Keep reading. A continuation of this Fantasy AU. Okay, I'm about to kill you with the angst, how about 5 with Danti, where one of them is dying and the other is holding him and once he dies he other realizes that he never actually said I love you back and now it's too late to say it? I'm feeling like being Satan today. Everyone thought Anti to be near immortal. They were all so, so wrong. But he has no regrets. But Dark found him with minutes to spare, by luck or chance or fate, no one knows nor cares.
Smile and laugh and be happy.
Dark sobs silently and he promises. He promises everything. And Dark whispers thousands of words left foolishly unsaid to that nothingness. Are the first maidens and Ozpin lied. What if both stories actually form the whole truth though? Instead those souls were always drawn to one another subconsciously and to magic which led them to their dad one day in the four maidens tale.
Oz gives these girls powers because they remind him of the children he lost and now both their souls reincarnate while retaining the Magic. In actuality that would be pretty sad.
The Immortal Curse Series
I bet he misses them too; unaware his daughters have been with him many times over. I describe the pantheon of Hellenic Gods like a tapestry. The major displays woven into it are undoubtedly of Zeus and Hera, of Their brothers and sisters, of Their parents and well-known children like Apollon and Artemis. But the fringes of the tapestry are just as colorful as the main display. Without these minor Gods and Goddess, the tapestry would not only be plain, it would be threadbare.
One must invest in at least the pursuit of knowledge about every single God or Goddess in our pantheon to fully grasp the parts you thought you already understood. There are probably thousands, after all. All worship was conducted in the exact same way: we start with a procession no matter how short toward the altar, where we purify ourselves and the space around us with khernips lustral water made by dropping something smoldering in water.
Immortal Bonds - Fantasio - The Immortal Augustus Gladstone [Archive of Our Own]
We also sow barley groats. This is not only a form of purification, it was the start of the process of kharis ritual reciprocity where the strewing of barley groats on and around the altar of the Theoi is like a spiritual sowing to reap the benefits of later asked for through prayer later on in the rite. As such, the barley that we use is whole form, just like it is for actual sowing of the crop. Once purification is performed, a hymn is sung or proclaimed. Hymns are sung to please, to bring forth. It is a way to celebrate the deity in question, but also to make Him or Her more inclined to grant the request to follow.
Hymns were accompanied with music and dancing; they were true celebrations in that regard. They are performed to proclaim existing kharis and built upon it by showing respect and knowledge of the lives of the Gods. Today, they are mostly proclaimed, but the words are heartfelt and proclaimed clearly and if at all possible loudly. Prayers are next on the agenda. Prayers are attempts by men and women to communicate with Gods by means of the voice. A prayer is carefully formulated to convey a message as persuasively as possible to the God, and was thus often spoken.
The idea is not to please, but to request. They make use of the established and just now strengthened kharis to petition the Gods for aid. Where the hymn is an offering to go along with material sacrifice, the prayer is not an offering at all. To soften the request, prayers are often accompanied by the sacrifice—the main event of the rite. A sacrifice to the Gods is a way of bonding, of kharis. Practically, this means that whatever the sacrifice, it should be given with love, dedication and with respect to the bond between immortal and mortal. This outlay is the same for all Gods, be They major or minor.
You can worship Gods with very little to none mythology to Their name exactly the same as those with extensive stories to be told and proclaimed.
For example:. You who brought forth the birth of bright Artemis and Apollon, twin champions of arrows and protectors of children, you whom Galanthis tricked to allow the birth of the great hero Herakles, drawn near to my humble altar and lean down to lend me Your ear and accept the sacrifice I make in Your honor, for without you Goddess of childbirth, Eileithyia, maid to the throne of the deep-thinking Moirai, child of all-powerful Hera, hear my song.
For without you should we see neither the light of day, nor know the kindly dark, nor win the gift of Hebe, thy sister, the glorious limbs of youth. Like elements of nature, we complete each other. Four immortal souls, one friendship, one indestructible bond, one story. The oath is a rare and almost holy bond. The only thing greater than that is the mate bond. But in Fenrys case, that bond was abused. He was forced to swear the oath to Maeve, instead of taking it out of loyalty. However, the keys to her mortality are held by a year-old Maltese Knight who is determined that she will be his-body and soul.
Their battle ultimately reveals a fate that neither expected.
Forbidden Bonds Immortal Curse Series Book 2 ebook by Lexi C. Foss
I'll be keeping my windows locke Jane Dougharty, an immortal, abandons everything and everyone she loves for a chance to be mortal once again and stay with her beloved husband, Rand. I'll be keeping my windows locked each night from now on. Scovill's breakout novel of immortal life scared the dickens out of me. Her characters so real I can still feel their presence, even if my heart followed her heroine. Descriptive scenes and well researched time frames carried me along with her story, unable to put the book down until finished and I was sure daylight had arrived.
This can't be the end - more please. As both a book reviewer and a writer, I was pleased. Scovill's characters are rich and layered, the plot moves along at a scorching pace, the research is legit, and the conclusion is satisfying. She's definitely a writer to read and watch. This book is just too damn good to be a debut novel.
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Dawn Scovill is an accomplished storyteller who will draw you in like a spider to her web, only this web is made up of wit, gut-wrenching suspense, and an astonishing sense of pathos. Rick R. Get A Copy. Hardcover , pages. More Details Original Title. Other Editions 2. Friend Reviews.
To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Remember Me. Work Search: tip: buffy gen teen AND "no archive warnings apply". A little post-canon vignette. It had finally come. After so many years spent waiting, hiding in the shadows of decrepit buildings, far from sight, far from any living souls.
The witching hours had come at last. The sun was setting over Portland; the glow it cast over the tall buildings and the harbor was eerie. The intricate play of shadows and light it created was beautiful, and it gave the concrete an appearance of warmth and comfort. Yet, would have one went to touch it, they would have found it cold and hard and as dead as ever before.
But no one ever thinks of the metaphysics of stone, do they? So mused the man standing in one of the city's cemetery, his tall and lank figure casting a shadow over the austere, recently-dug grave in front of him. He had come a long way, and must have been extremely tired, for his face would have looked elongated and pale to an external onlooker.
Strangely, it was way past closing gates time, and yet, nobody came to escort him away. But then, his entire journey had been full of people avoiding him.
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When he first departed from France, everyone he had passed by would either look up at him and then quickly look down again, or simply snigger in that immortal, condescending Gaelic fashion. Here, in the United States of America, it was a bit different. He seemed to make people more quizzical about himself than anywhere else he had been in the world. Smiling men-even now, it was so often men-would come up at him to chat, then really look at his eyes and skin and clothes and ask if he was alright.
When he answered in a French accent, they generally left, or, thinking he was some foreign movie star, asked for autographs. But Robert Montesquiou was used to all that nonsense. He had always been one of a kind, after all. But what kind?