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- Michael Wasson, o. unilateralis s. l.

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— Rebecca Tamás, from “Witch.”

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- Tariq Luthun, We Already Know This.

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“I heard a dark prediction rising in my own body.”

— Louise Glück, excerpt of Saint Joan  (via 89words)

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Ted Hughes, Collected Poems: Uncollected (1983-86); from ‘Sacrificed Head’

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The Dead in Daylight, Melody S. Gee

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— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘The Third Hour of the Night’", published c. 2017

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The Entombment (detail). By Peter Paul Rubens, 1612

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MEME RESPONSE. invite me / @kasimirfrei​​

The first invitation is merely the illusion of one.

But the foundation of things needn’t always be real. It only needs to be enough.

Deep into the foregone past, a philosophy club meeting pauses for its regular break, and as always, Eres is all too eager to take it.

He’s had his decent meal of the day. He’s been able to shower and brush his teeth. He’s had shelter for a few hours. Now all that remains is to find a place where he can sleep, and that shouldn’t be too difficult. He has no more need for this place. If it weren’t for the necessity of keeping the Master’s favor and its accompanying guarantee of his own survival, Eres would leave right this second.

Yet he doesn’t. He can’t.

The thought darkens his gaze with disdain, stilling it on a nondescript point beyond a dozen interlocked legs as the other members rise from their seats and begin to disperse.

It’s been a long time since the days of the Unbound, yet he still hasn’t shed his keen awareness of the appraisal of others. He can feel it now, despite all the empty seats greeting his gaze as he finally raises it from the floor.

Instinctively, he looks to the side. His eyes latch onto Frei’s.

He’s been watching him. He’s always watching him. In a maddening sort of way, it’s nothing short of amusing for Eres; that he’s granted such reverence, in so much abundance, during a time that’s only rendered it so meager in its importance. He still hungers for it. He’s still satisfied by it. Only those sentiments are now as dulled as everything else in his upheaval-struck life.

Frei shines. In his appraisal, restrained and mesmerized all at once. In his words, free-flowing and impassioned. In his presence, reserved at times and utterly gripping in others. In an absentminded, peripheral sense, Eres is aware of it all, yet he’s either unwilling or unable to see it. He doesn’t care to understand his own perspective. He only cares for the blood and the cage bars with which his vision is overtaken.

He stands up, then passes by Frei as he heads for the exit, sparing him a sideways glance and nothing more.

It’s not an invitation by any means, yet it’s not a rejection of the prospect, either.

Outside, he settles against the brick wall beside the entrance, hands tucked deep beyond the sleeves of his sweatshirt, arms loosely crossed against his chest and head tipped up towards the sky.

Cigarette smoke slowly envelopes the stars, and Eres blinks. A fair distance away, Frei stands at his side, face veiled by pallid mist.

Eres traces it until it inexplicably coaxes words out of him.

They talk idly for the duration of the break. Somehow they always wind up talking or crossing paths. It’s another thing that remains trapped in his periphery, uncared for and uninvestigated. Yet he doesn’t mind the pointless little facts he grows to learn about Frei, in that moment and across the span of the countless meaningless encounters that follow.

All that matters is that he rarely offers anything in return.

-

A lifetime later, in a house riddled with teeth made serrated by so many secrets, they find each other tugged by the same rhythm — only it’s starkly different this time; coated in colors and highlighted by the same hunger that’s never been quenched.

The invitation that comes forth this time around is true, sprung upon them both with spontaneity and surprise alike — the former limited to Eres’ end as he abruptly disrupts the silence of a companionable moment between them, leaning towards Kasimir and whispering, “Let’s go somewhere.”

He’s met with questions, hesitation, and ultimately, acquiescence, and he’s grinning as he tips his head towards the door in a cue for Kasimir to follow him.

He most likely would have, anyway. At first, Eres believes that the conviction is the root of his thrill — but in fact, it’s the question of it; the newly-drudged mystery of Kasimir Frei as the unwavering Magpie, who he’s become so many years beyond the Master’s grasp, and whether or not he has the same fodder to offer for Eres’ resurrected appetites.

After much aimless prowling under Eres’ lead, they wind up on the rooftop of the townhouse, Kasimir sat in a dusty picnic chair while Eres stands tilted against the balustrade, inclined so his sight is absorbed with Kasimir and the stars in equal parts.

He believed that he sought Kasimir out only for what he can take from him, yet in the end, he offers a lot more than he steals. He asks him questions. He inquires about his opinions. At one point, he even dares to interrupt their conversation by running his index in a barely-there skirt along the space between Kasimir’s brows, smoothing a frown that seems perpetually etched in. It’s meant to be mischievous, goading, plucking at boundaries that Eres is only ever tempted to bend — and it’s all of those things, indeed, but it’s also a gesture of comfort; surprising to both of them, yet not entirely unexpected.

After all, such is the way of demigods and their disciples, is it not?

Eres will go on to wonder about that, again chasing after the mystery — as though it outweighs all the reverence he could ever relish.

-

Far into the future that stands predetermined and uncertain as ever, they find themselves tugged again, though it’s unclear whether they’re standing together or at odds.

A lot lies unspoken between them, tangled up amidst so much that’s been said, avowed, and exchanged. Eres deliberately seeks Kasimir out this time, and unlike all the times before, there’s little deliberation and indulgence behind his words — merely impulse and a desire for companionship as he asks, “Want to go somewhere?”

It’s not a demand, or an assertion, or an expectation. It’s a simple request.

Neither of them acknowledge the shift it stirs beneath them; the way it places them on equal footing with no pedestal in-between — or perhaps they do acknowledge it, in a manner dictated by the inevitable plummet from the divine into the mundane.

Perhaps Kasimir follows.

Perhaps he doesn’t.

The invitation remains, alongside all the others that came before it.

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MEME RESPONSE. kill me / @devxtions​

( tw: blood, implied death )

Eres drops to one knee with a sharp skid as he barrels behind their newfound cover. His shoulder crashes into the edge of the doorway, dislocating instantly, yet it’s not the burst of pain which sets his pulse into a skitter — but the teeter of Althea’s body where she lies across his now-lopsided shoulder, matted loose hair painting the floor in an ink spill as her head brushes dangerously against the floor.

He can feel her blood seeping into the innermost layer of his clothes, hot, slick, and overwhelming in its deep-sinking reach.

He can’t drop her. He won’t.

With one unsteady hand on her lower back and an equally tremorous one on her calves, Eres holds her in place while he rights his body, settling into a crouch and inching away from the edge as it swiftly succumbs to the hail of bullets that chased them here.

Eres snags at the air with difficulty, struggling to wrangle his heaving breathes into any semblance of stability. He looks down at his body, his own blood unfurling from a multitude of wounds that lie pliant and pitiful, stripped of their usual acceleration and left to heal with reluctant mundanity. He can no longer tell his blood from Althea’s, and for some reason, the thought sends his heart into another unexpected stutter.

Could it be that he truly feels cornered, ripped of choice and fighting chances alike?

It can’t be. He will not allow it.

Shaking off the blackness creeping into his gaze and the shriek in his ears from the ceaseless gunfire, Eres lowers one hand to tighten the cloth he haphazardly wrapped around his torso, then raises it to Althea’s body once more, holding on to her while he stares at the dead-end in front of him and scrambles for a solution.

“Eres... “

A whisper at his back. His eyes widen. He didn’t realize she had regained consciousness.

He’s almost compelled to tell her how good it is to hear her voice — but her following request tears through the haze of relief.

“Put me down.”

His grip only tightens around her.

“What?” He exclaims with a tone of appalled annoyance. “I can’t, Thea. In case you’re unaware, my shoulder is the only thing keeping you from bleeding out.”

“Yeah... and it’s broken now.” She mumbles, the words frail yet undeniably pointed in that signature manner of hers.

You can’t keep this up.

“I —” He begins, only to wrench his mouth shut and shake his head to himself. For the first time in a long time, he can’t reasonably use the instinctive, nonchalant excuse that it will heal. Because it won’t. Not until it’s treated alongside all his other injuries. And they both know it.

“Eres,” She grits out, inexplicably sharp enough to be heard over the gunfire. Her following words are spoken far more gently — and he hates the sound of them. “Put me down.”

A shaken breath, relinquished begrudgingly. He closes his eyes momentarily, then carefully begins to lower her from his shoulder, holding her close with a hand on the back of her head. He doesn’t look down at her blood-drenched front, and he doesn’t make any move to right his shoulder — merely eases Althea down then begins to rifle for anything to stifle her bleeding.

“Don’t... ” She whispers, and when his motions never cease, she makes a definitive move to halt his hands — she covers them with one of her own. “Don’t.”

“Stop. Just quit this bullshit already,” He hisses, shoving it away. “Martyrdom doesn’t suit you, and I think we both know it.”

“That — that's not it... asshole.”

He huffs out a sigh, shaking his head in rejection of her denial. When Althea’s hand settles upon his again, it only reinforces the hollowness of her words; the utter futility of pretenses as the decisiveness of the moment looms ever closer — because this time, she’s laying a dagger in his palm.

She maintains her grip, the dagger crushed between their palms as she snares her other hand around the hold. She holds his gaze, glancing down at her torso then their joined hands before meeting his eyes again.

I won’t make it. That’s what we both know.

Eres stares, his hand slack and his lips parted.

You will make it through this, and there’s one last thing you can give me before you do.

Before he can even begin to shake his head, her hands squeeze his. For a moment, Althea’s eyes swerve so they’re settled just above his shoulder in an unseeing stare. She must be listening out for the troops looming over them.

When she looks back at Eres, eyes glistening and brows furrowed with urgency, he knows that they’re getting too close.

She won’t beg him, but she would have if she were more inclined to it, and Eres wouldn’t have wanted her to.

He doesn’t nod, and he doesn’t need to. Their eyes communicate in all the ways they can’t.

His own fall shut, tipping him forward until his lips are pressed to the fevered skin of her forehead in a gentle yet lingering kiss.

“You know,” He roughly whispers, his throat too tight around the confession. “I never really liked you,” He chuckles half-heartedly. “Thought I’d finally say it so we can part on equal terms for once.”

Despite our differences, I’ve always respected you. You’ve always been family to me.

She laughs, the sound torn yet infinitely light. He holds on to it. He will never let it go.

“And I... never liked you, either. Glad we’re... on the same page.”

Same here. Always.

Pretenses are futile in this moment, yet any bond must continue to stretch with the same thread that once weaved it. They smile at each other. Eres’ is the first to falter.

He grabs the dagger.

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MEME RESPONSE. love me / @cathartidie​

( tw: mentions of death )

Eres is not inclined towards physical affection — an aversion that is cultivated rather than inherent, yet no less ingrained than the rest of his mannerisms.

And such as it is with many things, Roje is an exception to that.

When pondering it, Eres can never quite pinpoint the crux of that absurd development; can never recall a specific turning point or envision a linear trail to the change that's overtaken their relationship throughout the years. As though it's within a mere transfixed blink that he's suddenly gone from nodding at Roje from afar to pressing his forehead against theirs.

Perhaps that's the reason for his ceaseless surrender to this constant whim — the comfort in its convenient elusiveness; the freedom found within its undefined borders.

Eres keeps far too many scars tucked beyond Roje’s sight. He clings to his silence when he ought to be offering them his words. He pushes him too far and pummels into them when they dare to push back.

Yet despite it all, he’s always keeping them in contact.

An admonishing shove at the shoulder. A nonchalant arm poised loosely around the neck. A harsh nudge of fingers against the jaw in moments of fear and needless sacrifice. A firm tug of the hand on wispy hair in times of urgency.

A hand clasped in another, fresh scars and newfound anomalies carefully, wordlessly documented across the fleeting stretch of the grasp.

Right now, Eres has his hand on Roje's shoulder, tugging him away into a corner of the room while the birds disperse into disintegration around them. He glimpses Rachel in his periphery, hands raised in exasperation, eyes rolling with a gagging sound that he could swear he can hear from this distance. He rolls his eyes right back, even though she can't see it.

His hand gently digs into Roje's shoulder, bringing them to a halt. It skirts inward in habitual intimacy, a flinch away from settling on Roje’s neck.

"Roje... " He pauses, licking his lips contemplatively. It's been too long since they were last separated. "Promise me that you won't die for any of these people. Whether it's for them or against them." He demands with a pointed look in his eyes, indicating his awareness of Roje's hostility towards Snow Owl.

Roje sighs. This is a familiar push and pull for them; nearly exhausting in its recurring tug — and only on one end. "You know I can't promise you that, Eres."

A grit of teeth. A twitch to the snared hand. "Then promise me that you would only do it for our crew."

"I can't. Just like you can't promise that you won't hurt yourself, for the birds or against them."

A pause. A sharp intake of breath. "Well, can you at least fucking promise me that you won’t actually do it until we’ve regrouped?" Aware of Roje's analytically-inclined mind, he attempts to sway it with logic and a dash of diplomacy. "The situation is precarious. We can't afford to show our hand too soon and we can't afford to keep each other out of the loop. You know that."

And I can't stand to have you dead to the touch again, you bastard.

"Do you get what I'm saying?" He presses when Roje takes too long to answer.

"Yeah, I do. I always do." There's a hint of a smile along the edge of their mouth, fond and melancholic all at once. Eres is quick to look away from it.

Be safe. Be here and be safe. "I'll see you soon." He says, firmly squeezing their shoulder one last time.

He watches them walk away, and he wonders how long it will take before his hand is inevitably stripped of that anchoring grip.

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D. E.

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BODY RECOVERS MUCH FASTER THAN THE AVERAGE PERSON.

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choir boy,

hummingbird has been preying on your flock. ask mallard if you don't believe me. sin sows it's own punishments, but consider expediting those results. 

we can't expect the beast to do all the work.

signed,

a friend.

He finds the note in the pocket of his blazer, the same one he was wearing in the townhouse. Neatly-folded, smooth-edged, and bare of wrinkles; a gift tucked with a swift, skilled hand, keen on leaving its presence undetected until the right moment. The sight of it leaves him with a sinking feeling long before he unfolds it. His brow furrows with the beginnings of a scowl as soon as he begins to read, the needling, oddly familiar manner in which he’s addressed stoking his irritation and discontentment alike. His gaze continues to skate across the paper, pausing significantly over the mentions of HUMMINGBIRD and MALLARD, lingering on the comment about the Beast, then finally halting at the signature.

A friend.

Certainly the same one who branded him and his entire crew with an unforgivable betrayal; who held a knife to one bird’s throat while bestowing a gift upon another; who dared to turn their scattered flock into his very own cluster of pawns.

Eres crushes the note in his fist. Into his flesh and his mind, the words burn and burn.

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;; — 𝔻𝕆𝕍𝔼.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐜 / 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐬 / 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 / 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

basic info: eres, 31, he/him, born in verum, nova terrae, his ability is accelerated healing, his special skill is diversion

spent his early childhood as a street rat in verum, grew up all by himself though he eventually made friends with two fellow thieves who grew to be his best best friends that he :\ actually still hasn’t replaced and/or placed anyone in equal regard to. ever

when he was 7, he was scouted by an order who called themselves “the unbound”, an unofficial sect of the faceless led by a member of them who defected and founded their own order because they just got tired of how the faceless did things

that’s only what they told their followers though - the Truth is Unknown

when the scout was certain of eres’ potential, they finally approached him and offered him and his friends the tempting invitation of a proper meal and even actual beds if they wanted to spend the night

they did because grown ups don’t have common sense let alone kids my dude

when the two friends were asleep, the scout approached eres and fed him a lot of bullshit about how he’s special and he’s been chosen by the beast and is meant for greatness that their order wants to help him achieve

none if it was true, it was just a big fat lie to manipulate eres into joining their order because they needed a gullible Symbol to be the face of their cause and make it easier for them to achieve their goals

eres was doubtful and lowkey scared and intimidated by this Impossible revelation overload that’s been dumped on him but he decided to pretend that he believed the bullshit and stay with the order because it was obviously better than going back out to the streets

the order did everything in their power to make sure eres believed the things they told him, revering him, treating him like royalty, and providing for him to the greatest extent that their resources could allow (think ymir’s backstory in aot but not THE ymir)

it was that + their extended manipulation and gaslighty ways + his inherent want of literally everything the world has to offer + the eventual manifestation of his powers as a nihilum which led eres to genuinely believing the order’s words in the end

things went fine and the group Thrived with eres as their symbol especially because he really put his heart into things once he began to believe them and he thrived too for Reasons that i. am too lazy to go over here but they’re highlighted in detail in the motivation section of my app sorry :\

naturally, things eventually went to shit when the faceless, whom the unbound had been hiding from that whole time thanks to their leader’s magic and the Power of Being Careful, found out about the order, attacked them and literally just wiped them out jkdfgkdfgdfg

the scout, who originally found eres and recruited him, confessed the truth to him in the middle of the faceless’ attack and helped him get away after that and eres was just. completely in denial about his whole life being a lie especially because he was in his twenties at this point so he had been with the order for a LIFETIME

he’s back on the streets, he’s disillusioned and miserable and has no clue who he is or what the fuck he’s supposed to do with his life anymore and it’s during this time (3 years) that he was taken into the same philosophy club as magpie by the master AND IT’S ALSO at this time that he receives his card

he goes through the whole process and when it comes to asking the beast for a desire, he asks the beast to show him if his “divinity” and everything the order had led him to believe about himself was a lie AND to bring the receipts on top of it because of course he’s gonna ask for the receipts

nothing happens after that UNTIL he begins to hear whispers in his head that claim to be the voice of the beast and eres chooses to interpret that as the beast confirming that he IS blessed by it after all and that even if the order was lying, their words were true regardless

is it really true? is he just lying to himself? WHO KNOWS but we’re all about to find out as we venture on this journey friends

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“Devotion is full of arrows.”

— Joanna Klink, from “On Kingdoms”