Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

Anonymous asked: Okay, so now you've got me thinking about Vision's conversation with the rabbi and whether he counts as a creation of God, and so now I have to ask- I feel like the closest analogue to Vision in Judaism would be a golem? Like, he doesn't fit all the criteria for one but I feel like he's closer to being a golem than to being anything else

YEAH OKAY SAME.

And like I am so curious about whether Vision would even qualify to convert, according to Judaic law.  I mean, okay, by and large I think Vision would work as a golem, with the Mind Stone in place of the shem (although admittedly his creation is a joint effort between Ultron and Tony Stark, so he’s half the direct creation of man and half the creation of a creation of man), but he does break the classic rule of being unable to speak, and he is sentient, which is generally a…questionable thing with regard to golems.  Because, like, the question of the line of life, and creation thereof.  But the Golem of Prague has some conflicting narratives that I suppose could allow some flexibility there maybe?  MY POINT IS that the Vision probably qualifies as a golem, but I don’t think most golems are self-aware enough to attempt to convert formally to Judaism, so???  It’s not like I have any precedent to work with here.  

There WAS a really solid post about this EXACT thing, but because I’m a GODDAMN IDIOT I forgot to reblog it and can’t find it again.  So if someone finds that for me and/or some other information about the exact logistics of a high-tech golem converting to Judaism and an ex-unknowing-weapon-of-Nazis rejoining the faith (given that Wanda is genuinely penitent and has pretty much been used, I feel like that might be a more easily ameliorated situation than otherwise), HIT ME UP.  Or, like, ask your neighborhood rabbi, because I live in a town too tiny to have a synagogue with a full-time rabbi and therefore I have never met them.

there is a place halfway between spite and terror and that is where 94.72% of my decisions come from

(Source: buckykingofmemes)

So @littlestartopaz​ sent me this post and a request for Vision/Wanda and I fucking love this ship and also Jewish!Wanda is my jam (LITERALLY WHO AM I KIDDING, RELIGIOUS SUPERHEROES ARE MY JAM) so I did it.

Okay also Topaz I know you sent me this prompt a while ago but I wanted to be able to post it for the first night of Hanukkah so I held onto it for a few days.  And it’s now officially after sundown where I am, so Happy Hanukkah, everyone!

Wanda had set up a small table in the empty hall outside of Pietro’s room, where she could see him through the wall of windows without being kicked out for bringing fire into the medical wing. He was still asleep, even months after Sokovia—she’d seen him in this sort of healing coma before, but never for so long.  The external damage was healed, but his body was still rebuilding fragile nerves and blood vessels and ruined organ tissue.  The doctors said that he’d shut down every system to preserve what he could after taking those bullets to save Hawkeye, and she was glad for that, glad that, when he woke up, he would be her brother again.  She could stand any wait.

Or at least that’s what she told herself when she came down to sit with him.  

Wanda smoothed a blue cloth, fringed and embroidered with a white star, over the table she’d stolen from the lab. The steady beeping of the heart monitor inside the room was reassuring, but she missed hearing Pietro rattle around near her as she went through these motions.  The first year they had fine things, a soft cloth and matching candles and all, and he was comatose.

“Wanda?” a tentative voice behind her asked, and she jumped so hard the table rattled.  “I’m sorry,” Vision said as she whirled on her heel.  He was dressed in civilian clothes, plain and disingenuous against his bright synthskin, and he looked apologetic, as he always did when he took her by surprise.  He moved as quietly as a ghost most of the time and the Mind Gem let him shield his mind so tightly it was as if he wasn’t there at all, and Wanda was unused to being startled.  “I was looking for you, and this was the last place I could think of.  Don’t you usually visit your brother during the morning?”

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morismako:

pipistrellus:

i like in hamilton how they tell us that the islanders all chipped in to make sure that hamilton could go to the mainland and Make Something Of Himself like HE IS TOO TALENTED TO REMAIN HERE

but then much later its like… “he used to give 6 hour long speeches” and ur like… ok… sure. “would you like to donate to a good cause ma’am” “what cause” “sending alexander hamilton to another continent” “heres my life savings”

#buy my silence for $8000 a month

(via caffeinewitchcraft)

caffeinewitchcraft:

ohhbobs:

stop checking on them
they don’t miss you

These are the words written on a post-it (a human invention) in Persephone’s bedroom. They’re written in what she fondly calls New English, aka the English that her mother still doesn’t know, even after all these years.

Every morning, when she wakes, she sees this post-it stuck onto the stone wall and makes herself read it out loud.

“Stop checking on him,” she says, arms wrapped tight around her knees. “He doesn’t miss you.” The words bring the familiar sting of pain, the familiar tightness in her chest, the accompanying breathlessness. There’s still a part of her that rebels at the thought, that clings to what he said before and not after.

She thinks she might have been happier loving a mortal, which is so in fashion these days that her mother is gallivanting about Earth like she hadn’t spent centuries chastising Persephone for the same. If she loved a mortal, she could bind them in ways that it’s impossible to bind a god.

She gets up and gets ready for her day. Being an immortal means that she can’t just spend all day in bed. That path leads to centuries of apathy and she’s still young. So very, very young.

“Go back to Olympus. I should have known better than to let a child into my kingdom.”

There was no “letting” about it. She’d been younger still and in chains and in captivity and in love. She’d beguiled and coerced so that he’d take her with him, made him free her. 

She’d thought she was shedding her chains, choosing new ones that better suited her, but she didn’t see the way her discarded shackles slipped onto him. She didn’t see what a burden she was, what a burden she would become to him, how limiting, how heavy, how stupid.

It’s been five years now and she’s still counting seasons like she has a chance of being let back in. Summer and winter, summer and winter, summer and winter, ad nauseum. Her mother had said that she’d stick to the cycle, that the Earth actually benefited from winter, but Persephone sees the way the summers are growing longer and hotter, the way the winters are short but so sharp she could cut her teeth on them.

Spring? She stopped that a long time ago. The melting of winter is good enough for mortals and gods alike. They don’t notice and, therefore, they don’t ask.

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