#2447

[albertxylin]

Meandering Story

Sometimes, it's good to be early or aimless, To wander streets of houses with mini gardens and pot plants and flowering trees, Of stonemasonry and fences starting to lean like the tower of Pisa, To see a building cultivating a beard of moss. There are houses putting up plastic spiderwebs and halloween decorations Next to semi-abandoned buildings with peeling paint and missing railings and real cobwebs.

There's a story here. There's always a story, If you have the time to look.

[harveyphotography]

Nella vita ci sono un'alba e un tramonto ogni giorno. E tu puoi scegliere di essere presente, puoi metterti sulla strada della bellezza.

[tmt-sketch-a-day]

Sketch a Day 2447- Robot Bunny- 8/23/22  

[liberte-news]

ZLÍN si připomene 35. výročí Sametové revoluce na 6 místech

Od 11. do 17. listopadu si Zlíňané připomenou 35 let od pádu komunistického režimu různými akcemi. Primátor Jiří Korec zdůraznil význam osobní odpovědnosti ve svobodě. Program vyvrcholí nasvícením Památníku T. Bati.

ZLÍN | Náměstí Míru, Městské divadlo, Muzeum Jihovýchodní Moravy, Baťova vila, zámek a Památník T. Bati. Šest míst, kde si Zlíňané od středy 11. do neděle 17. listopadu připomenou v rámci Festivalu svobody události, které před 35 lety vedly k pádu komunistického režimu. Ilustrační foto: kulturazlin.cz „Před rokem 1989 byla absence svobody vnímána především politicky a občansky. Lidem se však…

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: November 8, 1981

Lyrics:

If Joan of Arc

Had a heart

Would she give it as a gift?

To such as me

Who longs to see

How an angel ought to be

Her dream′s to give

Her heart away

Like an orphan on a wave

Songwriter: Andrew Mc Cluskey

She cared so much

She offered up

Her body to the grave

SongFacts:

👉📖

Homepage:

Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark

[luxuryclients]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Joan Rivers Collectible Brooch with Bag.

[justaz]

once merlin puts arthur to rest, the world around him disappears and he’s in ealdor staring at his mother’s back. his sobs from the lake grow worse at the sight of his mother and he wails like he’s a child again, calling repeatedly for his ma. she spins around and finds him, without asking any questions she dashes forward and pulls him into a hug, holding his weight as he falls apart in her grasp, choking out nonsensical words and soaking her dress with tears, snot, and drool, his overwhelming grief causing him to ignore any sense of shame he might’ve felt at such a scene.

he doesn’t remember explaining anything to her, frankly he doesn’t remember much beyond the cries he pressed into her shoulder, but she says he’s been in ealdor for a week. she’s clearly worried and asks, no, begs him to eat or drink but he doesn’t feel the need or desire to, and even if he did, he simply doesn’t have the energy to bring the sustenance to his mouth. she cradles his head in her lap and runs her finger through his hair like she did when he had a nightmare when he was younger. it’s almost enough to make the entire thing seem like a horrible, horrible dream. but theres blood on his tunic where he held arthur’s body to his own so he knows it’s not true.

his mother doesn’t ask any questions, the look in her eyes telling him that she knows anyway. perhaps his nonsensical babble created a clear enough image for her to understand. maybe she just saw the broken look in his eyes and came to the conclusion on her own. she doesn’t mention him. merlin isn’t sure if he’s relieved about that or not. in the end, he brings it up, he asks how she was able to go on after balinor left. he asks how she was able to pick herself back up on her own two feet and carry on life as normal after receiving his letter informing her of his passing. she says sometimes she can’t, sometimes she lays in bed and listens to the birds sing and can’t help but hate them. she says she lives on for him anyway. she pushes herself up and makes food and works in the fields even when she hate the world around her.

merlin tries to relate, tries to understand, tries to imagine himself getting up every morning and living on in his name. he can’t. his parents loved each other, he knows that, but they were their own people and were able to stand the years apart. merlin…merlin is arthur’s, even in death. everything he is, everything he’s done, has been for arthur. he is half of merlin’s soul, the center of merlin’s world. how can anyone expect him to move on as if he’s capable of being alone? how can anyone expect him to function as if half of his soul, half of himself, isn’t dead in a lake? merlin can’t do it, he can’t imagine living a life without arthur. he barely got through the week and that’s only because he was passed out for a majority of it. how could he make it a year, much less another fifty?

he can’t. he can’t do it. he can’t breathe, he’s in agony, the world around him doesn’t exist anymore. not without arthur.

he’s back at the lake now, tears still streaming down his face despite the pounding headache from dehydration yet it doesn’t matter, not anymore. none of it does. he stumbles into the lake and sends his magic into the water to tug excalibur from the depths. he can feel freya pulling the sword back, but his magic overpowers hers easily and the sword springs from the lake, gleaming in the afternoon sun. freya’s face appears in the ripples of the water next to him, her expression pleading and sorrowful. merlin whispers an apology before turning back to the sword, staring at the sharp point of the blade. he brings it closer to hover just over his heart, the metal pressing against his skin but not enough to draw blood just yet.

peace washes over him. the sun warms his skin and the water cools him to keep it from being unbearable. the birds sing in the trees as the wind whistles through the leaves. merlin stares up at the brilliant blue sky and pure white clouds roll by, images of bunnies and birds and crowns and horses staring down at him. he wonders if avalon will be this peaceful, if he and arthur could lay out in a field for eternity, basking in the sun and laughing as they point out misshapen clouds that supposedly look like the other.

he plunges the sword into his chest, right through his heart, and falls back into the water. bubbles trail out of his mouth up towards the surface, blood spills from his wound and mixes with the water. he closes his eyes as he sinks further and further. he knows when he opens them, he’ll be with arthur once more. it’ll all be okay. he doesn’t feel his body hit the bottom before blackness fills his mind.

arthur awakens from his fitful slumber in a bed that is not his own. he squints at the room, or rather hut, around him and finds an old man hunched over a book in the corner. arthur tries to speak but all that comes out is a squeak of air, his throat too dry to speak. the man hears and whirls around to begin treating him once more, prattling on and on about how he found arthur in the woods outside his village donning shiny clothes which he discarded bc of the blood staining them yet he couldn’t find a wound. arthur’s hand reaches up to his side but there’s no stab wound there, not anymore, though he does sport the scar. he remembers how he got it, he remembers stumbling away from the battlefield, he remembers being found by merlin- merlin.

he asks the man about him but he seems confused and denies ever knowing someone by that name. arthur climbs out of the bed (the flash of golden eyes) and hastily pulls on his armor (“i’m a sorcerer. i have magic.”). he’s out the door before the old man can protest. he’s in a village he doesn’t recognize, they must not be anywhere near camelot (“i’m still the same person.”). he turns to the old man hobbling out of the hut and demands directs to camelot. the man stares at him oddly and scratches his ear before informing him that he’s never heard of a camelot before (“you’re my friend and i don’t want to lose you.”).

he instead asks for directions to the woods where he was found and sets off in that direction, the old man shuffling after him (“me, i was born to serve you, arthur.”). it doesn’t take long to reach where he was found. if the old man had carried him home it couldn’t’ve been much of a hike (“and i’m proud of that.”). he steps into a clearing where the man panted that he found him here (“and i wouldn’t change a thing.”). it’s no where near the lake where merlin held him as he took his last breath, it’s no where near camelot. the man didn’t even recognize the name of his kingdom (“it’s not why i do it.”).

arthur sits in the grass as he thinks on his next move and the man who watched over him sits next to him (“i’m not going to change now.”). he speaks lowly of a prophecy about a man from a time long forgotten sent on a journey, a quest, to retrieve what has been lost. he says how the prophecy led many to a sword lodged in stone (“i’m not going to lose you.”) but no one could pull it free. he points out arthur’s armor and calls it odd, he mentions camelot, a kingdom of which he’s never heard, and gestures around the clearing where he found the mystery man. he concludes that perhaps the prophecy spoke of him (“i can’t lose him.”).

arthur, with no other options, follows the man’s directions to a lake. not exactly lake avalon but close enough. theres a small island in the center that seems more like a hill. the sword, his sword, excalibur is buried in a stone covered in moss, misshaping it’s actual form. arthur wades across the water and climbs the hill. he wraps his hands around the hilt of excalibur and closes his eyes. he imagines merlin confident and reassuring expression as they and all his men stood in the woods around this damn sword in a different stone however long ago it was. he breathes in and out (“he’s my friend.”) and pulls.

excalibur comes free just as it did before. arthur watches the metal pull free and as it does, the moss on the stone falls away revealing its form. it looks like a collapsed figure, excalibur having been lodged in it’s chest, right where it’s heart would be. arthur squints at what looks like the head and feels a flash of familiarity. the stone slowly fades away from the hole where excalibur was all the way to the hill. as the stone fades, it leaves behind skin and clothes and hair and…merlin.

arthur drops excalibur and falls to his knees to hold up merlin’s limp form. he feels warm, as if he didn’t just spend however long with a sword in his chest as a stone. he’s not breathing. why isn’t he breathing? arthur grasps around, shifting his clothes out of the way to find the wound where excalibur had once been. the skin is stitching itself together with tiny golden threads. arthur looks back up at merlin’s lax face as the wound fully closes. he inhales sharply as his eyes fly open, glowing gold, and all around him it seemed the world finally inhaled after suffocating for millennia.

merlin exhales and golden sparks shoot from his lips to flurry around in the air. the grass under them grows longer and curls around both his and merlin’s body where they rest against the ground. the water around their island clears from the murky brown to a blindingly clear blue. the air is crisp and clean, the sun brighter and warmer, and one soul finally whole again.

[quiltofstars]

M93 // Alex Woronow

[lostdrarryfics]

Hi, I am looking for a drarry fic, in which draco does research on partonous charm and does a presentation on it and about how a person can develop multiple patronous and people are skeptical on the research and no one believes him and then he does demonstration of all his patronuses .. It is a single chapter story. Harry was in the audience when draco presents his research and supports him.

Thanks for all the help..

We believe you are looking for Inevitable (From The Very Start) by @onbeinganangel (55k, E)

Don’t forget to bookmark, leave kudos and comments!

[sprhinklesome]

[steve-s-slut]

The look on Rhett's face when he said LOVE

[unhinged-nymph]

Ok so Rhett what are we getting at here?? 🧐

[lallyloo]

[x]

[link-sans-specs]

😋

GMM2447

Is Anything Better Than Icing on Cake?

[nocontextmythical]

really?

[mithykster]

"Who are you?"

"I."

"Who is "I"?"

"Jean Valjean"

Javert thrust his bludgeon between his teeth, bent his knees, inclined his body, laid his two powerful hands on the shoulders of Jean Valjean, which were clamped within them as in a couple of vices, scrutinized him, and recognised him. Their faces almost touched. Javert's look was terrible.

Jean Valjean remained inert beneath Javert's grasp, like a lion submitting to the claws of a lynx."

Page 2446-2447. Les miserables, Victor Hugo. Can not see which translation :(

I have been as obsessed with pencil drawings as with this book. One thing I love about art is sometimes a certain material just makes no sense and now I feel like it does! Hearing the pencil scratch over the painting is so soothing, as well as the faint smell of wood. I have always admired these etchings or illustrations of book, how they worked in merely grayscale and used these lines to still somehow make such a beautiful detailed work with movement and characters! I hope I may be starting to succeed in it a little, since the book is so inspiring to make illustrations of. I especially enjoyed making Valjean this 'light jn the dark' with his white hair.