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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 2 years

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Chapter 29- Alois

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Time dragged like a broken leg. All Alois had for company, all he'd had for the past weeks, were the same set of catsbones, carts of books heaved up stairs from the Palace library, and one singular madman.

Mad boy, Alois had to amend. Elias was indeed a boy- twelve years old, the one solid fact Alois had managed to coax from him- and not a man, though he was, without a doubt, mad. He muttered now, under his breath, his fingers laced and clasped in front of his mouth as he stared down at the jet and ivory tiles of the catsbones board.

Alois watched him, though he should be watching the board- mad or not, Elias could have made a fair amount of coin sweeping catsbones boards at any gambling palace across Pavaloir's harbors. Most of Alois's pieces sat in a tidy pile at Elias's end of the board. His last roll of the dice hadn't gone favorably, either. A few moves, a few flicks of Elias's wrist and the clatter of dice, and Alois would lose his right boot.

"Are you going to do something?" Alois asked.

"Quiet," Elias said, not taking his eyes off the board. He was Estaran, his accent thick as gholiant stew; they spoke their mother language, comfortable as old leather after nothing but courtly Lapidaean for so long. Elias hadn't seemed to recognize Alois. Maybe he didn't care. There was something refreshing about it. Alois might have been any young sailor, any docksman or miner, anyone but who he was.

Fisherman, Alois thought, and then thought of Marin, and his throat grew tight.

"You might as well put me out of my misery," he went on, scrubbing his palm over his eyes. "You're winning. It'd take a miracle for me to pull ahead at this point."

"Miracles happen."

"Not against you," Alois scoffed. Elias didn't answer him, but reached out, tossing the dice. Alois groaned as Elias flicked his three remaining pieces down, three ticks of his nails against the ivory chits. He swept them to this side and raised his wide dark eyes to Alois, a hint of a smile on his face.

"I win," he said.

Alois reached down to tug off his boot. Between the shutters, the long wind-stirred drapes, he heard them: bells, bells ringing across Lapide, a tide of sound growing nearer with each passing moment. The last to sound was the deep bronze voice of the bell crowning the Palace, beneath the hawk finial atop its grand dome. Alois stopped, and straightened, watching his glimpses of the city between the drapes. He rose to cross to them and stood, fingertips brushing the fabric, listening to the bells as they went on, and on.

Beyond the terrace and the spearpoints of statues the Vie was all light, the city all light, verdigrised domes and slanted roofs and spires struck brilliant by the noon sun. The Vie was like a spill of silver ribbon, the clamor of bells becoming discordant, then slipping once more into harmony, a golden tide of sound reaching him up the sheer cliff walls of Valeris Ridge.

They'd rung this way for days. They were mourning bells, Alois knew, though for whom he had no idea. King Daval had wanted no sympathy cultivated for Lapide, but Alois had learned Lapidaean tradition at his mother's feet. She'd slipped him books his father forbade and told him the rest. Bells were rung for festivals and fetes, for coronations, for occasions of joy, the bells an outpouring of prayer for the Triune.

Now, their sound was somber, their pattern funereal. The pall of it hung, and lingered, like scars from plague.

"She's scared," Elias murmured as the sound faded.

Alois looked back. "What?"

"Who else? Princess Isabella." He fiddled with the catsbones pieces. It was a beautiful set, the prettiest Alois had ever seen. His guards at Pavaloir Tower had played with a battered old board and replacement pieces carved from brushfowl bones, but this one was a masterwork, board inlaid with mother-of-pearl forest birds, pieces carved in the shapes of tiny ships. The board tiles themselves had been skillfully made to look like the ripple of water across the deep ocean, so the playing ground became a battlefield, ships sailed and lost across its surface.

Did Cereza sail a battlefield? Was she lost out there amongst waves and starlight, none but the wind as company? Alois felt his hands quiver and clenched them. Gray spotted his vision, pushing in at the edges; always a haze, his vision narrowing. One day it would narrow to a pinprick, and then to nothing at all. No more catsbones, no more sunstruck Vie. He thought of Cereza, of her sweet face, the curls of blonde hair escaping her pearl net. To marry her, to end the war. Peace and prosperity. A long reign. A fair reign.

A fair world, if such a thing were possible.

"I doubt that," he said at last. "Isabella doesn't seem the type for such base and mortal emotions as fear."

Elias shrugged one shoulder. "She is." He set the piece down on the empty board, precisely, then reached to pluck another: this one of jet. He set it ahead of the other, so they seemed to curve along the same course: toward what, Alois couldn't fathom. "Queens and kings have much to lose and much to fear."

"My father's not afraid of anything," Alois muttered.

"Yes," Elias said. "He is."

Alois snorted. "Name one thing that scares Daval Belmont."

"You do," Elias said.

Cold twisted in Alois's gut. He clenched his hands, knuckles blanching. "Don't mock me."

"I'm not."

"Why would my father be afraid of me?"

"That's not what I said." Elias bent again over the board. More ships, now; he moved them, muttering, whispering, swept them away and moved them again. His movements became agitated, and he shook his head and shoved the pieces into a heap, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "No," he said. "No, no, no, it isn't right..."

Alois crossed to him and touched his shoulder. Elias jumped, whipping toward him. His gaze was far away, not on Alois; he was elsewhere, leagues off. With a blink, his eyes focused, and Elias seemed to return to them, to this room. He stared placidly at Alois.

Cold whispered across his skin. Around them, the sound of bells faded. "Are you..." Alois began. His mouth was dry. "Are you all right?"

"Look at this," Elias said.

He set the ships on the board again. Alois sat, slowly. The jet ship sat lonely in the center. Behind it, another chased its course.

"There's a storm coming," Elias said. "All the way across the Great Blue. I saw it. I saw it there and it told me. Its blood shone in the water, and I cupped it in my hands and drank it."

"What? The Great Leviathan?"

"You believe me," Elias said, like it was a fact. "You believe in it. You always have." He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "It calls to you in dreams."

Dreams. Pathways of stars. The falling star that had traced the way to Estara so many thousands of years ago. His mother had whispered to him, even as the word of Bellana was called from the rooftops. Of whales, and godsblood, and blue spurting like rivers from its wounds. The tales of the world's beginning, that the Leviathan shaped it from dark seas, and that all things came from its flesh and its blood. That all things would one day go back to it, and all would become dark again. His mother had taken him by the hand, had helped him saddle his elk and ridden with him to the shrine of the old three-faced goddess.

She'd traced the paintings on the shrine walls, candlelight flickering in her amber eyes, and told him these tales of how all things had begun.

How do you know what's true? Alois had asked her, thinking of the stained glass windows of Bellana in the throne room, the way their colors enshrouded him, so brilliant they made his eyes hurt. Bellana, staring down with her blue-white eyes, her flaming sword aloft as she battled her enemies, seemed real as anything: a force like a storm, like a tidal wave, like his father the king, eclipsing all in its path. He certainly believed Sky-Queen Bellana would hurt him if she found out his pricklings of doubt.

His mother smiled. She wore dusty riding leathers, not her usual gown and veil and gold collar, her hair braided in a coil at the nape of her neck. Her fingertip lingered on a painting: the Leviathan surrounded by schools of sea creatures, the masses following it like cloud gulls follow winds.

No one knows what's true, she said. No one for sure. No one but the whale, and it's not one for telling.

But Father says...

He'd trailed away as cold crept over his skin. Mentioning Daval was like invoking the true name of the Deepmother: it might draw him here, it might make him come and find them. And when he did, he wouldn't have to fear Bellana's wrath. His father's would be enough.

His mother's expression had sombered. She'd turned back to the walls, lowering her hands, and sat at the shrine's edge.

The little spring had plashed down the rocks. The candlelight broke into splinters of light across its surface. Alois had thought about how much he wished he could stay there, not just in the shrine but in that moment, an insect caught in amber. How much he wished things would never change, that he would always feel safe and hidden from the eyes of gods and kings alike.

Mama? he'd asked.

It's all right, Alois.

His mother held out her arms and he folded into them. He was six years old, still afraid of the dark, understanding too much. She'd stroked his curls and leaned her cheek against the crown of his head. The candlelight made the paintings seem to flicker and move: fishes and monsters and whales and winged things, circling and circling to no end.

You are not his, his mother had whispered to him. You don't belong to him. Nor to me, either. You are your own. To burn or to build, you choose. All we have is choice. That was what the Leviathan gave us, greater than all else.

He'd held onto her so tight, believing her with all he was. Four years later she was dead, limp and bleeding on the bed, the whites of her eyes bruised black from her plague. It had killed many, that plague, one of so many plagues to sweep Estara. All her love had seemed to die with her, and all Alois's courage, too, held close like an ember, keeping him warm.

Did belief die so easily? Could it be killed, too?

He didn't know. He didn't know what to say to the mad boy. He plucked a fruit from one of the bowls of plums scattered through the room and took a bite. Its honey-sweetness didn't shake the taste of dread from his mouth.

"Who are they?" he asked as he chewed, nodding at the catsbones board.

"The cursed princess," Elias said. He rested his hand on the lonely ship. "And the bleeding man."

He tapped the other ship. "He hunts her across dark and lonely seas. Hunts her to the flank of the whale, so he can stare god in the eye and ask why, and kill it at last..."

"The cursed princess? Cereza? You see Cereza?" Alois's heart hammered. "Is she all right? Is she alive?"

"Not for much longer. She's dying."

Dying. Not dead. "The bleeding man-"

"You call him Witchhunter."

Captain Azare was hunting Luca and Cereza. On his father's orders, no doubt. Alois experienced a surge of hot anger. Another terrible thing done in service of Daval, in service of Estara. At once Alois wished the Witchhunter were here, were standing in this dim, pretty room with its books and its drapes and its gulls calling from the terrace, so he could demand why. Demand why, and punch him, or draw steel on him. Something equally stupid.

He remembered Azare in the passageway, then. Orklight and shadows, the glint of steel and silver on Azare's Witchhunter grays, the look in his eyes, a longing so profound it had struck cold to Alois's core.

Trust what he asks of you, he'd told Alois, and Alois had. Not for the king, he knew. Not for Daval, but for him, for Azare. He'd wanted so much to trust Azare, and so many had suffered for it. But trust him he had. Even now, a part of him still wanted to.

He set down the plum, sucking juice off his palm. "Bleeding man. Is Azare wounded?"

"There's more what can be wounded than body and bone," Elias said, matter-of-factly, and scratched at his ear.

Captain Azare. Hunting Cereza. Hunting Lapide's hope. Alois thought of Cereza again, her sweet face and fine spirit. He hadn't wanted to marry her, still didn't- he did not want to marry anyone at all- but to have her at his side, be his queen, wouldn't be so bad. She was the kind of person to make things grow, not to raze them with fire. Maybe together they might have become the kind of leaders Alois wished he could be.

Peace, prosperity. Fairness for all. He might as well have wished for honey sweets, too. It was never to be, his betrothal never more than a cloak to hide a dagger beneath.

All the same, he couldn't help but pray she would come back alive. A prayer not to Sky-Queen Bellana cloaked in lightning, but to older gods, nameless gods, weeping water and the flicker of candlelight on stone. All the same, he couldn't help but hope everything would be all right. Not just for her, but for everyone.

For Daval, too?

"Where are they?" Alois demanded, leaning across the board. "Tell me more. Tell me everything."

"Far away...on the rim of the world..."

"Saints-" Anger flashed, a lightning strike, and he slammed his hands down on either side of the catsbones board. The pieces jumped; one ship toppled. Elias flinched, hiding his face in his hands. "I'm stuck here, I'm useless, I'm waiting for nothing-"

Elias was weeping like a child, his shoulders shaking. Alois breathed hard. His own eyes swam with tears. Traitor eyes, in more ways than one. He wished again the Witchhunter were here to do what he'd done ten years ago, to drag him away from the sight of his dead mother and hold him tight in his arms. Azare had wept then, he realized. He'd wept like Elias was weeping now.

Alois let out his breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words sounded glib, but he didn't know what else to say. If it were Marin he'd know what to do, but Marin was a long way from here. Still, he knelt next to the mad boy and put his arm around him, staying with him until his sobs and shudders slowed, until the room was quiet once more.

Elias lowered his hands. Salt tracks glimmered down his face. He scrubbed his knuckles over his nose.

"There's something here," he said. "In the Palace. Like a cloud of smoke. Can't see through it...hurts to try..."

"What? What is it?"

"I don't know. I could see the princess, and then...too much. Too strong. Ghosts whispering. Chained at the wrist and at the neck. They remember...there was a girl here who could talk to them, but this isn't speaking, this is-"

He cut off, and his eyes grew wide. He twisted and grabbed Alois by both wrists. His chair toppled and clattered. Alois jerked back, but Elias was full of some fever strength, and held on.

"It's coming for her," he hissed.

"Who? Isabella?"

"She's in danger," Elias said. "Not just her. Her ghost. It's restless inside her like a bird in an egg, ready to hatch, ready to die-"

There were few times in Alois's life where belief consumed training, where conviction obliterated caution. A child, following his mother's secrets instead of his father's punishments. When he had made his bargain with Isabella, the fledgling promise of a new way of living. Now, that same fervent conviction burned in Elias. He wasn't mad, Alois saw, not really. Simply pushed so far he'd been tilted out of the way most saw, into some new realm of knowledge, some divine place past Alois's ken.

Now, belief swept aside all logic, all doubt. Alois knew.

Something was wrong.

Footsteps approached the door. Alois stood as two Falcii pushed it wide, blocking the doorway. Both were armed, pistol and blade.

"Good afternoon," Alois said, switching back to his formal Lapidaean. "Is everything well?"

The Falcii approached. Elias backed off, hands clenched.

"Prince Alois? Come with us," said the one on the left. Her voice was flat, emotionless. Alois glanced around the room. Plants hung from braided ropes. Shelves held today's collection of books. The breeze stirred the drapes, something below exciting a cloud of gulls so they rose like smoke, buoyed on the wind. A catsbones board, pieces scattered.

"I'm sorry, what's this about?" he asked.

"Come with us." The other one was a big man, a head taller than Alois. "Now."

"Did the princess send you?"

"Isabella is no longer a princess of Lapide," said the first Falcii. "We come under the orders of Captain Enzo Acier, acting regent of-"

"Acier? Where's Isabella?" Alois stepped back. His stocking-clad right foot slid on the flagstones. "What happened?"

The big man drew his stiletto: a sinister whisper of steel to steel. Alois's palms were slick. He stepped back again. The cloud gulls shrieked outside.

"This isn't right-" he began.

"For Lapide," the Falcii whispered.

A howl split the air, a frenzied cry. Elias. "Saints! The pain!" Alois whipped round as he collapsed, writhing, clawing at his face. "The pain! The pain! Saints spare me! It hurts so much!"

"What's wrong with him? He plagued?" The first Falcii swept past Alois; the second looked past him, distracted. "Paolo, hurry up and help me-"

Alois picked up the upset game table chair and swung it straight for Paolo's back. It cracked into him, hard, with the sickening thud of wood against flesh. Paolo cried out and dropped to his knees, bowling sideways. The other Falcii whirled with a shout, blade half-drawn. Daval might look at him with shame, but Alois was a son of Estara.

He was trained as one, too.

The first Falcii came at him, blade loosed. Alois ducked aside and she skidded past him. On the floor, Elias sprang at Paolo, catching him round the neck. Steel sang. Alois ducked as a blade lashed down for his shoulder. The Falcii slashed at him again, and he twisted out of the way. Her sword hit the doorframe and stuck deep.

"Ah, Hells-" she started.

She never finished. Alois hit her on the head with the empty fruit bowl. She collapsed, leaving the sword twanging in the doorframe. He wrenched it loose and turned, braced to fight, but there was nothing, no one. Elias released Paolo, who slumped, unconscious, to the carpet.

"It's all right," Elias said. "I got him."

"Yes, you did," Alois said, eyebrows raised, breathing hard. He peered into the corridor. Nothing there but sun-dappled marble and echoes.

"They were here to kill us," Elias piped up.

"Yes, I rather realized that." He went back for his boot and pulled it on again. It was a good thing he wasn't dead; it'd be damn embarrassing to go to his tomb half-shod. "We have to get out of here. Someone will have heard all that. Come on."

"Ghosts hear everything," Elias whispered.

Alois couldn't argue with that. "Where's Isabella?"

"Down. Down. Down in the dark." The boy brushed past him. "Follow me."

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 29

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trinitychristmas · 8 months

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The Symbolism of the Trinity In Christmas Decorations

Christmas decorations play a significant role in setting the festive mood and creating a joyful atmosphere. However, many of these decorations also carry deep symbolism related to the Trinity.

The Christmas tree, for example, is a staple in many households during the holiday season. It is adorned with lights, baubles, and ornaments, each with its own meaning. The tree itself represents eternal life, while the lights symbolize Jesus, the light of the world. The ornaments, often in sets of three, represent the three aspects of the Trinity - the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Similarly, wreaths, with their circular shape, symbolize eternity and unity. The Trinity is reflected in the three candles often found on Advent wreaths, representing the three persons of God. The colors used in decorations also carry significance, with gold symbolizing the Father, white representing the Son, and red signifying the Holy Spirit.

These decorations not only beautify our homes but also serve as reminders of the profound spiritual meaning behind Christmas, reinforcing our faith and connection to the Trinity.

The Symbolism of the Trinity Christmas Carols

Christmas carols have been sung for generations, spreading joy and celebrating the birth of Jesus. Many of these beloved songs hold deep symbolism related to the Trinity.

Take, for example, the classic carol "O Come, All Ye Faithful." The lyrics "O come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord" highlight the adoration of Jesus, the Son of God. The mention of "God of God, Light of Light" acknowledges the divine origin of Jesus, reflecting the belief in the Trinity.

Similarly, in "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," the line "God and sinners reconciled" emphasizes the role of Jesus, the Son, in bridging the gap between humanity and the Father. The mention of "God in three persons" acknowledges the triune nature of God.

Christmas carols not only bring joy to our hearts but also serve as a powerful reminder of the Trinity's presence in our lives, inspiring worship and gratitude.

The Symbolism of the Trinity in Nativity Scenes

Nativity scenes are a cherished tradition during the Christmas season. They depict the birth of Jesus and often include figures representing the Holy Family, shepherds, angels, and the Magi. These scenes also carry symbolic significance related to the Trinity.

The central figure of the Nativity scene, baby Jesus, represents the Son, who is part of the Trinity. The presence of Mary and Joseph portrays the human and divine aspects of Jesus' birth. The angels, messengers of God, represent the Holy Spirit, who brings divine revelation and guidance.

The Magi, who brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, represent the three persons of the Trinity. Gold symbolizes the majesty of the Father, frankincense represents the divinity of the Son, and myrrh signifies the sanctifying power of the Holy Spirit.

Nativity scenes serve as a visual representation of the Trinity's role in the birth of Jesus, reminding us of the miraculous event that lies at the heart of Christmas.

#trinitychristmas

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a23n7l19y79 · 1 year

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ELOHIM wants us to COME OUT from the churches of men 🏣 & from all other religious institutes 🏤 that teaches lies & deceptions & doctrines of men & demons.

But millions still refuse to harken & heed to ELOHIM'S Messenger. They refuse to seek THE TRUTH. They refuse to take the warings seriously.

Enough time was given to the inhabitants of earth, to seek their TRIUNE ETERNAL CREATORS - 👑ELOHIM👑🌹💕

Archangel Abbadiel / Seraphim Samuel🐦🌾has been crying out in the wilderness for 23 years to warn the human race, of the consequences that will befall upon them, if they refuse to obey ELOHIM.

Archangel Abbadiel has taught us the ANCIENT PATH and how we ought to walk in Holiness, in ELOHIM'S Righteousness & that our lifestyle must be in accordance with the 🎠👑HOLY RIGHTEOUS STANDARDS OF THE KINGDOM OF ELOHIM.👑🎠📜🌾

Only those who remain in ELOHIM and are WILLING 100% to surrender everything and walk in TOTAL OBEDIANCE to THEIR WILL & COMMAND, can be saved.

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All those who support the agendas of the fallen angels & their lies & deceptions through religious institutes, science, new age teachings, etc...& all the ways of this fallen babylonion system, will be destroyed by ALMIGHTY ELOHIM.

Time has already run out⌛. There is no more grace or mercy for those left standing outside "The Holy Ark of Safety". 🕛⏳⏰

Come out of christianity, islam, hinduism, buddhism, shamanism, shintoism, zoroashtanism, judaism, pharsism, jainism, new ageism, scientology, yoga, etc...

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talldarkandroguesome · 1 year

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20th of Evening Star, Tirdas

How many days has it been since I could take even a moment’s breath? The Council has been running me ragged with all these meetings. They are having me do extra trainings. Everything to make me the most eligible bachelor.

I keep reminding them that, although my Dunmer wife may have officially been removed from the picture, I am still very much married.

I know they do not wish to acknowledge my marriage with Qau-dar, but that makes it no less real. I have obligations to our marriage and the vows made. I cannot simply take a mistress without his and his other spouses’ permission. This is something sacred. It may not be the Dunmer way, but it is no less valid for that, either.

Therefore, I will continue to remain as stubborn as possible to this point.

I have so little time to write, I do not even know what to put down in my journal. I am so out of the habit anymore.

And yet, there is so little to write about which needs commemorating.

Sildras is home until after the New Life festival. Every inn, tavern, and corner club is preparing for the celebration. They are clearing a large section of their tables out for the dancing that is to come. Some places have been booked in advance for weeks in order to spend the time there dancing by the fire. Every theater has great works that relate to the history of the Lava Foot Stomp.

And, of course, the offerings for ancestors are in high demand. The Old Life festival honoring of the deceased is always a very popular part of our people’s traditions. Sildras and I were shown the examples by a couple of artisans who I reserved samples from months back now.

Also, we have the longest night bonfire to set up and so much more to organize for that.

Then there is the Nest. The new moon of Masser is going to be just a day passed the banquet tomorrow.

This is why I never sleep. So much to be done!

I am still thinking of ways to tie in the founding of our Nest with the holiday tradition. And I need to obtain some sort of prize for those who did best for Boethiah’s challenge, such as I made it. Even if our main worship is for our Prince, we still need to honor the rest of the Triune and the wisdom they provided our ancestors and ourselves.

I shall attempt to pick up this journal more once again. The Three know I have missed writing.

#ESO #TES #RP #Dunmer #Elder Scrolls Online #The Elder Scrolls

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elladastinkardiamou · 2 years

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The Orthodox Christian holiday of Theophany, also known as the Epiphany, the Celebration of the Lights, or simply ta Fota (the Lights), held every January 6, is the third and final major feast day of the holiday period. Along with St John’s Day, observed the following day, the Epiphany ends the Christmas period in the most festive and symbolic of ways.

According to three of the four gospels – not including St John’s – Theophany (literally “God shining forth”) celebrates the revelation of God when, during the baptism of his Son by John the Baptist at the Jordan River, the voice of God is heard declaring from heaven: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” Besides the revelation of God, this is also the moment when the triune divine presence known as the Holy Trinity, came into being; in addition to God and his Son, the Holy Spirit was present, too, arriving in the form of a dove.

#greece #Epiphany #Greece-is

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rhianna · 3 years

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Hippolytus treats of what is probably a late form of the Ophite heresy, certainly one of the first to enter into rivalry with the Catholic Church.

Hippolytus goes further than any other author by connecting these Ophite theories with the worship of the Mother of the Gods or Cybele, the form under which the triune deity of Western Asia was best known in Europe. The unnamed Naassene or Ophite author from whom he quotes without intermission throughout the chapter, seems to have got hold of a hymn to Attis used in the festivals of Cybele, in which Attis is, after the syncretistic fashion of post-Alexandrian paganism, identified with the Syrian Adonis, the Egyptian Osiris, the Greek Dionysos and Hermes, and the Samothracian or Cabiric gods Adamna and Corybas; and the chapter is in substance a commentary on this hymn, the order of the lines of which it follows closely. This commentary tries to explain or “interpret” the different myths there referred to by passages from the Old and New Testaments and from the Greek poets dragged in against their manifest sense and in the wildest fashion. Most of these supposed allusions, indeed, can only be justified by the most outrageous play upon words, and it may be truly said that not a single one of them when naturally construed bears the slightest reference to the matter in hand. Yet they serve not only to elucidate the Ophite beliefs, but give, as it were accidentally, much information as to the scenes enacted in the Eleusinian and other heathen mysteries which was before lacking. The author also quotes two hymns used apparently in the Ophite worship which are not only the sole relics of a once extensive literature, but are a great deal better evidence as to Gnostic tenets than his own loose and equivocal statements.

Source: Philosophumena; or, The refutation of all heresies, Volume I by Antipope Hippolytus

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65478

#ophite theories #project gutenberg #festivals of cybele

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prolifeproliberty · 4 years

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Hi, I love your blog! I'm Catholic and genuinely curious about which beliefs differ between Catholics and Lutherans. I think my grandpa was Lutheran at one point but he never really talked about it and I'd really like to know! I know inn general we believe a lot of the same things, but what are the differences? Stay safe and healthy!

Hi @soxrox12, sorry this answer took so long! I wanted to take the time to explain everything as clearly as possible and give you a thorough answer.

The basics of what Lutherans believe (what we teach to adolescents and those new to the faith in Confirmation) can be found in the Small Catechism. If you want a more in depth version and don’t mind some more academic language, you can read the Large Catechism. If you’re a total theology/history nerd and want to read about the back and forth arguments between the original Lutherans, the Catholic Church, and other Protestants, the rest of the Book of Concord has all that and more!

To really understand the differences, we have to go back to the origins of Lutheranism with Martin Luther in the early 16th century. Luther was a Catholic priest who, in his studies of scripture, saw major discrepancies between what the Catholic Church was teaching the common people (many of whom couldn’t read and very few of whom had access to the Bible outside of hearing scripture read at Mass) and what he saw in scripture.

The Catholic Church today is not the same as it was in the 16th century, but we still have some major differences. I apologize if I get some Catholic beliefs wrong here, I’m basing this on my understanding of Catholic teaching from my research and from talking to Catholic friends.

I’m putting this all below the cut so I don’t flood everyone’s dash with this extremely long post!

Christian Freedom: Luther had a big problem with the church requiring Christians to observe certain traditions and festivals as a matter of law or obligation. Unless something is specifically commanded in Scripture, it’s optional or a matter of Christian freedom (aka it might be a good idea, but you don’t have to do it). Examples include fasting for Lent (or in general), liturgical gestures (genuflecting, kneeling, making the Sign of the Cross), and so on. We also don’t have any Holy Days of Obligation - while we observe many of the same feast days and festivals as Catholics, we never say anyone is obligated to observe them.

Holy Communion: One thing Lutherans and Catholics have in common is that we both believe that Christ’s Body and Blood are truly and physically present and are truly and physically received by the communicant. Most other protestants see it as a symbol, or see Christ’s Body and Blood as spiritually, but not physically present. This was a big sore spot in the 16th century when Luther met with others who were questioning Catholic teaching. One story goes that he and other theologians were sitting around a table, and the others were arguing over whether Christ’s Body and Blood were truly present. Reportedly, Luther, frustrated by the back and forth, carved the words “This is My Body” into the table and covered it with a cloth. Every time someone (*cough* Zwingli) argued against the Real Presence, Luther whipped off the table cloth and pointed to the words. Jesus’ words on the issue were good enough for him.

We do, however, differ with Catholics on a couple of issues related to Communion.

1. We believe the bread and wine are also still present - we don’t believe that they changed into Body and Blood, but that the Body and Blood are united with the bread and wine. We call this “Sacramental Union.”

2. We don’t believe that Jesus’ sacrifice on the Cross is being repeated every time we celebrate Holy Communion. We also don’t see it as the priest offering Christ’s Body and Blood as a sacrifice. Instead, we see it as participating across time and space in the once-for-all atoning sacrifice that occurred on Good Friday almost 2,000 years ago. Rather than offering the Eucharist, we are receiving it from Christ for the forgiveness of our sins.

Sin, Baptism, and Confession:

I’m putting these all together because there’s a root difference in the way Lutherans and Catholics view sin that shows up in both Baptism and Confession.

Like Catholics, Lutherans believe in original sin - that is, we are conceived and born sinful and in need of a Savior - as well as actual sin (we have sinned against God “in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone”). However, we don’t distinguish between the two when it comes to how we receive forgiveness. We believe Baptism washes away ALL sin, and that in Confession and Absolution as well as in Holy Communion we receive forgiveness for ALL sin.

In Confession and Absolution, we confess all our sins, both those we know and those we don’t, and we receive absolution for all of them. We don’t do penance or have any other steps. Confession is:

Step 1: Confess sins

Step 2: Receive absolution from the pastor as from God Himself.

And that’s it! We do “corporate confession and absolution” (aka confession as part of the liturgy that the whole church says together - very similar to what Catholics have in the Mass) in any service where we have Holy Communion, but we don’t ever require private confession. It’s always available on request if someone is particularly bothered by a sin and needs to hear the pastor absolve that sin specifically, but it’s never mandatory (see “Christian Freedom”).

The Pope, Church Hierarchy, and Tradition:

Luther also had a big problem with the Pope and the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, as he saw lots of potential for and examples of abuse of power. He has some very harsh words about the Pope in his writings. Many Lutheran churches belong to a synod that has a president and some kind of structure, but we don’t view our Synod president the way Catholics view the Pope. A synod is more administration and support, with some ecclesiastical supervision (although that often doesn’t work out the way it should, which is why my church left our synod and we are now an independent Lutheran congregation).

We view Scripture as our highest authority and our Lutheran Confessions and other doctrinal writings as an explanation of what Scripture teachers. We do refer to the Church Fathers for clarification on some issues, but if something is not found clearly in Scripture we don’t take it as doctrinal.

Intercession and Prayer/Mary and the Saints:

We don’t ask for intercession from saints who are in heaven, or from Mary. We only pray to the Triune God - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We learn from the lives of the saints, and we believe they are in heaven with Jesus, but we don’t seek their direct help here on earth.

We don’t pray the Rosary, mostly because it includes those prayers of intercession to Mary/the Saints. We do have several prayer liturgies like the Litany (which our church has been praying a LOT lately because it’s been historically used by the Church - including pre-Reformation - in times of hardship, plague, etc.).

We respect Mary as Jesus’ mother, but we don’t necessarily see her as our Mother or as Queen of Heaven or Co-Redemptrix the way Catholics do.

Essentially we say that our prayers should be directed directly to God and that the Holy Spirit is our mediator who makes intercession for us (Romans 8:26-27).

Monastic Orders and Priests:

We don’t have monks or nuns or any of the monastic orders. Those who wish to go into full-time church work can be Deacons or Deaconesses, and the responsibilities of those roles vary from church to church. Typically they teach (Sunday School, sometimes Bible Study or Confirmation) or are in charge of the charitable work the church does (food pantries, etc).

Our pastors typically go to four years of seminary - 2 years of classes, one year of vicarage in a congregation (like an apprenticeship, working under an experienced pastor), followed by another year of classes before ordination. Then the pastor receives a Call from a congregation, decides whether to accept or decline that Call, and, if he accepts, stays with that congregation until he receives and accepts a Call somewhere else, retires, or (very rarely) for some reason the congregation asks him to leave (usually only if he’s doing something really wrong and is unrepentant).

Our pastors are also free and even encouraged to get married and have children. My pastor has five children and I’ve lost count of how many grandchildren.

-- -- --

This is by no means an exhaustive list of the differences, but these are the key areas that come up most often when I talk to my Catholic friends. I’d be happy to discuss any of these areas in more detail or point you to specific things in our doctrinal books that address them.

Just for fun, here’s some similarities:

Liturgy:

Our liturgy is VERY similar to the Catholic Church’s liturgy. We have “Divine Service” instead of “Mass”, although you can find some very “high church” Lutheran congregations that do use the term Mass and call their pastors “priests” and “Father.”

We also have Matins, Vespers, and other services with very similar liturgies to what the Catholic Church uses.

Here’s an excellent example of an Easter service (and here’s the bulletin if you wanted to follow along) from a high-church Confessional Lutheran congregation in Virginia that I attended when I was an intern in D.C. This was their live stream for this Easter, so due to the small attendance they didn’t do Communion, but otherwise you can see generally what our services are like.

#theology #lutheran #catholic #liturgy #divine service #holy communion #baptism #confession and absolution #book of concord #prayer #faith #religion #christianity #confessional lutheran #confessional lutheranism

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n4b4r1 · 10 months

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title card + chibis i made for the 4-day crunch animatic collaboration i did with @sunIucky and @caelusart for triune festival ✨

you can watch the full animatic we made together here!

#my art #triunefestival #triune festival #oc #my ocs #others' ocs #li yingtai #twitter please work--#aiko (blue one) is mel/sunlucky's oc and jeong-hui (red and blue) is sushi/caelusart's oc!#with cameos from robin/ylisseantactics's oc katakuri on the left + tsering and saiko #who are crispymoonbeam and peapupful's ocs respectively!#and tiny cameo of usagi's tails in the corner KJHFDK

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japhers · 10 months

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Probs an odd question but - how do you find different roleplays to participate in? Like seemingly you find such unique rp's (been enjyoing all of the posts about the Triune Festival on Twitter, and Wonderland rp posts is how I found you.) Is there some sort of secret underground roleplay club that only cool artists have access to? Because damn, I wanna join something like that and yet I have no clue where to look for them :0

I usually just catch wind of them from friends who are a lot more active in that sphere than I am tbh lol, but these days it looks like ppl check these blogs out for openings!

https://twitter.com/RP_Portal

https://twitter.com/RoleplayLog

https://twitter.com/RpDirectory

#japhtalks #apparently there ARE like. invite-only RP group cultures on IG but I've lichrally just learned about them last week #so idk how those work and atp I only ever check out the ones my friends link- JGBSBJGKRESM

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peapupful · 10 months

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🏮-

#triune festival #triunefestival #triune festival rp #tfrp #tf rp #rp #rp group #oc #original character #pea ocs #saiko #art #digital art #my art

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 2 years

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Chapter 23- Isabella

***

"I hate this," Isabella muttered. "Waiting. Smiling." She cast an eye around the gardens, her arms clamped behind her back. "Dancing."

"I'd like to see you dance."

She gave Enzo a look. "No. You would not."

"Crown Princess of Lapide, and you don't know how to dance?" He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Hells alive, I know how to dance, Enzo. I simply prefer my dancing partners sharp and metal."

She wore her sword at her side as she always did, but for tonight's masque she'd eschewed her usual soldier's blues for stiff brocades, sapsilk sleeves falling in dense folds down her arms, caught at elbow and bicep with long fluttering ribbons. Ribbons someone could catch onto, bring her down with a tug. At her neck, a collar of sapphire and pearl someone could strangle her with.

Tonight was Arvadanze, the peak of the midsummer star, when the sun shone its hottest and the moons their fullest. It was a time for celebration even in the height of war, rationed delicacies stockpiled and enjoyed with abandon, dances and folk reels filling the streets of Valeris with song and spectacle. Shrines shone with candlelight, offerings placed to tempt the dead to the living world and join in the festivities.

In years past it was a chance to forget, even if for a moment, the bleak reality of wartime. Isabella hated that she couldn't enjoy it now. She stood like one of the garden statues, straight-backed and rigid. The music, the pooling lanternlight, the haze of conversation around her- none of it helped her mood, and she knew that wasn't likely to change as the night wore on. Even the moonslit beauty of Valeris in summer's full flush couldn't shift it. The moonstruck Vie, the city simmering with the day's heat- all of it seemed like an elaborate painted backdrop for a play, sinister intent waiting in the wings to strike when she least expected it.

Enzo looked as he always did, refreshingly unchanging in Falcii uniform, his jaw-length dark hair a tangle of curls around his sharp face. He let out his breath. "I know how you feel."

She cut him a glare. "Do you, Acier?"

"Like the Triune have their own dark tricks in store."

"You should have more faith in them."

He nudged her with an elbow. "And you in yourself. He'll be here."

Isabella suppressed a smile. "Now who has the faith."

It was hardly a night for suspicions. Cedars creaked in the warm wind. The lanterns drifted overhead in abundance so the garden skies seemed transformed into a raft of light, amber sapsilk spheres like glorious deep-sea jellies, buoyed aloft by internal alchemic flames. Beneath them, Lapide's nobility drifted through pools of light, blue to gold, masked and veiled and perfumed in all the florals and musks of the island.

That was another aspect of midsummer- becoming more than yourself, becoming a stranger. Isabella glimpsed a mask shaped like a pod of sea-orks, set on delicate clockworks so the beasts seemed to crest, to dive beneath enameled waves, and crest once more. Masks like birds, masks like the Singer and the Seven Sisters, masks in honor of the Triune, three faces molded into one. Carved of ork-bone or of deep black ghostwood, set with ivory and opals or molded of glass delicate as a soap bubble.

Faces and hands were painted, bare backs and bodies glimmering with gilt. Valeris's styles ranged toward the ornate, but fashions across Lapide shifted by the region, from the modest to the flamboyant. Isabella's eyes followed a young woman, her hair set with dozens upon dozens of enormous live beetles, stunned for the night with night-drop fumes. She wore little more than beetles, too, and artfully draped sapsilk the same iridescent green as her insects. She cast Isabella a glance and a coy smile, then vanished into the crowd once more.

"Triune," Enzo said appreciatively. "You should have worn that."

"Shut up." Isabella scanned the crowd again, eyes cutting from masked face to masked face. "Damn that Sparrow, where is he?"

Tonight was more than a masque. It was tradition, and Isabella was not one to flaunt tradition. Necessary, too, for her mother’s chancellors to see the state of Valeris and to feel appreciated for their war efforts. Lord Maryen, for the vast barges of timber he shipped down from his forests in the Irial Ridge, had come with his brood of daughters, each red-haired and pallid, heavily powdered against this southern heat. The Duchess Melia of Sithador laughed and flirted with a flock of admirers, like some society girl fresh from her mother's skirts instead of one of the hardest women in all of Lapide. Her fleet of ironsided ork-hunting ships had reaped more grayamber than the other provinces of Lapide combined, sent down in great waxen blocks to be milled and sealed into alchemic weapons. She wore ork's teeth fashioned into scrimshaw fancies, skirts entrapped behind a fantastical cage of carved orkbone. Several of the Valere crown's Buyani allies had made the journey south, too, clad in rich furs and gem-encrusted finery, accompanied by the strange porcelain-clad servants that to Isabella seemed more automaton than flesh, smiling and silent. Her Falcii combed the crowd, circling the masque like predatory birds, watching.

There is a traitor in Lapide, she'd told Prince Alois, who was now under guard, secreted away from prying eyes, watched by two Falcii Enzo had hand-picked for their discretion. To suspect these people, her mother's subjects, her countrymen, and many of them her friends, was in no small part contributing to her black mood. If she couldn't trust Lapide, what in sea and sky could she trust?

“Bell,” Enzo said softly, nudging her.

There was a disturbance somewhere above, an announcement. The revelers shifted, stirred, parting. Isabella looked up and stiffened. At the top of the grand sweep of steps leading down from the garden's higher terrace, dressed in deep blue, stood her mother.

"Triune," Isabella muttered. "What is she doing?"

Whispers swept through the masque around her, ear to ear, masked faces bent together. The queen had not appeared for weeks, had stayed confined to her chambers, her office, her servants and ladies her only companions. Now, she drifted down the steps, surrounded by attendants supporting the voluminous skirts of her gown. It glowed like the evening sky, a vivid azure glimmering with embroidery, the queen's face framed by an elaborate frill of a neckpiece woven of silver and witch feathers. Isabella pushed toward her, pulse pounding, the crowd parting as Enzo slipped ahead of her to clear her path.

"Mother," Isabella said.

She sprang up the steps and amidst the queen's attendants, who tensed as she strode to their charge and caught her arm. Her mother whipped round, but Isabella didn't let go.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I am still queen of Lapide, dear," her mother said.

Isabella pressed forward, close enough to catch the delicate scent of her mother's perfume. "You need to stay inside. Stay in your chambers, where it's safe-"

"Like one plagued. Is that what you're suggesting? Shall I wear a sackcloth hood for you?"

"No," Isabella said. "Triune, mother-"

She broke off, teeth clenched. Her voice had come out too loud; there were stares, murmurs in the crowd around them. Isabella still clenched her mother's arm, so hard she felt delicate bones in her grip.

"I am still queen," her mother said. Her mouth trembled, but she regained composure. "Do you understand me, Isabella? I am still queen."

"You think I don't know that?" Isabella growled. "You need to stay safe. I can't-"

"Highness," Enzo murmured.

Isabella looked up, following the path of his gaze. Through the crowd, she caught sight of a figure standing in the shadows of a towering cedar.

She let go of her mother's arm.

"Isabella," her mother called, but she was already back in the thick of the crowd, threading her way toward the shadows at the garden's edge, past the reach of the lanternlight.

The man waiting seemed almost a part of the shadows, dressed in well-cut black. He leaned against the cedar trunk, hands in his pockets. His mask was blue on one side, white on the other: the Singer, a trickster of Lapidaean folk tales, clever enough to croon the silver from the moons and the blue from the seas. He'd given it back, of course, keeping only enough as souvenir to prove to all what he'd done.

The man behind the mask near lived up to the tale. Renard Irio. Those who knew him called him and his associates the Sparrows, but there were few who knew them, and fewer who knew what they did.

"Highness," he said, bowing his head as Isabella approached. His accent was an enigma, unplaceable. "Captain Acier."

"Ren." She clasped his hand. It was rough with calluses. "Enjoying the festivities?"

"When you've seen as much venomous conversation as I have, it all begins to blur." He paused, then added genially, "But the lanterns are a nice touch."

"What do you have?"

"Dark news, I'm afraid. Follow me.”

Away from the moil of the masque, Isabella felt at last able to breathe again. Through a plain door hidden behind a cedar, through dim stone corridors smelling of damp, mold streaking the walls and eider moths skittering in corners, weaving their spectral nests, Ren at last ushered them into a dank chamber that Isabella thought had once been scullery quarters.

Ren shut the door behind them. The lamp, turned high, threw ruddy light across the table, gusting mothnests, crumbling whitebrick. Isabella sank into a chair and gestured for Ren to follow suit. Enzo stayed by the door, hand on his sword hilt.

Ren slipped off his mask. His face was narrow, unremarkable- with his black curls and dark eyes, he did little to draw the gaze. He looked wearier than the last time Isabella had seen him. His lip was split, and a new half-healed burn rippled down his cheek. He sat, curling over the table. Isabella heard the unmistakable hiss of pain through his teeth.

"Estaran swift patrols," he muttered. "On the way back. Caught me at the border."

"The others?"

"Dead. I disposed of the Estarans." His eyes darkened. "Close, though. It gets closer and closer each time. They're clever as foxes, Highness."

"Foxes can be trapped. Tell me your news, Sparrow."

"Warships," Ren said.

"We already know Estara has warships."

"Not like these." His fingers dipped into his waistcoat, bringing forth a pack of much-worn cards. He shuffled them, reshuffled them, spread them over the table surface. "A new breed of enginecraft. The Crown's machinists call them dreadnoughts. These are armored, three times the size of any we've seen before. Bristling with bolt-cannons."

"How many?"

He turned a card. A man hung upside down, suspended by one foot. Swords pierced his body, blood collecting in a shallow bowl under his head. "Six, and near completion."

Isabella sucked in a breath. Half a dozen warships, each its own arsenal. Three times the size of any other warship in King Daval's navy would make...she didn't know how many alchemic bolts, didn't know the specific magnitude of the destruction sown by a single vessel. She couldn't calculate how many lives. The seas, burning. The skies, burning. Even the stars would burn, falling from the firmament like rain.

She remembered again. A flare of blue, far away. The echoes of an explosion. How beautiful it had looked, that burst of sky-colored light on the dark horizon. Like the Leviathan's light, the great whale coming to save them all.

Isabella's chest was tight. She made herself breathe.

"There's more," Ren said. He turned another card: a flying hornwing, soaring over dark seas. "King Daval sent his Witchhunters after Prince Luca and Princess Cereza. The Royal Witchhunter himself led the mission."

"Damn him," Isabella muttered. She didn't know who she meant: Daval Belmont, or Severin Azare, architect of so many Lapidaean deaths, or Luca, Luca, her foolish brother. Triune, she hoped they were alive.

Ren studied her. "Is there anything else?"

"No," Isabella said. "Not yet."

"Highness." The Sparrow bowed his head. "I am, as always, yours."

He gathered his cards and left, chamber door thudding shut in his wake. Isabella heard a crackle, a boom, through the walls, and tensed, half-rising before she remembered.

"Fireworks," she breathed, and folded to the table once more, her face in her hands. "Bloody things..."

She heard the chair creak. Enzo's warm hand slipped over her shoulder. She looked up. He watched her, his brows drawn together. The bruises from the assassin's attack had faded, but scars remained, a pale lattice of them across his cheekbone and jaw. So many, in service of Lapide, in service of her.

"Come on, Bell," he said softly. Isabella's eyes stung. She tried to stay serene, to stay her tongue, but she couldn't. Not with him.

"What a bloody mess, Enzo," she said. "I thought I was prepared. Earth and sky, I thought I was ready."

"No one's ready to rule. Anyone who says they are is a liar."

"What would you know about it? What was your mother, again? A fishmonger?"

Something flickered across his face: some shadow, gone again a moment later. "I don't remember enough of her to say."

"I'm- I'm sorry. Triune, I-"

"I know, Bell." He stroked his thumb down the curve of her head. "I know you. I know you're strong."

"I wish I had your faith."

"It isn't faith," Enzo said, and Isabella smiled. It felt nailed on, a mask as much as any she'd seen that night. All the same it was enough to make her stand, to make her straighten her spine and harden her heart.

The fireworks painted the sky with smoke and spark trails as she emerged back into the gardens. Night had come, the moons filling the gardens with dense silver light. Isabella smelled kaffa, the smoke and sweet scent promising dulled fears and easy sleep, but she had no desire to sleep yet, no desire to dream.

Ahead, atop one of the garden terraces, one hand trailing along the parapet, walked her mother. Her attendants followed at a distance.

The queen didn't turn as Isabella approached.

"Mother," she murmured.

She stopped.

"Mother," Isabella said again. "Please."

A sigh. Isabella saw her mother's shoulders rise, fall. A breeze ruffled her ornate witch-feather collar, teasing loose strands of her long blonde hair. Isabella smelled heartlain on the wind. It was night, and the flowers were in full bloom amongst the cedars and statues, spilling cascades of their scent into the rich summer air.

"Leave us," her mother said.

With curtsies and murmurs, her attendants dispersed. Enzo glanced to Isabella.

"Stay back," she said, then added, "Not too far."

After a pause and a tight exhale, she went to her mother's side. The queen stared out across the terraced garden, across Valeris below, the lights of the Vie and the great expanse of the bay beyond, the heat haze lying low across the ocean's surface, the bare trace of orange glow where the sun had sunk below the horizon.

“The Sparrow eats from your hand now, I see,” she said at last.

Isabella’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t want to starve. If you’re to accuse me of treason, go ahead. You know as well as I do which of us has Lapide’s best interests at heart.”

“And the Belmont boy?”

“He’s not to blame in this.”

“Hiding him from me won’t win you many hearts.”

“Maybe not, but if it wins the war, I’ll hedge my bets.”

The queen smiled a little. "The first time I remember seeing this city, I was so afraid. Just a child, clinging onto my mother's hand. I felt like a cloud gull hanging in an updraft, like at any moment I might fall. I didn't understand what it meant, what it was. I didn't understand its beauty. All I felt was its fear."

"What changed?"

The queen smiled. "My sister. Alezia was always so much braver than I, so much bolder. Brilliant, and charming, and ferocious as a fellfox. She took my other hand and squeezed it, and told me don't be afraid. A queen is her country, and a country is its queen. I'll be queen of Lapide, so all you need to do is look at Valeris and know it's like looking at me.”

Her smile faded. "I loved her so much."

"How old were you when she died?" "Younger than you. The weight of a crown seemed unbearable to me, but I knew I had to. For Lapide, you see. The sacrifices we make for our countries. If half knew the truth, no one would be loyal."

"And what sacrifices did you make, mother?"

The queen smiled. A faint smile, all rue.

"I never told your father the truth," she said. "It would have destroyed him. And you remind me of him. More and more, I think. Perhaps I'm getting old and soft-headed."

"No truth can destroy me," Isabella said, her voice tight.

"Always so hard, so unforgiving," her mother said. "You got that from me."

She paused, then tipped her head, letting moonslight spill over her, transforming the loose strands of her hair to silver. "Do you know your folk tales, Isabella?"

Isabella nodded, her throat tight.

"Then surely you've heard of the spirits that spin themselves from dark deeds? When a soul commits enough bloody acts, all that pain and fear becomes a creature, a shadow-thing standing slantwise, bound to your heart by an unbreakable thread. It will follow you, haunt you and hound you, all the way to the edge of the sea. There's no escaping it. And I fear mine has found me."

Cold spidered through Isabella's heart. "What have you done?"

"The war was never started by Estara, Isabella. It wasn't greed that spurred Daval into breaking his father's treaties. It was vengeance."

"What?"

"You remember the Black Lung?"

"Of course. A plague."

"Yes. A terrible plague. How it ravaged Estara. None were spared. Peasants choked to death in their hovels, queens died smelling of perfume even as black blood darkened their sheets. Etain Belmont was a proud man, but not so proud he could not come to me privately for his country's salvation. He begged me for help, for physician's reagents, for alchemical knowledge, for ships to carry refugees- anything that might save his people."

Her voice grew soft. "And I refused. I saw Estara, our ancient rival. I saw it weakened. And I saw our victory in that weakness."

Isabella stared.

"Lapide could never stand against an Estara at full strength," the queen said. "Not with their spellforges, their enginecraft. If I could cripple them, I thought, they might never recover. Not enough to challenge us. Not for a long time."

"You could have helped them," Isabella managed. Her body felt numb. "You could have brokered peace-"

"Maybe," her mother murmured. "Or maybe they would have responded to our handshake with a knife in the back."

"You don't know that."

"This war unified a Lapide that might have fallen at the first sign of a Belmont navy-"

"This war slaughtered thousands." Isabella advanced on her. "You're just the same as Daval, just the same as any of them."

She stopped short, her pulse in her throat. "You're the reason Cereza and Luca are gone. You're the reason this war began in the first place. Do you know what Estara has? Do you know what they made in their crippled, plague-weakened state while you sat and mourned? Estara has a fleet of dreadnoughts, and a spellfire bolt for every Lapidaean citizen. Maybe I should call you Bloodmonger, and not Daval."

"No-"

"Yes." Isabella advanced again, so close she smelled the delicate musk of her mother's perfume. "You've damned Lapide. We lost the war at the first bloody shot."

"Bell," Enzo said, touching her arm. She flung him off.

"What was I to do, Isabella?" her mother said. Her voice was still soft, her gaze distant. "I had to make a choice. Estara's sure victory, or Estara's uncertain victory. Lapide's survival, or Lapide's doom."

Isabella flung her hand out. "And which one is this?"

The queen watched her in silence.

"You look so like her," she said at last. She reached for Isabella's cheek. Her fingers were warm. Isabella flinched away. "So like her."

Footsteps scuffed.

A blade hissed.

Isabella whirled as a shadow stepped behind Enzo and stuck a knife deep in the side of his neck.

Her scream was trapped inside her, her muscles locked. Enzo crumpled, falling to his knees, clutching his throat in both hands. Blood pulsed between his fingers, spilling down the front of his uniform, turning the blue material black and glistening. Scarlet gleamed on steel: a stiletto clenched in a gloved hand.

A cloaked, masked figure stood over Enzo's body.

Enzo's body.

No.

White light ringed Isabella's vision.

No-

A raw howl of rage burst from her. She drew her sword in a slash of silver as she drove herself into a lunge, point aimed for the assassin’s heart. He threw himself backward, clumsy and heavy. Steel flashed: a blade of his own. Metal screeched against metal, and Isabella's strike panged up her arm, tossed aside. She twisted away as he struck out, a graceless swing of his sword like he was chopping wood. Isabella's next lash caught him across the ribs, opening him wide.

"Ha!" she cried.

Triumph died fast as he didn't fall. He didn't stop. He didn't slow, even as fluid burst from his side and spattered the white stone of the terrace. Isabella stumbled back, eyes wide; she hazarded a glance at her sword. Black liquid streaked the blade.

Not blood. Not even close.

She looked back up as steel sliced for her face. Her pulse spiked. She barely caught the strike; the blade screamed down the length of her sword and juddered against its guard. Isabella twisted her wrist, trapping the stranger's sword. Her muscles burned as he pushed, driving her backward. She strained for footing.

He grabbed at her arm, nails biting deep into her flesh. His blade hovered, inches from her throat. Triune, he was strong, too strong. Another scream burst through her teeth as he slammed her against the base of a statue. One of her dead ancestors. Damn this assassin, she wouldn't die here. She brought her knee into his guts, all her strength, all her weight behind the blow. Bone popped; she hoped a rib. He was flung away, and she shoved off the statue dais, teeth bared, whirling her blade round and angled for his throat.

Its point burst from the back of his neck. Isabella wrenched it out, and with it came the stranger's mask, torn away. He didn't flinch, didn't drop, but the confusion over that was swept away, replaced by a stab of sickening horror that locked Isabella in place.

The face beneath the mask, visible at once in the spill of moonslight, was familiar- a young man's face.

A dead man's face.

One of the younger Falcii the assassin had slaughtered, one of the men who'd been given funerary rites in the chapel of the Triune mere weeks before. His skin was rigid and dappled with blots of bruised decay. Dry wounds gashed across his face and neck, the wounds that had killed him the first time. Black fluid spat from the puncture left by Isabella's sword. He stared at her, sightless, his eyes milky. Twin points of silver light burned in their depths.

Isabella's composure stuttered, her heart a hammer beat as the dead Falcii advanced. His movements were jerky, like some mummer's puppet.

"Mother," Isabella cried. The queen stood rigid, pressed against the parapet, eyes bright in the moonslight. "Mother, run-"

Force cracked across her face.

The world turned white, turned wet, throbbing red. Isabella was at once weightless, her knees giving out from under her. He'd struck her with the pommel of his sword. She fell backward. The side of her head hit the statue dais. Pain detonated like fireworks inside her skull. She crumpled to her hands and knees, sword clattering from her grip.

The dead Falcii kicked it away as Isabella grabbed for it; it skittered through a gap in the parapet, lost over the edge of the terrace.

No-

Flame, blue as a summer sky. Soldiers screaming, her father screaming for her to help him, for her to save him-

No-

The Falcii spun his knife, reversing his grip, and advanced- not on Isabella, but on the queen. Isabella flung herself toward them, but he kicked her aside.

"No!" she screamed, through blood, through tears, through the smell of heartlain bitter on the wind.

He seized the queen by the arm, twisting it aside as she drew the small knife concealed in her stays. Isabella scrambled to her feet. Too slow, always too slow. She could do nothing but watch as the dead man's dagger flashed and sank to the hilt in her mother's heart.

He twisted the blade, then twisted it deeper. The queen choked; her hand flew to his wrist, her nails biting deep, but still he didn't let go.

Isabella threw herself at him. She slammed hard into him, felt dead flesh give, felt him tip out of balance. His hip struck the parapet. He didn't cry out as he tumbled over and fell, plummeting thirty feet to break across the terrace below.

Isabella panted. Her face felt hot and wet. Pain pulsed behind her eyes, but it was distant, not yet reaching her.

Her mother collapsed. Isabella caught her, taking them both to the ground. Red streaked the pale stone, brilliant in the full moonslight. The stiletto jutted from her mother's chest: a careful strike under the left breast, angled up to pierce her heart.

The sapsilk around the wound was black with blood. More gushed as Isabella pressed the heel of her hand to the wound, as if that could slow the bleeding.

"Mother," she said. A knot gathered in her throat as the queen's head tipped back. Her hair had come loose, gold and gray. Blood arced across one cheekbone. Her eyes were unfocused.

"Mother," Isabella said again. Heat streaked down her face. "Mother, listen to me. Listen. I'm going to run, I'll get help-"

"Stay with me."

"No," Isabella said, her voice hard, her hands shaking. She hooked a strand of her mother's hair away from her face. If Luca had not stolen the Belmont cup, it would be here. She could save their mother. She could fix this. But he was gone, and the Cup with him, and healing this seemed as impossible as his mad dreams of finding the Leviathan. "I won’t let you die. Do you hear me?"

The queen's eyes drifted shut. "Listen to me!" Isabella cried. She shook her mother. "Mother, please, please, Triune, please, give your mercy, give it to her, save her-"

Her eyes fluttered open again. They shone bright as mirrors, reflecting the glory of stars overhead.

"She always told me I was too secretive for my own good," she murmured. Her hands scrabbled. Isabella thought for a moment she was reaching for the knife, but instead her fingers searched for a fine chain she wore around her neck. She tugged it loose: not a pendant, but a broken half-circle of scrimshaw, worn smooth by countless years of handling. "Always said it would hurt me one day. I thought...I thought she was trying to make me doubt myself...seems she was right, after all."

"Don't speak," Isabella begged. "Save your breath."

"No." Her eyes focused, fastened on Isabella's face. Her hand left the piece of scrimshaw and cupped Isabella's cheek. "Alezia. I'm sorry. Lapide would have suffered. There would have been so much more death..."

Isabella could not move. The knot tightened in her throat, strangling her voice. Stars trembled in her mother's eyes.

"Now there's so much more to come," she whispered. "So much more Lapide has to lose. The boy…I'm glad he was spared, in the end. Do you think he can ever forgive me?"

The stars went still. A shudder, a sigh, then nothing more.

Isabella stared down at her mother's face. She'd missed it, she thought. The moment her life had left her, the moment she was gone, and gone forever. Like a spirit in a magician's bottle, once loosed, there was no reeling it back. Now, her dead mother's body weighed heavy in her arms, and she was left cradling a corpse.

Far away:

Shouts, commands. Guards, approaching fast.

"Too late," she heard herself say. "You're too late." She leaned against the parapet, shoulder pressed to the stone. Enzo lay across the terrace, a black pool of blood haloing his head. He didn't move.

Isabella stroked her mother's face as nailed boots rang against stone. The bone charm on its chain glimmered- where had she seen it before? Somewhere, she was certain. Hands grasped her arms, pulling her gently away, but she didn't let go. Voices came to her- Highness, are you hurt? Triune, the Queen, someone fetch a physician- She ached to get to her feet, but her legs didn't obey her. She wanted to scream, to fight, but there was nothing to fight. Only the dead, and the soft darkness reaching to pull her down into unconsciousness.

Fight, Isabella-

She didn't have the strength. The darkness rose, and it was soft, and this time Isabella didn't try to fight it.

She let herself fall.

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 23

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 4 years

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October Drabbles Master List

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A Fae-ted Meeting - Steve Rogers x OFC

Strange Happenings - Stephen Strange and Female!Reader

The God’s Sacrifice* - Thor Odinson x Sif

Pumpkin - Clint Barton x Female!Reader

Clever Costumes - Loki x Pregnant!Reader

Clowns Make For Crappy Dreams - Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Double Trouble (An Attention One-shot) - Steve Rogers x Triune!Reader

Vampire Queen (A Qi Flows For Her Drabble) Celine and Peter Parker

Haunted House - Steve Rogers x Female!Reader, Bucky Barnes x OFC

Golden Heart Festival* (A Golden Heart One-shot) Heimdall x Female!Reader

Once A Witch Samhain (A Once A Witch Drabble) - Steve Rogers x Nessa!Reader

A Missed Opportunity (A Blessings of Magic Prequel) Loki and Lauren

NSFW marked with a *

#October drabbles #October one shots #Halloween drabbles #fall drabbles

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noxshade · 4 years

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Day 3: Adventure

Flandre Scarlet sat alone in her room. While Sakuya, Meiling or Koakuma would often come to keep her company, they were all occupied, and Flandre was running out of things to do. She had promised her sister she wouldn’t leave the mansion, and the library was off-limits while Patchouli engaged in some delicate alchemical experiment. She had already constructed several adorable new stuffed animals, then utterly obliterated them, and the shade of boredom was beginning to set in.

Gazing around her room for the fourth time, her eyes fell on a wooden box tucked away in a corner, one that she hadn’t played with in decades. She floated over and extracted the elaborate chest from beneath several blankets and rugs before popping the chest open. Inside were dozens and dozens of wooden blocks from centuries ago. At last, something to do. With a snap, the floor cleared itself, and Flandre dumped the chest’s contents onto the carpet at the center of her room.

With a twist of her hand, the blocks began to sort themselves; bricks, arches, cones, wedges and more slowly assembled themselves into piles with the arrhythmic sound of wood sliding on wood. As blocks sorted, she noticed a small pile of figures that had gathered at her feet via the sorting spell. Flandre picked one up and examined it. It was a very crude representation of a humanoid, little more than a cone painted red topped, with a peach-colored orb where the point of the cone should have been. Faint, faded black lines told of a dozen different expressions this figure had worn with paint or ink, before being wiped away. An idea began to form in Flandre’s mind.

She tapped the head of the little doll and a tiny mob cap, a mirror of the one she wore on the rare occasions she left the basement, appeared on the doll’s head. She poked it on the side, and tiny, rainbow-colored, crystalline wings sprouted from the sides of the cone. She set the miniature wooden Flandre down on the carpet and pulled a pillow up under her chin as she laid down and began sorting through the figures. A purple one became Patchouli with a little set of glasses and a wooden book attached to the side, and a dark blue Sakuya figure got a frilly headdress and a tiny stopwatch painted on the side. She quickly filled out her family, friends, and more. She made a Reimu and Marisa, set them by Sakuya, then thought for a moment. She pulled the last powder blue figure out and thought hard about Reimu’s description of the other miko, the annoying one from the outside world. Flandre had never met her, but Reimu and Marisa described how she had helped them with many incidents. She poked its head, adding a frog and snake decoration.

With her cast completed, Flandre spent the next hour constructing a wooden block Gensokyo, as best she knew it from maps and occasional glimpses outside. The Scarlet Devil Manor was easy, she grabbed all the red blocks there and made a miniature mansion. For the Misty Lake, she pulled a bright blue blanket from her closet and set it down in the rough shape of the lake. She set the figure of the ice fairy, with her friend and their three rival fairy pranksters down on the lake, and slipped a mermaid doll underneath the blanket. From there, her enthusiasm spun a spell, and the sorted blocks moved to create all the landmarks she knew of. Many rows of boring brown blocks constructed the Human Village, all the green cones arranging into the Forest of Magic, with two open spots for Marisa and Ms. Margatroid’s houses, and a pile of yellow cylinders turned green as they became the Bamboo Forest of the Lost, a generic purple building forming what Marisa had described as a “rabbit house”. And lastly, she hand-assembled the Hakurei Shrine, at the eastern edge of her wooden Gensokyo. It was ready, except...the burgeoning story in her mind still needed one thing: a villain. She snapped her fingers and three mirror images of herself appeared, cloaked in darkness. At last, the stage was set.

~~~

“It's bad!” shouted the other shrine maiden as she flew towards Marisa. “There's three shadow demon king things threatening the human village, right before the big festival!”

Marisa set a look of grim determination on her face. “We should assemble the Incident Resolution Squad!” They both set off for Reimu’s shrine. Reimu was lazing about the shrine, lamenting her poverty, as usual. Marisa and The Other Miko told her all about the demon, and she groaned.

“I guess we should get the perfect maid as well.” she said.

“I should help as well,” said the ghost gardener samurai, who was also there for some reason.

“You’re right Gardener,” said Reimu, “We’ll need all the help we can get!” The four of them flew over to the Scarlet Devil Manor, and asked that Sakuya Izayoi aid them in their battle.

“This sounds like a really serious incident,” Sakuya said, wondering to herself. “Will we five elite Incident Solvers be enough to handle it?”

Flandre had been watching from the shadows, and now she spoke up, “Perhaps you all would like some help with this?”

“Oh yes, the legendary Left Hand of Obliteration!” said The Other Miko “Please help us vanquish this evil!”

“This darkness is an old adversary, I will aid in your quest, and we will save the Century Festival!” Flandre heroically replied, and they set off to confront Forakindus, the triune of legendary evil sealed in the depths of Makai for four hund--

~~~

Someone knocked on her door.

“Flandre, I’m back from the market, and I’m cooking dinner and need help,” came the voice of Sakuya. “Would you like steak and potatoes or sausage?”

“Sausage please!” Flandre replied, and she left her room to help prepare the meal. As she did, her duplicates dissolved, and her tiny Gensokyo entered fictional limbo. The shocking reveal of the little wooden Flandre’s true identity as the lost fourth member of Forakindus that rebelled against the others, and the fate of the Centennial Festival for Magical Girls both saved and not saved by the arrival of dinner time.

#gensokyofestival #flandre scarlet #touhou #noxcontent #sakuya izayoi #imagination

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