In the morning we are holy

We are holy and pure and no evil
Should shake us
Earth trembles and wind tramples

But we remain holy
Because we are innocent
Do you understand?
We are innocent
No man can take that away

Do you hear me?
I will not stand for this
In the morning we will be childlike
Age of youth transcend beyond us
Glitter and pink shirts with “angel” written
in jewels
Plaster our bodies

In the morning we will be free
Do you understand me?
Do you hear me?
We will be clean
We are embodied innocence,
We are “I will be okay” written in stone

In the morning we will sing hymns
Hymns which protect us
From shame and shrinking
We will grow from now on
Do you hear me?

We are a garden, we are soft soil
We are growth and we are alive

We are innocent and no man
Can take that from us anymore
Do you understand?

In the morning we are holy
I understand where you’re coming from [nukirk], but I want to tell you that in this life, it’s never about being right, it’s about being what you can prove. It’s not about what you think is fair, it’s how ‘fair people’ use the unfairness to gain power.  You don’t want power. I respect that, and that’s why I like you. You have creativity, I dig that. I like that you are honest. You’re a good person.  Sadly, you’re gonna get stomped on, trampled on, chewed up, and spit out. There’s nothing wrong with power. It’s a tool. It’s the ABUSE of power that you gotta fear more. So, gain power… or get trampled. Which do you want? Get the power and only use it when you REALLY need to and I’ll follow you off a cliff.
—  Paraphrasing a friend about my refusal to read the 48 Laws of Power. I hang with dangerous minds. 

I wrote a part three of the Ivar story that originated with the Friday prompt game, and a part four will be coming. This is getting out of hand.

The stables were always peaceful to me, and I needed an escape after the feast last night. I felt like I’d been trampled by a herd of horses—the headache was beginning lift with my work, though. I stood in my horse’s stall, picking through her straw with a pitchfork and tossing the soiled stuff into a barrel in the barn aisle. I didn’t really trust anyone else to care for her, although it would take a special type of dumbass to not be able to muck a stall.

“Someone said I would find you here, but I didn’t expect you to be shoveling shit like a common farmer.” I jumped in surprise at the smooth voice, dripping with condescension, and heard a triumphant chuckle. “Not feeling yourself today, dear Thora?”

I glanced at him but continued my methodical cleaning. He was smirking, of course, even white teeth glinting in the dim light of the barn. I flicked my tongue over the cut those teeth had torn in my lip last night. “You’re ruining my morning, Ivar.”

“Well, you ruined my night,” he countered. I snorted, and he continued, “I told you you would submit to me, but you never did. But I have a way you can make it up to me.” In sheer disbelief, I turned to face him. He grinned sweetly up at me from the dusty floor. “Does your chest hurt much?”

I looked down at where his eyes lingered, at the cuts below my collarbone. One was surrounded in a deep purple bruise, the cut reduced to a thin red line from the swelling. Deep tooth marks showed in a near perfect circle. “It would take more than a sullen prince to hurt me.” I had rolled my sleeves up to my elbows as I worked, and a jagged scar up the outside of my right forearm was clearly visible, but I held it toward him anyway. Once the wound had healed over, my father had carefully inked a large, intricate loop of knotwork around it.

“Come here,” Ivar’s voice was intrigued, he used the easy tone of one who expected to be obeyed. I decided there was no harm in complying right now. I knelt before him and he took my arm gently in his calloused hands. His index finger lightly traced the tattoo, raising my skin into gooseflesh. “This was done by a man of great skill. It adds to the beauty of the scar without distracting from it.” He nodded his approval, and released my arm. Part of me—a large part—wished he hadn’t.

“My father did it.” My clipped tone brooked no further discussion, and he unexpectedly let it slide. I returned to my work, hoping he would take my second hint, but my luck had run out. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him shifting into a more comfortable position.

“Now, about how you will make this up to me. Which horse is yours?”

I was so caught off guard by the question that I answered automatically. “The dun with the black stripe down her back.” I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious. “Why? If you harm her, I will kill you.” He threw back his head and laughed, a sound alive with true amusement. He had a nice laugh when it was genuine, warm and sweet as an embrace.

“I only wish to hook her to my cart. There is enough room for you to come, too., but you will have to help me hook her up.” I appraised him, the earnest look on his face, and sighed in resignation. Without a word, I leaned my pitchfork against the wall and went to fetch my mare. “Thora!” Ivar’s voice was sharp as he started to follow me. “Where are you going?”

“To get Freya. Wait here.” He obeyed, and left me in peace to get her. She greeted me eagerly when I called to her, and I scratched her favorite spot on her withers as I slid the rope halter over her head and led her into the barn. She was a type of horse common where I came from, but I had not seen another like her in Kattegat yet. She was smaller than most horses, stocky and strong. Her mane was cut so it stood on her neck, accenting the arch of her neck and the muscles packed onto her frame. Her kind was bred as an all-purpose horse, used for riding, pulling carts, and plowing fields. They were intelligent, kind, and friendly horses, and I loved Freya dearly.  Ivar was waiting where I left him. I had brushed her before putting her in the field, and she thankfully hadn’t rolled, so we were ready to go. “Where is your cart?”

He smiled up at me with anticipation. “Follow me.” He set off, his legs creating a trail through the dust on the floor, and I found myself feeling bad for how dirty he had to get crawling around like that all the time. If it bothered him, he was too proud to show it. He led Freya and I to a shed behind the barn and pulled open the door with a flourish. The pride on his face was evident, and I had to admit the cart was an impressive piece of work. “Floki made it for me, to give me mobility on battlefields.”

I smiled at him, reaching a hand to trace a finger over a carving in the side. “I have seen it in action, but never up close. It’s amazing.” I turned Freya around and backed her between the two shafts, then quickly hooked her in. The white horse I had seen hooked to this before was less stocky than Freya, so I adjusted the buckles until the harness fit her comfortably. She opened her mouth for the bit, and I turned to find Ivar. “My horse, I drive.”

He was sitting in the cart, reins already in hand, smiling lazily at me. “My cart, I drive. Get in, or we leave you. Just this once, Thora, don’t argue. I won’t even consider this submitting if that makes you happy.” Grumbling under my breath, I climbed into the cart behind Ivar and grabbed the edges to steady myself. He shook his head. “Once we get going, you’re going to want to be holding to me.”

“I would rather fall off,” I retorted. Ivar shrugged one shoulder, uncaring, and slapped the reins across Freya’s back. She started forward, dropping her head and pushing  into the harness. It was lighter than what she was used to, and her ears flicked in surprise as we started moving. “She is voice trained, too. You don’t have to just use the reins, but she will respond to either.”

As we left the stableyard, he called out “trot!” to Freya, and she took off at a brisk pace. I cursed at the change and clutched at Ivar’s shoulders. I could feel the muscles beneath my hands flexing as he laughed, “I told you. Sometimes it is wise to listen to me, Thora.” I stepped closer to him, pressing my stomach against his back, and dropped my hands to clasp them together around his chest.

He leaned his head back against my chest, and I bent forward to swiftly bite his ear. “This is still not submitting,” I growled.

I could feel his chuckle in my ribs, and he shook his head. “No. Submitting comes when we get where we’re going.”

People using the racist shit Disney’s used in cartoons before for why Pewdiepie isn’t at fault is just… really out of context, plain and simple.

Disney no longer uses those characters, imagery, or jokes. Ever. Full stop they do not use any of them and never air those cartoons again because they are offensive, insensitive, and racist. Even if they didn’t mean them to be, they have taken responsibility for their actions, unlike Pewdiepie. Pewdiepie’s antisemitic videos were made for the purpose of making antisemitic jokes, nothing more. They can’t even be called jokes either, because a man literally walks around dressed as Jesus and praising Hitler. That isn’t a joke, it’s Nazi propaganda because at no point is this framed as a bad thing, it’s framed as people’s horrified reactions being “funny” and “over the top”, justifying the video.

At no point is there an apology or even statement recognizing how damaging and outright terrifying this is, because as it stands right now there are legitimate nazis out and about threatening people’s lives; there is no way for people to be able to tell until after the fact that it was supposedly a joke and not an actual nazi. This is just one of multiple videos he did in this manner.

So yeah, it’s not the same thing and Pewdiepie is actually at fault. If you fail to see this, and still ‘stand with Pewdiepie’, please examine your actions and ideas because you are standing with someone, who intentionally or not, is validating the ideals of a group of people who’s purpose is to work tword the genocide of already stigmatized groups of people.


1. Você é apenas um brinquedo.
2. Seu lugar é sempre embaixo dos meus tênis,
3. Eu escolho o que você come.
4. Sua cama é meu tênis Vans.
5. Um chute é um aviso.
6. Nunca terá um segundo aviso.
7. Quando não tiver o que fazer, limpe a sola dos meus tênis. Sempre tem um resto de comida ali para você.
8. Ajoelhe-se sempre quando precisar pedir algo.
9. Sua vida não é sua. É minha.
10. Se eu encontrar você se masturbando pensando em mim, eu te esmago.
11. Beber urina é um privilegio dado a você.
12. Seja obediente.
13. Seja submisso.
14. Se eu esmagar você, quebrarei seus ossos vagarosamente, membro por membro.
15. Sua cabeça será a última coisa que pisarei para você morrer consciente do que vou fazer com você.
16. Ultima regra: Eu sou seu deus. reze e implore sempre pra mim. Venere meus tênis, meu corpo e me adore como se eu fosse a única coisa do mundo. Afinal, eu sou a sua esperança. Somente eu mantenho você vivo.