're nothing like the creatures they put in their "zoos". Something to be gawked and mocked at by even the holiest of creatures. What a sad existence."

The incubus hummed never flinching as it's hands roamed her body tracing every curve until his legs spread, "Mhm~... What a sad existence indeed." Angel chuckled pressing himself into the prince's claws, "To be berated your every waking moment by something supposedly so loving and kind.... twisting the words of beings beyond their comprehension to further scold and mock the rest into being sinful for existing pushing most to cut their fleece and fall from grace... I think I give them a favor when I eat their hearts."

He could feel the prince's eyes on his bare form the way his hunger was only satiated by conversation, but Angel was simple in his ways. Belonging to Lucifer himself as nothing more than a patriarch to his harem and yet a delicacy to be shared by his generals. Belphegor was always his favorite...

The prince's chuckle was deep reverberating through his chest like a cats purr as he pushed the incubus onto his back dragging his tongue up his chest. His form covered him completely, so great in size it was a wonder how Angel put his full trust in him, "You've always been a generous soul little dove... So full of love for many of God's creations, even it's detested... You make it hard to concentrate."

"Then devour me... Let me show you how generous I can be..."

#ic #the devils lap dog (Angel)#/drabble #cw; suggestive #I always forget about these two-#what fckin whores (affectionate)#theyre also very cringe

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valhyr · 2 years

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@lunaferrous asked : "Here... Can you feel it?" Taking Verona's hand by the wrist, treating it with the utmost reverence like a pilgrim would the holiest of relics, she raised it up to her chest, laying her palm flat across her sternum. The scar that fate left behind, burning white tendrils across her skin where it had healed, was from the day when she nearly met her demise at the hands of angels. They had speared her, impaled her through the chest and pinned her down to the ground like some grotesque animal. Had it not been for Verona, she would have been flayed and then burned alive. She wouldn't be standing here now, bearing an ever present reminder of that day, humbling herself in front of the woman to whom she was not only eternally grateful, but had grown to love through the fire and their shared ferocity.

"You saved me, without me even having to ask. You were there precisely when I needed you. I can't thank you enough for everything you've done, for my sake."

FATE , indeed — ! Despite her nature ( how oft she is caught fighting ‘gainst the pre-written course ) , Verona catches herself wondering after whether the grander order has had a hand in this or not. Are she and Luna … Part of the fabled DESIGN ? Was it perhaps meant to be ? Sometimes , she believes it is ; that their bond ( all the love , passion , ferocity — ) is less coincidental and more DESTINED – that , in no uncertain terms , every time she wakes up beside the demon and every time she falls asleep beside her and all the times they share their moments together , they were FATED TO COME TOGETHER .

The gratitude is nothing short of h u m b l i n g for the warmonger , it does well for a long-desecrated heart ( so used to being cursed for her existence , so accustomed to the indecencies of her divinity ; this fickle-face of sincerity startles her & renders her speechless like no foe before ) . Chilled palm traverses a tender-handed path over the wound , claws themselves remain c a r e f u l as they memorize the ill-healed sprawl of scarred flesh. Verona handles the moment with such reverent consideration ; unable to acknowledge the characteristic brutality within them each , she treats Luna now as if she shall shatter with the slightest of force. Slowly does she lift her gaze , meeting Luna’s own. “I can feel it,” She offers at last , response barely more than a thoughtful whisper through her thoughts. “I remember the day rather well.” Plagued to recall all things , this – yes , this – the titan could pluck from the nigh endless wellspring of memories she possessed ( & truly how could she forget ? this was the day things changed ‘tween them , was it not ? when wretched-weaving fate altered their journeys for good ) . “Truly , I doubt I could forget.” A small jest.

Verona leans forward , resting their heads together. “I have told you before , but I shall remind you : I will continue to be there , whenever you have need of me.” A slight smile comes to grace her features , a light kiss therein offered. “This , I PROMISE , you will have me there for the rest of your days if I’ve anything to say about it.” A bold proclamation ! But Verona was a creature who did not swear such oaths in vain ; her word was her b o n d . Silence , then. Silver eyes focusing again ‘pon the scar ‘neath her palm. “... Does it still hurt ?” A childish question , perhaps , but as one who is more than burdened with her fair assortment of wounds , Verona could not stop herself from asking.

#⚔ ━ ❝ QUEUE || &. queue will be the wretchedest of women! ❞ ━ ⚔#⚔ ━ ❝ IC || &. answered ❞ ━ ⚔#⚔ ━ ❝ VERSES || i. main ❞ ━ ⚔#lunaferrous #i am so so sorry it took so long ; ;

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the-hem · 7 months

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Jesus Splits the Rock. From Matthew 27: 51-56.

Many Christian sects teach the interior of the Jewish Temple is flawed, and that is why the Curtain around the Holiest of Holies was torn when Jesus was crucified. As if the death of Christ was an unveiling of the Spirit of God that could be purchased in no other way. This is not acccurate.

A correct analysis of the famous section where the Curtain is shorn will help us understand what really happened in this section of the Gospel of Matthew and why.

The Holiest of Holies was not inaccessible within the Jewish Temple. It was indeed buried behind curtains, mostly goat curtains representing the immature selves that must be shorn off the frame in order to fully appreciate God, but in no way is the Presence of God forbidden, nor is His Covenant exclusive.

The Hebrew word for the Curtain, parochet refers to the lining of the womb. Within the interior of the parochet, one is at one with God, the Parent of us all. Just as in physical birth, the shearing of the Curtain during the crucifixion is the start of a new state of independence from God.

Why would the Gospels suggest this was necessary, and why did Christ have to die for it to begin? The splitting of rocks, the resurrection of the dead, all of these things imply the onset of Mashiach, a state of global independence, one that has never reached every corner of the world:

51 At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split 52 and the tombs broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life.

53 They came out of the tombs after Jesus’ resurrection and[e] went into the holy city and appeared to many people.

54 When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, “Surely he was the Son of God!”

55 Many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to care for his needs.

56 Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph,[f] and the mother of Zebedee’s sons.

Mary Magdalene= "Love in the Highest"

Mary= Love

James=who closely follows

Joseph= the most fruitful

Sons of Zebedee=the "idea of Zebedee" had to do with the understanding that humanity progresses not because of the efforts of people but because humanity is part of the universe, which progresses by natural law.

So in the final verse we get the answers to the mysteries of the ones before it. "Who experiences love in the highest and follows the natural laws of creation bears the most fruit."

The Values in Gematria are as follows:

v 51-52: The Value in Gematria is 10390, אאֶפֶס‎גטאֶפֶס‎ ‎apesgatapes, "a vision of peace that involves the winepress and the fruit of the tree."

Death in Judaism is death due to shame, to ignorance, to practices that do not cause suffering to passover. To split the curtain and the rocks and raise the dead is to press life like a grape of all of its essence. It is the moment we finally believe in the Guiding Light of the Christ and His Homily.

v 53: The Value in Gematria is 6741, וזדא‎ , zada, "That which understands. At last!"

The demonstrative pronoun and adverb זה (zeh) or זו (zo) or זאת (zo't; feminine), meaning that or which, happens in various but comparable forms all over the Semitic language area.

The verb עדה ('ada I) means to pass on or by, or to advance. It's used only twice in the Bible: Job 28:8 speaks of an advancing lion, Proverbs 25:20 speaks of a garment that's being passed by. This root's three derivations are in fact three times the same word but used in three distinct categories:

The masculine noun עד ('ad), also spelled ועד (w'ad), literally meaning advancing time. This word is usually translated with perpetuity or forever: of past time (Job 20:4), but most often future time (Psalm 21:6). In the latter case the form is usually לעד (l'ad), literally for always.

The identical masculine noun עד ('ad), literally meaning that upon which one advances: prey or booty (Genesis 49:27, Isaiah 33:23).

The identical preposition or conjunction עד ('ad), also spelled עדי ('ady), meaning as far as, until, up to, while, to the point that, etcetera. This multifarious word occurs frequently in the Bible.

v 54: The Value in Gematria is 12743, יב‎צד‎ג‎, Yv Tsadg, "And He differentiated, became a Tzaddik, a righteous being. A saint."

v 55: The Value in Gematria is 7596, זהטו‎‎‎, "the same." This refers to the universal global use of the Davar, "the words" specifically referring to the onset of Mashiach:

The Hebrew noun דבר (dāvār, with the Hebrew letter "bet" pronounced like a "v") is the word for "word" or "speech." Preceding the construction of the Tower of Babel, Genesis uses דבר (dāvār) to describe the unified "words" of the earth's population as seen in Genesis 11:1, "Now the whole earth had one language and the same words (דבר׳ם)."

After the separation of the man from God results in the appearance of the Saint, then comes the separation of humanity from Pharaoh, all the evil men and their ways. This is not an option, it is what God has commanded of us. We must achieve Mashiach.

v 56: The Value in Gematria is 5801, הח אֶפֶסא, Ha Ephesa, "Witness the Future."

=Mashiach.

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leanstooneside · 9 months

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Obsessing on secrets and conspiracies (METTLESOME)

◊ Man is the nobler growth our realms

◊ Indeed is too mellow

◊ Affection is a coal

◊ month is ever May Spied

◊ love Pity's the straightest

◊ young There is a kindly mood

◊ mother is a mother still The holiest thing alive

◊ God is its author

◊ y' are ill; And

◊ sorrow's memory is a sorrow still

◊ And therefore is winged Cupid

◊ The Lord is come! Success

◊ There is a charm

◊ Our fancies are more giddy

◊ souls are lighted With wisdom

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nijjhar · 10 months

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Gnsotic Gospel of Philips - Part 20:- The created Adam was a Noble Man a... THE GNOSTIC SOCIETY LIBRARY The Nag Hammadi Library The Gospel of Philip Translated by Wesley W. Isenberg Part 20:- Compare the Perfect Man. It is through powers which are submissive that he ploughs, or performs works, preparing for everything to come into being. For it is because of this that the whole place stands, whether the good or the evil, the right and the left. The Holy Spirit shepherds everyone and rules all the powers, the "tame" ones and the "wild" ones, as well as those that are unique. For indeed he [...] shuts them in, in order that [...] wish, they will not be able to escape. He who has been created, Adam, is beautiful, but you would find his sons noble creations. EXPOSITION OF THE PARABLES IN THE LIGHT OF TRINITY:- Please download and print these three pages from my websites: http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/threen.GIF http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity1.JPG http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity2.JPG Print them and I will explain what I have written. Then, the whole Bible and other Gospels would come to your fingertips. There is nothing like face-to-face discussion but the Customers for this Knowledge are very few and far between. St.Thomas proclaimed, One in thousand and two in ten thousand. They would be solitary but of one accord. University theologians are super donkeys carrying Holy Books and being drunk with the Old Wine of Scriptures, they desireth not the New Wine. You need to be a twice-born person of spirit and not a once-born of the Books. There are no Copyrights on my Videos and if you are interested in translating them into other languages, just write down the text in English and I will edit it for you. I will also help you to produce Documentaries and Films to proclaim the Gospel before the Atomic War in 2012. Freely receive freely given. Remember that this Dark Age called KALYUG in Punjabi is the Age of psychic sons of Satan and Gospel is the only antidote for hypocrisy or blasphemy. Jews dominated the first Church and they are the sycophants rendering empty praises to people feeding the sugar-coated Tablets of falsehoods that kill people in thousands. A simple test for falsehoods is how many Jews, Sikhs, Hindus, etc. died during the Holocaust, crusades or sectarian riots? Not a single one is the answer in Gospel Truth. And you would be surprised to know that both the Jews and the Palestinians being unfaithful to Abraham are ANTISEMITIC and they are bundled up in Israel for Final Burning Matt.13.24-30. God bless you. Youtube channel - Truthsoldier I served in the satanic Iraq war. I openly am shamed for that and I asked for forgiveness for taking part in that war. I actually had my awakening while over in Iraq. My eyes were opened to the injustice of that war. The Iraqi people loved Saddam; they had whole stories with nothing but Saddam’s face on everything. Since then I have been speaking out against the US and ISRAEL on my Youtube channel. Here is my contribution:- Holy spirit, common sense, shatters the fetters of the dead letters, the Holy Books. If we have One God, our Supernatural Father of our souls, then there should be one Faith. In Christianity, Jesus said One Fold called the Church of God headed by One Shepherd, our Bridegroom Christ Jesus/Christ = Satguru Nanak Dev Ji, the Second coming of Jesus. Solid Proof; this Golden Temple is of the same size as the Holiest of Holy that used to be in Jerusalem and its Curtain held the Secrets of the Oral Torah = His Word was rendered from the Top, the Temple High Priests, to the Bottom, the village Rabbis off you go – Luke 16v16; Law and Prophets were till John and thus, everyone makes a direct approach to God through His Word = Logo = SATGUR PARSAD. So, these hireling Dog-Collared Priests and Mullahs, cannot give your account to God as the Rabbis used to give at Passover. So, they are "ANTICHRISTS" that have a following of the spiritually blind Super Bastard Fanatic Devils - John 8v44 -, Hindu, Jew, Sikh, Christian, Muslim, etc. Outwardly, and not spiritually inwardly. These spiritual selves Hin.......... Thus, Jesus was born and Jesus died on the Cross and rose on the Third Day and NOT CHRIST, THE TITLE. Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf Greatest Blasphemers and Killers Blair and Bush being considered by Anti-Christ Bishops for Nobel Peace Prize. Nobel Peace Prize should rather go to Assange and the Iraqi Journalist who threw both his shoes at the hypocrite Bush in Iraq. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qHdTpTXHvE&list=PL0C8AFaJhsWz7HtQEhV91eAKugUw73PW1 Blair and Bush’s blasphemies against Holy Spirit are bearing Fruit https://youtu.be/0WBYOmpDuCs American Jews are today – http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/GrimReaper.htm Destroying one country after the other, so that the scripture is fulfilled. Also, do not forget the partition of India and how the dirty hearted-British divided the homeland Punjab of the brave Jatt tribal soldiers who fought in the two World Wars for the British.

#youtube

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 3 years

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the old gods are dead

hello lovelies and welcome welcome welcome to the first day of fanfare! im always excited to do projects like this because it feels so much more personal and creative for me. anyway i hope you enjoy <3

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Herein lies the story of a dead god. Nobody knows how the god died. Nobody even knows if the god died. But it is the only explanation for the destruction of the world as it is known. This story starts eighty years in the past before the god in question becomes a god. Before, when they were just a boy.

Percy Jackson has won a war. Not by himself. But a victory all the same. Not without casualties. But standing any how. They have won this war and now they will be rewarded. Or so he's been told

“You need to come to Olympus Percy Jackson.”

The holiest place in the world, and he has never felt more like a sinner in his life. He wonders if he'll turn to glowing cinders and grey ash with the first step he takes on the marble bridge.

He doesn't.

All he hears is the squeak of his sneakers, the hum in the air as the nymphs prepare a celebration for gods who watched their children get slaughtered.

War makes a mess of everything. Even this once beautiful courtyard filled with heavy fruit trees and floating music is now desolate. Abandoned in an eery sort of way. The stone mends itself but there's cracks he can trace all the way back to the beginning of time. How many times can something be ruined and reformed before it becomes another thing entirely?

The doors of the throne room are pushed open by two unimpressed, stern looking cyclopses. Nothing at all like his little brother with a too wide smile and enough sparkle in his eyes to blind glitter.

“Ah Percy Jackson.” A warm voice sounds from high above the room.

He looks towards it. Aphrodite sits on the window sill, one leg drawn to her chest the other dangling down. Her head rests atop her knee, brown hand pushing against her chin. Even with her blood stained chiton and the wilting pink roses in her usually pristine hair she still looks like the most beautiful person in the cosmos. It's the way she glows. Like the sun takes its light from her. Like the stars make themselves dimmer in her shadows.

“Son!” His father sounds tired, weary down to bones he doesn't need to repair. Still there is excitement, pride in his tone. It's a strange feeling for Percy. To feel proud of. He supposes he shouldn't latch onto the lightness too quickly. It is as easily blown to him as it is diverted away.

This story may differ from what is known. The version presented in the public eye has been altered to keep details unwilling to be divulged quiet. But here and now, at the request of our dead god, the true and vicious story must be told. Please refrain from wishing it did not end up this way. If things had been different… Oh indeed if they had been.

“Percy Jackson,” A booming voice fills up the space. What thunder takes, thunder must make. “You have arrived. Well done.”

He doesn't reply, simply drops to a knee, bows his head. These beings don't always deserve the respect they so greedily survive on but he must choose between taking the bow or bowing his life.

“Stand son.” His father is quieter than his brother, but somehow sounds more dangerous.

“We have a proposition for you halfblood,” Zeus is yelling straight into his brain. Percy swears he's vibrating at a frequency that's going to produce lightning.

“Uncle?”

“Today, for your good service and bravery we offer you the chance to become a God.”

He doesn't breathe. No inhale to exhale.

“Tell him the stipulation Father.” Athena is frowning, as she always is, but her displeasure is only directed at the God of the Sky.

“There is a boy… on our Roman side.” Zeus speaks the way lightning strikes. In flashes. Never all at once. He is not Hades sweeping across the field. He is not Poseidon rushing over and then pulling away. He is striking trees and watching which forests catch alight. “There is a boy who will also be offered this honour. You and him—”

And he wants to yell ‘spit it out what, what, what could you possibly want me to do with him?’ He is as still as a sticky summer evening.

“You will have to rely on him and him on you in order for you both to have godhood.”

His daughter has had enough, frown flashing from her eyebrows to the downward tilt of her lips. “We do not have enough domains nor power to offer you both godhood but if we combine your power you will both gain.”

“And if only one of us were to receive it?”

She tilts her head, looks at him. His strategies are not laid out in blue prints but sparking and crashing as the moment takes hold. She hates him for being unorganized. He hates her for thinking organization will save them.

“If you both want it but are determined only one of you will have it, then you must fight for it. Otherwise you both sacrifice something and join forces.”

“Who is the boy? The Roman?”

“Jason Grace.” Aphrodite says, still perched on her windowsill. Hummingbirds floating around her shoulders. “Child of Jupiter and Beryl Grace.”

“And why does he deserve this honour?”

“He fought for the Romans in your war. For every blade you swiped he did too. You toppled Kronos so he toppled Krios.”

“And if neither of us want this godhood?”

The room goes silent. They hadn't considered it. That he wouldn't want this power. That maybe his only goal in his life is not to obtain something that is destroying the very essence of his world.

“Where is Jason?”

There's shuffling, someone knocks into something, and then a boy the same age as him is stumbling towards the middle of the room, towards where he stands.

In the story known, the boy of lightning and the boy of sea do not meet till much later on. Till they've both been stripped of being and reassembled into weapons. But this is not the way it goes. No, in the true version they meet in the throne room of the gods. They meet and everything goes quiet. Is this the beginning of an explosion or the start of a galaxy? How does a star become a blackhole? It collapses into itself.

Percy Jackson lays his eyes upon Jason Grace and his body becomes a blackhole.

They don't say anything. Don't move one step closer, two steps further. They're close enough to wound. Far enough to catch each other. This is how it will always be. A dance of violence. I love you, let me die for it. I love you let, me die with you. But they don't know it. Not yet.

“So,” The booming voice again. Where Percy flinches, Jason stiffens. “Will you take this offer half-bloods?”

“What will our domain be?”

Apollo looks amused as he strums a cord on his harp and raises a brow at them. “What would you like it to be Jason Grace?”

They look at each other, these demigods who watched their friends fall. These demigods who fought in a war the day after their mothers tucked them into bed.

“Protectors of half-bloods.” Percy says. His voice is steady. He was born for this.

“Keepers of the Hearth.” Jason follows.

Hestia makes herself known, a kind smile on her face.

“We want to be Patrons of the demigod camps.”

“That is all?” Poseidon looks at them. Old and wise, and young and curious. “Why?”

“We watched our friends lay down their lives for a fight not meant for them.” Percy is frozen lakes cracking under pointed pressure designed to be spread. “If we can protect them, if we can make them feel at home maybe they won't feel the need to find it elsewhere. Maybe they won't feel the need to burn the whole world down just to build one for themselves.”

His message rings clear in every syllable. But he doesn't dare make it more obvious than that. If you hadn't abandoned them maybe they wouldn't have abandoned you.

“And you will share this duty?” Athena, ever the keeper of balance.

“Yes.” They agree in unison. Beginning even before it has begun.

“Then so it shall be.” Zeus nods. “Perseus Jackson, Son of Poseidon, Jason Grace, Son of Jupiter. I Zeus, King of Gods and God of the Sky bestow upon you the honour of godhood with the domains of Demigod Protection and Keepers of the Hearth. Where one rules the other must. Where one falls the other must. Where you share it will be equal. Where you split it must be balanced. Where you join it must be together.” There's a single flash of lightning.

Percy looks at Jason. Jason looks at Percy. The world goes dark.

These new gods have their own story, told between scribbled meetings in complete darkness, behind time they've stolen for themselves. But no-one is privy to these notes. The notes being told here and the ones the Ancient Gods laid out to the world are the only ones available in this cosmos. Still what can be told is that they are successful gods.

Gods that cannot prevent a second war but can change the course of it. Gods that can stop unnecessary death before it has happened. They are not putting Thanatos out of business they are simply taking some off his plate. They have friends in high places. Their friends have them in higher places.

It has never been possible to save everyone but now people fight for the home they grew. Instead of fighting to grow their own. They make the scared twelve year old feel loved in this strange new world.

They hold hands with the twenty year old that still wakes up screaming because she can feel the hands of ghosts who loved her once.

These gods are loved by those they want to protect and feared by those they need to be protected from.

They hold their own hands and mourn lives they can never go back to. Nobody told them that taking this godhood means losing their humanness. As if you cannot be two beings at once. Maybe that's why half-bloods were always so fatal. You can't exist as both so you will be destroyed for either.

This story ends at the very beginning. The dead god still lives. It is not a death of body but of life.

Percy Jackson watches as demigods pray to him. As they bow before temples decorated the same colour as Jason's eyes, as his own hair. Brown stones like his skin, golden light like Jason's. He watches as Athena’s temple goes dusty, worn away, unused. He watches as Demeter goes pale with hunger. The campfires spark blue and gold, prayers muttered ‘thank you to Gods of Protection, Keepers of the Hearth,’ and nobody says thank you to the strategist of war. He watches as Zeus cannot produce lightning as powerful as Jason. He watches as his own father asks him to make a tsunami because he cannot.

This story, oh how it ends so violently.

He watches as the gods have a meeting without him and his partner. There is so much anger in their eyes.

Aphrodite is wild with the love they have formed, frothing at the mouth for a slice of their companionship. She wants to sink her teeth into them and see if they taste like the adoration they are flooded with.

They are called to the throne room. Summoned on wind weak enough to let them fall. He laughs and it echoes in Jason.

Oh how this story is sickening to belong with.

“We have spoken.” The once booming voice now rolls with the effort to spread across the room. A storm with too much reach and not enough power.

“Who are you protecting the demigods from?” Athena glares.

Jason smiles and it's the most beautiful sort of malevolence Percy has ever seen.

“Who do you think, Goddess?”

Apollo strums a cord on his Lyre and it no longer sounds smooth, amusing. It sounds like the chime of a bell tower before the guillotine comes down.

“Who, Jason Grace?” She is wrapping her fingers around her throne.

They still stand in the middle of the room, just like they did all those years ago. No space made available for a seat of their own.

“The Gods, Athena.” Percy grins. He feels beautiful lightning scream through his veins. Starting at the hand curled around his partners. He refrains from throwing his head back and eating it whole. Gods, this being next to him is perfect.

“From us Perseus?” His father is adamant to think he heard wrong. It could never be.

He simply smiles, matches the one Jason sports.

“We cannot let this go on.” Ares growls, stands and creaks.

This story has no happy ending. At least not in any fairytale way. You were warned at the beginning weren't you?

“Thank you for staying by my side.” Percy turns to his friend, his companion, his partner through this all.

“Thank you for loving me.”

“In trust and heart.”

“In safety and hope.”

There is a single flash of lightning.

Percy kisses Jason. Jason kisses Percy. The world goes dark.

This story is a lament and a warning. If you should ever continue the work of the Gods of Demigod Protection, Keepers of the Hearth, they will guide you. Should you attempt to destroy, demolish, or alter the roots they have tangled into this earth?

Well truly, the narrators wish you a painless death.

“Zeus,” Poseidon’s voice quivers. “I'm fading.”

“Dad?” Athena cries.

“And so the lovers reign.” Aphrodite laughs into the darkness.

The middle of the throne room runs a single crack, already mending itself.

#jercy #jason grace #percy jackson #pjjg fanfic #pjjg fic fanfare

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

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you+me+the Devil, m | myg, jjk | summon

pairing(s): yoongi x reader x jungkook

summary: The Devil and his right-hand demon are forcibly yanked from Hell to encounter a power they've never seen before, a power that everyone thought was only a rumor. In chains and unable to break free, they are asked to give up part of their souls. And they do. For science. But, mostly, to fuck.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language - if you're religious, maybe skip this one; world building; short graphic descriptions of sexual acts; supernatural and horror (and it gets way creepier during the smut, you have been warned); non-idol!AU - Hell!AU; Devil!Yoongi x chaos!reader x Devil's right-hand demon!Jungkook and switches between their POVs; they don't have your best interests at heart and neither do you.

you and me and the Devil makes 3 prologue | the summoning | the collection | 666

there’s not a word for what i wanna do to you

One second, the Devil, also known as Min Yoongi, was frowning as he gazed up at his right-hand demon Jeon Jungkook, pondering the whereabouts of the missing soul-shards. The next second, the volcanic ground below him exploded, multiple giant red-black rings adorned with symbols and images creating a circle, expanding a larger and larger surface area, crackles of red lighting and tendrils of black smoke shooting everywhere. It consumed everything, bleeding into every nook and cranny of the throne room, saturating the air with summoning intent. It was happening far too quickly for the Devil to stop, the ground splitting and black chains shooting out, surrounded by a deadly ice-silver signature of the kind of magic you don’t bring home to your mother.

“Fuck–!”

That was Jungkook.

“Ah.”

That was the Devil.

The black chains snapped around their bodies and bound them in an instant. Jungkook snarled and fought with all of his power, black wings flaring out that were instantly crushed and shredded by the enchantment, his curved black horns protruding from his head and being forced back by the power. In contrast, the Devil merely sat there. Yoongi knew he couldn’t stop it, not this kind of magic, if it could even be called that, so he didn’t try. He let the chains wrap around him and shackle him. Instead, he furrowed his brow and tried to trace the source, tried to find the purpose. In order to defeat an enemy, you must be informed. Yoongi lived by this philosophy, which was why he was the Devil.

He could not trace it.

That was very disheartening.

But he didn’t need to worry earlier, because the red-black summoning circle was closing in, and he would find out very, very soon who it was. He had nothing to worry about.

Yoongi was the Devil, after all.

You inspected your nails.

Matte black, pointed. You had just done them. You liked to look nice for your guests.

“Hm, the Devil works hard, but I work harder,” you chuckled.

This was not what the Devil expected.

Yoongi expected a dark cave, a crowd of hooded figures, lots of candles. Maybe a Bible or a Koran. Devil worshippers, Satanists, cultists, or whatever they liked to call themselves. He fully expected to fight, to kill, to maim, and to fucking enjoy it, because he was the Devil and he served no one.

That was the whole fucking point of leaving Heaven in the first place.

He did not expect this.

You.

“Oh? A new development.”

Yoongi had seen many things in his time. He thought he could no longer be surprised.

He was wrong.

You stood over the two figures chained to the ground, peering curiously at them. A plain black dress with a flared skirt and a lace high collar. Long-sleeved with small ruffled cuffs at the end. No socks or shoes, just long, beautifully sinful legs and pretty feet. Pointed, matte black fingernails at the ends of lovely hands. A single nail was on one of your full dark lips, small amused smile dancing on that pouty mouth.

Your nail pressed into your flesh.

Yoongi wanted to shove his dick into that mocking smirk.

Sharp, distinctive eyes. Unforgettable. Yoongi would not forget the eyes of the fool who summoned him anyway, but your eyes… They were different. They held no malice. No innocence either. No, your eyes were the greatest mystery of all.

They were an enigma, revealing nothing to the one who could tell everything.

Yoongi did not like this. He did not like how him, an all-powerful being, one who could poison the minds of all other beings, was being confronted with a human who seemed very not human.

You were holding something on the crook of your arm. He narrowed his eyes. A black plush goat-man with horns and an upside-down red pentagram stitched on his head. It had little leather hooves for feet and hands. Black leathery wings as well. Another common misconception of the Devil. As if he wanted to be an ugly goat for all eternity. Hmph. But there was something about the way you held it that made Yoongi think it wasn’t an homage to him.

No, you held it close to your breast, next to your heart, squeezing the plush goat-man’s little arm lovingly.

It made him ache with longing.

They were in a bedroom, on the floor next to the bed. Black sheets, fluffy blankets with white stars all over them. Black walls with posters all over them, cute animated characters, haunting imagery, various musical artists, sinful and innocent, a vast plethora that told him nothing of true intent. Modern, sleek furniture. A high-end desktop with multiple monitors. A nice flat-screen television. Many soft plushies of adorable and strange characters, stacked on shelves and in corners, both popular and niche.

Who was this person?

With every passing second, Yoongi was liking this situation less and less.

Jungkook was beside him, disheveled and disoriented, chained down with black. The demon sat up, growling in his chest, trying to exert his power.

“Who do you think–”

“Ah, little Satan, they shouldn’t talk until I allow them, isn’t that right?”

The Devil was not a fool. You were not talking to him. You were talking to the little goat-man in your arms. Yoongi heard a choking sound and he turned his head to see a very large black ball gag ramming itself in between Jungkook’s teeth, snapping closed with a black chain strap behind his pretty head. Jungkook looked livid, trying to bite through it, but Yoongi doubted he could break it.

You smiled at him.

Yes, indeed, Yoongi was liking this situation less and less.

In some ways.

Seeing Jungkook in a ball gag was a pleasant image.

“I didn’t expect it to turn out this way. I was aiming for him first,” you said to Yoongi, lowering the little goat-man and holding him by a hoof. Yoongi wasn’t sure if he wanted to rip apart the plush or be it. He decided that wasn’t important right now.

“Ah, well, this might be better,” you mused nonchalantly. Jungkook was still fighting his restraints, but neither you nor Yoongi acknowledged it. You crouched down, a delicate flash of inner thigh and black velvet panty in his view. Yoongi narrowed his eyes. You cocked a brow, smirk widening. “Two birds with one stone, no?”

You set the little goat-man in front of him.

Sat down, spreading your legs to squeeze the little goat-man with your inner thighs.

There was no question now.

Yoongi wanted to both be the plush goat-man and rip him to shreds.

“I’ll let you speak to me, Devil. You seem polite.” Conversational, calm. Not condescending, which somehow made it worse. At least if you spoke to him with hostility, he would know how to turn it against you.

“You have magic that doesn’t belong to you, human,” he said softly, a raspy renounce in his voice. He festered it with sweetness and warning at the same time, accenting it with a discerning stare.

You grinned.

Even he, the Devil, was unsettled.

“Nothing belongs to anybody. You only borrow it for a short while and then the powers far beyond even you take it back.”

Yoongi felt his heart drop and race at the same time. As he suspected. This was not the work of his father or some a wayward demon. Magic, power, illusionism, these were all words to describe things that could not be described. Entropy holds no bounds and there is no meaning behind it. It exists only to cause anarchy. For some reason, perhaps simply chaos alone, you, a human, was in possession of something even he could not control or understand.

Shit.

He stared into your eyes and they reflected his expression back to him. He tried to search for it, the desires within the heart, the small tendrils of pain that asked to be soothed, the soul begging to be freed. An ordinary demon could be fended off by a strong-willed human for a while, but Min Yoongi was no ordinary demon.

He was the Devil, even if he was bound by your chains.

You tilted your head at him, hair curling around your cheeks and lashes.

Yoongi could take even the weakest flame of desire and stroke it into a blazing fire. Even the holiest of saints could not fight him. Everyone wanted something, even if it was, disgustingly, in the name of his father. And humans, well, they were the masters of wanting things they couldn't have. Easily manipulated, even by each other. The Devil hardly needed to do anything at all. It was only a matter of whether or not Yoongi cared to do it and, most of the time, he didn't give a single shit.

You tilted your head the other way, smiling.

Yoongi did not find a maze or a barrier preventing him from the soul. He found the soul within seconds. It was there, all right.

The Devil just didn't know what the fuck he was looking at.

Why was your soul just you sitting there in the abyss, looking up at him with the same smile you were giving him right now?

And why did he feel nothing emitting from it?

He pulled back, looking into your eyes again. He did not like this.

You leaned forward and touched his horns.

His eyes widened as your fingertips brushed against the large curved black-red horns against the sides of his head. He hasn't even realized they had protruded. How? His horns were a sign of his power, a symbol he used for fear, for appearance, and for the moments of when he was exercising a great deal of his influence. Your fingertips brushed against the second set, the ones that bloomed upwards into wicked black-red spikes. Both sets? His soul-search had him reflexively procure both?

Shit.

He started into your eyes, seeing himself reflected back. Min Yoongi was the Devil. Emotion was no stranger to him. He harnessed it all, consumed himself in the passions and wonders of emotion. There were ones he felt less, simply because of who he was. For instance, there was not much that made him afraid.

You smiled.

Fear. He could feel it rise within him.

Yoongi grinned back.

Was this what he thought it was? He had heard of such things, rumors and whispers, even amongst the angels themselves. The hidden truth that Heaven and Hell belonged in a specific dimension or realm, Order. That there was another realm, the mirror, the reflection trapped, the unknown.

Disorder.

His kind, the high-above, and those between angels and insects, the humans, none of these belonged in the realm of Disorder. There were rumors that Order was merely a concoction of Disorder and that their realm could collapse any moment, erasing all of existence without a trace. Entropy was waiting for them all.

Yoongi understood now.

This was chaos.

The Devil was a master of desire. And a master of deliberately doing exactly what he shouldn't. He should not be tempted by a glimpse of chaos. His father would warn him to stay away from it.

His father could fuck right off.

Yoongi leaned forward, still bound, his horns disappearing. The chains clanged around him, his power rattling underneath. He wasn't doing it to fight them. He wanted to feel it. To understand what could not be understood, to touch the untouchable, because it was there, there right in front of him and he wanted it, he wanted it, and the Devil feeds off desire, even his own.

He wanted those lips.

You backed up.

The denial only made his desire stronger.

You left the plush goat-man sitting there right in front of him.

Jungkook was pissed.

Absolutely furious, jaw and head aching from this ridiculously large ball gag, fuming that he had no idea what was going on and that a single human was doing this bullshit. There was no way you were working alone. There had to be other beings behind this. He couldn't figure it out right now, but he would and he would tear them apart, right after he fucked your pathetic human body and tore you apart.

You must be a fool, thinking you could shackle him, Jeon Jungkook, the right hand of the Devil himself, the epitome of pure sin and free will.

He continued fighting the magic, trying to exert his strength, rattling the black chains, ice-silver lashes beating him back down. He tried to release his wings, but they were ensnared, pain shooting up his back. Jungkook cared not for pain. He had felt pain for millions of years. A few seconds was nothing. He tried to release his horns, but he could not, as if the very air neutralized him.

He was enraged.

Maybe would simply kill you so he could spend an eternity torturing you for your insolence.

Then the Devil's horns appeared.

How did he–?

Then you touched the Devil.

Jungkook wanted to scream.

He did, deep in his chest, muffled rage, jealousy, hate, all at once, and both of you ignored him, your fingers grazing Yoongi's horns, fucking smiling, looking unflinchingly into the Devil's eyes, and Jungkook wanted to erase you from existence, destroy every single shred of your soul for not groveling at the feet of Min Yoongi.

The horns disappeared and your hands hovered around Yoongi's head, fingers splayed out around the black hair like a shining halo.

Ironic.

The Devil leaned forward.

Don't you fucking kiss her, hyung!

But you moved away, backing up, gaze lingering on Yoongi before closing your eyes and reopening them slowly, a gradual shift to Jungkook's face.

He snarled at you through the gag.

He had you now. Eye contact and Jungkook could exert at least part of his power, the soul-search to find your deepest desires, your hidden gems, the calamity within that would call to him. He would find it and manipulate it, bend you to his will, turn you into his puppet. Play with you until you begged to die, only to find yourself in his arms once more, his plaything for all eternity.

All he had to do was find it.

You slid to your hands and knees, crawling to him. He felt it inside his chest, his own desire, watching the curve of your back to ass, his cock twitching at the sight, his mind conjuring images of your pretty body on a leash. Jungkook didn't have preferences when it came to bodies. A body was a body. In his hands, all bodies became prettier. You already had the base and he already had the wrath to want it. You stopped in front of him, the black skirt of your dress flaring out. He could see parts of your bare body.

Legs, knuckles, knees.

A small, amused smile on your lips.

Eyes that Jungkook searched valiantly, looking for malice, for innocence, for desire, for the darkest shadows and the lightest light.

Why couldn't he see anything?

This must be part of your magic. No matter. Jungkook had other ways. He was creative and cunning. You would break under his hand. He wouldn't stop until it was done. He was a demon that saw things through, even to his detriment.

His jaw was suddenly released from its prison, ball gag disappearing, fading into ice-silver smoke. He coughed, snapping his teeth, glaring at you.

"You dumb bitch," he hissed, violent resonance in his voice, oppressive and intense. "Do you think you humans are above us with your tricks and schemes? Kneel before those who invented such things."

You tilted your head.

Yoongi chuckled beside him.

Jungkook's brows furrowed. What–?

Your body trickled down like liquid, laying against the dark wood floor, looking up at him. Jungkook froze, maddening desire rising, infuriated at your face looking up at him, plush dark lips parted, hands on your chest, fingers spread out and molded to your flesh under the plain black dress. Sinking in, making him clench his jaw.

Your smile like a Cheshire Cat, eyes reflecting his rage.

Jungkook wanted to straddle your face and shove his cock into that smirking mouth, bulge your throat and cheeks with his girth.

"Is he always like this?" you asked, still not looking away.

"He pretends to be nice when he wants something out of you," the Devil answered calmly.

"Isn't that you?"

You still didn't look away from Jungkook. Why couldn't he find what he needed from your eyes?

"I'm always nice."

"That means you always want something out of someone."

Yoongi laughed, raspy and deep, the sound echoing in the bedroom, filling it up with his sound. Why couldn't Jungkook find it? His rage began to become infested with something else. Your eyes reflected only him.

Like a mirror.

No matter. The demons had other ways.

"Come here," Jungkook purred.

"I wouldn't do that."

That wasn't you. That was the Devil.

Your body lifted as if it was on a string from the center of your chest, fingers and black fingernails trailing against the dark hardwood, head tipped back, the line of your neck hidden by the high collar of lace, shielded from his hungry gaze. Legs curling up, skirt pooling around your thighs, his rage molding with carnal need, festering with something else.

Fear.

You rose to your knees, in prayer position in front of him, almost as if you were about to reach out and touch faith. Jungkook furrowed his brow, watching your presence near, wanting it, ready to coax or rip your desires from your lips themselves. It didn't matter if he was bound, it didn't matter if his black suit was torn up and ugly, it didn't matter if he was bleeding from his efforts to escape this magic.

You were still a human.

He was a demon and he would taint you.

Closer, your lids lowering, entranced by his spell. Jungkook smirked. Too easy. Humans were so, so easy. He craned his neck, lips parting, the palpable lust of his breath exhaling. So close to those pretty, dark, fuckable lips.

"You're really falling for it, hm?"

Jungkook paused. His eyes shifted to Yoongi. The Devil had turned his body to watch, clad in a tailored black suit. In contrast, Yoongi's was unmaimed, as he hadn't fought his restraints. The Devil had black hair like him, parted slightly, with shadowy dark brown, cat-like eyes that glinted with something sinister. Pale skin, almost luminescent. Exposed neck, elegantly laid black silk tie, unlike Jungkook, who preferred not to wear one. Lips that demanded you to plead for your life.

A body that made Jungkook want to sin for him.

That was the power of the Devil.

His eyes shifted from Yoongi to you, who had stilled in front of him. Hands beneath you and knuckles pressed to the floor like an obedient pet. What was Yoongi talking about? He had you right where he wanted you. And yet, he hesitated.

Then you spoke.

Delicate and calm, with no resonance. Human.

"I thought demons had free will?" you whispered. "That not even the Devil could control a demon."

Or was it?

Jungkook watched your lips form the words.

"If he is powerful enough, that is."

Yoongi didn't bother warning Jungkook anymore.

The Chaos knew what it was doing.

Clever girl.

Jungkook growled, leaning back a little, letting the passion of emotion course through him, wrath, lust, pride. Fear. All of it. Drawing from it, his power pulsing, singing through his muscles.

"Come here, human."

You had to crawl into his lap, his thighs against your thighs, hardness against softness, bringing your lips to his, sudden and sweet with your legs, knuckles, knees. Jungkook smirked, white teeth and canines flashing, urging you to him.

"What a good little girl,” he breathed softly. “I can be anything you desire. All you need to do is tell me."

Your eyes locked with his.

"A kiss, please."

He groaned at the small plea, finally getting it out of you, finally, and he would make you regret doing this, sow every seed of desire within you and reap it all, turn you into his pet on a leash. All he had to do was kiss you.

Jungkook kissed you.

He pressed his lips to yours, ravenous to consume what you had, eager to claim his offering.

You smiled against his lips, a small, amused smile.

It was instant, his hunger to your plushness, the rush euphoric and wild, immediate lust and power dominating him and now he could taste your tongue and fling open the doors, clawing for the soul within, the moment so close he could taste it, taste your moan sliding into his throat, his favorite treat, intoxicating in the way you sucked in his breath to fill your longs.

Jungkook arrived at the last gate, tearing through the door. Looked down into the abyss, triumphant.

You looked back up at him from below.

A small, amused smile.

A nothingness like he had never felt before.

Jungkook's eyes snapped open and widened, staring into the reflective glass of yours, his chest constricted. He had never felt this. Your lips still on his, tongue flicking, taking his breath, and then he felt a strange kind of compression, like everything was being pressurized, tighter, tighter, suffocating, and he gasped in your mouth, recoiling.

The kiss broke, your eyes still on his, lips shiny with his saliva. Your hand was outstretched, hovering in the air, fingers coated with black tendrils mixed with ice-silver, right above his chest.

Your eyes, void of anything but himself.

“What…” Jungkook breathed, hard cock straining against his slacks. “Are you?”

He didn’t understand. You were only a human. Only a human who had done a very stupid thing, summoning the Devil and his right-hand demon to your bedroom. Just a stupid, foolish human. You tilted your head. Lowered your hand and placed both hands on Jungkook’s thighs. He tensed. You pressed your fingers into his slacks, kneading the firm flesh underneath.

Where was your fear? Your malice? Your innocence?

Where was your desire?

He could only feel his own, rising, rearing its beautiful head, teeth bared and ready to strike as your fingers drummed against the fabric of his pants. You had tried to take something from him in midst of the kiss.

Part of his soul.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?” he hissed, forceful and direct.

You stopped moving your fingers. He wanted to scream in dismay.

“Only a small thing.” Your lips curved into a gentle smile. “A token to remember our fateful meeting.”

Now, only now, did Jungkook not like this.

You removed one hand from his leg and Jungkook clenched his jaw, watching it rise, nearing his heaving chest, the black chains spreading apart, links snapping with ice-silver sparks, but he was still bound, still chained, and he did now know why and not knowing infuriated him. You stopped, right above his heart, the heart he forgot was there sometimes.

The true irony of this world was that angels gave up their hearts to serve the one above and demons kept them to serve themselves.

Jungkook felt it again, the compression of his insides, making his breath hitch and his teeth grind, the sensation unbearable. Your expression remained the same, the small, airless smile. Eyes reflecting his terror.

“I could take it just like this.”

Not a threat, only a statement. Only a testament to the power within you, a power that Jungkook was beginning to think wasn’t something he knew or understood. The Devil could take souls. He could reap them, he could tear them, he could wring them dry. But not like this.

“I will give you a choice,” you murmured, hand retreating, releasing him from the uncomfortable pressure. “Because everyone deserves a choice, don’t they?”

The chains were lessening, slowly slipping off Jungkook’s body.

“I’ll let you give it to me willingly.”

Your hand on his pants caressed the fabric.

“If you have the power to take it,” Jungkook snarled. “Why not take it?”

Your other hand found his other thigh, squeezing lightly, sparks of heat flying through his veins. The chains slid off him, clashing into the hardwood floor and turning to ice-silver liquid that faded to nothing.

“I do not want to take.”

You stopped your touches and Jungkook wanted to scream.

“It will feel better for you if you give.”

He raised on eyebrow. “Considerate of you.”

You smiled wider. He stared into your eyes and only saw himself.

“What do you think, Jeon Jungkook, the Devil’s right-hand man?”

He felt the tendons on his neck tense, expression twisting into anger. You shouldn’t know his name. You were a human. You would only know if he told you directly. Someone else was behind this. Someone who wanted to kill him and the Devil, thereby putting Hell itself in imbalance.

“How do you know my name?” he seethed.

“You told me.”

What?

“When you looked into her eyes, you told her your name,” confirmed a deep, cavernous voice.

Jungkook started, whipping his head to the Devil beside him. No longer chained, simply sitting lazily on the ground, one knee raised to rest an elbow on it. Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“Getting soft, Jungkookie?” the Devil taunted.

How…? Was he so absorbed in his own lust and deceiving you that he did not realize? He looked back at you. Your eyes lowered to his slacks and then back up to his eyes.

“Pants can always come off.”

Jungkook raised a hand, running it through his black hair, jaw set. “You are too greedy, human. Do you even know what you’re doing?” he sneered.

Your hands jerked down a few centimeters closer to his crotch, making Jungkook hiss. Your tongue slid out, feathering against the plush dark mauve of your lips. His cock throbbed with need, demanding to abuse the mouth presented. You leaned forward, putting more of your weight on him, welcome weight that Jungkook wanted all over him. He was a demon, after all. He was no stranger to carnal desire.

“I do,” you murmured softly. “You and me and the Devil makes three.”

Jungkook sharpened his gaze. “You couldn’t handle that, human.”

You said nothing.

You simply removed your heat and turned to the Devil, where Yoongi held the little goat-man plush by a single hoof, dangling it next to his lap, making your crawl into it to reach the doll. It was almost an innocent gesture, the way you took it and tucked it into your lap before looking up at Yoongi’s face, lips parted slightly, nearly curious, childlike awe decorating your features.

Jungkook growled like a hurt animal.

Your eyes shifted to him, looking at him under lowered lashes. Dismissive, vacant gaze.

“Yes or no, Jeon Jungkook?”

“Yes.”

The thin black string between you and him darkened, searing with ice-silver, a contract made. He didn’t even know the terms. He didn’t care. No human could outsmart him. And you, you must have been human once.

The problem was, Jungkook didn’t know if you were human anymore.

Yoongi watched your eyes return to him. The little black goat-man plush was tucked between your legs, pressed against your core. Slowly but surely, he was understanding. The original vessel was human, now tainted by someone, something, or simply bad luck. It made you something else entirely. You were a creature from the realm of Order polluted by the realm of Disorder. How long could this last? Would you die eventually from it? When you died, what would be left? Was the soul still there? Would he be able to collect it? Contain it? Study it?

Yoongi didn’t know the answers to these questions.

He wanted to know.

“Your turn,” you whispered to his chin, warm breath against his skin. “What is your answer, my Devil?”

Yoongi chuckled. “A shard of soul is all you ask for?” he purred. “What for?”

You tilted your head. “I want to complete my collection.”

The Devil doubted that. He doubted you wanted anything. Something was driving the entropy in a direction, a purpose given to the original human you long ago, and now you did it because it was the only thing left in the shell, a memory of a purpose, the human determination so strong that it could not be killed or erased, even though this body was now only a container for the power within.

The Devil had spent a lot of his time lately doing nothing. Nothing fun, nothing exciting, nothing worthy of his attention. Yoongi already knew everything there was to know about humans. He cared not for those above. But this.

This was new.

This was different.

This was something he wasn’t supposed to know.

He raised his hand, fingers tracing your jaw, staring into the eyes of Chaos. The Entropy. The Vessel.

You.

“I’ll be part of your collection, little one,” Yoongi purred.

And you will be mine, he vowed as the black string between you and the Devil glowed, ice-silver magic contaminating it with the power of Disorder.

part ii the collection. if you get in bed, someone will fall in love

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #jungkook x reader #yoonkook x reader #yoonkook smut #bts smut #yoongi x you #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 3 years

Text

Help from On High

a prayer by Charles Spurgeon

O Thou who art King of kings and Lord of lords, we worship Thee. Before Jehovah’s awful throne, we bow with sacred joy.

We can truly say that we delight in God. There was a time when we feared Thee, O God, with the fear of bondage. Now we reverence, but we love as much as we reverence. The thought of Thine omnipresence was once horrible to us. We said, “Whither shall we flee from His presence?” and it seemed to make hell itself more dreadful, because we heard a voice, “If I make my bed in hell, behold, Thou art there.” But now, O Lord, we desire to find Thee. Our longing is to feel Thy presence and it is the heaven of heavens that Thou art there. The sick bed is soft when Thou art there. The furnace of affliction grows cool when Thou art there and the house of prayer, when Thou art present, is none other than the house of God and it is the very gate of heaven.

Come near, our Father, come very near to Thy children. Some of us are very weak in body and faint in heart. Soon, O God, lay Thy right hand upon us and say unto us, “Fear not.” Peradventure, some of us are alike and the world is attracting us. Come near to kill the influence of the world with Thy superior power.

Even to worship may not seem easy to some. The dragon seems to pursue them and floods out of his mouth wash away their devotion. Give to them great wings as of an eagle, that each one may fly away into the place prepared for him, and rest in the presence of God today.

Our Father, come and rest Thy children now. Take the helmet from our brow, remove from us the weight of our heavy armour for awhile, and may we just have peace, perfect peace, and be at rest. Oh! help us, we pray Thee, now. As Thou hast already washed Thy people in the fountain filled with blood and they are clean, now this morning wash us from defilement in the water. With the basin and with the ewer, O Master, wash our feet again. It will greatly refresh. It will prepare us for innermost fellowship with Thyself. So did the priests wash ere they went into the holy place.

Lord Jesus, take from us now everything that would hinder the closest communion with God. Any wish or desire that might hamper us in prayer remove, we pray Thee. Any memory of either sorrow or care that might hinder the fixing of our affection wholly on our God, take it away now. What have we to do with idols anymore? Thou hast seen and observed us. Thou knowest where the difficulty lies. Help us against it and may we now come boldly, not into the Holy place alone, but into the Holiest of all, where we should not dare to come if our great Lord had not rent the veil, sprinkled the mercy seat with His own blood, and bidden us enter.

Now, we have come close up to Thyself, to the light that shineth between the wings of the cherubim, and we speak with Thee now as a man speaketh with his friends. Our God, we are Thine. Thou art ours. We are now concerned in one business—we are leagued together for one battle. Thy battle is our battle and our fight is Thine. Help us, we pray Thee. Thou who didst strengthen Michael and his angels to cast out the dragon and his angels, help poor flesh and blood that to us also the word may be fulfilled, “The Lord shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly.”

Our Father, we are very weak. Worst of all we are very wicked if left to ourselves and we soon fall a prey to the enemy. Therefore, help us. We confess that sometimes in prayer when we are nearest to Thee at that very time some evil thought comes in, some wicked desire. Oh! what poor simpletons we are. Lord, help us. We feel as if we would now come closer to Thee still and hide under the shadow of Thy wings. We wish to be lost in God. We pray that Thou mayest live in us, and not we live, but Christ live in us and show Himself in us and through us.

Lord, sanctify us. Oh! that Thy spirit might come and saturate every faculty, subdue every passion, and use every power of our nature for obedience to God.

Come, Holy Spirit, we do know Thee. Thou hast often overshadowed us. Come, more fully take possession of us. Standing now as we feel we are, right up at the Mercy Seat, our very highest prayer is for perfect holiness, complete consecration, entire cleansing from every evil. Take our heart, our head, our hands, our feet, and use us all for Thee. Lord, take our substance, let us not hoard it for ourselves, nor spend it for ourselves. Take our talent, let us not try to educate ourselves that we may have the repute of being wise, but let every gain of mental attainment be still that we may serve Thee better.

May every breath be for Thee, may every minute be spent for Thee. Help us to live while we live, and while we are busy in the world as we must be, for we are called to it, may we sanctify the world for Thy service. May we be lumps of salt in the midst of society. May our spirit and temper as well as our conversation be heavenly. May there be an influence about us that shall make the world the better before we leave it. Lord, hear us in this thing.

And now that we have Thine ear, we would pray for this poor world in which we live. We are often horrified by it. O, Lord, we could wish that we did not know anything about it for our own comfort. We have said, “Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness.” We hear of oppression and robbery and murder, and men seem let loose against each other. Lord, have mercy upon this great and wicked city. What is to be done with these millions? What can we do? At least help every child of Thine to do his utmost. May none of us contribute to the evil directly or indirectly, but may we contribute to the good that is in it.

We feel we may speak with Thee now about this, for when Thy servant Abraham stood before Thee and spake with such wonderful familiarity to Thee, he pleaded for Sodom, and we plead for London. We would follow the example of the Father of the Faithful and pray for all great cities, and indeed for all the nations. Lord, let Thy kingdom come. Send forth Thy light and Thy truth. Chase the old dragon from his throne, with all his hellish crew. Oh! that the day might come when even upon earth the Son of the woman, the Man-child, should rule the nations, not with a broken staff of wood, but with an enduring sceptre of iron, full of mercy, but full of power, full of grace, but yet irresistible. Oh! that that might soon come, the personal advent of our Lord! We long for the millennial triumph of His Word.

Until then, O Lord, gird us for the fight and make us to be among those who overcome, through the blood of the Lamb and through the word of our testimony, because we “love not our lives unto the death.”

We lift our voice to Thee in prayer, also, for all our dear ones. Lord, bless the sick and make them well as soon as it is right they should be. Sanctify to them all they have to bear. There are also dear friends who are very weak, some that are very trembling. God bless them. While the tent is being taken down, may the inhabitant within look on with calm joy, for we shall by-and-by “be clothed upon with our house that is from heaven.” Lord, help us to sit very loose by all these things here below. May we live here like strangers and make the world not a house but an inn, in which we sup and lodge, expecting to be on our journey tomorrow.

Lord, save the unconverted and bring out, we pray Thee, from among them those who are converted, but who have not confessed Christ. May the Church be built up by many who, having believed, are baptized unto the sacred name. We pray Thee go on and multiply the faithful in the land. Oh! that Thou wouldst turn the hearts of men to the Gospel once more. Thy servant is often very heavy in heart because of the departures from the faith. Oh! bring them back. Let not Satan take away any more of the stars with his tail, but may the lumps of God shine bright. Oh! Thou that walkest amongst the seven golden candlesticks trim the flame, pour forth the oil, and let the light shine brightly and steadily. Now, Lord, we cannot pray any longer, though we have a thousand things to ask for. Thy servant cannot, so he begs to leave a broken prayer at the Mercy Seat with this at the foot of it, we ask in the name of Jesus Christ Thy Son. Amen.

#Help from On High #Charles H. Spurgeon #prayer

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azazelsconfessional · 3 years

Note

Same archangel anon;;

I'm glad you still remember Lucifer when he was the archangel, Samael. People like to block that out of history, like he didn't exist. And that God himself casted him away out of fear, he was the holiest and brightest of all the angels after all. His perfect creation.

...

Ya know Azazel, its funny. God himself is one of the seven deadly sins. He's PRIDE. And sometimes WRATH. Its.. A little hypocritical if you ask me. God can be 2 of the seven deadly sins but if a human sins they are doomed to burn in hell, (even though I think Lucifer isn't that bad of a person. He WAS fucked over by god after all.)

"Ah, it seems you were mistaken then. If you're referring to Lucifer, then you're thinking of Shaytan. And before he was Shaytan, the 'accuser', and before he was Lucifer, the 'light bringer', he was Heylel--the 'morning star.' Samael was another Archangel. I understand how confusing it is, as ‘evil’ angels became known as ‘satans’ and thus a great deal of conflagration occurred.

"But of course I remember Shaytan as an Archangel. I don't think anyone from Eden who was born--or, created, 'spawned' in--then has forgotten. Even Gabriel surely remembers, though she's of a nature that she doesn't want to think of troubling things.

"It's true that Shaytan was the best of us. Perhaps it was that perfection in his creation that made him rebel. He, too, must have seen the injustice in our System. . . ."

He knew to an extent why Shaytan rebelled, of course. They'd talked about it before it happened. A lot of things happened when the Almighty began to plan the creation of humans. . .not that Shaytan didn't have issues with the System before then. That’s why he was so happy to rule in Gehenna--where ultimately majority ruled instead of a single higher power declared righteous.

"That is, perhaps, expected of the Role of the Lightbringer--he'd shone light on that which made the System of Eden unreliable, unsustainable, and worth changing. But to change Eden's System would take away God's power and influence. I understand that one at the top of the System would not want that. . .but that only emphasizes the selfishness of El's instruction, does it not? A System is meant to support those in it."

Shaytan. . .would have made a better System.

Michael must realize that now. Especially seeing MC's constitution, housing exiles and the lost, forming bonds with everyone and doing the best they can to avoid sacrifices for the betterment of everyone, and drawing in Faith no matter the world of origin. . .MC would make a wonderful System, hence the plans of the Rule Makers.

Though this begs the question. . .is Michael working by the will of El, the God of Eden? Or has he begun to see for himself the faults in the System of Eden?

Or had he always seen them, and was too frightened, or indifferent, to act against El?

He realizes he was, perhaps, quiet longer than intended as he struggled to understand the other Angel.

"You're correct--Shaytan is not a bad person. Was not." He confirms with a nod. "He ruled Gehenna fairly as the System would allow. He was, indeed, selfish and proud, but that's not a bad thing. Who will live your life if not you? Who will think of you, for you, if you do not? Is it truly 'evil' to think for oneself and put oneself first if those around you do not suffer without reason as a result? His only crime was seeing himself as above the rest--just as he'd been raised to do. That and I suppose he killed a lot of angels in the rebellion, but I mean before that. He was selfish, but he was also selfless enough to fight against the System for those within it.

"As for El. . . . El is creator of all things in Eden. So even God is not free from sin, as its maker and the supposed orchestrator of all things in Eden.

"But sin, as 'my' creation, is not a bad thing. It's merely impulse and knowledge drawing one to what they may find love in. It is no more evil than a Rule is dangerous without a Role. Most are little more than emotions and attractions.

"But El acts hypocritically. What is justice at the will of God is crime at the will of others. The only hope for them in the eyes of Eden is to repent and plead forgiveness. . .from a being who would not hesitate to do much worse than they.

"These chains thus far hold back the sins of mankind. But they would not hold back the sins of God.

"Perhaps, as is often said, that is simply 'God's plan.'"

#anon #answers #((me trying to figure out the chronology of shaytan like))#((lucifuge said he hasn't seen him since he fell from eden))#((which doesn't make sense unless he was from eden and lived/worked in gehenna and then went back to eden))#((which is plausible since the gate between the two is supposed to be open?))#((also zabaniyya who also is from gehenna said that shaytan fell to earth not to gehenna))#((which makes more sense if lucifuge hasn't seen him since he went to start a war in eden))#((so lucifuge may have thought 'well if you fall from eden you go to gehenna' but couldn't find him))#((whereas zabaniyya as the one who punishes people in gehenna knows he must have gone to earth instead since he didn't return to gehenna))#((it wouldn't make much sense to send him back to gehenna anyway if he came from there))#((anyway basically it's eden(as heylel)->gehenna(as shaytan witht he title Lightbringer/Lucifer)->eden->exile void))#((but if you're looking up towards eden from gehenna it'd look like he'd been coming towards gehenna. but he didn't make it))

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hghdtht · 3 years

Text

she be worthy of that holiest name

In no time at all the knight was snoring, leaving his prize alone with his chains. With both windows open wide, the light of the waning moon spilled across the bedchamber. An old man. He only seemed young compared with Aemon. The rest of their lugosis carhartt men had remained in camp to guard their landing site and зимни обувки adidas 2016 prince, under the command of the company’s Volantene paymaster, Gorys Edoryen. Their numbers would continue to swell, one hoped; more ships were straggling in every day. And we had other help, unexpected but most welcome, from a novolux 60 led daughter of Bear Island. twin set cardigan outletAlysane Mormont, whose men name her

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the She-Bear, hid fighters inside a gaggle of fishing sloops and took the ironmen unawares where they lay off the strand. And so he’s upset for the whole day. And besides, my dear, you only tantalize me with letters. This law is positive in regard to the Hebrew servant, and the principle of the law would apply to all others. Lev. The three Braavosi ships would bring the fleet at Eastwatch up to eleven, including the Ibbenese whaler that Cotter Pyke had commandeered on Jon’s order, a trading galley out of Pentos similarly impressed, and three battered Lysene warships, remnants of Salladhor Saan’s former fleet driven back north by the autumn storms. All three of Saan’s ships had been in dire need of refitting, but by now the work should be complete.. The planter whose slaves had grown up around him, and whom he had learned to look upon almost as men and women, saw on every sable forehead now nothing but its market value. This man was a thousand dollars, and this eight hundred. The black baby in its mother’s arms was a hundred-dollar bill, and nothing more. All those nobler traits of mind and heart which should have made the slave a brother became only so many stamps on his merchandise. Is the slave intelligent?—Good! that raises his price two hundred dollars. Is he conscientious and faithful?—Good! stamp it down in his certificate; it’s worth two hundred dollars more. Is he religious? Does that Holy Spirit chanel ágyneműof God, whose name we mention with reverence and fear, make that

donna di porto pim una storia riassunto

despised form His temple?—Let that also be put down in the estimate of his market value, and the gift of the Holy Ghost shall be sold for money. Is he a minister of God?—Nevertheless, he has his price in the market. From the church and from the communion-table the Christian brother and sister are taken to make up the slave-coffle. And woman, with her tenderness, her gentleness, her beauty,—woman, to whom mixed blood of the black and the white have given graces perilous for a slave,—what is her accursed lot, in this dreadful commerce?—The next few chapters will disclose facts on this subject which ought to wring the heart of every Christian mother, if, indeed, she be worthy of that holiest name. “I believe I have changed my mind,” he told her. “Wait for me abed. “Arnolf is rushing to Winterfell, ’tis true, but only so he might put his dagger in your king’s back. He cast his lot with Roose Bolton long ago … for gold, the promise of a pardon, and poor Harry’s head. The heat, the flies, the shouts from the crowd … I cannot breathe. She lifted her veil and let it flutter away. The gibe stung. Quentyn had never felt so much a boy as when he’d stood before Daenerys Targaryen, pleading for her hand. These three were all that remained of a dozen who had set out together from the Red City: a bricklayer, a weaver, and a cobbler. “What befell the rest of your party?” the queen asked.. Had spent a couple of hours with Hon. Henry Clay, at his residence, near Lexington. “Nellie,” I said, “you’re ill and upset, and I must leave you alone, in tears and distress. My dear! Forgive me, and let me tell you that there’s someone else adidas retro schuhe männerwho has been loved and not forgiven, who is unhappy, insulted and forsaken. Why must you mock my hopes? I have doubts enough without your throwing oil on the fire of my fear. “This will be my grand adventure.”. Those leeches that he loves

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so well sucked all the passions out of him years ago. He does not love, he does not hate, he does not grieve. The only way this will ever stop is if these irresponsible people are fined for doing it. If there was a Warden in problem areas with a camera, catching people in the act then it would be sorted. Fine them 100 for nike ao0053 doing it, they won't do it again. Money for the LDNPA coffers too. Embarrass them, put the photo on the website, name and shame them. It's the same all over the Lakes. Do people not realise the damage the dog poo can do to livestock? I have picked a bag up left by someone before and offered it back to them telling them they have "dropped their property", imagine their embarrassment. If there was a Warden in problem areas with a camera, catching people in the act then it would be sorted. Fine them 100 for doing it, they won't do it again. Money for the LDNPA coffers too. Embarrass them, put the photo on the website, name and shame them. It's the same all over the Lakes. Do people not realise the damage the dog poo can do to livestock? I have picked a bag up left by someone before and offered it back to them telling them they have "dropped their property", imagine their embarrassment. Hung one on someones back wiper once too! Hopefully, it smeared on the windscreen. 100 is peanuts to many of the wealthy executive types who visit the Lake district. 100 is peanuts to many of the wealthy executive types who visit the Lake district. Signs need to be put up warning dog owners that their pets can be shot for not being on a lead near livestock and as the holiday season approaches some serious robust policing needs to take place to sort out some of these filthy inconsiderate dog owners.

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cassianus · 4 years

Text

Jesus Christ: Priest and Victim

by Msgr. Arthur B. Calkins

I. The Mystery of Mediation

An attentive study of God's revelation to us in both the old dispensation and the new discloses that God chooses to deal with his people through certain men whom he designates to represent him to them and to represent them before him. We might describe this as the "mystery of mediation". After the sin of our first parents, which was subsequently to be multiplied billions of times over by the personal sins of all their descendants, the Old Testament shows us numerous instances in which a representative is designated by God himself to intercede on behalf of his people in order that God's wrath, stirred up on account of their sins, might be turned away from them and that his people may receive instead his blessings. Among the many instances, "the prayer of Moses becomes the most striking example of intercessory prayer, which will be fulfilled in 'the one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus'."1 The Catechism of the Catholic Church adroitly sketches the role of Moses as mediator:

From this intimacy with the faithful God, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, Moses drew strength and determination for his intercession. He does not pray for himself but for the people whom God made his own. Moses already intercedes for them during the battle with the Amalekites and prays to obtain healing for Miriam. But it is chiefly after their apostasy that Moses 'stands in the breach' before God in order to save the people. 2

The priests, prophets and kings of the Old Testament, each according to his particular office, all shared in this role of mediation. In varied circumstances and with an ever clearer manifestation of God's plan these chosen mediators reveal to us both (1) the divine dispensation of mediation which God established in order to show mercy to his people and (2) at the same time the provisional role of this mediation.

A. Priestly Mediation

We have already alluded to the fact that most probably the greatest of all the mediatorial figures of the Old Testament was Moses, the lawgiver, who in a certain sense combines in himself the categories of prophet, priest and king. Functioning in a priestly perspective, he offered sacrifice (cf. Ex. 24) and was empowered by God to "ordain" his brother Aaron high priest (cf. Ex. 29). In the course of time it eventually became established that it was exclusively the priest who offered sacrifice to God on behalf of the people and through whom the bounty of God was dispensed to them.3 Here is how the eminent Dominican theologian, Father Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, sketched the divine institution of priestly mediation:

To accomplish the exterior and social worship due to God, the priestly mediation must both ascend to Him and descend from Him. Man, being composed of soul and body, owes God both interior and exterior worship, and living by nature in society, owes Him, too, social worship, God being no less the author and benefactor of human society than of our soul and body. We need the priest to bind into a single whole the prayers of all the people, to unify their acts of adoration, of praise, and of reparation, and to make up for the imperfection of the acts of the faithful. His sanctity, that is, his special consecration to the Lord for this purpose, makes him capable of offering the prayers of the people to God as an expression of their whole soul.

The priest is no less necessary to bring to the people the things of God, divine light and grace, without human alteration or adulteration.4

B. Sacrifice

While the duties of the priest in the Old Testament included a number of functions related to the sanctuary,5 by far their most important function was to offer sacrifice. Because this was also true for the priests of many pagan religions, it would be possible to approach the question of sacrifice from the perspective of comparative religion and philosophy as well as from that of the Old and New Testaments and of Christian theology.6 We follow here the descriptions developed by Monsignor Antonio Piolanti, abstracting from the biblical, philosophical and theological data.

Sacrifice, which constitutes the supreme act of external and public worship, may be defined as the offering and immolation to God of something sensible (fruits, liquids, animals) in order to recognize his absolute lordship and in order to atone for sin. Sacrifice, consequently, has two aspects: one material and sensible because it is an external and public act; the other internal and spiritual because in order to have an effective moral value it must be motivated by a spiritual and intimate content. The offering especially of something living such as fruits and, even more, animals and then the consequent immolation or destruction of these offerings is the counterbalance to the creative act of God. As God has given life to all things, man symbolically restores life back to him. Particularly in the immolation to God of a victim such as a lamb, a goat, a calf or a bull through the mediation of a priest, man expresses his total dependence and dedication to God. The ultimate end of the sacrifice is the mystical union of man with his God.7

Let us listen to Garrigou-Lagrange comment on the offering of sacrifice:

The twofold priestly mediation takes place especially in sacrifice, the offering of the sacrifice forming the ascending mediation, and the sharing of the victim offered with the faithful by communion forming the descending mediation. Just as the priesthood constitutes the pre-eminent sacred function, so sacrifice, as its name indicates, forms the pre-eminent sacred action. Without sacrifice, no priesthood; without the priesthood, no sacrifice; for sacrifice supposes an offering priest and an offered victim.8

C. The Shedding of Blood

The pre-eminent way of atoning for sin in both ancient pagan religions and also in the Old Testament always involved the shedding of blood. Here is a fascinating analysis of the rationale for this from the late Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen:

Pagan people, without knowing it explicitly, sensed the truth that "unless blood is shed, there can be no remission of sins" (Heb. 9:22). From the earliest times, through the kings and priests, they offered animals, and sometimes even humans, to turn away the anger of the gods. As in the Levitical priesthood, however, the victim was always separate from the priest. The sacrifice was a vicarious one, the animal representing and taking the place of the guilty humans, who thus sought to expiate their guilt in the shedding of blood.

But why, it may be asked, did the pagans, without the help of revelation, reach the conclusion expressed by St. Paul under Divine inspiration that "without the shedding of blood there was no remission of sins"? The answer is that it is not hard for anyone who ponders on sin and guilt to recognize: first, that sin is in the blood; and second, that life is in the blood, so that the shedding of blood expresses appropriately the truth that human life is unworthy to stand before the face of God.9

While it was clear that God required an acceptable reparation in order to restore man to his friendship, it also became clear to the thoughtful man of the Old Testament that no mere man could ever definitively "breach the chasm" which sin had caused between God and his creatures. As the inspired author of the Letter to the Hebrews tells us:

Since the law has but a shadow of the good things to come instead of the true form of these realities, it can never, by the same sacrifices which are continually offered year after year, make perfect those who draw near. Otherwise, would they not have ceased to be offered? If the worshipers had once been cleansed, they would no longer have any consciousness of sin. But in these sacrifices there is a reminder of sin year after year. For it is impossible that the blood of bulls and goats should take away sins (Heb. 10:1-4).

Sin, an offense against the infinite God, in effect required a reparation which man, left to his own devices, remained incapable of making. No mere human creature could really succeed in mediating between God and his people except in incomplete and partial ways which could, at best, foreshadow the full, complete and definitive mediation which was needed.

II. Jesus the Perfect Mediator

At the very heart of the mystery of our redemption is the fact that Jesus Christ is the "one mediator between God and men ... who gave himself as a ransom for all" (I Tim. 2:5-6). Why is Jesus the unique and perfect mediator? This affirmation from the new Catechism provides us with the fundamental elements needed to formulate a response:

No man, not even the holiest, was ever able to take on himself the sins of all men and offer himself as a sacrifice for all. The existence in Christ of the divine person of the Son, who at once surpasses and embraces all human persons, and constitutes himself as the Head of all mankind, makes possible his redemptive sacrifice for all.10

One with God in his divinity, Jesus is at the same time one with man in his humanity.11 In his divine person he unites the two natures of the two parties who had become separated by man's sin: he represents God to man and man to God. As the Word who is one with the Father from all eternity, the Son is not a mediator, but he becomes one from the moment he begins to take flesh in the womb of the Virgin Mary.

A. Jesus the Priest

The position of being a mediator, according to St. Thomas, and indeed, according to the undivided Christian tradition, is in a pre-eminent way exercised by the priest. 12 Indeed, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, the inspired author of the Letter to the Hebrews would come to grasp that, even though he was not sprung from the priestly tribe of Levi and never referred to himself explicitly as a priest, 13 Jesus was the perfect high priest who succeeded in bridging the gap between God and his people in a way that no other priest ever could.

Meditating upon this fact, the Fathers of the Church came to an ever deeper appreciation of the fact that precisely by virtue of the Incarnation, Jesus became the perfect mediator, the perfect priest. He was not so from all eternity as the Word coequal to the Father and to the Holy Spirit, but only from the time when he took on our human nature. 14

We can speak, then, of the ontological nature of Jesus' priesthood, that is to say of his being a priest by virtue of his assumption of our human nature. This understanding, in fact, was solemnly defined by the Council of Ephesus in 431. 15

Thus Father Clément Dillenschneider says that

By his union with human nature, the Son of God is ontologically constituted the Sovereign Priest of humanity, and God the Father recognizes him as such in the mystery of the Incarnation. As Son of God made flesh, he is priest forever, according to the order of Melchisedec, although the consummation of his priesthood was attained only after the sacrifice on the cross (Heb. 5:9-10).16

One with the Father from all eternity, Jesus became one with us in an irrevocable way at the moment of Mary's fiat, hence by virtue of the hypostatic union. Garrigou-Lagrange puts it thus: He [Jesus] is a priest, therefore, because of the Incarnation itself, and His priesthood, like His sanctity, is substantial. God decreed the Incarnation and called Jesus to the priesthood and to His universal mediatorship by one and the same act. 17

B. Jesus, Priest and Victim

I believe that it was the special merit of Archbishop Sheen, in what he described in his autobiography as the third [and last] stage of his life, to have meditated at length on Jesus' priest-victimhood and to have drawn out the implications for Catholic priests of today. 18 Hence it is to him that I turn for another crucial insight into the person of Jesus:

The sin-bearing character of Christ did not begin on the cross. He was not first a Priest and then, during the last three days, a Victim. His Victimhood was never at any one moment divorced from his Priesthood. 19

Whichever way we look at Christ, we never find Divinity isolated from humanity or humanity from Divinity. Neither are priesthood and victimhood ever separated. Arianism would deny Divinity as the new Arianism would deny victimhood.20

Jesus could offer the perfect sacrifice to the Father precisely because he is one with the Father in his Godhead and one with us in our humanity and also because he is uniquely and simultaneously both priest and victim.

Here is the answer as to how Our Lord differs from all the other priests -- pagan and Jewish. All other priests offered a victim distinct from themselves: e.g., a goat, a lamb, a bullock, but Christ offered Himself as a victim. "He offered Himself without blemish to God, a spiritual and eternal sacrifice" (Heb. 9:14).

Everyone else who ever came into this world, came into it to live; He came into it to die. Hemlock juice interrupted the teaching of Socrates. But sacrificial death was the goal of His Life, the gold that He was seeking: "I have a baptism to undergo, and what constraint I am under until the ordeal is over!" (Lk. 12:50).

He is both Offerer and Offered; both Priest and Victim. This deep secret of the Suffering Servant He did not develop in His public utterances, but reserved it for His disciples and future priests. To them alone did He unveil Isaiah 53, and only to them does He interpret His death as vicarious dying for sinners. 21

With his marvelous rhetorical gifts Sheen presents this paradoxical truth that Jesus is simultaneously both priest and victim as if he were slowly revolving an exquisitely cut gem. From every angle we see a different facet which helps us to enter into the mystery from yet another perspective. Permit me to share a lengthy excerpt in which he sets forth his theme and develops it with rare skill.

As a Priest He was sinless: "Which of you can prove me in the wrong?" (Jn. 8:46). "The angel answered: the Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; and for that reason the Holy Child to be born will be called Son of God" (Lk. 1:35). "I shall not talk much longer with you, for the prince of this world approaches. He has no rights over Me" (Jn. 14:30). "What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have You come to destroy us? I know Who You are .. the Holy One of God" (Mk. 1:24).

As a Victim He was identified with sinners: "God made Him one with the sinfulness of men, so that in Him we might be made one with the Goodness of God Himself" (2 Cor. 5:21).

As a Priest, He was holy with the Holiness of God;

As a Victim, He was "made sin."

As a Priest He was "separated" from the world;

As a Victim He came into it to fight against the Devil, the Prince of the world.

On the Cross, He was upright as a Priest;

On the Cross, He was prostrate as a Victim.

As a Priest, He mediated with the Father,

As Victim, He mediated for the sins of men.

Before Pilate, He spoke seven times as the Priest- Shepherd;

Before Pilate, He was silent seven times as the Victim-Lamb. As a Priest He has vertical relations with heaven;

As a Victim He has horizontal relations with earth.

As a Priest He had dignity;

As a Victim He suffered indignity.

As a Priest: God is alive;

As a Victim: God is dead.

As a Priest He prays to the Father that the Cup pass;

As a Victim He drinks it to its dregs.

St. Augustine, in his Confessions, interprets it well: Ideo Victor Quia Victima. As the ministry of Christ approached its climax, He more and more insisted that the victory over principalities and powers had to come through His sacrifice and death.

Christ personally was sinless, but He voluntarily bore imputed guilt. If He were only a priest, He would have stopped short of the Cross and the Resurrection. As our Representative, He was found guilty of blasphemy because we blasphemed; at the courts of Annas and Pilate, we sinners were on trial in the person of the Sinless Substitute. Though personally sinless, He was officially guilty. ...

The very sinlessness of His priesthood was the necessary basis of His work of sin-bearing. "Christ was innocent of sin, and yet for our sake God made Him one with the sinfulness of men, so that in Him we might be made one with the goodness of God Himself" (2 Cor. 5:21).22

III. Jesus' Heavenly Priesthood and Victimhood

Now there is another very important aspect of Jesus' priesthood and victimhood which we must consider: the heavenly dimension. In the Letter to the Hebrews, which is our most important source in the New Testament on the priesthood of Jesus, we are informed that

The former priests were many in number, because they were prevented by death from continuing in office: but he [Jesus] holds his priesthood permanently, because he continues for ever. Consequently he is able for all time to save those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them (Heb. 7:23-25).

Since his priesthood began when Christ took on our human nature and that human nature is now at the right hand of the Father in heaven, even so Jesus continues to exercise his priesthood there. This exercise is described in the Letter to the Hebrews in terms of the liturgy performed by the high priest on the annual Day of Atonement, the day which the Lord had appointed for expiating for the sins of Israel.23

In terms of this ritual the Epistle presents an image of Christ the King entering the heavenly sanctuary as a priest. Risen from the dead, he crosses the heavens, "a tent not made by human hands, not of this creation" (Heb. 9:11), that is, the place where God dwells, and he enters definitively the presence of God, the sanctuary (Heb. 9:12). The blood he bears which wins him admission is not the blood of goats or calves but his own blood which has won for us eternal redemption (ibid.). Christ has entered within the veil to the Holy of Holies into the presence of God (Heb. 6:20; 9:3; 10:20). It is in terms of this comparison with the liturgy of Expiations that Hebrews lays more stress on Christ's bearing his blood into the presence of God than on the actual shedding on Calvary. The slaughter outside the tent was secondary in the Jewish ritual; what constituted the sacrifice was the sprinkling of blood in the Holy of Holies. "This is why Jesus also, that he might sanctify the people by his own blood, suffered outside the gate" of Jerusalem (Heb. 13:12). Christians are come "to Jesus the mediator of the new Alliance and to the sprinkling of blood more eloquent than that of Abel" (Heb. 2:24). Evidently, the metaphor is maintained here; what is expressed by the sprinkling of blood is the presence of Christ, body and soul, before the Father, the submission of his humanity to Him and the intercession which he makes for us in virtue of his sacrifice.24

Admittedly, we are dealing with a mystery here. We are not saying that Jesus' death on Calvary was one sacrifice and that in heaven he offers another, that of his blood. We are rather speaking of two phases of the same exercise of his priesthood: the earthly phase and the heavenly one. As St. Paul emphatically states: "Christ being raised from the dead will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him" (Rom. 6:9). Yet, by the same token he continues as a priest to intercede for us at the right hand of the Father (cf. Heb. 7:25).25 Here is the way our Holy Father put it in an Angelus address on 13 August 1989:

Jesus is the eternal victim. Risen from the dead and glorified at the right hand of the Father, he preserves in his immortal body the marks of the wounds of his nailed hands and feet, of his pierced heart (cf. Jn. 20:27; Lk. 24:39-40) and presents them to the Father in his incessant prayer of intercession on our behalf (cf. Heb. 7:25; Rom. 8:34).26

In effect, Jesus intercedes by presenting his sacrifice to the Father who never tires of looking upon the wounds of his Son which are now radiant and glorious and by which the fruits of the redemption continue to be applied to us, especially in the Mass and in the sacraments. A. Jesus' Priesthood and Victimhood in the Mass

It is extremely important for us to strive to grasp this heavenly exercise of the priesthood of Christ in order to understand how we continue to benefit in the Mass and the sacraments from the one sacrifice of Jesus. In his ever fascinating manner Archbishop Sheen put it this way:

Using human words to describe Divine things, we can say that each time we offer Mass, Our Lord shows His Heavenly Father the scars in His hands, His feet and His side; for this very reason He kept them. At the Consecration of the Mass, we can imagine Our Lord as saying: "In My Hand I have engraven their hearts. Not for their worthiness, but for My love unto death, grant them graces through the Holy Spirit. My wounds healed, but My scars I kept, that I might always hold them up before Thee, O Father, as pledges of My love. If Thou couldst not strike in justice the sinful people because the uplifted hands of Abraham stood in the way, then shall not My Hands win for them that mercy I won for them on Calvary? I am not just a Sacerdos in æternum; I am a Victima in æternum."27

What the Archbishop expressed in these evocative words is nothing other than a restatement of the Church's traditional teaching on the sacrifice of the Mass. This is exactly what the priest expresses when he prays in the third Eucharist Prayer: "Look with favor on your Church's offering [oblationem], and see the Victim whose death has reconciled us to yourself [Hostiam, cuius voluisti immolatione placari]."

The new Catechism of the Catholic Church presents this doctrine on Christ's state as victim by quoting from the Council of Trent:

The sacrifice of Christ and the sacrifice of the Eucharist are one single sacrifice: 'The victim is one and the same: the same now offers through the ministry of priests, who then offered himself on the cross; only the manner of offering is different.' 'In this divine sacrifice which is celebrated in the Mass, the same Christ who offered himself once in a bloody manner on the altar of the cross is contained and is offered in an unbloody manner.'28

With particular reference to the separate consecration of the two species of bread and wine, Pius XII had underscored Jesus' state as victim in the Mass in this way in his great Encyclical Mediator Dei:

On the cross Christ offered to God the whole of Himself and His sufferings, and the victim was immolated by a bloody death voluntarily accepted. But on the altar, by reason of the glorious condition of His humanity "death no longer has dominion over Him" (Rom. 6:9), and therefore the shedding of His blood is not possible. Nevertheless, the divine wisdom has devised a way in which our Redeemer's sacrifice is marvellously shown forth by external signs symbolic of death. By the transubstantiation of bread into the body of Christ and of wine into His blood both His body and blood are rendered really present; but the eucharistic species under which He is present symbolise the violent separation of His body and blood, and so a commemorative showing forth of the death which took place in reality on Calvary is repeated in each Mass, because by distinct representations Christ Jesus is signified and shown forth in the state of victim. 29

After the consecration the priest says: "Let us proclaim the mystery of faith." It is precisely this mystery of faith which we have been trying to elucidate and penetrate. In the strict sense it always remains a mystery, something that is beyond the capability of our finite minds to grasp. Even if we don't know the how, we are capable of knowing the what. Jesus, who accomplished his role of priest and victim on the cross, is still priest and victim in heavenly glory and on our altars through the ministry of his priests.

B. Jesus' Priesthood and Victimhood in His Priests

There are surely more ramifications of this central mystery of faith. Here I should like to introduce one more and I will let Archbishop Sheen do it in his own inimitable way.

I was a priest without being a victim. The priest is one who offers to God; the victim is what is offered. In the Old Testament and in all pagan religions, what was offered was something distinct from the priest himself -- a lamb, an ox, a bullock. But when Our Blessed Lord came to this earth He changed all this. He, the Priest, was also the Victim. He did not offer something apart from Himself; He offered Himself. ...

Eventually I came to see that the Lord was teaching me not only to be a priest, but also to be a victim. This explains why two of the books which I authored are on this very subject.

I can remember when, after four months in the hospital, I began to recover; I was reading Mass on an altar constructed over the bed before a few priests and friends. I spontaneously gave a sermon, which I remember so well. I said that I was glad that I had open-heart surgery because when the Lord comes to take us all, He will look to see if we have any marks of the Cross upon ourselves. He will look at our hands to see if they are crucified from sacrificial giving; He will look at our feet to see if they have been thorn-bruised and nail-pierced searching for lost sheep; He will look at our heart to see if that has been opened to receive His Divine Heart. Oh what joy is mine just to have endured the minuscule imitation of His suffering on the Cross by having a wounded side. Maybe He will recognize me from that scar and receive me into His Kingdom.30

Quite evidently Archbishop Sheen considered the beginning of "the third stage" of his life as the point at which he accepted being both priest and victim.31 He doesn't tell us exactly when this occurred, but indicates in the introduction to The Priest is Not His Own, which appeared in 1963, that these thoughts began taking shape while he was writing his Life of Christ. 32 His second book, Those Mysterious Priests, was published in 1974. I have been quoting extensively from these books in this presentation because I believe that they are prophetic works which have a great deal to say about the nature Catholic priesthood. Sheen analyzes as few others, I believe, the malaise which afflicts the priesthood today. He saw the crisis coming over thirty years ago and so devoted the last years of his life to preaching retreats for priests and promoting among them a daily holy hour before the Blessed Sacrament. I will leave to him once again the specific application. He states the premise succinctly:

In the New Testament there is no priesthood without victimhood. In Christ the two were inseparable; therefore, they are united in every priest called to be an Ambassador of Christ. 33

Fulton Sheen was surely not the first to recognize the necessary connection between being a priest of Jesus Christ and a victim with him, but he did underscore this nexus in a particularly striking way with reference to the era in which we live. There are any number of luminous figures in the history of spirituality who exemplify this teaching. One thinks, for instance, of Sylvain-Marie Giraud, the second Superior General of the Missionaries of Our Lady of La Salette, whose masterpiece is considered to be his last work, Jesus Christ Priest and Victim. 34 Again one thinks of Saint Maximilian-Maria Kolbe, who offered one of his Masses his first Christmas as a priest for the intention "pro amore usque ad victimam [for love to the point of becoming a victim"35 and who received the grace requested by giving his life on behalf of another innocent victim.

Further, one might ponder with great profit one of the most important conclusions which the great Sulpician Scripture scholar André Feuillet draws in his classic book, The Priesthood of Christ and His Ministers, which is a sustained meditation on the high priestly prayer of Jesus in chapter 17 of the Gospel of John. This magnificent prayer, Feuillet states,

offers the great advantage, lacking in the letter to the Hebrews, of linking to the consecration of Christ as priest and victim the idea of a participation of the apostles in this consecration. ...

In the priestly prayer of Jesus, the latter makes it clear that he intends to govern, sanctify, and unify his Church through the apostles: to this end he gives them a share in his twofold consecration as priest and victim.36

Granting that Fulton Sheen had personally rediscovered what many before him had also come to understand of the mind of Christ Jesus for his anointed ones, let us allow Sheen to draw out some important ramifications of his discovery which seem particularly pertinent to our postconciliar era:

In continuing the Mediatorial office of Christ, the priest-victim, is to be holy and unholy; holy, because in intimacy with the Father; unholy, because He will never deny His responsibility for the wickedness of men. The basic reason for the confusion in the ministry of Christ in the last few decades has been: the identification of the priesthood with liturgy and ceremony instead of with holiness: and the identification of victimhood with social action rather than with human guilt. The priest was linked with the altar; the victim with poverty exclusively, rather than with human frailty and ignorance and suffering. Once the priesthood no longer meant a vertical relation to the Holiness of God, and the victimhood no longer a horizontal relation to all men who have come short of the glory of God, then the priest was chained in the sanctuary and the victim to the inner city. 37

His final conclusion is this:

The divorce of husband and wife endangers the children; the divorce of priest and victim harms the Church. But once the priest is holy because the Lord is holy, once the priest is victim because the sinless Christ died for sinners, then the wounds of the Church become glorious scars.

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windupnamazu · 4 years

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last resort

ffxivwrite2020 #12: tooth and nail || masterlist || ao3 mirror

⮞ lunya, haurchefant, & reese. mentions of «balefire». 654 words. ⮞ heavensward, canon-divergence: the vault. ⮞ the one where lunya opens the seventh gate just to spite jannequinard (and for other less petty reasons, but mostly that).

"with all one's resources or energy; fiercely"

Her life—though she doesn't think it precious, doesn't see how others saw a point in nurturing its flame—is not hers to throw away.

It is her mother's life. It is her father's. It belongs to Noraxia and Moenbryda and the broken bodies of the Scions she had to bury, to the lives that were given so she and the others could continue moving forward. It belongs to a little girl in Ul'dah with hair as pitch as night and an all-consuming love for her family that drove her beyond their ken, and it belongs to an old man from the east who died during the night of a falling moon to save her. To desire death or to let it take her within its grasp without a fight is to spit in the face of everyone who brought her this far, who kept the blood in her veins flowing and the rise and fall of her chest going.

Her life is hers, there is no mistake—but it isn't hers to throw away, so she's not going to die here.

That's what Lunya has to promise herself as she takes a steadying breath, reaching out to grasp for a tendril of aether, finding Haurchefant's among the bright din of the Lifestream. The others are watching, shellshocked or helpless, exhausted from their rampage through Ishgard's holiest building in a bid to rescue Ser Aymeric. Among their healers, she's the only one left who can try; Duscha and Theo have both expended their mana and the remnants of Reese's own attempt to mend the wound still linger on her friend's shaking hands and in the glowing crevasse in her beloved's chest. She knows A'dewah would bleed himself to death if he could but she will not let him, not when Reese asked her personally, though she knows Reese hadn't known what a drastic extent it would take for something like this, to drag someone back from the brink.

The final heaven's gate does not open to her so much as it bursts beneath her beckoning hand.

To open the seventh gate is impossible, she remembers from the bitter, half-hearted lesson Jannequinard gave her once, and were it not for the immense flood of astral magic crushing her now she would smirk. Except upon death.

And how convenient it is that she has already seen the face of death and kissed her goodbye once, isn't it?

"LIVE!" The swansong light of a star collapsing in on itself drowns the platform within the welkin, and the world warps around her, the moonlit skies of La Noscea swimming within her vision and swelling her lungs with empyrean wind. With freezing palms and a boiling in her stomach, she reaches heavensward and knows that no matter how highly the cards are stacked against her favour she will turn the tides; the stars are her birthright and she is coming home.

(She is only mortal, though, and knows that if this pushed her to her limit, if this could end up breaking her soul as it did to Kichirou on the night of the Calamity, it would be a lovely, lovely death indeed, to return to dust among the stars and have nothing left of her remain. But fear does not make victors or champions of the realm.)

And when she entwines Haurchefant's aether with her own, a binary star given form, he breathes, taking the force of Vylbrand's storms straight from her chest and into his own.

The light of their forced stasis fades as her knees give out beneath her and she sways, pulled forward by the invisible tether between their aether. The last thing she feels before the night swallows her whole is Zaya's scaled arms wrapping around her and holding her close, and her last thought is a promise to not go supernova while she is still a gentle, nascent star and she has not yet finished burning.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #haurchefant greystone #oc: lunya #reese #tales from the warriors of light #short!#it says reese and haurchie are here but they dont talk sorry theyre a little busy

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changelingvixen · 4 years

Text

Some chess themed world stuff, IDK, incoherent and unfinished

“Tithes for the king! Tithes for the king! The Holy Duty calls!”

The crier was not the Bishop herself of course, this was just a sub-priest, one of the many strata beneath the Holy Lady herself, two steps from martyrdom for the royal family’s sake. No, the Bishop Herself was only seen on the holiest of days. This was just a tithe calling.

This was not the slums proper. This was the entrance to the slums where the merely poor lived, not the cursed or fallen. Every face was fully human, largely clean and sentient. The houses were crammed together, cheap stone falling apart, but the stench was merely rotten vegetables, smoke and muck, the normal scent of background life. These people were accepted, if not welcomed, in the eyes of the White Queen.

A young woman, face so full of innocence it struck the Knight in her chest for a moment, opened her mouth, made to step forward. Something about her demeanor – her softness – her beauty, brown eyes and hair and skin – made the Knight bite her lip, and instead pass her her own token, a White Rose. The woman’s eyes widened, and she gazed up at the Knight, who smiled.

“To the guard at 9,” she said. “He will bring you to me.”

A night with the Knight was worth nowhere near as much as with the king, in repayment, but on the other hand the pleasure was plentiful. It was no Holy Duty, but it was joyful, and there was still monetary compensation. The woman’s ragged dress would be replaced with a finer one and she would eat well for a year or two.

The compensation for offering one’s self as tithe in the Holy Duty was high, but only given, of course, if the tithe survived.

The Knight realised a moment later the woman would probably not have been chosen, anyway. The current vogue in theological circles was that the tithe should match the king’s own looks – or, at least, as more honest courtiers would say – his apparent complexion. Even that was fraught with its issues, for who else but the royal line had that pearlescent hair? Silver eyes, at least, were common enough, as was that strange angular cut of bone and jaw the Royal Line had possessed before its degeneration, and indeed, the three chosen tithes matched that physical profile well enough. They all had the same expression – determined, desperate, afraid. They always did.

If they survived they were Compelled never to speak of what the Holy Duty comprised. They had their lives and most of their limbs and wealth beyond imagining and besides, what good would it do them? If the king died without issue, they would all die, for the face of the White Queen herself would have turned from them for good.

The Knight knew what happened. The Knight had seen the times the king preferred animals to women and what came of them. These women were not the sort to survive. She turned her face from them.

The Queen was watching from her balcony, she knew. From the top of the panopticon she could see the whole city as she stood alone, her veil blowing like a pennant behind her. She could feel her eyes, even from here. Beautiful, bored, limpid. She would creep up behind the Knight after day-long banquets when the old speeches from the old retainers were over and whisper into her ear,

“Tell me your name, Knight. Be mine. Take me from here.”

And the Knight would smile without meaning at the Queen’s pale face, taut with lust and fear, and whisper, “I am the Knight, madam.”

“I will tell you mine,” the Queen would press. “I will make you mine. I will give you myself. None but he has touched me.” She flinched as she said it. The Knight knew the Queen was protected when her breeding days were allotted but even so, it was a horror. A Holy Duty and a hell.

“Sleep well, madam,” the Knight would say, her hands carefully behind her back, and bow, and leave. Her words were as familiar as the Rote Of The Light or The Chiding Of The Seven Bells, heard after every seventh course, the Pawn’s intonation solemn, the meaning long forgotten but the rite of its recitation inescapable, unimaginable to change. Perhaps it was the loss of meaning that was causing their decline, the Knight thought. But perhaps not.

She never knew if the Rook was listening. Sometimes he would flit out of sight in the corner of her eye. Who knew to whom the Rook paid allegiance? He alone in the Court spoke to his opposite, for who could punish or fathom a Rook? He would not find his entrails wound around the castle buttresses for speaking to the Black Rook – they had their own place, the Rooks, between the two lands, where they met and whispered and who knew what?

The Knight closed her eyes, thinking that, somewhere, there was a Black Knight, perhaps doing this self-same act, trailing the long passages of her castle, training in her martial arts, listening and waiting, the endless waiting for the war to begin again, when the Ladies Above spoke it so, when their game began again. Except the Black Knight’s kingdom wasn’t dying.

---

The library was quiet and heavy-aired, tall lonely pillars and endless dark bookcases sweeping into the domed ceilings. The velvet carpets were heavy with must. Neat square tables were empty, the chairs pushed up to the edges. The marble fountain, carved nymphs and flowers in diamond and moonstone, sprayed its dancing drops in silence. Dusty light hit motes in the air.

The Bishop locked the heavy stone door behind her to prevent another entering – as if they would. Still. Better to be safe. She tucked the key away in some inner pocket of her robe.

Welcome, said the spirit of the library to the Bishop. It has been so long. I am so lonely. I know a thousand lives, I know wisdom and lies beyond imagining, but I am alone. So hungry.

The air around the Bishop throbbed hot, warming her emaciated cheeks.

Beautiful, the spirit whispered. The Bishop gently pushed the air away. It fluttered like old pages, musty and papery.

“No,” she said. It didn’t recede, it edged under her robe, stroking her legs, edging from ankle to calf to knee and pausing.

A thousand thousand years. I need companionship.

The Bishop strode up to a shelf, running a languid bone-thin finger along a book’s spine. The spirit groaned softly. Everything else was absolutely still.

“People are afraid of that which they don’t know or believe they do know,” said the Bishop. She enjoyed a conversation, and it was true, the library had been closed for endless years. Time flowed differently in the presence of so many books. Perhaps, to the library, it had been a thousand years. Close to, frondy moss was growing through the ancient oak of the bookcases, curling around the section markers, glowing faintly.

If you run, I shall chase you, said the spirit. My corridors are labyrinths to you. I am the maze and the monster. Just a night, one day and one night with you. Do not leave me. I will allow you safe passage then. To what you seek. I could trap and keep you else. Hold you close to me forever. But where is the joy in that? Its tone was becoming desperate. Give me this honour and kindness. Soothe my pain. I have been alone for so long.

“I am a holy woman,” the Bishop said, her cheeks flushing as the warm air grasped at her again, twining around her limbs. “I belong to the White Queen, the Lady Above.”

Belong to me, for one day and one night, madam Bishop, the library breathed. Your Lady will forgive. I am so alone. You may have all my wisdom and my words. Any written tale. Tell me your desires and salve mine. Bathe in my fountain, lay yourself down for me. How I ache. I will write your answers upon your skin and bones if you give yourself to me.

“My Lady will guide me free,” said the Bishop, “If I need her to. I seek a treatise.”

The library was silent. The Bishop cocked her head. Somewhere, woodworm gnawed through a shelf, the sound scratchy in her ears.

The Bishop took a step forward.

---

The Knight knew a woman in the Old Market. She traded as a fortune teller but to those who knew, she was a true mystic.

The Old Market was crammed edge to edge with stalls of a thousand different kinds, reeking with the scents of greasy street food, sweat, incense, smoke and metal. Rickety houses and shops boughed over the street like branches; detritus crunched under her feet as people jostled and gossiped and pickpocketed each other. Things jibbered in cages. Scrappy children shrieked and shoved, clutching a penny for a sweet or a firelighter. The Knight strode through the masses, sloughing them in her wake, even with a hood over her face to disguise herself, bereft of chain mail and ruff and veil and sword. Traders shouted their wares – the usual, from the bizarre to the useless to the lifesaving. One briefly caught her eye, leering at her.

“Syrup of sight, pretty lady? Guaranteed to show you the truth in any man’s face. Just right for your master or your lover…”

She turned away.

“Afraid of the truth?” jeered the salesman, waving a bottle, but she wanted more than snake oil.

Behind a fraying, jewelled curtain at the quieter end of the street, the woman sat. Her garish handwritten sales sign promised love and magic and other lies, and young women dared each other to spend a coin and enter the tent, but the Knight knew, unlike most of the other magic on offer, this woman could be convinced to speak true.

“I seek guidance, madam,” she told the curtain, which twitched.

“Enter,” said the voice within, and the Knight pushed the curtain aside, ignoring the awed whispering of the young women behind her.

The hunched old woman straightened up on seeing the Knight, and with no apparent change, her face was younger. “Ah,” she said, smiling faintly. “Madam Knight.” She fingered the deck of cards before her. “You seek something?”

“Of course,” said the Knight. She seated herself on the rickety stool opposite the woman, and pulled a pouch of gold from her cloak, passing it over with respect. The woman did not open it but simply secreted it away under her bench. “The Black Knight. Who is she?”

The mystic showed no reaction to the question, despite its heresy. “You know her by her deeds. Soldier and handmaiden. Black guardian. Palfreywoman waiting in the wings. Your own face in the mirror, Knight. Yourself in reverse. What you see in the dark. Do you seek the truth or a comforting lie?”

The Knight knew the respect was returned in that she asked. For her customers she would mostly decide for them what they received. “The truth.”

The woman passed the cards through her hands, shuffling, turning. Her dark eyes stared into nothing. The Knight breathed in the scent of patchouli and blood. At length the mystic flipped them.

“The Bloody Shrike. The Liar’s Tongue. Distant Winds Calling. The Blade That Bites True, trine with the Dark Servant. And the Light Servant in combination. Why, I believe she wishes to meet you, too.” She raised her pits of eyes to the Knight. “She is a traitor and a killer, and she believes herself right. Perhaps you have a lot in common. I wonder what I would see if I drew for you.” She laughed thinly.

“Similar, perhaps,” said the Knight, mildly. She wondered herself, for a moment. “Have you ever drawn for your own amusement perhaps? Of the Court?”

The mystic laughed. “What makes you think I wish to know of any of you? What I need to know, I already do. I am just a conduit to fools and hunters. What good would it do me, to know of you?”

“None at all,” said the Knight, rising. “I thank you for your time.”

“Enjoy your night with the little maiden,” said the mystic. “Do not think of those who were taken.”

“I don’t,” said the Knight. She inclined her head, and pushed the curtain aside to leave.

---

“When,” said the Knight to the Rook, “Is Carnival in the city next?”

The Rook didn’t look up. “Here or there?” He nudged a piece across the playing mat and flipped the rotating board around. His opponent’s eyes narrowed as he reached for the dice. To even be allowed play a game of complexity and chance against the Rook was an honour, and the Rook seemed to genuinely enjoy games. The nobleman couldn’t hear the Knight’s question, or even see her presence. The Rook only ever played opponents on the other side of a one-way mirrored screen, the board rotating endlessly between turns. In his ascetic game chamber, the Rook and the Knight were alone. She watched the nobleman’s face with interest. He seemed intelligent, and although he probably wouldn’t win, perhaps there would be a challenge there for the Rook.

“For interest’s sake,” said the Knight, “Both.”

“Here, the seventh day of Golden Season. There, the nineteenth of Bronze.” The Rook never explained how he knew when Carnival was arriving, here or there. The Rook never explained very much at all.

The noble’s hand hovered over a piece, and drew back. He bit his lip. There were no particular stakes this time – the reward was the game and the honour of playing - but who liked to lose?

“Thank you,” said the Knight, and bowed, because whatever else he was, the Rook was powerful and nominally on her side, at least. His hooded eyes blinked slowly and he looked up at her at last. The guttering candle in its wall bracket threw strange shadows on his dark face.

“I serve only the world,” said the Rook, expressionlessly. “I shall watch your movements well.”

What strange investiture passed from Rook to Rook, she wondered. What secret service did he provide beyond the laying out of time and the seasons, advice, sentencing, learning, teaching? Was he closer to the White Lady than even the Bishop, or furthest of all?

The nobleman’s hand moved like a snake and the board spun. The Rook tilted his head, truly birdlike. The Knight did not enjoy games, although she thought she could see the Rook’s likely move. Only at the last moment did he change from her guess to a different, subtler play, and she wondered again what went through that mind. The board spun again. The noble frowned.

“Good day, Madam Knight,” said the Rook, and she bowed again, understanding, and left.

#chess themed bs

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mythologyfolklore · 4 years

Text

Trusting the enemy - Pt. 02

Baldr – Forgiveness

(A/N: Set the night before Baldr’s death. He has a conversation with Loki, fully aware that he’s talking to his murderer. It doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it should.)

Baldr isn't capable of hatred.

Not of loathing or disgust.

Not even of spite or malice.

He is, however, capable of anger and revulsion.

Even though his anger never lasts long, it's still there. He never shows it; there is no point. Besides, he doesn't want to hurt anyone by lashing out in any way.

Someone has to be the better person and who, if not him?

So he chooses to be the role model, the paragon of virtue, the one who brightens up everyone's day. It's actually quite easy; he is just that kind of person. Being kind to others brings him joy. His friendliness and compassion are genuine. His cheerfulness is not. But why?

Baldr is lucky, oh so lucky.

He has beauty, wisdom and grace. He has the biggest ship and the fairest, holiest hall in Asgard. He has everyone's love and admiration. He has a lovely wife and a wonderful son.

So why, why the Niflheimr is he not happy?!

His smile is brighter than the sun, but it only serves to please others and hide his melancholy.

Everyone thinks him happy, but he isn't and only four people in Asgard know this.

Óðinn knows, because of course he does.

Baldr doesn't talk to his father about his depression, but the Allfather knows anyway. And maybe, just maybe, the light god is grateful, that his father doesn't judge him for it or bring it up.

Höðr knows too.

He knows Baldr better than anyone, even though his eyes cannot see. His shadow is like a blanket of comfort, his coolness is soothing. The god of darkness and winter expects nothing from him.

Heimdallr knows, because nothing escapes him.

Baldr values the Guardian's understanding and sympathetic nature, so similar to his own. What he values even more is that he doesn't participate, when the other gods throw stuff at him.

The last person who knows is definitely the most problematic one: Loki.

Baldr wishes, that the red-haired trickster would like him at least a little bit – after all, they are by oath uncle and nephew. That will never be, though: Loki wants him dead and will indeed be the one to bring on his imminent demise.

Baldr doesn't even know why Loki hates him so much (it's not like the older god has ever told him, what his problem is; he always scoffs and turns away, when Baldr tries to talk to him). He only knows, that he will die at the other's hands. And he knows exactly how, too – his prophetic nightmares are very vivid.

Maybe he should hate Loki for being his future murderer.

But he doesn't.

He is still angry at him, though.

You can't frame Höðr for murder and expect the prospective murder victim not to be angry!

Loki hates everything about Baldr.

Everything.

He hates, that the blondie is Óðinn's son.

He hates, that the young god is so pretty, graceful, wise and sweet.

He hates, that everyone loves that goody-two-shoes and fusses about him, when he shows the slightest hint of distress. Frigg has made literally everything in all nine worlds swear, that it wouldn't harm her “precious baby boy”! Well, almost everything – a twig of mistletoe was too young to sign legally binding contracts, she said. But still!

It makes him sick, so sick. Seeing Baldr makes his blood boil. Hearing his voice makes him want to retch and when he has to make body contact for whatever reason, his flesh crawls beneath his skin.

Dwarves don't loathe the sun as much as Loki loathes Baldr.

One of the reasons is, of course, envy.

No surprise there, the trickster knows his own nature. Of course he wouldn't say that out loud, but he's quite sure, that most people already know.

But they don't know, just how envious he is.

Loki is the one, who does all the shit work for the Aesir! Not Baldr! Yet he gets all the praise and love, even though all he does is being a hippie and making decisions that can't be undone! So why does Sunny Boy get all the love and positive attention?! That's so unfair, it's physically painful!

But that's not the only reason for his envy.

Óðinn is nothing, if not a loving father, Loki knows this. The Allfather loves all of his many children equally, although he has the stupidest way of showing it.

But he doesn't love all of Loki's children.

Once upon a time, Loki and Óðinn mixed their blood and vowed brotherhood, swearing to treat the other's children as their own. But apparently that doesn't go for Fenrir, Jörmungandr and Hel. The trickster knows, that the triplets are dangerous, but that's no excuse for their treatment!

There has been a time, when the trickster loved Baldr and Höðr like they were his own. But that was before his own children were banished. The twins know nothing; they were toddlers back then. And if the Æsir refuse to tell them about it, why should he?

It doesn't matter anyhow.

Loki will do anything to send them to Hel. And it will be the greatest satisfaction to see the horror on the Æsir's faces and hurt Óðinn and Frigg in the worst way possible.

Baldr is sitting on the roof of his house and judging by the position of the moon, it's almost midnight.

It's wonderfully quiet, when everyone is asleep. It relaxes him, when he is shaken from a nightmare.

Normally, he would go and cry on his brother's shoulder, but he doesn't want to wake him.

So sitting on his roof and watching the moon and stars is the second option.

He feels a presence behind him and smiles lopsidedly: “Why am I not surprised, that you got through the barrier on my house?”

A slightly higher, more feminine voice retorts: “Maybe it's because there is nothing I cannot do? And what about you? Why am I not surprised, that you're doing something as dangerous as sitting on a roof, instead of lying with your wife?”

Baldr laughs softly and finally turns around: “What is this I see? Loki actually seeking my company and talking to me? What a sensation!”

Loki snorts: “And what is this I hear? Irony from the mouth of the paragon of perfection? Never thought I would live to see that moment!”

The blond rolls his eyes: “We both know, that I will never be perfect, no matter how hard I try. But seriously; how did you get in? The force field around my property is supposed to keep out everyone with malicious or improper intent.”

The redhead smirks: “Please, I know what spells Frigg used to put the barrier up. And for every spell in the world, there is a counter spell to match.”

“Huh. Figures.”

It's only now that Baldr notices, that Loki is floating in mid-air – he must be wearing his air-walking shoes.

“Mind if I sit with you?”, the trickster asks.

“You already invaded my property and didn't ask my permission.”

“Good point.”

Baldr moves over and allows Loki to sit next to him.

He can't decide, if he's happy, that his “uncle” is actually initiating a conversation for once, or if he's suspicious as to why.

Loki sees no point in dispelling the other's suspicions.

“What are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”, he questions. “Couldn't deal with your nightmares again?”

“That and I wanted to see the night sky one last time, before I die.”

“So you know.”

“You already knew, that I know.”

The fire giant frowns. “You're oddly casual about it. After all that fuss about your nightmares.”

He receives a frown in return.

“Uncle, there is a difference between knowing that you're going to die no matter what, and suffering from perpetual sleep-deprivation.”

“Yes, I suppose there is.”

They fall back into silence for a while.

Baldr is the first to speak again: “So, what gives me the honour of you finally talking to me, uncle? You have never done that before.”

Loki shrugs: “I'll be honest for once; I don't know.”

Another moment of awkward silence.

Finally, the Bright One notes: “The stars are very beautiful tonight.”

Loki chuckles: “Yes, but that's nothing special to me. If I want to see the stars, I just need to look at my wife. She has the night sky in her hair.”

Sigyn, Baldr's starry-haired half-sister.

Baldr doesn't like how shrewish and abrasive she is, but she is also the most reliable, selfless person he knows.

It's a matter of fact, that Loki is a terrible husband; often absent, treacherous, a liar and definitely a pervert. But no matter how much his wife gives him hell for his nonsense, he can count on her unwavering strength and loyalty, for better or worse. Baldr wishes his own wife was half that loyal (as if he didn't know about her tryst with his brother Hermóðr), then again he has done nothing to earn her loyalty either.

He is about to ask, if the shapeshifter loves Sigyn, but then Loki continues: “In fact, dare I say, that the night sky in all its splendour could never measure up to Sigyn's hair.”

Baldr smiles; that's all the answer he needs. “So you do love her.”

The trickster chuckles.

He will never be able to tell his wife these words, but it's a truth everyone is aware of. When and why his tomboyish wife decided, that he is worth travelling all nine worlds for, is beyond him. But it is so. The ornament around his neck too severely proves it.

Of course Baldr has noticed the necklace Loki is wearing.

“I like your necklace”, he tells the older god. And immediately wishes he didn't: Loki's smile disappears and is replaced by a scowl.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” The fire giant's voice is cold.

“It really is. There is just something about it, that makes it better than Brisingamen.”

That seems to mollify the older god.

“You're damn right. It's the best one in all nine worlds. I wouldn't give it up for anything.”

“May I hold it? Just for a moment?”

Loki's eyes narrow. But then he relents and takes it off. “If I didn't know, that your hands are so careful, I wouldn't agree to this. Consider this the last and only favour I will ever do to you.”

Baldr beams at him and takes it gingerly. To him this is more than just a favour.

The necklace lies comfortably in his glowing hand.

Now that he sees it up close and touches it with his own fingers, he can tell, what makes it so beautiful: it's self-made. Only the gold bordering is dwarf's work. This piece of jewellery has a personality, which Brisingamen lacks. Each component has a story, he can feel it.

“Do you want to know, what it is?”

It's not a question.

“I'm all ears”, Baldr agrees. If Loki wants to tell him the story, who is he to refuse?

So Loki begins to explain: “This necklace was a gift from Sigyn … and from my children.”

“Not Nari and Narfi, I assume?”

“No. Not them.”

Loki sighs heavily and Baldr marvels; he has never heard the older god sigh before.

Then he elaborates: “The carved tooth is from my eldest son Fenrir. The bordered green scale comes from my second son Jörmungandr. And the curl of black and blonde hair belongs to my daughter Hel. The golden chain is from my wife. And she is the one, who made this.”

Oh.

Baldr feels not just a little uncomfortable, as he gives the necklace back to Loki, who immediately puts it back onto his neck, where it belongs.

“I didn't know they're your children”, the Bright One whispers.

“Of course you didn't!”, the trickster spits scornfully. “Your family talks about bravery in battle, but they would never gather up the spine to tell you about all the crap they've pulled!”

Loki can tell, that Baldr wants to ask what he means, but fears to anger him even more.

“Why don't you ask my daughter dear?”, he hisses, “After all, you will join her soon! I'm sure, she will be delighted to tell you, what happened back then!”

“By soon you mean tomorrow, I assume?”

That question is so sudden, that the fire giant forgets his anger.

“Yes and no”, he explains, “Travelling down there takes a while. And you won't be able to without the funeral rites. She told me so, last time I spoke to her. And that she has already prepared everything for your arrival.”

Charming.

“I'm honoured”, Baldr replies and Loki is surprised by how genuine that sentence is.

“I seriously don't understand how you're so calm about it. How are you so cavalier about the fact, that I am going to murder you tomorrow?”

“Today”, Baldr corrects and points at the clock tower near his father's hall Valhalla. It's almost 1am now. “And it's rather bold of you to assume, that I'm not angry.”

“I didn't say that. But do you not hate me? Knowing that I will be the one to send you to my daughter's realm?”

The blond shakes his head. “No. I do not hate you. I'm not even angry, because you want to kill me. It's something else, that ticks me off.”

“Oh? Do enlighten me!”

So he does: “What makes me angry is that you want to pull my twin into this. I'm not afraid to die – not even averse to it. And if you don't want to tell me, why you hate me so much, fine. But tricking Höðr into killing me, knowing that it will break him, that he will have to live with the guilt, until my father spawns another child, specifically to kill him? For that I would hit you.” A wry smile. “But I have never done such a thing before, so I'd probably punch like a little girl.”

Loki cackles: “Oh my! Looks like Asgard's golden boy has something in him after all!”

“Whatever you say, uncle.”

The cackling stops abruptly. “Don't call me that.”

The younger god smiles apologetically.

The red-haired trickster glares at him.

“Norns, how I hate, when you make that face! Actually, I hate everything about you.”

Oh my dad, here it comes, Baldr thinks and readies himself for a torrent of hatred.

Of course he could ask the redhead to just tell him that he hates him and be done with it. But he knows that Loki needs to get this off his chest, so he will listen.

“I despise you, boy”, the fire giant snarls.

“My contempt for you is beyond words. If I could, I would set you on fire, watch you die a slow and agonising death and I would laugh. I hate your pretty face. Hearing your voice makes me want to retch. Everyone adores you, but what exactly have you done to earn it? What gave them the idea, that you're perfect?! You! Don't make me laugh! We both know the truth, don't we? Pathetic, that's what you are! You call yourself a pacifist, but in truth you're just a coward, who pats himself on the back. Why your verdicts are final is a mystery to me – no matter how wise you are, even you can be wrong sometimes – and boy, can that ever be fatal! I have given the Æsir far more than you ever have! I tricked the dwarves into forging the greatest treasures for you! When have I ever got so much as a thanks from them?! And you! You just say a single word and all eyes are on you! When a giant threatens Asgard, it's either Freyja or you they want, because you're oh so fucking pretty! What everyone perceives as perfection is just a facade! You can't even deal with your nightmares – seriously, it's always the same one, shouldn't you be used to it by now? And your family life! My roller coaster of a marriage with Sigyn is more functional than you and Nanna! The only thing that keeps you two together is your son and your fear of scandal! The way you always act so cheerful makes me sick! You're more depressed than your mother is, but at least she has the excuse of knowing the future! And you still pretend, that everything is sunshine and rainbows and it pisses me off! How is it, that I am the liar here, when you are the one who's so fake, it hurts?! I can't wait to kill you! They will bawl their eyes out over your corpse and I will stand there and smile upon your body, that's how satisfying it will be! Ooohhh, how I hate you!!!”

Wow.

Baldr never thought, that it's possible to spew so much hatred and envy at once. Then again, there is nothing Loki isn't capable of.

He needs a while to let that sink in, before he responds.

“… I'm impressed. You certainly took me for a ride here.”

“Did I now”, Loki growls.

“Yes.”

“And? What are you going to say about it?”

“Just this: now that you got it off your chest, will you listen to what I have to say?”

The older god sighs: “I suppose I must – it's only fair.”

Baldr takes a deep breath, then he begins to talk: “I'm sad, that you hate me. You probably already know, just wanted to clear that up. And you are right about two things: my happiness is faked and my marriage is a catastrophe. But let me tell you this – the rest of me is not. If I want to please everyone, it's because their joy delights me. I don't help people, because it's my duty, or because I want praise, I do it, because I enjoy it. I love making others happy. If my own happiness is the price, then so be it. You on the other hand, oh man! Do you ever do something good of your own volition, just for someone else's sake? Something that doesn't involve you causing trouble beforehand? You only got those treasures for us, after you decided that cutting off Sif's hair would be funny. Branding a woman as an adulterer is not funny, Loki.”

“She is, though”, the fire giant mutters. “And guess with whom.”

“Do spare me, I beg you. Besides, it's rather hypocritical of you to lecture me about my marriage. I can't blame Nanna for having an affair, because the Norns know, I'm not remotely close to being the loving husband I should be. By Mimir's head, I can count on one hand, how often I have even slept with her, so of course she would look elsewhere for what I cannot give. But Sigyn can certainly blame you! You must have slept with more people, than you have freckles! You must be – pardon my language – the biggest man-slut in Asgard! Then you're almost never home! No wonder Sigyn is mad at you 24/7! She may be a spitfire, but she's my big sister and she deserves better! Do you have the faintest idea how lucky you are, to be married to the strongest, most loyal woman in all nine worlds?! A woman's loyalty must be earned, but you wouldn't know loyalty, if it slapped you in the face – which I know it does, because she's not some push-over housewife you can treat however you want!”

He takes a deep breath to compose himself.

Loki is gawking at him, which makes him feel incredibly awkward. This has gone too far, really. He didn't mean to talk himself into a rage like that. In his defence though, he just got a hate speech from his uncle/prospective murderer and he really, really needs a nap.

“Do forgive me”, he apologises, “I didn't mean to lash out at you.”

“Are you kidding?!”, the trickster exclaims and bursts into laughter. “You're so much better, when you drop your stupid mask! I didn't think you had it in you!”

Baldr chuckles: “It's easy to drop the masquerade, when you're a dead man. And there is a certain beauty in letting you see it. Do you know why?”

“Because it's easy to be honest to the one, who will kill you. There is no need to keep up a facade in front of your future murderer.”

Baldr smiles and nods. He is glad, that his uncle understands.

“I'm truly sorry, that you hate me”, he tells him softly. “I really wish we could get along.”

The other compresses his scarred lips into a thin line.

“Not a chance, Baldr Óðinnsón. I hate you and you must and will die.”

“I know.”

Loki hates, how world-weary, how okay with dying this young man is.

And he hates even more, that he hates it. Because it makes him aware of something, that terrifies him. It's so terrifying, that his hands begin to tremble in his lap.

He quickly digs his fingers into his trousers to hide it, but the blondie has already noticed and is looking at him with concern.

“Don't you dare pity me!”, he hisses venomously.

“I'm not pitying you”, Baldr tells him gently. “I'm feeling compassionate. Don't confuse pity with compassion.”

“I don't want either!”

“I know, I know. But I can't help it. I told you, I do not hate you like you hate me.”

Loki really wants to wipe that disgusting, sweet smile off the boy's face.

“I'm glad, that it's you, uncle.”

“I told you no- wait, what?!”

Baldr tries not to laugh at the trickster's flabbergasted expression.

“Did I shock you? Sorry, I mean to say … I'm glad that you're the one to send me to Hel, because … well, you hate me and you won't feel guilty for killing me. I hate when people feel guilty, because of me. Stupid logic, I know. But I wouldn't want it to be anyone else. That's one of the reasons, why it angers me so, that you want to instrumentalise my brother. If it was just you, I could easily forgive you-”

“I don't want your fucking-”

“Let me finish! If it was just you, I could easily forgive you. Because I'm currently so resigned to my fate, that I don't even care anymore. I just want it all to end. In a way, you're doing me a favour.”

“… You're insane.”

Baldr snorts: “No, that would be you. I'm just depressed and world-worn. Also very much sleep-deprived. And it's 2am, so I haven't had my morning coffee either.”

“You're definitely insane”, Loki insists.

“Probably”, the other gives in. “Not that it matters now.”

He still has a few questions though.

“What are you doing up anyway?”

“I have nightmares too, boy. But unlike you, I don't whine to everyone about it.” A huff. “Then again, the only one who cares is Sigyn.”

“I do too.”

“That's because you're a goody-two-shoes. You would care, if a rock had nightmares.”

“Well, you're a bipedal fire, so close enough.”

“Well, you're a bipedal firefly.”

The Bright One chortles. That's certainly a funny way to describe the way he glows!

Then, as he turns his gaze back to the stars, he remembers another thing he always wanted to know.

“Loki?”

“Hm?”

“Where do the stars come from?”

“Ah, I remember that. Your father and his brothers made most of them. They used to be sparks from the flames of Múspellheimr, where I come from. But some of them are my creation.”

He points up to a particularly bright star.

“See that one? I'm the one who made it, it burns through me. It used to be called Lokabrenna, but the humans call it Sirius now.”

Baldr beams at him in delight, because Sirius just so happens to be one of his favourite stars.

Loki's grin turns into a bittersweet smile. “You should have seen your father back then. What a man! I couldn't help but like him immediately. The way we were back then … we had so much in common!”

The younger god can feel the sadness and nostalgia radiating from the older. He doesn't find it hard to believe him; even today, Óðinn sometimes still has a roguish twinkle and laughter in his grey eye, though it becomes rarer and rarer to see. It's no wonder Loki was hooked, when the two were younger.

He sighs: “You know, his smile back then looked just like yours. It was full of warmth and integrity. You and your brother got that from him.”

That sentence takes the god of light by surprise; he always thought, that he got it from his mother.

But he has no time to ponder on it, because Loki shocks him by starting to cry.

“Shit”, the trickster mutters and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “I promised myself to never shed a tear over this! And in front of you too!”

Baldr fishes a paper tissue out of his pocket and hands it to him. Of course he doesn't get a thank you, but Loki is the last person he'd expect one from anyway.

“Fuck you! Your twin and your father too!”, the redhead rasps randomly.

At this point it sounds rather forced, but Baldr doesn't voice that.

“I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

Loki freezes, when the younger god embraces him. Once he realises what is going on, he is tempted to push the blond off the roof and test, if gravity has also sworn an oath, but he doesn't. Instead he allows himself to weep – silently; he refuses to be a bawling, snivelling mess. He feels the other's left hand pat his upper back in comfort.

The awareness from earlier returns full force and the trickster hates it with all his might.

Most of the gods aren't aware of it, but he's actually just a little older than Óðinn (a few decades, maybe). He knows the Æsir so well. He can count on one hand how many of the Allfather's children he hasn't known since their childhood.

He was there, when the twins were born, even got to hold them in his arms. Back then he loved them. That time is long gone now and he hates them both, he hates almost all of Óðinn's children at this point.

“I hate you! Go to fucking Helheim!”

“I know and I will”, Baldr responds way too gently. “Also, love you too, uncle.”

“How dare you-”

“Shhhhh.”

It takes a while for Loki to calm down. When he eventually does, he winds himself out of Baldr's hug and clears his throat.

“Alright, this is enough. More of this sap and I'll puke.”

Baldr knows, when it's better to shut up.

They fall back into silence, but it's more comfortable this time.

It's already past 3am, when he speaks up: “One last question.”

Loki groans and rolls his eyes, but consents.

“Will your daughter be kind?”

Or will she take whatever grudge she has out on me? - the trickster can hear the untold part of the question in the boy's voice.

He thinks for a moment.

If he knows his daughter at all, she won't take her grudges on Óðinn out on Baldr. She could and would be in the right, if she did. But she wouldn't. Hel is bigger than that – besides Baldr is the purest being in Asgard (as much as Loki loathes to admit it). And Hel really likes cute, beautiful things (she got that from her mother, he remembers).

Of course he could tell Baldr, that she would make his afterlife Náströnd, but for some reason he chooses to be honest.

“Well, unlike the rest of Asgard, you and your brother don't actually have a skeleton in your closet, so you have nothing to fear. She is a just goddess. You will be in good hands with her. In fact, dare I say that, if you can look past her appearance, you will even like her.”

Baldr feels significantly more at ease hearing these words.

Enough at ease, that he chortles, when Loki adds: “Just don't mention the Christians. Or horses; the only horse she likes is Sleipnir.”

“Noted.”

All of the sudden Baldr yawns – once again overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue, that reminds him of his sleep-deprivation.

“My soul for good sleep!”, he jokes.

Loki smirks at him: “That can be arranged – I'm sure your soul is valuable enough to service as appropriate payment.”

The god of light bursts into laughter.

Once he settles down, he smiles at the redhead. “I haven't laughed this much in years. Thank you, uncle.”

Loki doesn't chide him this time.

Instead, and much to his surprise, he rolls his eyes and huffs: “Sleep, boy. I'll see to it, that your last nap in Heaven will be peaceful.”

It takes Baldr a second to realise, that the fire giant is inviting him to rest his head on his shoulder.

He wants to say no and tell the older to go to sleep of his own, instead of spending the rest of the night on this roof with him. But he is just so incredibly tired, that he allows himself to be selfish for once in his life.

The trickster's scorching temperature seeps through the fire-proof clothing and somehow it makes the Bright One feel like he's wrapped in a warm blanket. He's asleep within seconds.

Loki notices how the younger man's body relaxes and slumps against his right side. And of course he has also noticed, how the other's glow intensified, when he laughed genuinely.

He sighs, wraps an arm around the other's shoulder and glares down at the shock of platinum blond hair.

I hate you and your children, Óðinn. But what I hate even more, is that I love them as well.

---

“Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names.”

#norse mythology #baldr #loki #baldr's death #loki has issues #so does baldr #a murderer and his victim calling each other out #baldr needs a nap #loki needs yoga

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