aeterrnam-blog

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ATTENTION !

     i’m going to be archiving this blog and moving the lads to @excathedras.  i’m currently running three active blogs and a lot of my muse gets lost with my laziness of having to log in and out and see who messaged me where and all that junk,  so i’m biting the bullet and admitting that i have more than four muses ( i’m at a comfy nine total rn ).  

     IF  WE  HAVE  AN  ACTIVE  THREAD  and it’s my turn,  it’s in the drafts of the new blog.  if it’s your turn and you want to continue it, just tag the new blog in you rb if you please.

     thanks for bearing with me through all of this crazy moving !

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@audaciiae.

     THE  SUMMER  HAS  GONE  STAGNANT,  tired,  though it still sits heavily over the quiet Vermont quasi - urban,  quasi - rural expanse,  giving the illusion of an endless day,  a purgatory of a half - recognisable school.  Charles sees Maple Streets and Main Streets and Jefferson Avenues,  but none of them look the same.  Whatever magic had drawn him into loving this town three months ago has worn off,  and now it is nothing but a place,  once a utopia now forced to become home.  The laundromats are a different colour scheme,  the restaurants all with different names,  the people all the same,  save a slight handful.  He sees one now,  and he glances in the window of a post office to make himself look presentable.  The anxieties of a young school year are formidable ones,  indeed.   To the east,  he can see a summer storm beginning to brew in the stifling heat of the early evening.

     “Francis,  hello,”  his eyes sparkle.  They are a much lighter shade of grey than Camilla’s,  like a painter’s brush swirled in a glass of clear water.  “It figures I would see you out,  I was just thinking about you.”

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hi i have a ton of homework but bls like for a small - ish starter from charles

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@audaciiae.  ( x )

“I’m not sad…just worried.”

Worried is quite the understatement. Francis sits there next to Richard, anxiously feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. “You feel warm–is it a fever? Oh, god, are you getting bronchitis? You’ve had that cough for over a week no–shit, what if it’s pneumonia? We’ll have to take you to the hospital for that! Or it could be the flu, but if it’s the flu, well, that’s almost as bad as pneumonia! Oh, Richard–”

Francis has worked himself up into a tizzy, as he’s now up and pacing around the room. He walks back over, puts his hand on Richard’s forehead again. “Are you sure you don’t have a fever? I swear to god you do. Please let me take your temperature. It’s gonna drive me crazy.”

     THE  WET,  GREY  FLAKES  were falling from nowhere and accumulating like slush on the side of the roads.  I knew that walking home in it would cost me,  but I couldn’t linger in the library,  and it was only going to get colder,  more dire.  The old sickness that was residually resting low in my lungs had stirred back to life and made my chest feel dense and full,  threatening to constrict air as a whole.  Still,  as serious as it had the potential to be,  I was confident that it would melt away with the snow.  To say it had been lingering for a week now was a little extreme ;  I think Francis’s worry might have been triggered by a coughing fit a few days ago when we had lunch together and my water went down the wrong pipe.  Eventually it would grow worse,  hopefully not as detrimental as the first time the pestilence struck me,  but I chose not to be worried about this. 

     “I’m just fine,  Francis.  A little under the weather,  but I’ll be okay.”  I don’t know why I thought any sort of reassurance would quell his fussing,  but his hypochondriatic tendencies always took me by surprise on the rare occasions they were aimed at me.  I took Francis by his bony wrist and pulled his hand from my forehead as I stood and went to the medicine cabinet, sticking the thermometer under my tongue for a moment.  I looked at the reading.  “Ninety - nine even,”  I lied,  “it’ll be gone in an hour.”  The mercury was pushing the halfway mark of one hundred,  but I saw no point in worrying him further. “Happy?”

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“Every age needs classics translated into the idiom of the moment. It gives the works new vitality, new meaning. It offers to the living a connection with those who went before, the accumulated wisdom of the past, a protection from a dangerous provincialism.”

     -  Chris Hedges, “PUBLIC LIVES; A Bridge Between the Classics and the Masses”

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anyway @audaciiae and i were talking about henry becoming a greek professor at some state university and saying that his students would make memes about him so i made some memes about him

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nicki minaj wrote roman holiday for charles macaulay

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“ i like it when you smile . ” francis to richard!

angst !

     DESPITE  THE  DAWNING  AUTUMN,  the sun was still rising during the early morning hours,  casting a matte light over the dying grass and shriveling trees.  I had long grown used to the thick curtains of Francis’s Boston apartment,  their damask print blocking out any light from the bedroom we shared.  However,  Charles’s death and the new school year robbed me of any reason to be in Boston.  That is,  unless I wanted to consider Francis a reason to stay.  He was,  of course,  but I had been unclear of where we stood,  and what Francis wanted,  and I as too nervous to ask.  Much to my delight,  it turned out to be a mute point.  Francis accompanied me back to Pennsylvania with the intention of helping me move back into my small,  quasi - rural house,  but he seemed to have no intention of leaving anytime soon,  and I had no intention of returning to a life without him.  It seems insensitive to say,  but he had turned into somewhat of a fixture in my life at the time,  like a familiar lamp or clock,  with an inexplicable attachment to it,  a loving touch bestowed every time I flicked the light on,  or checked the time.  Always there because there is where it is meant to be. It took me a while to identify this as a true love.

     At any rate,  the sun was rising early,  and Francis was still asleep when the nightingales roused me. I left the bedroom,  still mostly barren,  save a few boxes and luggage that had not yet been sorted through.  There was the bed with its metal frame,  the empty chest of drawers,  two dusty bedside tables,  and a framed copy of the Winter’s holiday card from the year before. 

     I went downstairs and put water in the coffeepot just to make myself a cup of tea,  with no sugar and no honey.  I stood in the kitchen,  the cheap linoleum soft beneath my socked feet,  and looked out the kitchen window at the cedar trees wave “good morning” to me.  They seemed inviting,  so I undid the tarnished bronze latch of the window and pushed it open with a rusty creak.  A fragrant breeze,  a mix of the final clippings of cut grass and that sweet rot of a damp autumn,  blew back my mop of unkempt,  slept - on hair.  It seemed to wash the stress from my face.  I smiled because I had forgotten how good it felt to breathe.

     “It’s a wonder I remember how to,”  I said,  glancing at the boundary of the woods,  waiting for something,  before turning to Francis.  His disheveled pajamas hung off of him,  and his bright scarlet hair had been turned to ruby by the hastiness of the dawn. “There are things to smile about,  it’s just hard to recall them right now.”

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(MOSTLY)   ANGSTY   DRABBLE   PROMPTS    |    QUOTES   FROM   PINTEREST  .

“   i   don’t   want   us   to   be   strangers   again  .   ” “   i   am   a   horrible   person  and   i   don’t   know   how   to   change ,   not   even   for   you  .   ” “  if   i   hurt   you ,   it’s   not   my   fault  .   i   warned   you  .   ” “   i   want   to   forget   everything   about   you ,   so   i   can   get   to   know   you   all   over   again  .   ” “   it   was   nice   to   hear   your   voice   again  .   ” “   please   don’t   forget   me   and   all   the   things   we   did  .   ” “   maybe   someday   we   will   be   two   people   meeting   again   for   the   first   time  .   ” “   nothing   makes   me   happier   and   nothing   makes   me   sadder   than   you  .   ” “   i   am   so   tired   of   their   stories  .   let’s   write   our   own  .   ” “   sorry   i’m   so   hard   to   deal   with   sometimes  .   ” “   i   like   it   when   you   smile  .   ” “   i   hope   you   understand   how   much   our   little   talks   mean   to   me  .   ” “   you’re   beginning   to   feel   less   like   a   friend   and   more   like   home  .   ” “   how   can   i   tell   you   the   truth   when   i   don’t   know   which   version   you   want   to   hear  ?   ” “   if   i   don’t   leave   now ,   i   will   never   get   away  .   ” “   i   broke   my   own   heart   before   you   could   do   it   for   me  .   ” “   in   loving   me,  you   hold   a   knife   at   my   throat.   in   loving   you,  i   tell   you   exactly   where   to   cut.   ” “   i’d   never   lie   to   you  .   ” “   it’s   not   an   easy   thing   to   admit   when   you’re   wrong ,   and   that’s   why   i   won’t   do   it  .   ” “   please   don’t   leave   me   alone   again  .   ” “   the   horror   you   have   seen   is   not   who   you   are  .   ” “   why   do   good   intentions   always   turn   out   bad  ?   ”

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     HENRY  TURNS  FROM  THE  WINDOW  when she asks his opinion.  He puts his glaces on as he walks over to her,  taking her hand in his,  careful not to mar the wet paint.  “I think . . .”  I think you aren’t taking this seriously enough,  leaving me to make decisions on my own volition,  leaving you to be unhappy at the outcome.  Henry almost says it.  Some consideration must be given to her peculiar circumstance,  however.  He can hardly imagine her exhaustion of the whole matter.  “I think it looks very nice.  I can’t say if they match my eyes or not,  of course,”  he quips in his intone.  “If you want me to stay longer,”  Henry’s words are slow and deliberate,  but his voice remains even,  “you can do mine next.  I don’t mind.”

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i know this isnt a triumvirate anymore since i added julian but it doesnt change the fact that, even if it was, richard papen is the lepidus of this blog

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ATTENTION !

     so i started a new summer class today,  which is a five week,  three credit course,  which means that it’s super rigorous and super demanding.  with this on top of my calc 2 class,  which won’t be done until 23 july,  being a guinea pig for my music composition friend,  work,  preparing to move ( ! ),  the sudden sadness at not having my brother around for five weeks,  and life,  my activity will be pretty sporadic !  this doesn’t mean that i’m not writing per say,  as i have to stay sane,  but it’ll be pretty wonky.  please remember that if i’m online but not replying to a thread or ask,  i’m not ignoring you,  my head is just full of static,  and i need to be buzzing at a certain frequency to write well,  and,  unfortunately,  that frequency is not the same as all the other channels i need to be tuned into to do all of those aforementioned things.  i’ll still be pretty easily reached in my im,  and even easier in my dis.co ( kara ra rasputin#2846 pls identify yourself ! ).  here’s a comprehensive list of all my active blogs atm:

     -  @aeterrnam  ( tsh multi muse )      -  @basileuus ( ancient history and mythology multi muse )      -  @inversicn ( the awful man himself, lucifer )      -  @babybrutus ( my personal )

     technically,  my classes are all done by 9 aug, but i’m moving on 13 august,  so i guess we’ll see how things are then !

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     CHARLES  FEELS  IMPRISONED  ON  numerous  levels,  within  this  treatment  center  in  God - Knows - Where,  Massachusetts,  within  his  body,  within  his  head,  within  the  fact  that  he  is  still  alive.  He  is  tethered  to  a  cold  IV  stand  where  clear,  prescription - strength  vitamins  struggle  to  keep  his  organs  functioning  while  they  are  cut  off  from  the  life - fluid  that  had  been  sustaining  them  for  so  long.  

     Don’t  you  want  to  see  your  sister?  His  psychiatrist  says  every  time  Charles  fabricates  some  bizarre  fantasy  or  sits  on  that  sterile  leather  couch  quietly  or  hyperfixates  on  the  death  of  Bunny  (  which  the  psychiatrist  insists  is  not  his  fault - if  he  only  knew.  ).  And,  on  some  levels,  Charles  does,  desperately,  hopelessly,  instinctively.  But  there  is  no  denying  the  unforgivable  nature  of  the  hell  he  has  put  her  through.  Charles  hasn’t  apologised  for  it  yet  -  how  could  he?  What  could  he  say?  What  is  there  to  be  done?  If  his  life  is  to  go  on,  it  is  to  go  on  without  her.  How  could  Charles  ever  expect  anything  other  than  that?

     “Camilla  wait,”  he  says,  his  finger  curled  in  the  phone  cord  tightening  as  he  dreads  the  sound  of  the  dial  tone.  “Maybe  this  is  inappropriate  to  say  to  you,  but  I . . . in  the  worst  of  it,  I  would  sometimes  get . . . hallucinations,  these  vivid  hallucinations,  of  Henry.”

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 B E A U T Y   .   I S  .    A  .    TERROR . 

  feat. muses from a song of ice and fire , harry potter , the secret history , god of war , literature, & marvel comics

                              written by kass

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@armanddeus.  (  s.c  )

     “I  HAVE  MET  MY  destiny  in  quite  a  similar  way.”

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“Stop teasing!” ikaros to henry

some  sin  meme  i’m  sure

     THE  RESTAURANT  IS  CROWDED,  even  given  the  late  hour,  but  such  is  the  plight  of  the  weekend.  Waiters  in  black  dress  hurry  through  the  halls  and  rooms,  between  dark  tables  and  mass  produced  paintings  and  photographs  of  nameless  villages.  Henry  takes  a  sip  of  the  Roscato  Rosso  sample  the  waitress  brought,  and  wishes  it  were  more  bitter.  “Teasing?”  Henry  says  evenly,  feigning  a  note  of  offense  in  his  tone.  He  flips  absently  through  the  menu,  even  though  he  already  knows  what  he  wants  to  order.  “Ikaros,  I’m  not  sure  what  you  mean . . .”  Henry  glances  passively  at  him  and  hides  his  smile  behind  the  menu.

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dark