#Aurelius Flood

[spiritsonic]

Hi Evan! Big fan here, hope I'm not disturbing you at an inconvenient time. I love your work as an artist and writer, but it's not just Sonic that you work on. It would be cool to know more about your work Ensouled. What is it about? Who is the ghost guy and the human girl?

Sure, I’ve been wanting to write some new character bios. Check it all out under the break!

CHARLEY PARKHEARSE

Once, long ago, Charley was the best teamster in Santa Alma county. His stagecoach flew over treacherous mountain roads, One crack of his whip could snuff a candle’s flame from six yards, and any bandit who dared to stop his stage would meet the business end of a rifle. Anyone who cared to comment about his sour temper or murky past knew to keep their voices low… and God help any fool who questioned Charley’s refusal to remove his heavy greatcoat, no matter the weather. 

But Charley’s fame was bound to earn him enemies… When the bandit Sugarfoot learned that Charley was in fact born a █████, the secret spread like wildfire through the mountains. Charley was ruined. He thought his life was over, until he was visited by a being dealing in black magic; a devil known in his human guise as Aurelius Flood. This devil promised to erase Charley’s secret from the minds of Santa Alma’s people, restoring Charley’s reputation, in return for his soul. Charley accepted, though he would not learn the depth of his folly until the night he died… and was raised as a ghost by that same devil, now bound to his service. Still, the devil was true to his word. Charley’s secret was safe, even beyond the grave.

At one point in the many decades since his death, Charley thought he could escape Aurelius’ control. But today… he’s given up that hope. He haunts the roads he was once the master of, frightening drivers to meet his quota of Soul and waiting ‘till his memories fade away, taking the pain of his mistakes with them. That is until, in a flash of ill-advised mercy, Charley spares the life of a young woman he scared off the road…

(Charley is LOOSELY based on Charley Darkey Parkhurst, a real historical figure. Look him up! He's a really cool example of a queer, probably trans person ((by today's standards)) in history. The real Charley's dying wish was to be remembered as a man; a wish that has not been respected by history. I want to explore the pros and cons of living closeted or stealth in an ever-changing world, while also honoring his memory and wishes as best I can in a modern context.)

SEQUOIA LOGANBERRY

Sequoia would like you to believe that she is a monster. It’s easier that way. Ever since her father left for a mistress on the east coast in her senior year of high school, Sequoia has been working a dead-end job at the local amusement park and doing her damndest to drink and drive herself into an early grave. And she almost does it… Until a friggin' SKELETON GUY fishes her out of the lake she drove into?! And now she’s getting these insane migraines and seeing spooky shit everywhere???? 

After a close encounter with death (and Charley), Sequoia develops an unpredictable 6th sense that threatens to finish what she started in her car the other night… Until she’s found by the misanthropic wizard Monty and his much nicer siren husband Luka, who help her get her new powers under control… in trade for her helping them with a few odd jobs. Nothing crazy, just, oh, infiltrating the local magical crime lord’s fey court. Sequoia is just the wild card they need to break a fifty-year standoff between the supernatural powers vying for control over Santa Alma. Sequoia will need to learn fast, about both magic and herself, or else end up a pawn in other people’s plans. Will she be able to make the friends she desperately needs and find direction in her life before she’s swept away?

OTHER CHARACTERS INCLUDE...

MONTY MOUROS, aforementioned misanthropic wizard. Older than he looks. Came to Santa Alma in the 1930’s to earn his fortune, and ended up embroiled in one of Charley’s bids for freedom. It didn’t go well, and he still holds a bitter grudge. He’s guarded the local amusement park, the Boardwalk, from Aurelius Flood for years, but other than that has hidden himself from both the magic and mundane worlds for decades.

LUKA, a siren who lost his singing voice in a trap set by Flood. If not for Monty, it would have taken his life. When they were young the two fell in love, and Luka defied his family’s traditions to be with Monty. They’re still together, and Luka is the only person who can get past Monty’s harsh exterior. Luka now runs a speakeasy for spirits hidden beneath the Boardwalk, where he mixes magical cocktails and turns the rumor mill. He is a kind soul who defines himself through service to others…perhaps to a fault. 

AURELIUS FLOOD, The mastermind behind most of Santa Alma’s woes. A cruelly ambitious leprechaun who thrives on greed, he’s been following the money since the time of the Romans. In the 1800’s he came to the new world, where he found fabulous opportunity during the California gold rush. Assuming a human disguise he carved out a business empire in the mundane world, and a criminal one in the magic world. He built Santa Alma himself, engineering the city’s growth. Fattening a pig for the slaughter. Now, the only thing standing between him and his ultimate payday is Monty and the pivotal bit of territory he controls at the Boardwalk. It’s stymied him for years, but he’s got a new plan…

SUGARFOOT, Flood’s left-hand man. As the illegitimate son of a powerful Californio rancher and an Ohlone woman trapped in the California mission system, fate did not deal Sugar a kind hand. After his father’s family lost their rancho, Sugar turned to a life of crime. He got his sarcastic nickname from a festering leg wound he earned in a shootout with Santa Alma’s top teamster, Charley Parkhearse. As his infection grew, so did his hatred… These mountains should belong to him, not some johnny-come-lately from New Hampshire. So he turned to another stranger for help; Aurelius Flood. In trade for his soul, he gained information; a secret that, if it were to get out, would ruin Charley forever. Sugar leapt at the deal, and got exactly the revenge he’d wanted… until Charley came for him, blinded by rage and shame, and shot him dead in the street. In death, Sugar and Charley found themselves in the same situation… bound to serve Flood forever. As coworkers. Hell would have been a mercy. 

(Sugarfoot is also based on a historical figure of the same name, but almost nothing is known about him other than he was a bandit with a very stinky foot. IRL Charley shot him when he tried to raid his stagecoach.) 

ZINNIA LOGANBERRY, Sequoia’s annoyingly precocious little sister. While Sequoia turned to delinquency after their parents’ divorce to avoid her feelings, Zinnia threw herself into her studies for the same reason. She has become the model student and daughter, earning their workaholic mom’s favor… but man, this kid is Burnt. Out. When she finds out about Sequoia’s new adventures with the supernatural, she throws herself into this new world as a release from her demanding daily life only to once again take things too far. And now, the consequences come with fangs, and hair, and claws…

DEBORAH LOGANBERRY, Sequoia and Zinnia’s mother. She knows she could be doing better by her daughters, but ever since her no-good husband left them, she’s been the family’s sole provider. Her job in the city’s planning and zoning department is the only thing keeping them off of the streets, and the price of housing in Santa Alma is only going up. It’s a matter of survival; surely, once they’re more financially stable, she’ll be able to patch things up with Sequoia. And maybe something will come of the new friendship she’s struck up with Mr. Flood. He IS quite the successful developer, after all… perhaps they could be more than friends?

[suitelifeoftravel]

A Look at Rome's Capitoline Hill: A Walking Tour

Caffe Greco has become somewhat of a Roman institution, and I could not wait to order a cup of coffee, grab an outdoor table and people watch for a couple of hours.  A fellow American, standing in line with me when I ordered my cappuccino, leaned over and said that Italians look down upon ordering coffee after 11 o’clock in the morning.  The server did not seem to mind, so I handed him my money…

[blueiscoool]

Rome’s Ancient Arch of Constantine Struck by Lightening

During a storm on September 3, lightning struck Rome’s Arch of Constantine, chipping the structure’s marble surface. The 1,700-year-old arch and its neighbor, the Colosseum, were two of several sites affected by the thunderstorm, which produced 2.36 inches of rain in less than an hour. Usually, the city sees a similar amount over the entire month of September.

“A lightning strike hit the arch right here and then hit the corner,” a tourist at the site told Reuters’ Alberto Lingria. “We saw this fly off,” the tourist added while pointing to a fallen block of stone.

Finished in 315 C.E., the Arch of Constantine is one of Rome’s three surviving ancient triumphal arches, each erected to honor a person or event. This arch commemorates Constantine I’s 312 victory over the emperor Maxentius. That same year, Constantine devoted himself to Christianity—the first Roman ruler to do so.

The fierce storm also felled two large trees near the Circus Maximus, flooded the Trevi Fountain and flooded the Colosseum’s subterranean tunnels, reports CNN. After lightning struck the arch, staff of the Colosseum Archaeological Park quickly gathered its dislodged pieces and placed them in a secure location, according to a statement from Italy’s Ministry of Culture.

In the days that followed, some tourists stumbled upon additional pieces on the ground.

​​“My American group found these fragments, and we’re handing them over to the workmen,” tour guide Serena Giuliani told the London Times’ Tom Kington on the morning of September 4.

Specialists are now examining the condition of the fragments. Officials say the damage was limited to the monument’s southern side, where unrelated restoration work had started just days earlier, allowing for quick repairs.

At roughly 70 feet tall and 85 feet wide, the Arch of Constantine contains three separate arches, each framed by columns. The intricately decorated structure is adorned with recycled fragments, or spolia, taken from other ancient buildings, including monuments honoring Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius.

The arch is also decorated with carvings of Constantine, including a series of reliefs depicting his victorious fight against Maxentius in the Battle of the Milvian Bridge.

In 306, Constantine was leading Roman troops in Britain—then part of the Roman Empire—when his military declared him their emperor. His brother-in-law, Maxentius, also declared himself the emperor around the same time. After years of complex power struggles, the two rulers ultimately faced off in 312 at Rome’s Milvian Bridge, which overlooks the river Tiber. Panels on the Arch of Constantine depict the battle’s conclusion, showing Maxentius’ troops drowning in the river.

The arch’s recent encounter with lightning may have carried spiritual significance for its ancient builders, as “the bolts were believed to be the work of the gods,” per the Times. These spots were sacred for the Romans, who sometimes erected temples at such sites.

By Sonja Anderson.

[literary-motif]

Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iii — The Price

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: mourning/grief

You avoided funerals like the plague. It was only out of a sense of deep-seated sympathy — and guilt so crushing it made you bolt upright at night, drenched in sweat and pleading for forgiveness to the empty air around you — that you attended the one in Mr. Rhoades's backyard. 

(Tara’s was not for another two days, but you doubted Warden would appreciate you showing up.)

Asirel stood beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of your heads. It kept the downpour from drenching you in a matter of seconds as it looked like the heavens had opened up, intending to flood the earth once more. The sound of the rain plummeting around you accompanied the quiet gasps and sobs. They brushed over the rift in your heart, making it ache. 

Mr. Rhoades did not seem to care about the rain. He was dripping, swaying before the empty grave and nearly toppling over if Vic had not put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. The river of his tears mixed with the rain, rolling over his face before falling to the earth. 

You saw little Isaac standing only a few paces behind his grandfather. His eyes were wild, darting around the trees, flinching at every noise as he kept his distance from the grave his parents would be buried in. The blue orchids beside it buckled and snapped under the force of the rain.

It was only natural after what the little boy had gone through in this very garden. It was an act of bravery that spoke for Isaac’s character — or the persuasion skills of his grandfather — that the child attended the funeral at all.

This experience — trauma, you corrected — would leave a scar. You were sure of it.

“Poor boy,” Asirel muttered. His hold on the umbrella tightened as the wind picked up, but he kept his voice light. Both of you watched the coffins being lowered into the ground. The rain was nearly loud enough to drown out Mr. Rhoades’ quiet sobs. Nearly.

“Yes,” you said, suppressing a wince at the coldness seeping into the muscles of your back. The chill clinging to your bones reawakened the pain you had kept under wrap for the better part of the day. “I wonder what will become of him one day. If he is anything like his grandfather, it would be best not to let him stray too far.”

Asirled hummed, filing the thought away for a later time. (It would resurface years from now when Mr. Rhoades lay on his deathbed and Asirel needed a new private investigator.) “Memento mori, I suppose,” he said.

You could not help a sad smile. “Right next to Amor Fati,” you replied, glancing at Asirel, who was already looking at you. “Stoicism was your father’s favorite philosophy. We had long discussions about Marcus Aurelius when time permitted.”

Murder. Arsenic poisoning. 

“I have found it easier to remember the fact that you yourself must die,” he said, watching Isaac as he carefully took a step closer to the grave. Perhaps he, too, saw white roses covered with black earth. “Than it is to accept the certainty that those around you must.”

Asirel had no problem picturing his own death. He would look at his cards, realize that he had no chance at winning this impossible game, and fold. That would be the last of it. Once his time was up, he knew there was nothing more he could do about the unfinished plans and half-baked ideas in his mind. He would have given all he had to offer, ready to retire and clear the stage for another play. 

But when he pictured the death of his mother, or — god forbid — his little sister, his mind broke.

The wind picked up, harshly whipping around you. The chill made you groan softly, your hand reaching up to hold onto Asirel’s arm and keep yourself steady against the tide of burning sharpness that traveled up and down your spine. 

He looked at your hand briefly, noting the tight grip you had on him and the firm press of your lips, and decided not to comment. 

“It’s all about who dies first, in the end,” you bit out despite the pain, continuing the conversation. “It’s a race to the finish line nobody wants to win. At least the first one there gets spared the pain of loss.”

The pain of loss. He was intimately familiar with it. 

It felt like a gray branch of thorns winding itself across his chest, squeezing tightly while it cut him open. It made him bleed, pulling the breath from his lungs until he could only tear open his mouth in a silent scream. Instead of his voice, a broken sob would crawl up his throat, his lungs laden with lead while his mouth felt stuffed with a mass of fog, clouding him, settling in his chest, and chilling him from the inside while the thorns tore at his skin ruthlessly.

Normally, the pain was different. Normally, he was not sure if he could call it pain at all.

It was like a black cloud looming over him, lowering its blinding white tendrils of apathy until they wrapped around his throat. They choked him until there was nothing left in his chest but a deep, hollow well. 

It hurt, but the pain was distant. Somehow he thought that was worse. 

At least with the cutting sorrow, there was something there. However faint, it was a tangible agony in his chest. But instead — when he felt like this — he was just empty. 

Not even the burning despair at this nothingness was enough to break through the haze around his heart. Nothing was enough to stuff the well in his chest, and the effort it took to haul one pebble stone after another into this hole and wait for it to fill and bury his sorrow and pain, offered insufficient revenue. 

No, he had been long since caught in the well, the water reaching up to his throat. He listened to his own emotions reverberate on its humid edges, feeling them dulled and tainted, unless there was an unexpected feeling sharp enough to shake him — a pain piercing through him that made him forget about the void and the ache, and the never-ending pebble stones. 

“Sometimes that’s all I could ask for,” Asirel said cryptically, staring into the distance. 

He watched Mr. Rhoades approach and felt your hand drop from his arm. The man was soaking wet, but Vic’s umbrella was sheltering him now. His friend held it above his head protectively, not minding to get caught in the rain himself as he walked beside him. 

Mr. Rhoades came to stand before you, his eyes bloodshot and hazy as they moved over your features, hardly recognizing you. His gaze flickered to Asirel briefly, an afterthought that someone else was there. Rhoades looked wretched. 

Isaac sneaked up beside him, hoovering at his grandfather’s side. The little boy was shaking, either from fear or the cold, you did not know. 

Asirel thought he was keeping his sobs locked away in his chest, trembling from the force it took to keep his grief bottled up. He felt a pang of sympathy for the orphan — the word alone tearing apart his heart. 

Morley had sold his secrets. She was responsible for doing this, but he had provided her with the opportunity. This was as much his fault as it was yours for putting Mr. Rhoades on the Kennedy case. He felt blood on his hands and longed to step into the rain so it might wash him clean again, cleanse him of the guilt and sorrow he felt bubbling in his chest. 

“You were right,” Mr. Rhoades said, his voice rough and empty. He looked at you with dead eyes, soulless as they already glimpsed into the future and the rest of his miserable existence. 

Alone. Hated. Lost. 

He would bear the weight of many sleepless nights, wishing he were dead but refusing to turn the gun on himself, lest she— Allie — won and Isaac would be left with nobody at all. 

“You were right to keep them away. You did everything right,” he said.

He was talking about your family. You tensed. The many times he had urged you to reach out to them again, warning you that you would regret it once they were gone flashed through your mind. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said, knowing your words were insufficient to obstruct the drowning tide of sorrow overtaking him. And I’m sorry you believe that. “I am truly sorry, Rhoades.”

Asirel’s eyes were on Vic, watching as the older man held out his hand to little Isaac, waiting patiently as he worked up the courage to take it. Without saying a word, Vic shrugged off his coat, draping it over the child’s shoulders and pulling it over his head slightly to shield him from the rain. “All good?” he asked gently.

Isaac shook his head, his eyes suddenly filling with tears as the pressure in his chest rose to a crescendo. He buried himself deeper in the coat, trying to disappear within it. A choked sob escaped him, making Vic wince. 

“Yeah, alright,” he whispered, gaze snapping up as he handed you the umbrella, revealing a turmoil of emotions in his eyes — anger, protectiveness, and bitter, burning sadness. 

You took hold of the handle without taking your gaze off of Rhoades, half-stepping into the downpour yourself to keep him shielded. Asirel followed your step forward, assuring you both stayed dry. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Vic said, placing a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, grounding him while he led the little boy back towards the house. 

Under his hand, he could feel Isaac shaking, broken sobs now tumbling freely from his lips. At least he wasn’t alone. For a short while, at least, he had a chest to bury his face in and strong arms that would hold him together. 

“I’ll get you nice and warm, yeah?” Vic said, his voice hardly audible over the plummeting rain. “Come with me, little one. You’re safe with me.”

“I have not made progress with the Trimedian,” Mr. Rhoades said, snapping Asirel’s attention away from the retreating backs of Vic and Isaac. His tone was flat. “I have new leads now. I will follow them thoroughly.”

“Take a break,” you said, trying to cut the business talk short. 

He was a mess. You could see it in his eyes, they were dulled despite the anguish in his expression, dark circles under them betraying his restlessness. His hands trembled the way they only did when he was buckling under the pressure. Hewould down a tumbler of whiskey as soon as your back was turned, you knew, wanting to ease the weight grinding him into dust. 

“There is no benefit in working yourself into the ground,” you said. “Take care of yourself. Take care of Isaac.”

“I will.” His voice cracked, and he wiped furiously at the fresh wave of tears with the back of his hand. “But I did not sacrifice them to get thrown out of the loop. I can manage this. I can manage everything. I need to continue my work. It is all that matters now — this and Isaac.” 

He choked on a sob, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he ducked his head, half-heartedly attempting to hide his sorrow. 

“The price I paid for this case was too high for me to abandon it,” he rasped, clearing his throat and pulling himself together enough for the facade of control to slip back over his face. “Our meeting in two days is on as scheduled. I’ll have new information for you then.”

“Rhoades—” you tried. 

“Please,” he begged, and with the pain you saw in his gaze, you found it hard to deny him anything. “If my work should not be up to your standard—”

You shook your head as if to disperse the ridiculous notion. 

“If it should no longer be,” he insisted, “I expect you to retire me. Throw me into permanent oblivion, let the damnatiomemoriae take me, and call it a prolonged vacation. I don’t care. But don’t you dare cut me off sooner!”

His eyes burned with fierce determination despite the tears still streaming down his face. His black suit stuck to his body, his hair drenched as wet strands clung to his forehead. His appearance did not warrant the surge of admiration overtakingyou. 

You could not imagine the heaviness in his chest, nor the pain in his heart at the loss he had suffered. The price he paid for secrecy. You were in awe that he wanted to continue, that he could not abandon his sense of duty and responsibility even as his life lay shattered and buried in the garden. 

Still, you cursed the path you had set out on that led to this.  

“Of course,” you said. “Whatever you need.”

He nodded. His gaze dropped to the ground, and you knew he was in the throes of grief again. “Two days,” he breathed, heaving a sigh. He turned, walking towards the house. “Goodbye.”  

You did not follow, closing the umbrella and stepping closer to Asirel again. You would have to return it to Vic at your next meeting. 

The garden was empty now, only you and the dead left. The rain crashing down painted the ground in a shimmer of silver. You took a last look at the headstones — memento mori — and turned to face Asirel. 

He was caught in a reverie, battling with a thought that would not leave his mind. “Do you think it was my fault?” he asked quietly. Had you been further away from him, it would have been impossible for you to hear him over the sound of the rain. 

You frowned. “What?” 

“Morley— who knows what she noticed,” he said. “She could have gone through the papers, pieced together something to tell Lazarus. Tell him enough to make it clear Rhoades was the informant. Tell him enough to—” He cut off. Make it my fault. 

“No,” you said decisively, “Even if Lazarus sent the organization to retrieve the tape and he got the information from Morley. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for putting Rhoades on the Kennedy case in the first place.”

“You could not have known it would lead here,” he said.

“And you could not have known Morley would betray you,” you countered, reaching up slowly to place your hand on his. The silver rings on your fingers clinked together. “The chain of events is unforeseeable, and we can always blame ourselves in hindsight, but the truth is that we simply could not have known. Remember what I told you about information? People will kill for it ruthlessly. Both to get it and to keep it hidden.”

“I know that,” he said, wrenching his hand away from you. He took a step back, leaving you standing in the rain. “And I know people are willing to betray for it as well.”

Droplets of water rained down on you, soaking you. The thought of opening Vic’s umbrella to stay dry did not cross your mind. You looked at Asirel, standing before you with his jaw clenched, and wondered if you had ever felt as alone as you felt now. 

“You learn fast,” you found yourself saying, voice strained. You thought he did not need you anymore. 

Fresh earth covered two coffins a few paces behind you. White roses were buried with them, left to rot and fall away into nothing beneath the wet earth.  

“Do you want to change the world?” you asked him. “You can, with the Collective.”

Asirel frowned, seeing your black VW pull up to the driveway from the corner of his eye. He opened his mouth to reply, but you cut it. 

“A piece of advice,” you said, raising your hand to let the driver know you would be there in just a minute. “Remember that old systems are resistant to change. Seize every opportunity to steer things in the direction you want, never push them, or they will topple over and you lose control. Do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt, and if the cards are shit” — you said, staring at him intently to make sure he caught the meaning of your words — “and the secret stack you have hidden under the table is not enough to help you win, you bide your time and wait for the next round. Time might not always be on your side, but it is a powerful resource. You play the long game, after all.”

[chronicallyday]

Okay so because Jena Malone made a TikTok video to respond to the question of what makeup was worn for the Pride & Prejudice movie, I came up with a crack au idea that I shared on discord with friends for post-mockingjay (Finnick lives ofc). It was me telling them my thoughts on how the victors probably all wanted to live privately away from the spotlight even though people like Plutarch wanted them to continue having public personas (like when he asked Katniss to sing for a show)

But what if Johanna Mason one day out of boredom and annoyance decided to do some behind the scenes reveals, just unhinged stuff and she like broadcasts this live and Plutarch has no idea how she’s streaming it. It’s Beetee ofc.

Johanna: oh you wanna know why you never saw me shit? Oh it wasn’t Capitol censorship. You see bears when they hibernate they eat a whole bunch of stuff to clog themselves up before hand and—

Plutarch: make it stop make it stop make it stop

Beetee: I’m gonna need a while to fix it. I did my job too well when I gave her access

Johanna: —and I was 17 of course I didn’t want anyone to see me shitting on national television and then someone sneaking up behind me to kill me while I was doing my business

Haymitch watching with Katniss and Peeta in D12: I should have asked Blight (most likely her mentor) more questions when he was alive

Finnick: pls pls someone be recording this somewhere

Annie: genius. I was too stressed to think about needing to go I just held it in most of the time

Johanna hearing about that later: you held it in for how many days??

Annie: pretty sure the first time I peed that whole time was during the flood

Finnick would try to be supportive with head pats but he’s slowly losing it. Boys had it easier when it came to relieving themselves and he was her mentor so he knew she struggled T^T

But also

Finnick: The real reason the Career pack exists is so we can use the facilities and not be killed with our dicks out

Enobaria just agrees with what he says for the laughs

And honestly I wonder about the bathroom situation cuz Katniss mentions one time that her urine is brown from dehydration in THG but in CF there is not a single mention of any of them needing to use the bathroom

I’m going to assume they were all peeing in the salt lake whenever they were swimming in it

Dr. Aurelius is probably so fed up with the victors at some point cuz they decide to meme their own lives and laugh through the pain

[saradika-graphics]

thank you so much for answering my previous ask! i’ve thought it over and asked some friends, and we gathered some ideas. sorry if it’s a lot!!

for some of these, i removed will’s name from the quotes. i figured it’d look/flow better that way

- will’s clock (i attached an image as an example at the end)

- “this is all i ever wanted for you. for both of us.”

- “if i saw you forever, i would remember this day.”

- “this is my design.”

- “i’m not fortune’s fool. i’m yours.”

- “this poet wrote you a poem. are you going to let his love go to waste?”

- “i’ve never known myself as well as i know myself when i’m with him.”

- “killing must feel good to god.”

- here’s the full quote: “killing must feel good to god, too. he does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”

- could maybe make cool matching dividers?

- “it’s nice to have an old friend for dinner.”

- “i am who i’ve always been. the scales have just fallen from my eyes. i can see you now.”

- “No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them.”

- full quote: “No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them. By that love we see potential in our beloved. Through that love we allow our beloved to see their potential. Expressing that love, our beloved's potential comes true.”

i also am a huge fan of the movie “the silence of the lambs,” and, if you don’t mind, i compiled some quotes from the movie you could maybe use?

- “a census taker tried to test me once. i ate his liver with some fava beans a nice chianti.”

- “i do wish we could chat longer, but i’m having an old friend for dinner.”

- “well, clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming?”

- “you fly back to school now, little starling. fly, fly, fly.”

- “quid pro quo”

- full quote: “quid pro quo. i tell you things, you tell me things.”

- i think maybe this one could make a good divider too? or naybe like a matching set?

- “Caterpillar into chrysalis, or pupa, and from thence into beauty.”

- here’s the full quote: “The significance of the moth is change. Caterpillar into chrysalis, or pupa, and from thence into beauty. Our Billy wants to change, too.”

- "Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?”

- full quote: “First principles, Clarice: simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius, "Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?””

- “his pulse never got above 85, even when he ate her tongue.”

- maybe as two dividers, split where the comma is?

- “memory, agent starling, is what i have instead of a view.”

i’ve looked over this list and it’s WAY longer than i initially thought it was, i’m sorry 😭 i don’t mean to flood you or anything, genuinely — i’m just a big enjoyer of the show & movie 😭🙏🙏 thank you for entertaining my ask!

and last but not least, will’s clock:

Thank you so much for these suggestions! I had thought of Will’s clock initially - the dividers are just so narrow, that I worried the detail would be lost. I have some ideas for it, though!

I’ll also pick some quotes from this list, and have a set queued for later this week (right now I am thinking about 12 or so dividers total, including the clock!) 💕

[hollowfaith]

「✧」 "There's a place you might like," Klaus had mentioned yesterday, "where you can get your powers back."

And that was already enough for Aurelius to say yes.

He felt it the moment they soared into the air above the Sky-Strewn Isles, Klaus' hand around his waist and his own arm slung casually around the man's shoulders. A warmth flooding into his body and all his nerves as his breaths grew light. Senses sharpened, power swelled, and by the time they reached the area proper, Aurelius was airborne on his own without much help.

He squeezed Klaus' arm before pushing away, and ended up hovering in the air a few feet away from the other man. The sight of his companion's two-winged form was expected, but a little underwhelming—for some unfathomable reason, Aurelius had been expecting...more. He cleared away the frivolous thought and smiled at Klaus while his eyes began to glow in soft, beautiful hues.

"What a lovely surprise you've gifted me, Klaus."

"I've been longing to stretch my wings."

Pausing in mid-air, Aurelius stilled...before falling backwards to plummet head-first towards the ground. Seconds later, there was a low boom as four wings appeared on his back, gloriously golden and glittering. Effortlessly, the divinus arced back up until he was hovering above Klaus and reached out a hand.

A golden feather rested between his fingers.

"I don't know if it'll last," Aurelius began. "But please, take this as a token of my gratitude."

@anghexescu ໒꒱

[forgottenroderick]

What would be Roderick's last words be if they died right now?

ok so, the short answer is...i don't know, but i have ideas! lkasjdflkjdsf

ok soooooo it would def depend on circumstances like i can def see him tryna say smth but he can't quite get it out and forever after ppl are tryna figure it out and like its causing wars somehow like...that feels v on brand! other options, to steal from louis xv and alexander the great, are 'after me, the flood/disaster' or -- when asked who his empire should go to -- 'the strongest' all also feel suuuuuper on brand too lakjdsfkldsjf but i can also see him whispering smth like 'my love' at the end and ppl being like was it one of his wives??? his empire?????

if assassinated, caligula's last words, 'i am still alive!' just after being fatally stabbed by an assassin feel pr on point, or tius': "My life is taken from me, though I have done nothing to deserve it; for there is no action of mine of which I should repent, but one." or, if betrayed, smth ironic like wat tyler's "Because they are all under my command, they are sworn to do what I bid them," (bc like ~roderick'd ever die! he's got this all under control! *drops dead*) or just straight up pulling a richard iii and screaming 'treason! treason!' when his troops abandon him to be slaughtered by the enemy

tbh i do think he's the sort of person who, even if he had a terminal disease or whatever, would deny the possibility that he might die right up to the bitter end so i lowkey think you might just get smth like 'no, no, not yet' or 'it can't be' or even 'stop' bc its like a shock and he cant w this!!!!!! he can't die!!!!!! he's roderick the gods own champion!!!!! etc!!!!! or even pull a phocas and shockedly remark 'who will govern it any better?' re: the empire or even him resigning himself (but in his case def in a dismissive kinda way bc ~he's way more important!) like henry ii's "Now let the world go as it will; I care for nothing more."

but also i can see like some sort of delusion taking over and him playing out a scene in his head and like acting out his part in it so like basically him muttering nonsense information like 'the yellow one' or smth bc in his brain his mother is asking him which vase to use for the wildflower bouquet he just brought her or whatever but no one knows that they just ~think they heard him say 'the yellow one' but that couldn't have been right???? klajsfkljsdf idk!!!!

if he knew and accepted that he was dying tho he'd deffff want it to be smth prfound and epic!!!!!!!! some examples of the sort of last words he'd like to utter:

"Death twitches my ear. 'Live,' he says. 'I am coming.'" - virgil

"Woe, I think I'm turning into a god... An emperor should die on his feet." - vespasian

"Fortune favors the bold." - pliny the elder

"Go to the rising sun, for I am setting." (without the ending which is 'think more of death than of me' -- roderick would ~never say that lakjdsfklsjdf) - marcus aurelius

"How am I advanced, despising you that are upon the earth!" - marcus of arethusa

"Carry my bones before you on your march, for the rebels will not be able to endure the sight of me, alive or dead." - edward i of england

[fire-fira]

Oh noooo the horror of comicvine yet again. Is this character actually in the issue, or just a single background panel? Read to find out, lol. I'd absolutely love the fic recs for when Im done facing said horror though, and what's your favorite headcannon? Also happy La'gaan is precious.

Yuuuup. (Thus part of why I'm planning on eventually combing through myself so I can-- hopefully-- give a better thought out list.)

As for the fics:

From The Bones by MsWikit (otherwise known as @insuffera6le6itch here on tumblr) is-- bar none-- one of my favorite deep-dives on La'gaan's history, and extrapolates and builds additions to the subtle details seen of him in the animated series. Forewarning, this one will emotionally punch you in the gut and probably make you want to bundle La'gaan up in a pile of blankets, because the poor kid goes through A LOT.

School Days by MsWikit/insuffera6le6itch. This one gets into La'gaan's early days at the Conservatory of Sorcery and is part of what initially put in my head the idea that it's thanks to Queen Mera that La'gaan was admitted in the first place, and that she's a bit protective when it comes to him. I don't go back to it quite as frequently as From The Bones, but it's definitely left an impact.

Impure by insuffera6le6itch. This one touches on the headcanon that La'gaan was branded and goes into the event itself. Forewarning, it's brutal.

Four Days by insuffera6le6itch. This one touches on the aftermath of La'gaan being branded. Be ready for FEELS.

Week of La'gaan: Free For All by insuffera6le6itch. If you want some fluff of La'gaan's time with insuffera6le6itch's OC Aurelius then you'll probably enjoy this. (I love the man so much that I would say it's a crying shame he's not DC canon, but considering DC's track record I'd be worried what they would do to him.)

Baby La'gaan by insuffera6le6itch. A mini-fic focusing on baby La'gaan and his parents, Kai and Cor'rel (also insuffera6le6itch's OCs). Kai is 10/10 one of the best dads in my opinion.

Lagoon Baby by insuffera6le6itch. More fluff of La'gaan and his parents. Forewarning for some harsh realities of The Bones due to extreme poverty.

Lagoon Baby v. a Crab by insuffera6le6itch. And yet even more fluff of La'gaan and his parents, this time with La'gaan 'hunting' a crab. Forewarning for the lousy shit of poverty and La'gaan being entirely too well acquainted with going hungry at way too early an age.

Lagoon Baby Takes a Nap by insuffera6le6itch. Tiny La'gaan winds up taking a nap in a hole because he's tired and cold and gives his parents a heart attack due to thinking he got snatched by a predator. Yet again, poverty sucks.

Kai's Death by insuffera6le6itch. This one is exactly what the title says, and it is heavy, but it 100% makes sense as part of why La'gaan is so guarded.

Bad Dreams by insuffera6le6itch. This one follows on the heels of Kai's Death and is... really heavy, but wonderfully done.

To say the least, insuffera6le6itch has loads more and I highly recommend looking through her Lagoon Boy tag. And if you want art (and other fun things they've accumulated) I recommend looking through @captainjerkface's blog and their own Lagoon Boy tag. (10/10 captainjerkface's La'gaan art and comics are on point.)

As for my favorite headcanon for La'gaan, I'd have to say it's the fact that when he actually fully relaxes and is comfortable around someone, to the point that he's willing to just drop his walls around a person and play around and goof off, it's a guarantee that he's going to hit that person with a giant flood of puns.

And the boy doesn't just do it in his first language; this is a kid who is canonly implied to have learned English by nosing around on the internet-- when the rest of Atlantis did not have internet access-- and he isn't above throwing puns in his second/third/fourth-whatever language. (His friends are particularly doomed if he decides to slip in multi-lingual puns that play the various languages he knows against each other.)

Additionally, if he does let his walls down enough to throw puns around that freely, then it's safe to assume he cares about that person a lot and might have pretty well adopted them.

[sio-writes]

Sacrifice Chapter 3

<< Chapter 2

<<< Chapter 1

A/N: After a bit of schedule maneuvering, it looks like this story will be updated once every two weeks until I finish it (I still don't have an estimate one the chapters yet oops). Thank you all for your patience and I hope you enjoy!

Standing underneath a levitating tree has my nerves on end. Up close, it's more massive than anything I could imagine, tall enough to reach the clouds, wide enough for my home to fit inside twice over. The magic that keeps it afloat must be grand and ancient.

As we walk under the behemoth, I see the underside is pockmarked by rings. It sits so high that Aurelius can walk underneath unimpeded, but I feel a pull in my chest to reach out and touch the marks, to make sure I'm not caught up in an illusion.

There's thousands upon thousands of them, a lifetime spiraling outward through delicate circles that mark the eons. The dark rings of a fire, then the swollen sections of a flood, the sun-bleached cambium and rich heartwood towards the center. I'm awestruck by the majesty, the history of it, and terrified all at once.

Appearing as if through a fog is a spiral staircase, invisible one moment and in front of me the next. The banister is a filigree of plantlife rendered in wood, thin to the point where I see sunlight through the petals of a flower. It leads straight up, where warm light pours forth from a circular opening. The light is warm, inviting, and I think of a predator, luring me in with false hope only to eat me up. Perhaps I'm still shaken from the fae earlier. I can still feel their fingers pinching my skin, my ears still ring from their voices. Will his home be the same?

Ignoring the litany of images my mind throws at me, of emaciated bodies reeking of death and decay, of hovels filled with rats and sludge that seeps into my skin. I ignore the image of the house slowly swallowing me, integrating my body into its walls over a matter of years while I am helpless to stop it. I ignore all of it, and walk up into the tree.

With shaking hands I poke my head through the floor, and find not a den of fear, but a grand entry hall. It's rendered in stone, torches lining the archways that stretch all the way to the back. I half-expect to see colored glass windows that I'd find in the town church, but the windows here are simple. In fact, everything has been stripped to the bare essentials, save for the massive chandelier made of bones acting as centerpiece.

Stepping onto the floor my bare feet are warmed by the stone, but the air is cool against my face. Long tables meant to seat dozens line the left and right walls, covered by table runners colored a rich red and edged in gold. They're bordered by high backed chairs, made for someone of Aurelius' size, and I wonder if I'd feel like a child sitting in one. There's a single set of silverware and cutlery at the far end of the left table, shining and untouched. It's the most ornate set I've ever laid eyes on, the gold it would fetch alone would feed my family for a year.

Aurelius makes a noise of recognition behind me. "So this is the entry way that she chose."

She? Is there another human here? The fae who tried to kidnap me implied that he had brought more than one human here. Aurelius takes one look at my expression and his jaw opens halfway as if he means to smile.

"My home, sweet doe." He rests a hand on one of the long dining tables. "She is a fae, as old as I am."

That is all the explanation I'm allowed it seems, because he walks past me and off to the right without a word. My face pinches in confusion-- there's nowhere to go, he's going to run into the wall.

Except it's not a wall that greets him, but a doorway. A doorway stretching into a hallway that shouldn't be possible. It should stop, should hit the edge of the tree, at the very least it should lead outside.

But I follow him into a long hallway, around a corner and into a sitting room that looks completely untouched. The furniture is plush and there's a roaring fire I can feel from the doorway. The room branches into three, and Aurelius walks into the far one.

The hallway twists like rope, and my eyes widen when Aurelius continues walking and it leads him to the ceiling and back to the floor. I take a step forward, and another, and it's like the pull of the earth shifts as I move forward. My feet stay on the ground, and down becomes up. My hair doesn't fall to the side, even as the frame of a door creaks under my feet. I make it to Aurelius, my heart in my throat, and look up at him. He stares down at me, his head tilting slightly, and my face flushes. I grab his large hand in both of mine, and we continue forward.

***

Despite trying to trace my steps, I cannot wrap my head around where we are. The hallways are endless, the stairs lead in circles, and so many doors simply open to walls. All the while, Aurelius continues forward, allowing me no space to breathe, to process my surroundings.

The home is lit by faerie fire, a soft glowing flame bathing every room in warm, comforting light. Orbs of light bounce along the ceiling like insects, or lines the walls or baseboards in strips, or simply floats in the air like a candle held aloft. Shadows are soft, shifting things that catch my attention. I look for some demon or creature that would grab at me, but there's nothing. Just the two of us. Three, if the house counts.

I'm led through archways made of water, upside down stairways, halls of mirrors and glass, each dwelling more fantastical than the last. Despite the growing absurdity though, I'm not as overwhelmed as before. The home exudes an aura of calming, of welcomeness. I don't know where I am, but I don't feel lost.

After the thousandth set of stairs, I ask through heavy breaths. "How high does your home sit?"

Aurelius pauses, his hands clasped in front of him. He tilts his head to one side, considering me. "I've never been to the topmost level. You are welcome to try, but beware that the higher you climb, the more chaotic it becomes, and even I may not be able to find you."

"Chaotic?" I look around us. We're currently standing sideways, on a set of stairs above a reflecting pool on what should be the ground. Fish swim in the air around us, a koi swirls lazily around my feet. "What could possibly be more chaotic?"

Aurelius holds up his hands, gesturing grandly as he speaks, "As a tree splits into many branches or a mind into many thoughts, so too does this dwelling separate from reality as it climbs towards the sky." He looks down at me. "And I would hate to lose you, my dear."

I purse my lips. That was far too eloquent to not have been practiced. Aurelius is pressing his hands together, steepling his fingers, his head still turned on me as if expecting a reaction. He most certainly had that prepared.

"Eloquently put, my lord." And my suspicions are confirmed when he lifts his head, chin held haughtily as he continues up the stairs. My lips tug into a smile. Very cute.

The stairs lead us to a hall, and at the end a single door.

"The house has told me she has not prepared a room for you yet, so you can stay here while she works."

Before I can ask how he speaks with the house, Aurelius pushes open the door. Inside is a library, towering in stature, holding thousands upon thousands of books. There's several corners cut out for reading with couches and cushions, as well as a large fireplace.

"A…library?"

"Your temporary room."

I bite my lip around the next question as we both step into the room. Some part of me had hoped we'd…share a space. I thought he cared for me, wished for me to be around.

But as I look around, I'm not so sure. Every corner, piled high on the floor and on tables and covering everywhere one wouldn't walk, is clutter. Books, clothes, fabric, papers and writing utensils, empty cups, and even more books, all over.

I rest my hand on the arm of a couch, looking at the mess with dismay.

"This is…where you want me?"

He doesn't make any motion other than to look around the room. "This will do for now. I use this room most."

"Oh," I say.

Aurelius doesn't respond, and when I look to him for direction, he's standing where he came in. His hands are in front of him, his fingers interlaced, and he starts to glide back towards the door.

"Are you hungry?"

I frown, concern marking my features. "I…We just ate."

Didn't we?

"Right," he says, looking around, a hand coming to his bony snout. The air stales in my throat, turns awkward. He doesn't want to be here, he's trying to back out.

"Right," I slowly repeat back to him, watching as he creeps towards the door.

"I am going to…" He's standing in the doorframe now, leaving me here. I'd ask where he's going, but I don't want to bother him. Maybe he enjoys being alone, and I'd be a deterrent to that.

I hold back my disappointed sigh, and give him a nod. "Goodbye, my lord."

As I turn towards the room, anything to ease the tension, the door closes gently behind me.

I push down the concerns that begin to build behind my chest. I don't do well alone, I thought he would  stay. But surely a god has other responsibilities to tend to, he can't be spending all his time with a lowly farm girl.

I need something to distract my mind. Looking around at the mess, my fingers itch to clean. Perhaps that's why he brought me, as a maid.

I start with the clothing, gathering it in my arms. It all smells clean, thankfully. Mostly shirts and pants, a cloak here and there. The cloak he wore to see me must have been for the cold then. All the clothes are from different eras, some pieces similar to what I'd see hanging in the church. Decades are laid out and tossed aside here, and I'm curious to know if he wore these things often.

My arms are full to bursting with items much too large for any human, when I realize there's nowhere to put it all.

I glance around to the empty room. "Um, H-House? Do you have, uh, somewhere I could put these?" I lift up the armful of clothes, looking around at the ceiling of the library, as if some face is just going to appear out of the grain. But the only response I get is the creak of the wood. I sigh, feeling rather stupid. Of course the house won't respond to me, she has no connection to me. Only Aurelius.

The scrape of something against the wood catches my attention, and out of the shadow pushes a basket. Flat, wide, and expertly woven out of the same material as the library walls.

"Can you, um, hear me?"

A book falls from a low shelf close to my feet. I'll take that as a yes. I dump the clothing pile into the basket and continue gathering what I can to place in it.

I pick up the book that had fallen and dust it off to inspect it, but I can't read the cover. The scrawl on the spine is too curly, too high-brow for me to make out. I had only just started to learn to read before Arthur got sick, and that was only in the dead of night with his help.

Placing the book back in its spot, I forget about it and continue attempting to organize the mess.

Picking up the clothes takes me at least an hour with the help of the house. I speak to her as I work, telling her of my previous life. Of my friends that all left for the city by the coast, my brother and my parents and our life on the farm. I was never ashamed of the hard work, in fact I took pride that I knew my way around the animals and the crops. She doesn't respond, and I feel more alone than before, but having something to do is a welcome distraction to keep from thinking about where I currently am.

Once the clothes are gone, I start on the loose items--papers and scrolls, inkwells and writing utensils. The scrolls have a curled writing similar to the book. It must be Aurelius' handwriting. Strange that such a hulking presence can have such delicate penmanship. I still can't read it, but I try to make out what I can to keep everything somewhat organized. I notice the words "festival" and "moonlight" are repeated quite a bit across the parchments.

They seem to be plans for something. I pick up drawings, layouts of boxes ovals all lined up in order, with scrawled names and notations. There's lists with items crossed out, corresponding to several stacks pushed into a corner of the library. It seems like he's preparing for something, but I'm not sure what.

Only when the room is mostly clean do I sit down. My mind feels less foggy, a little more stable now that I feel like I can breathe. It allows smaller things to creep their way through my attention, like the dirt under my nails and on my feet, the sweat cooling against my dress, and the dried spill between my legs. I need to bathe.

I stand, self-consciously rubbing my arm. I hadn't seen any washbasins in here, or passed any rooms for them on my way in.

I stand at the doorway, hoping Aurelius left it unlocked. The handle pulls easily and I'm greeted by an empty hall. It definitely wasn't the one we came in through.

"House? Where might I bathe?" I say to the empty room. She doesn't respond, only to shove the book off the low shelf again. I sigh, turning back to the hallway and starting it down. Stepping out of the library feels like a violation of some unspoken rule, but I'll do it if I must.

The first door I try opens to a small room filled with large smooth stones along the walls and floor. There's a huge window at the far end letting in the glow of sunset through, and below the window is a huge, oval-shaped wash basin built into the wall. It's made of varnished wood, stands up to my hip, and could fit three of me sitting side by side.

The space between the basin and the wall is filled with glass bottles of every color and size, some as small as my finger, others as big as my head. The light from the window hits the colored glass and refracts onto the walls, each bottle I pick up makes a tiny light flitter like an insect against the stone. I open a small bottle the color of honey and sniff, my senses filled with milk and sugar. None of them have labels-- not that I could read them anyway-- but I don't think this house would want to hurt me. I did clean up that room quite a bit, maybe this is her way of giving thanks.

The water is steaming as I strip and step into the basin. There's a small square of cloth I dunk into the water and use to scrub at my skin. I grab the honey colored bottle again, tipping the thick liquid into my palm. It lathers like soap when I rub it over the cloth, filling the room with the scent and making my skin slick.

Gradually, the dirt falls away, each pass of the cloth releasing tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The scent of the soap is relaxing, working in tandem with the hot water to loosen my muscles. I'd always been the last to bathe with my family, and hot water is a precious commodity. This feels like a luxury I can't afford, one I shouldn't put to waste.

I reach my thighs to scrub at the dried come, and pause for a moment. I'm not a maiden anymore, at least, not in this sense. I'm still unmarried, I think. I'm unsure what this arrangement with Aurelius constitutes as. The witches that live in the woods outside of town would howl with laughter if they knew, they might have even congratulated me.

I scrub it away, trying not to think of what happened. There's too many emotions involved, too many details. I can think later about the god that's given me his names and then left me alone to clean his house. I can think later about this messy place that is not my home but something else, something that will likely eat me if I anger her.

As soon as the water begins to cool, I get out of the tub, my mind no less clear than before. I look at my kirtle and shift with dismay. Both are a mess, covered in blood and dirt and sweat.

On instinct, I grab them both and throw them into the water, and immediately I realize what a stupid thing I've just done. This is my only dress. The kirtle alone will take hours to dry.

My head falls forward and I groan. "Idiot…" I chide. Well, it's already soaking, I may as well clean it best I can. Eyeing the bottles on the shelf, the one that grabs my eye is ruby red with a cork stopper. I uncap it give it a tentative sniff: Peach and honey, that'll do.

I pour some into my hand, and when it doesn't burn away my skin or make it turn purple or some other trick, I dunk it into the water, and the room layers with the scent of the soaps as I scrub the dirt out of my clothes. In such hot water, Mortimer's blood dissolves away, turning the water a brackish brown.

I try not to think about all that's happened in the past day, pushing back feelings too enormous for my broken mind as I scrub away the past several hours, but in the quiet, my thoughts bubble to the surface whether I like it or not.

What's wrong with me? Making a deal with a god, and for what? He can take whatever he wants from me now-- for that matter he already has taken something-- he could condemn me to this house so I never set foot outside again. And this isn't my home, I think with dismay. Home is a place that takes any joy, any softness, chews it up and spits it out. This isn't my home, with it's baths and it's books and it's warmth. I haven't earned the right to live here.

And what comes next? Am I just going to live here, some sort of servant? A bed slave that also cleans? That wouldn't be the worst fate, but Aurelius never specified what my role would be, and it irks me not knowing. You don't make deals with fae, let alone one of their gods. And what do I have that he could possibly want? I need to remain useful to earn my place.

Think about it later, Kyla. Later, later, later.

Once I'm done ignoring my feelings, I set the kirtle out to dry. The stones here are smooth and free of any dirt or grime, so I set the dress on the largest one I can find, fanning it out as much as I can so it dries evenly.

I'm left standing bare in the washroom, my hair plastered to my back and shoulders. I decide to test the waters.

"House? Would you happen to have any spare dresses?" Hopefully any other human Aurelius has brought back has left her clothes. I shudder to think of what he may have done with them.

From the shadows slides the basket of clothes I'd picked up earlier. Certainly these can't be the only clothes available. I wait for another basket to make itself known, but there's nothing. Just the steady dripping of water. Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose.

I sort through the clothes, many of which are too large for me, until I find a long shirt. The neck is high so it won't fall off my shoulders, the sleeves are cuffed so I can push them up, and it's long enough to reach my knees when I pull it over my head. This will have to do as my kirtle dries.

"Thank you," I say to the basket as I throw the discarded clothes back into it.

I find my way back to the library, hoping the house doesn't steal my clothes from me.

The library is cleaned enough, and I feel sleep begin to pull at my eyes. But my mind is still abuzz with thoughts, thoughts for later, so I need a distraction.

The book the house continued to push to the floor is still resting there, and I pick it up again and bring it to a pile of cushions underneath a massive window. The writing inside is the same looping scrawl on the cover, but there's sections of print that're more legible to my untrained eye. Night is beginning to creep in, but it's still bright enough that I can make out a few words.

It seems to be a record of some sort, but I can't make out much of anything. A few numbers, a word, half of a phrase. The concentration proves to be what I need to finally pull my mind away though, and combined with the pattering of rain outside it makes my eyelids grow heavier with each page turn.

***

The clap of thunder tears me from sleep and into full alertness. It's dark, the fire is gone, the only light coming from the moon through the window. The rain from earlier has transformed into a downpour, punctuated by lightning and thunder so loud it shakes the room.

At home, I'd never been in a thunderstorm on my own. I had my parents, then my brother. It's a childish fear, I know it is, but I can't help it. Every shadow wants to jump at me, every flash from the sky makes me shake.

I curl into the cushions, squeezing my eyes shut and begging my racing heart to slow down. It's just rain, I know this, but what if it tears the house down? What if lightning comes through one of the windows?

Restless, I start to pace the floor, hands cupping my ears to mitigate some of the noise. I can't fall asleep like this, I can't even relax. If I had someone else with me, I'd feel safe, secure.

I need to find Aurelius.

Exiting the room, I walk down the empty hall, again a different one than the first and even the second. The hallway is dark, lit only by the lightning flashing outside, so I'm feeling blindly along until I find a handle and push it open. The door swings open silently, and I step into the room.

It's a large room, probably as big as my home in the mortal plane, with high ceilings and crossing support beams. In place of the left wall is a stained glass window, the patterns forming some abstract shape I can't make out in the dark. On the far wall is a bed, four-poster and untouched, and an archway leading into a pitch black hall. The room seems empty, and I wonder why the house brought me here, when movement to the right catches my eye.

There's a loft, high in the ceiling, and inside is a nest made of branches and leaves. It's not like any bird's nest I've ever seen, it's spread and built up, integrated into the wall, clinging to itself and the beams, with structure coming up to wrap around and make an entrance.

The movement that caught my eye was inside, and through the darkness I make out the motion of breathing. That must be Aurelius.

I climb up the rafters to reach the loft, my hands shaking on every roll of thunder that pierces the glass. My heart thunders in my chest, and I nearly slip halfway up to the top. I carefully crawl on one of the rafters to this massive nest, and pause. Will he be upset with me for waking him? Will he lose himself in sleep and eat me? Another flash of lightning makes my choice for me, and I scramble into the safety of the strange nest.

It's like we're back at the altar; the whole nest smells like him-- pine and sage and everything in the forest. It's warm and comforting and safe. He's larger than I recall, laying on his side, away from me. His neck is stretched out and his head rests on the ground like a sleeping elk. I lay down, pressing myself into his back, curling my legs into my chest and resolutely watching the storm outside.

Aurelius stirs, voice almost too quiet over the rain. "Kyla."

"Forgive me," I whisper as I curl into his spine. I didn't mean to wake him up, I just wanted the company.

His large head lifts, turning on a long neck to face me. His skull is that same corrupted deer I know, but his body isn't human anymore, now more animal-like. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice heavy with sleep. The white of his skull practically glows against the dark, like a beacon for me to latch onto.

I open my mouth to answer, but I'm cut off by a strike of lightning and instant clap of thunder. I jump at the noise, hiding my face in my hands. Shame burns hot through me alongside the fear, making my heart pound in my ears.

Aurelius only hums, almost a growl, the noise rippling over my skin like water.

He extends his neck and in one fluid movement gently clamps his jaw over my shoulder, lifts me into the air and sets me down on the other side of his body.

My suspicions are confirmed-- through the darkness I can make out that he's morphed into a large deer-like animal with four legs curled under a long body. The back legs are so long they nearly brush his front as he brings his head around, pulling me into him. "You may rest here," he says.

I settle into the solid shadow of his body and the nest he's laying in. Despite being made of strips of bark and tree, it's got a layer of down feathers that make it soft. Aurelius is covered in a layer of short fur, and he's warm enough to sink into. The branch-like antlers atop his head are close to me, the silver veins catching the light when it flashes outside. I reach out and hold one in my hand, the stability working to drag me back into sleep.

Chapter 4 >>

[forgottnseccnd]

"I heard you crying, so I brought you some cocoa." ((@tertiusdecimusfilius))

supportive / protective vibes … sentence starters

Aurelius still wasn't used to it-- used to the little ways Guilliman would help out now that he's taken the helm.

His eyes were milky, unable to focus and often he had to wear a blindfold due to their sensitivity to such bright lights around the ship. It was hard for him to properly make his way around, but with the help of Nirisch, his own spear, and of course Guilliman, he was slowly learning over time...

... it just seemed to be that Guilliman had caught him during a moment of weakness.

It had been during his work, bringing his hands along the slightest of indents of old ink on paper as Nirisch would try to read out what it was that Aurelius wished him to read, the two of them working together to sort through paperwork, get acquisitions done, cross-reference... it was just hard to do that after being blinded by your Father's sheer presence. But during all the time he had been working a little on his own-- as Nirisch had to fetch something for him-- that the memories resurfaced.

The pain in his throat. The flooding of memories, the pain that he had inflicted upon him... Failure. Traitor. Hinderance. Weakness.

... and next thing he knew, he had been crying. Quiet little sobs, hushed, like a child not wanting to bring any attention to himself, hiccupping, hiding. His hand had been moved to hide his eyes, teeth clenched, wishing he had just put his helmet on and been done with it. Maybe use the bolts to silence himself like he used to when he was on the wall. But... then...

The scent of a sweet delicacy reached his nose, filling his lungs-- of cocoa and milk and marshmallows. Then, his head snapped up when he heard Guilliman's voice. He glanced around, worried, wishing it was just an illusion, but when his hand had very gently grazed Guilliman's shoulder, he squinted his milky eyes beneath his blindfold and mumbled, " ... Guilliman? " As always, using the more formal last-name basis now that he was Warmaster.

... He patted Guilliman. Once, twice. Yes, that was indeed him. He was there. He was not, in fact, blessed by the God-Emperor to cry by himself.

" ... t-thank you... Robu. " Aurelius finally mumbled after he was able to find his words, glancing away as his hands moved to cup the mug of hot cocoa, letting it warm his auramite hands. Warm... comforting... reminded him of his little hearth and home on Iskaarre.

" ... I will admit, I am embarrassed. I did not think you would hear me. "

[stoicbreviary]

Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 6

James Vila Blake

6.  

Ποταμός τις ἐστι τῶν γινομένων καὶ ῥεῦμα βίαιόν ὁ αἰών: ἅμα τε γὰρ ὥφθη ἕκαστον καὶ παρενήνεκται, καὶ ἄλλο παραφέρεται, τὸ δὲ ἐνεχθήσεται. 

Time is like a river, or a streaming on, of all things that come to pass, even a violent flood of them. Each thing is no sooner seen than swept past, and another is sweeping by, and this also will be carried away. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.43 

6. 

There be drops small, and large drops, all being rain, Making the ocean, rivers and rivulets;  There be moments slender, and mighty moments amain— Time’s tide, or torrents of hours, or minutary jets.  The brooks and rivers that to oceans run,  Navies and nations on their bosoms bear;  The pendule’s pulses into centuries done  Torrential whirl alike the foul and fair.  All things rush on. One doth but well arrive  Before ’tis gone—another hath his room—  That too is sped in cresty fog and dive—  All with distinguished shapes, all to one doom.  Here do I halt to see them swirling by;  And as they go, I drown them in mine eye. 

IMAGE: Hermann Herzog, Raging River (c. 1860) 

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 33: Thursday February 2, 2023 - “I Love You”

Since the day he was born, I have flooded his subconscious with daily affirmations of love.  His Mama has too.   He is a very loved boy.  And probably the words he has heard most in his life other than “William” and “Huck No” is “I love you” - and tonight, on a night where I was really gearing up high hopes for a good smooth weekend, and preparing to gut out a bedtime routine with the pinched nerve in my back, out of the complete wild blue, William muttered “I love you” back.  Now in all honesty, the first time may have been directed at the dogs as we said goodnight to them, before sending William off to night-night himself.  But feeling like he really nailed it, he continued to play with the phrase, and I am sure was motivated by my sudden interest in what he said, and so I got one too.   I pulled out my camera to try to capture the moment, and of course he got a little star struck seeing that little boy in the selfie cam, but I still got a big hug and a kiss, which basically is all the same thing.   The best part is that while he was saying it, he had that special charm in his face that let you know that he also understood the context...  that this phrase is something that you say to let the person know that you appreciate them, that they are safe, and that they are home.   Affectionate little lion, our William is.  But it was so good for my heart tonight to get that first little I love you.  And now Ive got three days to work with him on it so that when Mama comes home Sunday night, she can get one too because if anyone deserves to hear this little boy express his love - its her.

Song: Feeling Blew - Sweet Disposition

Quote: “Remember that very little is needed to make a happy life.” ~Marcus Aurelius

[amortentva]

student  file:  lílian  osorio-moon  ✶  25,  transwoman,  she/her,  half-blood,  hufflepuff,  sixth  year,  teaching.  member  of  broom  racing,  aurelius  choir,  and  quidditch  club.  can  be  described  as  optimistic,  naive,  sensitive,  and  nurturing. wanted connections. pinterest.

"tell me, atlas. what is heavier: the world or its people's hearts?"

full  name.  lílian  xiomara  osorio-moon.  aliases.  lily.  age.  twenty-five  years  old.   birth  date.  december  twenty  second,  nineteen  ninety  seven.  house.  hufflepuff.   blood  status.  half-blood.  wand.  nine  and  a  half  inches,  ashwood,  phoenix  feather  core.  pet.  a  budgie  (  parakeet  )  named  belle,  often  perched  on  her  shoulder  wherever  she  goes.   spoken  languages.  english,  portuguese,  korean.

parents.  cesar  osorio  (  father,  deceased  ),  isabel  osorio  (  mother,  deceased  ),  sangcheol  moon  (  adoptive  father,  alive  ),  sunhwa  moon  (  adoptive  mother,  alive  ).   siblings.  elias  osorio  (  older  brother,  deceased  ), minji moon ( adoptive sibling ), minseok moon ( adoptive sibling ),  wc for one more adoptive sibling here !!   before  aurelius.  attended  herleva  school  of  witchcraft  and  wizardry.

tw’s to follow: death of a parent, description of blood, death of a sibling, suicide, trauma, child neglect.

lílian was the second born to the osorio family, after her brother elias. her half-blooded magical father never fell out of love with his childhood crush, and eventually the two fell in love over the summers they spent together when he would return from school. it was difficult lying to her, but once he proposed years into their relationship he finally told her the truth so that she would know what she's marrying into and their future together if they decide to have kids. when they did, their first born is elias, a young boy obsessed with broom riding as soon as his little legs could hop over them. their second born is lily, and she's a curious child who doesn't ever seem to have stopped speaking after that first word left her mouth.

the young wix is only seven when her father and brother are killed in a magical accident of which the ministry refused to release specific details due to the location being where her father worked in the department of mysteries, a section of the ministry of magic that carried out confidential research. with no answers and no closure, no certainty that herself and her child would be safe moving forward, isabel osorio spent most of the next two years refusing to allow lilian to leave the house and forbidding her to use magic ever again. sheltered for years on permanent house arrest with her paranoid, grief-stricken mother, lily only used magic as a means for escape once. just one night, to breathe fresh air that wasn't through the crack of a window. only an hour later, she would return to the smell of rust flooding her senses and the sight of her mother's body on the floor of their kitchen.

lílian was nine when she was sent to live with her godparents who she hadn't seen in years, and they took her in without question as if she was their own. she was different, somewhat quieter than before the accident and much more observant. after spending years so acutely attuned to her mother's emotions, she became a watcher. over time, lily could look at someone and tell by the position that their lips take when they don’t think anyone is watching how they feel in that particular moment, by the way they speak to people how they were raised and how those who raised them might have been like by paying close attention to the way they treat their company. she knew the direction of a gaze that differentiated lie from truth, the telling habits of nerves, distraction, or sadness, the tone of someone’s voice that gave away just what they were feeling even though that was exactly what they were trying to keep hidden.

positive.  optimistic,  nurturing,  benevolent,  devoted,  receptive,  intuitive.   neutral.  sensitive,  inquisitive.   negative.  puerile,  fussy,  obsessive,  dependent,  self-indulgent,  unassertive,  impetuous.

character notes. headcanons, school notes, and more

def  has  nightmares  and  has  grown  accustomed  to  not  being  able  to  get  a  good  night's  sleep  pretty  much  ever.  she  always  looks  tired  tbh

there  are  some  days  where  any  triggering  words  that  remind  her  of  her  past  with  her  mother  cause  lily  to  space  as  her  mind  transports  her  to  the  very  memory.  she's  unresponsive  for  minutes  on  end  until  she  or  someone  else  manages  to  shake  her  out  of  it

she's  taken  to  intellectualization—a  ‘flight  into  reason’  where  a  person  avoids  certain  emotions  by  focusing  on  the  facts  and  logic  of  them  ??  makes  her  a  great  teacher  figure  bc  she  will  mansplain  u  to  death  basically

not  a  very  touchy  person,  and  doesn't  rly  like  hugs  or  physical  affection

loves  ballet  !!  originally  only  signed  up  for  it  to  get  herself  out  of  the  house  during  the  summers  bc  it  would  send  her  into  fits  of  panic  every  day  being  'stuck  in  the  house'  ?  and  fell  in  love  with  it

almost  always  has  bruises  somewhere  on  her  body  due  to  ballet,  and  she’s  prone  to  poking  and  prodding  at  them  out  of  boredom.

her  pet  is  a  budgie  (  parakeet  )  named  belle,  often  perched  on  her  shoulder  wherever  she  goes  !!  lily  literally  never  goes  anywhere  without  her

has  never  stepped  foot  in  the  kitchens,  and  the  great  hall  is  a  saving  grace  but  she  won't  even  go  into  the  kitchen  in  her  own  house  during  the  summers

[eleanorjane0690]

Solidarity In Sonder

Excerpt from Chapter 5

Spring '76 - Peeta

Placing the loaf on the telephone table and picking up the handset, I answer  "Hello."

"Good afternoon Peeta." Dr Aurelius replies in his cheerful yet clipped Capitol tone.

Shit it's Wednesday!

Instantly, my happy mood perishes. 

Caught up in the events of this morning, the day of the week had completely slipped my mind, meaning I'd forgot to expect his weekly routine telephone appointment this afternoon.  Although, if I'm honest, I don't particularly want to do this right now, as while his therapy sessions can be helpful they're also tediously tiresome.  However, many months ago, I made a silent promise to be a model patient and nothing lees than cooperative in an attempt to repay him for his unrelenting professionalism.  I also made a promise to myself, to be relentless in the pursuit of the former Peeta and to successfully complete the jigsaw.  The jigsaw that today gained a little more clarity. A fact he should undeniably know.

Lingering images of Katniss, of my memory, my dream, flood my mind, and the realisation of what we've lost and could possibly regain ignites something deep within me.

A persistence.

If I'm to find redemption, then this is the man to help me.

Sliding my back down the wall, as I wont be going anywhere any time soon, I sink down into a cross legged position on the floor.  Once comfortable, after a deep breath, I sigh  "Hi Doc."

Immediately, our conversation starts in its all too familiar fashion.

Have I been eating and drinking well? With Sae around I’m given no other option but to eat well.

Have I unintentionally lost any weight? Once again, thanks to Sae, no. If anything, I’m gaining weight at home easier than I did in the Rehabilitation Centre.

Are my bowels and waterworks functioning as normal? I think so.

Is my sleep regulated? No, and no I do not want a prescription for sleeping tablets.

Am I able to manage my activities of daily living? I can still wipe my own ass and brush my own teeth, so I'd say so.

Am I maintaining some semblance of a routine? It’s far from being full-on or busy but I’m trying. I paint and bake. Sae visits me twice a day, and I visit Haymitch every evening.  Not that he’s much company as he’s usually passed out and dead to the world, but I drop off a loaf of bread, stoke his fire, and sit by him for a while. It's not much of a routine but it’s enough for now.

Have I been compliant with my medication? Yes, three pills twice a day, without fail.

Am I still gaining a response from the topical burn salve? I think so, my skin is still salmon pink in some areas but no longer as scabby.

How would I categorise my general mood over the past week? Urgh, I hate this question! Overall much the same, a few anxious spells but they were manageable. No violent outbursts.

Now for the big question, which until today has remained reliably stagnant in its reply.

"Have you experienced any significant episodes or events this week?" he monotonously asks.

He's probably pre-empted my answer, as I think he too is beginning to find our repetitive weekly conversations wearisome, but at least I can shake things up a bit today.

"Yes."

To say he becomes more animated would be an understatement.  Instructing me to start from the very beginning, he states that in minute detail he'd like me to describe the events of the past twenty-four hours.  

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56641270/chapters/147201754

[monsterkong]

History Repeating: The American Empire and Rome’s Final Days

There’s an old saying that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. As we look at America today, it’s hard not to draw parallels with the Roman Empire, a civilization that, despite its grandeur, eventually fell under the weight of its internal contradictions. Are we witnessing the same fate unfold in the modern world? 🤔

The Fall of Rome: A Quick Recap

Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor did it fall overnight. Founded in 753 BC, it went through several phases—monarchy, republic, and empire—before finally collapsing in 476 AD. The reasons for Rome’s decline are many, but some of the most significant include:

Military Overextension: To maintain control, Roman emperors expanded the military, which led to economic strain and the devaluation of currency. Inflation skyrocketed, and the economy eventually crumbled. 💸

Political Instability: After the death of Marcus Aurelius, the Roman Empire struggled with leadership. His son, Commodus, proved ineffective, leading to a weakened central government and ongoing power struggles. 🏛️

Immigration and Cultural Dilution: The Edict of Caracalla granted Roman citizenship to all free inhabitants of the provinces, flooding the empire with non-Romans. This influx diluted the Roman identity, making the empire vulnerable to external and internal threats. 🌍

The American Empire: Following in Rome’s Footsteps?

Fast forward to the present, and America seems to be walking a path eerily similar to Rome's. From economic challenges to political instability and immigration issues, the parallels are hard to ignore. 🕰️

Economic Instability: Like Rome, America is facing economic challenges, including inflation and rising debt. The extensive money printing to support various initiatives has led to concerns about long-term economic stability. Could we be heading toward a financial collapse similar to Rome’s? 📉

Political Division: The polarization of American politics has led to a weakening of central authority, much like what Rome experienced after the death of Marcus Aurelius. The deep divisions in the country raise questions about the future of American governance. ⚖️

Immigration and Identity Crisis: America has always been a melting pot, but recent debates over immigration have highlighted challenges in maintaining a unified national identity. Rome faced similar issues as it struggled to integrate diverse populations, ultimately contributing to its downfall. 🗽

Is It All Planned?

There’s a growing belief that what we are witnessing in America is not merely a result of poor leadership but an intentional effort to destabilize the country. Whether or not this is true, the parallels to Rome are striking, and they serve as a reminder of what can happen when a nation fails to learn from history. 🌍

The Final Countdown

Rome’s fall was a slow process, marked by economic mismanagement, political decay, and the erosion of national identity. As America faces similar challenges, it’s crucial to recognize these warning signs and take action to avoid a similar fate. Will we repeat Rome’s mistakes, or will we learn from history and forge a new path forward? The choice is ours. ⏳