#I IMMORTALLY Live As Above Earth & So Below Earth

[ahqkas]

“WHEN YOU’RE LOST IN THE DARKNESS, LOOK FOR THE LIGHT — dick grayson.

PAIRING dick grayson 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS he was completely frustrating. him with his cheeky grins and perfect teeth. maybe that’s why it didn’t anger you when he took an interest in you WORD COUNT 5.6k WARNINGS / TAGS artist!reader, cursing, mention of reader’s hair, unedited NOTES yes the title is inspired by tlou & yes i compared dick to a blue jay. i decided to mix 2 different reqs ( req 1 & req 2 ) because they worked well together for me soo i hope it’s okay! © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

IN ART, WHAT WE WANT IS THE CERTAINTY THAT ONE SPARK OF ORIGINAL GENIUS SHALL NOT BE EXTINGUISHED.

Said Mary Cassatt, and her words had echoed in your mind for as long as you could remember. There was something comforting in the idea that creativity—pure, untouched, and entirely your own—could endure even such cruel punishment as darkness. Darkness was a language you understood well, especially living in Gotham, where shadows devoured the city inch by inch until there was nothing but colorless void. The darkness wrapped itself around you, slowly seeping in to claim your soul as well, like the chill of a cold winter night creeping into your bones.

But even in a city this unfair, you believed there was still some beacon of light. Hidden, of course, but not extinct.

And so, you painted. You drew. You created. Every stroke of your brush and pencil felt infinite. Art was the closest thing you felt to immortality, and you clung to that belief like a child did to innocence.

Your small apartment was more than just a simple place where you lived. Every inch of the space bore a trace of you and of your determination to carve something special into the world. The walls, once peeling and beige, were now alive with color. A breath of life you granted the old home. It wasn’t much, your apartment, but it was yours.

The darkness couldn’t quite reach you there, and the light found you within your search for it.

It was late past midnight when you met him. The hour of the night was silent despite the fact you were living on one of the most dangerous streets of Gotham. Silent, but far from safe. The full moon hung high in the sky, its pale light struggling to pierce through the dark clouds that blanketed the whole night. Every so often, the moonlight would break free and shimmered a silver beam that barely softened the shadows.

You sat curled up on your old, beaten couch in your living room, aching legs tucked beneath you. The thrifted mustard-yellow couch sat beneath a gallery wall you’d arranged with so much focus you were unmistakably proud of the piece. The light from the fairy lights strung above the paintings softened the sharp edges of your apartment.

The pencil between your fingers moved along the paper with practiced movements of an artist as you clutched the sketchbook close to you with your free hand. You brought the drawing of a blue jay to life. Its small, delicate body was perched on the middle of the page, its head tilted slightly to the side as if caught mid-movement. The blue jay’s wings began to take a lively form beneath your hands.

You loved sketching birds—the way they had an open opinion of freedom in their feathers, how they could fly away from the weight of everything below on earth.

The quiet was broken by a dull thump.

Your pencil stilled, the sharp tip pressing into the delicate beak of the blue jay as you tilted your head towards the sound. It came again, heavier this time, right outside on the fire escape under your living room window. Living in Gotham meant you knew better than to ignore suspicious and strange sounds, especially at this hour.

Setting the sketchbook down on the coffee table, you slid off the couch with a pounding heart and bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The window was already cracked open, letting in a cold breeze of night air. It prickled at your skin and sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You moved with an intention to investigate, your hand gripping the window frame when you leaned forward slightly to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Before you could fully stick your head through the opening, something shifted — a flash of movement so sudden that you instinctively took a step back to avoid bumping your head. Then, just as quickly, a figure shot up from the darkness surrounding your fire escape and you watched as his top half leaned against the window frame with effortless grace.

Anyone could recognize the symbol gracing his chest.

Nightwing was on your fire escape, practically with one of his halves in your apartment.

You blinked at him, startled at the unexpected visit from Gotham's (wait, wasn’t he supposed to be in Blüdhaven?) acrobatic vigilante. He stared back without shame. His face was partially illuminated by the soft glow of your fairy lights and his forehead, plus the top of his eyes, were hidden beneath the dark strands of his hair. Damp with sweat and light spray of rain. The black domino mask was doing little to hide the attractiveness of his handsome face, although it did not tell you his identity. Or the color of his eyes. The white lenses didn’t show any signs of life, it would be almost unsettling if it wasn’t for the other features of his face.

His jaw was sharp, the bone ready to cut through glass, and his lips held a shadowy grin in them. His chest heaved as if he’d just ran a marathon, or in his case, as if he’d just been in a chase. And his suit—a sleek, midnight black with that striking blue emblem—was marred by faint fabric tears and streaks of grime.

When he spoke up after a minute of analyzing you, his voice was breathless but warm, like he hadn’t just scared the life out of you by his entrance. “Hey. Sorry about the dramatics. Mind if I, uh, come in?” He glanced over his shoulder briefly, as though checking to see if someone had followed him.

You swallowed the lump that formed in the back of your throat, fingers still gripping onto the windowsill. You were pretty sure the surprise and disbelief etched into your face could be completely seen. “What? You’re joking, right?” those small words stumbled past your lips in a sharper tone than you intended. “You can’t just—“ gesturing vaguely to the fire escape he was standing on, you trailed off for him to finish the sentence himself.

But instead of an answer, Nightwing simply offered a grin, all perfect teeth. It was the kind that felt like it was meant to disarm you and melt you into a puddle at his feet. A swooning, pretty puddle.

“Technically, I can. But I’d prefer not to freeze out here while we debate it.”

Your reply to his cheeky comment died in your throat the moment you heard it—an angry bellow from somewhere below, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots thumping against the wet pavement. The voices were low and animalistic, only growing louder by seconds. Whoever they were, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were looking for.

Shooting him a pointed look with one of your eyebrows raised, you realized it was useless as he was already halfway through the window, ducking inside easily. He didn’t so much as flinch when his heavy boots hit the floor with a faint thud. You could only watch the trail of dirt and grime he was leaving behind himself. The sounds from outside faded into muffled whispers when he closed the window, and effectively scanned the room with a quick glance.

“You really have a way of making an entrance,” you mumbled under your breath as you gave him space and moved back towards the sofa. The sarcasm wasn’t meant to reach his ears but with the way one corner of his lips tugged up, you knew he heard every single word. Did this guy have super hearing?

The faintest glint of amusement danced on his features, despite the lack of emotion in his hidden eyes. You could tell by the way his eyebrows furrowed and his lips quirked up. “It’s part of the job description,” he replied to your remark casually, as if crashing into strangers’ apartments was just another Tuesday for him.

With a sigh, you shook your head and leaned back against the arm of the couch, watching him move around the living room. He didn’t sit, didn’t relax, didn’t even pause long enough to breathe out the weight of his situation. Instead, his gaze grazed over everything in clear sight — your paintings on the wall, the cluttered coffee table and its content, the pencils scattered across your notepad.

He was strange.

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking,” his response came quickly, he was probably distracted by the hand brushing against the edge of the window frame as he double-checked the latch.

You watched him carefully and tried to not let his presence throw you off. There was something unbelievable about seeing him there, in the heart of your apartment of all places, where every inch of the space was yours. Technically, he was in your territory now.

“Don’t worry,” Nightwing added with humor etching his voice when you didn’t say anything. “I’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Take your time,” the dripping sarcasm got out the exact same reaction from him just like before, and you watched as he smirked at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a way that told you he was far too used to getting under people’s skin. Cheeky bastard.

This inspection of his lasted for a few more minutes before his pacing slowed down and his masked eyes landed on your beaten couch. The faint amusement in his features shifted, softening into something more thoughtful as he approached you. You stiffened when he got close enough. The light scent of cologne hit your nose from the proximity.

Gloved hand reached for your notepad, and you watched him again when he started tracing the soft pencil lines of your sketches. You seemed to watch him a lot tonight, but you didn’t dare to interrupt him. He was still a stranger and you lived alone. The vigilante could take you down without breaking a sweat, no comment.

The blue jays stared back at him from the page with their wings outstretched mid-flight, the faint smudge of pencil giving them a sense of movement, like they could lift off the paper and fly toward their freedom at any moment.

“You drew these?” the question slipped before he could think of it and the raw quietness of his tone surprised you.

You hesitated before you gave him the answer. “Yeah, I did. What, are you secretly an art critic, too?”

His lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on the sketches. “Blue jays,” the murmur was more to himself than to you. “They’re nice.”

“Nice?” you echoed back at him, a small smile ghosting your lips upon hearing his praise. “That’s your verdict? Nice?”

This time, his wide grin returned as he glanced at you from your artwork. You decided on the spot that you liked this look on him. He could be all sharp edges and rough words, but the genuine smiles and clever remarks were a part of him, too. “Hey, I don’t know the first thing about art. But they’re good. Really good. Why blue jays though?”

You shrugged your shoulders, crossing your arms around yourself tightly. His clear interest in your work made you feel strangely exposed. “They’re . . . free. They can leave whenever they want, fly away from everything. I guess I like the idea of that.”

Nightwing was quiet for a moment, his masked gaze flicking back to the page like he was seeing something more between the colors and lines you’d drawn. He really was strange. “Makes sense,” he said finally. “They’re tough, too. Survivors.”

For a man who’d just come crashing through your window, being chased by a bunch of angry goons, he suddenly seemed relaxed. The birds meant more to him than he was letting on.

“Guess that explains why you like them.”

“What, you think I’m a blue jay now?”

A smirk made its way to your lips, and you felt a slight hint of satisfaction brewing inside you. You finally got him. “You said it yourself. Tough. Survivors. Seems fitting.”

It was a strange image, seeing someone who carried so much weight on his shoulders standing here, in your little apartment, admiring a simple sketch of a bird. Most people assumed he was a machine under the suit, someone who did their job because it had to be done. But you saw the life in his smile and heard the feelings in his voice. Red flooded his system like any other human being possessed. A beating heart and marred skin. He was human, even under all that armor.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, effectively breaking the silence that followed your cheeky remark. “I’m glad my art could distract you from the mad mob outside.”

That earned you a genuine laugh, low and rich. You noted he had a nice laugh. Everything about him was nice, though. Maybe it was because it was the first time seeing him from up close or maybe it was simply that he got your attention.

⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .

The next few days were rather busy. You had more work on your shoulders and your family kept pressing about your upcoming visit (spoiler alert; you didn’t really plan on visiting them). Your family members lived far from Gotham, which you were particularly glad for. One boring and busy day went after the other, and so did you with your life. You weren’t going to admit it, but you missed the sudden excitement the cocky vigilante brought with him. It was something new, something that wasn’t boring.

The wind carried a chill that nipped at the exposed skin of your face, numbing your cheeks in the process. The streets of Gotham were alive despite the coldness the new day brought with itself—the city never really stopped, even when it probably should have. Your tea sat untouched beside your half-eaten croissant, warm steam curling lazily above the porcelain cup, while your hand moved steadily across the pages of your sketchbook.

You were drawing another blue jay. This one was perched on a thin branch, its head cocked slightly with ruffled feathers as if caught in the same breeze that howled right now. The pencil lines of your drawing were sharper this time, more confident, though you weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was because you couldn’t stop thinking about them—the blue jays.

It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before, your thoughts fixating on a subject, but this time it felt different. Ever since that night, when Nightwing had stood in the heart of your living room and held your sketch like it was something worth admiring, you’d been thinking about them more and more often. Birds had always represented freedom to you. A fleeting kind of beauty, one that wouldn’t last long. But now they carried something else. Something more.

You found yourself replaying his words in your mind while you shaded the curve of the blue jay’s wing, your pencil working instinctively as the low conversations and local sounds of the café faded into a hushed whisper. The bird began to take shape, its tiny body beaming with life.

The next thing you knew, the chair you were sitting on rocked slightly and your bag was violently jerked from the edge of the table.

It took you a second to process what had happened. One second, your purse was there, sitting by your side, and the next, it was gone. Snatched by a blur of unidentified movement. Your heart skipped an uncomfortable beat as you whipped your head towards the stranger, catching sight of the thief bolting through the crowded street.

Panic started to settle in. Your bag. Gone. It was gone. Everything was in there—your money, your keys, your ID. The grip of your fingers on the pencil in your grasp tightened while adrenaline surged through your veins. Without having any second thoughts, you shot to your feet. The chair scraped loudly against the floor and you bolted after him.

“Hey! Stop!”

The thief was already halfway down the block when you finally pushed past the crowd with alarming speed. Your boots moved without any more thinking. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was quick on his feet, his figure darting between pedestrians who shouted in surprise and yelped in confusion when he pushed into them to clear his path. Your lungs burned as you tried to push against your limits and keep up with him. The strap of your bag was swinging wildly in his grip.

“Stop!” you shouted again, although you doubted he would listen. He wouldn’t. People around turned to look at the chaos, but no one made a move to help. It was Gotham, after all — everyone looked after their own self.

The thief rounded a corner, successfully disappearing into an alley, and you felt a pinch of dread forming in your stomach. You didn’t know this part of the city well, and the narrow alleyway clothed in shadows sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine. Hesitation brewed in you for a moment before you made up your mind. Fuck it. You didn’t care that chasing him was reckless. You didn’t care that you had no plan for what you’d do if you actually managed to catch up to him. All you knew was that he had your bag—your life—and you weren’t about to let him get away with it.

Whoosh!

You barely registered the sound at first. Your focus was entirely on your thief, the dark shade of his jacket disappearing deeper and deeper, just beyond your reach. The puffs of air left your lips in a sharp shape and the cold air didn’t help much. But you didn’t stop running. You couldn’t stop.

Then, out of nowhere, a dark blur descended from above, landing right in your path.

“Whoa, hold it!”

The familiar drawl of his voice ringed in your ears before you saw him. You skidded to a halt, nearly losing your balance as his figure stepped into the sight. His arms were outstretched to block your way, and you felt a sudden burst of frustration upon his appearance. After all, you still had a bad guy to catch.

“Move,” moving to the side, you tried to sidestep him and start your chase again. Key word—tried. He shifted smoothly, following your movements like a mirror.

“Not happening,” he interrupted you firmly. “You can’t go running after some guy who might be armed. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“I don’t care. He has my purse—my money, my keys, everything! I have to—“

“You have to stay here,” Nightwing cut you off again, and you pushed the urge to strangle him away. His presence was infuriating, even though you could see every muscle in his jawline tightening and tensing. He was holding back, that much was evident.

“I don’t need your help.”

His hands shot out the moment you tried to brush past him again, gloves catching your biceps in a firm hold. It wasn’t painful, nor would leave any marks in the form of bruising, but he held you in a grounding manner. Almost as if he wanted to calm you down.

“Yes, you do,” the glint of seriousness in his gaze made you halt in your argument. He meant every single word. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed, you’re scared, and you feel like you have to do something. But this guy could have a knife, or worse, and you’re completely unarmed. He’s probably long gone by now, too. I’ll track him down and get your stuff. That’s a promise, Blue.”

You swallowed hard as the fire that fueled your intentions died a little bit. He was right, even though you didn’t want to admit it.

“Fine, but you better catch him.”

A small, reassuring nod and a gentle squeeze was all you received from the masked vigilante before he released you and took off after the thief. A moment later, you realized he gave you a nickname.

Blue.

⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .

The thick steam from your earlier shower still lingered in the bathroom, curling faintly in the air and clinging along the tiles and the edges of the mirror as you massaged moisturizer into your skin like you did every night. It was a routine by now. One you were excited to participate in. Your favorite playlist hummed softly from the phone propped up on the counter near the sink, the melody blending with the occasional rustle of the city outside your window.

Gotham was quiet tonight. No sirens. No shouts. Just silence.

You signed and leaned against the counter as you let the coolness of the white cream soothe your skin. The events of this day were rather . . . unpleasant. Your purse was gone, and the thought of all the things you’d lost still made your chest ache. Your keys, your ID, even your favorite pen you always kept in the front pocket—all gone, snatched in a moment. But at least you were safe. Nightwing had made sure you didn’t dive head first into what could have been a disaster.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him, either. The way he’d swooped in like some kind of a movie hero. For a man who lived his life surrounded by constant danger, he’d had this unmistakably calmness about him, like no problem was big enough to not handle.

Reaching for a soft towel, you patted your face dry with it when you finished the last step of your nighttime routine. A moment of realization hit you like a ton of bricks.

Your sketchbook.

Your heart sank deeply in your chest, and you froze, gripping the towel tightly. You’d left it at the café. It must’ve been sitting there on the table, untouched, while you chased after that thief like a reckless idiot. You would be lucky if you found it where you’d left it lying as there was a possibility of a tired barista throwing it away.

That notepad wasn’t just another notebook to you. It held weeks, months, of drawings—ideas, experiments, half-finished sketches that no one but you had seen. And the blue jays he praised . . .

The day’s exhaustion weighed heavily on your tense shoulders as you finally made your way to your bedroom. You switched off the light in the hallway, plunging your apartment into darkness save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the cracks in the blinds.

A dark shadow caught your eyes the second you stepped into the room and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest. There, casually perched on your windowsill was Nightwing, dressed in shadows.

His grin was the first thing you recognized on him, the wide stretch of his lips almost haunting in the darkness. His teeth appeared almost sharp, like canines of a predator. But he wasn’t here to hunt tonight. One gloved hand held your bag, dangling it from his fingers as if presenting you a beloved prize.

“Miss me, Blue?”

“Are you insane?” hissing, your palm resting against your beating heart. “You can’t just show up like that!”

A delighted laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he stepped inside like he didn’t invade your personal space and almost gave you a heart attack. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He tossed your stolen (now found) bag on your bed with a flick of his wrist. It took you a moment to process what you were seeing but when you did, your panic gave away to stunned disbelief. “You got it back?”

“Of course. I promised you.”

The smug look on his face softened after those words left his throat. You crossed the room in quick steps, rushing to get your hand on your belongings. Once it was in your hold, you rummaged through the inside. Everything was still there—your keys, your wallet, even the blue pen you favored so much. Relief flooded your system and you finally felt your shoulders relaxing. It was all returned.

You glanced at him from the bag, suddenly feeling somehow embarrassed. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”

“How about ‘thank you, Nightwing, for saving the day’? That would do,” the arch of his eyebrows told you he was enjoying this, if only a little. Smug bastard.

Rolling your eyes, you felt your lips tugging into a smile anyway. “Thank you for getting me my bag back. Happy?”

“It’s exactly what I wanted but yeah, very.”

A minute of silence stretched between you, one that wasn’t entirely comfortable but during that time, you studied him. He was leaning against the edge of your bed, just shy away from your side.

“You’ve been drawing them a lot, huh?”

“What?”

“The blue jays,” Nightwing gestured towards your desk with his free hand, the other behind his back. He looked strange, amusing even, but you didn’t dare to point it out. You followed his movements, eyes sliding toward your desk full of stray papers. He was right, the wooden space was filled with your recent works, and among them were multiple pieces of those blue birds. “You were working on them that night. At the café, too.”

Your lips parted slightly to voice your confusion, but the words didn’t come. He had noticed? And kept track of it? You didn’t know if you should feel creeped out or honored.

You didn’t get to react much before he perked up. “Oh, almost forgot,” pulling the occupied hand from behind his back, you noticed he held a small book in it.

Not just any book, though. Your sketchbook.

“You went back for it?” the disbelief dripped from the tone of your voice as you reached for the notepad. Your fingertips brushed against his gloves when you did so, and a spark of light crossed through you at the faint touch.

“Figured you’d want it back,” he tried to act nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders without a care in the world, but even if you knew him for such a short period of time, you could tell he was just acting. The subtle tone of his voice betrayed him, along with the rosy dust painting his cheeks. Your thumb traced the broken spine of the notepad. The thought of him chasing down your thief, retrieving your stolen stuff, and then returning for your more personal thing left you speechless. He didn’t have to, but he did—again.

He was so close to you now that the faint scent of rain and city clung to him, mixing with his natural fragrance. You could inhale it all while you saw everything, too—the sharp line of the bone in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brows like he was constantly deep in his mind, and even the way the moonlight caught on the pink dusting the top of his ears.

His pose shifted lightly, in a way that made the space between the two of you feel almost nonexistent. Your instinct told you to move, but your feet didn’t move.

“You’re . . . really something, you know that?”

Your heart beat against the bones protecting your ribs so loud you swore he could hear it. The white lenses of his black mask flickered all over your face, almost like he wanted to memorize every delicate detail, like he wanted to count every lash on your eye individually.

“You barely know me.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but I think I’m starting to.”

No response made its way past your lips. It died at the base of your throat, and no one could rip it out of you.

His hand reached out in your peripheral vision, slowly, like he was giving you an option to stop him whenever you felt like. There was no force between you, just purity of the actions. When you didn’t stop him, he moved bolder and louder, long fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before brushing against the damp strands of your hair. He pushed it back behind your ear, his touch lingering even there.

You could feel his breath mingling with yours, becoming one.

And then, just as you felt the unmistakable pull towards him, Nightwing pulled away. He took a step back like he remembered who he was.

“Take care of that,” he nodded towards your hold that clutched your sketchbook.

You opened your to say something, anything because what the fuck was he doing when he jumped out of the bedroom window, leaving behind the what ifs if he stayed with you.

⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .

The rooftop had become your favorite spot to disappear from your responsibilities. The view was magnificent with how the city stretched out in every direction and you could see everything. The chaos was muted up here, replaced by singing of the birds and occasional flutter of wings. This place was comforting.

You sat cross-legged on the concrete with your sketchbook propped in your lap, pencil in hand and mind open to new ideas. But the paper brewed alive with yet another drawing of a blue jay. Something about them had rooted itself in your head.

Pausing in your work to glance up at the sky, you were greeted by the most remarkable sight. Caught by the horizon where the sun dipped lower, brushing its streaks across the rooftop in a golden orange. The light breeze tugged at your hair, and you reached up to tuck it behind your ear. You managed to smudge a piece of graphite along your cheek upon the gesture. Your sketch was coming along slowly today; your mind kept wandering off and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

Which you were correct about.

“Nice view,” a familiar voice drawled.

You flinched upon the sound, nearly dropping the tools on your knees as you whipped your head toward the source. There he was, perched on the edge of the rooftop, the sunset behind him painting him like some sort of an angel. Nightwing.

“Seriously? Do you ever not sneak up on people?”

The cheeky smirk made its usual appearance on his lips when he hopped down from his spot, taking slow steps towards you. It was impossible to stay annoyed at him, with that face and easy charisma. “Where’s the fun in that?”

With a roll of your eyes, you couldn’t help but smile a little. “What are you even doing here?”

“Patrolling,” he replied casually to your question, just like he did the night he came to return your bag. Trying to act all nonchalant, but deep down he cares. You know that. He’s acting again. You could tell by the experience and by the tone of his voice. It suggested otherwise from his answer. His masked eyes shifted to your knees, noting the open book. “Another blue jay?”

“I’m trying to capture the way they look when flying. It’s harder than it seems.”

You watched him while he watched your drawings. The vigilante crouched down beside you, his knee bumping against yours softly, almost as in unsaid greeting. He was saying hello while you responded hi back. “You’re getting better.”

Silence draped over the two of you after that sentence left his throat, this one much more comfortable than the one you experienced the week before in your apartment. His elbows were resting on his knees, which bumped into yours from time to time in a silent gesture. Your eyes found the white lenses behind the domino mask.

“You’re not gonna disappear this time, are you?”

“No.”

Your sketchbook lay forgotten in your lap as you gazed into the void of his eyes. You couldn’t read the emotion in them but you somehow could tell every single feeling brewing inside him. It was written across his face, open like a book.

“You’re staring,” you whispered.

“So are you,” his reply was quick, like he knew exactly what to say the moment you spoke up.

A faintest tug at your lips brought the corners up in a smile, but it faltered the moment he leaned in, taking up your personal space inch by inch. He was moving slowly, giving you the opportunity to pull away, to reject him and his touch if you wanted to. But you didn’t.

His palm hovered near the curve of your cheekbone close enough to feel the warmth seeping through the glove. He cocked his head slightly to the side, as if silently asking you a question he was too caught up in to say aloud.

“You’ve got graphite on your cheek.”

“Do I?”

He brushed his thumb across the smudge, wiping it away. He didn’t pull away once your skin was clean.

You noticed the way his eyes briefly dropped to your lips before flicking back to meet yours, searching for an answer he so desperately wanted to hear.

If you didn’t want this, he’d pull back. You knew he would.

But you didn’t want him to.

Leaning in, you closed the little distance between you, and that was all the answer he needed. His lips met yours firmly, pressing against yours like a puzzle, like they belonged there. Your hands gripped at him, fingers moving to the base of his neck to grab a handful of his black hair and pulling slightly to deliver a message.

Although the darkness around you enveloped you, clothing the day in dark, you felt a spark of light every time his lips pressed against yours more urgently, licking and biting his way inside to get a taste of you. You felt it when his gloved hands tangled in your hair, tugging you impossibly close to make you his.

His forehead came to rest against yours when you eventually had to pull away for a fresh breath of air, both his and your breaths uneven.

“Tell me I’m not gonna regret this.”

“You won’t.” That was a promise.

Because when you’re lost in the darkness, you should look for the light.

[aliciavance4228]

Bitches be like "Oh Hades always has to deal with his stupid youngest brother Zeus who cannot keep it in his pants."

First of all, Ancient Greeks didn't wear pants.

Secondly, Hades and Zeus are actually decent with each other. Hades isn't ashamed of asking him for help whenever he considers that there's the case, whereas Zeus trusts his eldest brother enough to give one of his daughters as his wife. There's also this whole discourse claiming that Zeus got the best and Hades got the worst, but if you actually give a second thought to it the Underworld actually has some of the greatest peaks: besides the fact that you're extremely rich all the mortals eventually become your subjects. Even poets stated that in numerous works:

Ovid, Fasti 4. 443 (trans.Boyle) (Roman poetry C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) :

"[Zeus speaks :] ‘My rank is no greater [than Haides]. I hold court in the sky; another rules the sea [Poseidon], and one the void [Haides].’"

Or:

Seneca, Hercules Furens 53 (trans. Miller) (Roman tragedy C1st A.D.) :

"Dis [Haides] himself, who drew a lot equal to Jove's [Zeus's]."

But if you're so desperate to give Hades a brotherly rivalry then I'm here to tell you that there's no need to erase all of Zeus' qualities (leadership skills, wisdom, long-term planning, determination, cunning etc.) and over exaggerate all of his bad actions in order to portray him as an incompetent asshole Hades always has to deal with. You could simply give Hades and Poseidon this type of dynamic instead.

Poseidon is way more impulsive, temperamental and testy than Zeus. He doesn't hesitate to show his wrath, let aside make others suffer because of it. On top of that, he's the god of the sea and earthquakes, and he's also almost as powerful as Zeus. His attributes and realm could easily represent a threat to the Underworld if he lets his anger go too far.

Take this passage from the Iliad as a relevant example:

Homer, Iliad 20. 67 ff :

"Poseidon from deep under them shuddered all the illimitable earth, the sheer heads of the mountains. And all the feet of Ida with her many waters were shaken and all her crests, and the city of Troy, the ships of the Akhaians (Achaeans). Aïdoneus [Haides], lord of the dead below, was in terror and sprang from his throne and screamed aloud, for fear that above him he who circles the land, Poseidon, might break the earth open and the houses of the dead lie open to men and immortals, ghastly and mouldering, so the very gods shudder before them; such was the crash that sounded as the gods came driving together in wrath."

Dude was freaking out in this scene. During the entire Greek Mythology he's presented as stoic and rarely frightened, but when his brother was causing a strong earthquake he was shitting himself and sucking his thumb like a baby (metaphorically). For the first and last time we see a god being vulnerable and scared by other gods in a similar way a mortal who is about to lose all of his property and belongings would be. Poseidon is pretty much capable of drowning the entire Underworld or exposing it to the Aboveworld if he wants to, so who's actually the more problematic brother? The one who can maintain his calm and control and understands better how distructive power can be, or the one whose anger was on the edge of breaking the border between the realms of the living and the dead?

What if people would stop completely changing the original personalities of the Greek Gods and create more headcanons and fanfictions based on what's actually stated (or at least what is suggested/more plausible) in the myths?

[cupofteatoyou2]

I Loved You Beyond the Law of Gods pt1

Long before mortals built their cities, long before they named the stars or carved prayers into stone, the gods ruled from above.

Mount Olympus was not a mountain, not truly — it was a kingdom beyond human reach, built from marble and sky, humming with old magic.

The halls stretched wider than oceans. The pillars soared so high that clouds pooled at their feet. The walls themselves whispered in ancient tongues.

Here, time folded in on itself.

A day could be a lifetime. A century could pass like the blink of an eye.

At the heart of it all sat Zeus — king of thunder, wielder of storms — and beside him, Hera, eternal and cold-eyed.

Around them gathered the immortals: gods of the seas, the forests, the sun, the moon, the winds.

Each carried their own power, their own pride. Each carried their own loneliness.

Among them was Alexia. Daughter of Zeus.

Goddess of loyalty, of valor, of unswerving devotion.

Born not from love, but from ambition — crafted in the fires of war, shaped by her father’s will.

Alexia had always been different.

Where others sought worship, she sought purpose.

Where others reveled in the adoration of mortals, she turned away, hollowed out by how fleeting it all felt.

They sang her praises — the humans below — carving her likeness into stone, building temples in her name.

But Alexia never answered their prayers.

What use was their devotion, when it would turn to dust in a breath?

What use was love, when it always ended the same way — a grave, a ruin, a forgotten name?

So she stayed above it all. Unreachable. Untouchable.

Wrapped in silence heavier than any armor she had ever worn.

Yet sometimes, late at night, when Olympus slept and the air grew thin with frost, Alexia would wander the highest balconies and look down at the world.

The mortal realm shimmered below — oceans catching the moonlight, forests stirring with unseen life, tiny villages clinging to the earth like fireflies.

So brief. So fragile. And yet… somehow beautiful.

She envied them, in a way she would never say aloud.

Their smallness. Their freedom to fall and love and break and try again.

The gods could not fall. They could not change.

Alexia was made of lightning and stone. And stone does not weep. Lightning does not dream.

Or so she had been told.

The night everything changed was a quiet one.

A night like any other.

Alexia stood high above the world, the wind tugging at her hair like a restless ghost, when she heard it — faint, so faint she thought she imagined it.

A prayer.

Not loud, not desperate.

Soft. Cracked around the edges.

A prayer not for wealth, not for victory, not even for mercy — but for something smaller.

Something rarer.

"Please," the voice whispered. "Let someone love me. Let me be seen."

Alexia frowned, stepping closer to the edge, listening.

There, kneeling alone under a crooked tree, hands clasped in trembling hope — was girl.

A mortal. Fragile. Ordinary. And yet… not.

There was something about you.

The way you bowed your head, proud even in your pleading.

The way the wind caught in your hair like it, too, was trying to hold onto you.

You looked small against the vastness of the world.

But your soul burned so bright that even from Olympus, Alexia could feel the heat.

It should have been nothing. One mortal among millions.

But Alexia stayed.

She leaned on the marble railing, breath caught in her throat, and stayed.

Hours passed like minutes. The stars spun in slow, heavy circles overhead. And still, she watched you. At first, it was only curiosity.

She told herself that.

Every night she returned, cloaked in shadows, hidden by mists, to see if you would pray again.

You didn’t. You simply lived.

You wandered through markets, bartering for bread and honey.

You sang to yourself when you thought no one could hear.

You nursed a broken-winged bird back to health, hands gentle, voice softer than any hymn.

You lived with a kind of stubborn hope that Alexia could not understand.

Or maybe she could — and that was what frightened her.

Days blurred into weeks. The more she watched, the more the hunger grew.

Not just to see you.

To know you. To touch you.

The first time you met was an accident — at least, for you.

For Alexia, it had been inevitable.

She crafted a body for herself, human enough to walk among mortals, golden enough to catch your eye.

She wove a simple tunic around herself, tied her hair back, left her weapons behind.

You found each other by the riverbank, where the wildflowers grew in tangled knots.

You were struggling to lift a fallen branch, face scrunched in concentration.

Alexia stepped forward without thinking, grabbing the heavy end easily and tossing it aside.

You startled, spinning to face her, cheeks flushed, hair mussed.

"Thanks," you said, laughing breathlessly. "You’re strong."

Alexia smiled — and it felt strange, unfamiliar, real.

"You're welcome," she said, her voice rough from disuse.

You offered your name like it was a secret.

Alexia gave one back, simple and false, but it still felt like binding herself to you.

You didn't question her strangeness — her too-bright eyes, the faint hum of power beneath her skin.

You simply smiled, warm and wide, and invited her to walk with you.

And just like that, Alexia was undone.

She returned every day after that.

Sometimes she brought you wildflowers.

Sometimes just stories, crafted from bits and pieces of half-truths — tales of distant lands, of battles fought in dreams.

You never asked too many questions.

You only laughed and listened and leaned closer until the space between you felt too thin, too dangerous.

Alexia learned the shape of your laughter.

The slope of your neck when you tilted your head to listen. The way you chewed your bottom lip when you were thinking hard. And she realized, slowly, painfully, that she could not stay away. That she did not want to.

On Olympus, whispers thickened like storm clouds. The gods knew something was wrong.

Zeus could feel the tug of his daughter's heart slipping from his grip. He could see the frayed edges of the future, unraveling.

But Alexia didn’t care.

She stopped looking up at the skies.

She stopped listening for her father's thunder.

The only voice she heard was yours.

One evening, as the sun bled gold across the horizon, you and Alexia lay side by side on the grass, watching the stars blink into being.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against hers — tentative, testing.

Alexia caught your hand and held it tightly.

You turned your head to look at her, eyes wide and uncertain.

"Will you stay?" you asked, so quietly that she barely heard.

Alexia's heart broke and mended in the same breath.

"Always," she whispered.

A lie.

Or a promise she would die trying to keep.

The days passed like water slipping through your fingers — slow and endless and impossible to hold on to.

You lived simply, as all mortals did. You woke with the sun. You bought bread and fruit at the market, your fingers brushing dusty coins into old calloused hands.

You washed your clothes in the river, laughing when the current tried to steal them. You picked flowers without names and braided them into crowns that wilted before sunset.

Your life was small. Your life was perfect.

And you did not know it yet, but your life was a gift — a thing precious enough that even a god would want to steal it for herself.

Alexia watched you with a kind of stunned awe, every day learning a new way to love you.

The way you hummed when you were happy — tuneless and quiet, like a song you were making up just for yourself.

The way you cursed when you stubbed your toe, stringing together words that would have made even Dionysus laugh.

The way you talked to the stars at night as if they were old friends.

She memorized all of it. Every laugh. Every sigh. Every careless touch of your hand against her arm.

To you, she was a stranger with wild hair and bright eyes, a traveler who spoke of distant lands she could never quite name.

To her, you were everything.

The center of the universe she had only just realized was empty without you.

One evening, as the sun was bleeding itself out over the hills, you found yourselves sitting beneath the crooked tree again.

The wind smelled like salt and crushed rosemary.

Your feet were bare, toes digging into the dry, cracked earth.

You leaned back against the rough bark and closed your eyes, the last light of the day turning your face to gold.

Alexia sat beside you, close enough that her shoulder brushed yours.

She hadn't meant to sit so near. She hadn't meant for her heart to beat so loudly in her chest. But you made her forget herself.

Made her forget rules, oaths, destinies written before either of you had ever drawn breath.

"Tell me a story," you said, voice soft, eyes still closed.

Alexia hesitated.

What story could she tell you that wouldn't be a lie?

What truth could she speak that wouldn't shatter this fragile, impossible thing growing between you?

Still, she tried.

"There was once a girl," Alexia said, voice low. "A girl who lived her life with her feet on the ground and her heart in the stars."

You smiled, not opening your eyes.

"And there was another girl," Alexia continued, feeling the weight of the words in her mouth, "who watched her from afar. Too scared to touch her. Too scared to ruin her."

You opened your eyes then, turning your head to look at her.

And for a moment — a heartbeat, a breath, a blink — the world tilted.

"Sounds lonely," you said, studying her face.

"It is," Alexia whispered.

And then, without meaning to, without planning or permission, she kissed you.

Your lips were soft and warm and a little surprised. You gasped against her mouth, and Alexia nearly pulled away — until your fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic, holding her there.

The kiss was messy, a little clumsy, tasting of salt and breath and everything Alexia had been starving for.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both laughing — breathless, giddy, terrified.

You leaned your forehead against hers, eyes closed.

"I think," you said quietly, "your girl should be brave."

Alexia smiled, a real, aching thing.

"Maybe she will be," she said.

Maybe she would be. Maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe you were already doomed.

After that night, there was no going back.

You loved her recklessly, the way mortals do — as if there would always be more time, more mornings, more kisses pressed into sleepy skin.

And Alexia loved you with a desperation she didn't know how to hide.

She spent every night in your bed, the two of you tangled together under the thin quilt you patched yourself.

Your small home smelled of lavender and sweat and something softer — something like safety.

Alexia traced constellations across your bare shoulders with her fingertips, mouthing the names in a language you would never learn.

She listened to you dream, your words half-formed and sweet, and wondered how any god could look at you and not fall to their knees.

She should have left. She should have run. She should have protected you the only way she knew how — by disappearing.

But Alexia had never been very good at denying herself the things she wanted most.

And she wanted you.

Sometimes, she almost told you.

When you pressed your ear to her chest and whispered, "Tell me a secret," she almost said

I am not what you think I am.

When you asked her why her hands were always so warm, she almost said

Because I was born from fire and storm.

When you laughed and said you wanted to grow old together, she almost said

I can't. You will, but I won't. I will watch you slip away from me, and there will be nothing I can do.

But she didn't.

Because how could she shatter your world with the truth?

How could she rob you of your beautiful, stupid hope?

Better to pretend. Better to hold you while she still could.

And still, the gods watched. Still, the world turned. Still, destiny sharpened its blade.

One night, you both sat on the stone wall outside your home, legs swinging in the cool air.

The moon hung heavy and low, staining everything silver.

You leaned your head against her shoulder.

"Do you believe in forever?" you asked sleepily.

Alexia closed her eyes.

"I want to," she said. You smiled, content.

She lied.

Because forever was a cruelty. Because forever was a cage for people like you. Because forever was something gods took — not something they gave.

And Alexia would have given you anything. Anything but the truth.

Far above, in halls of marble and gold, Zeus seethed.

His daughter, once fierce and proud, was soft now. Broken open by a mortal's smile. Tamed by love.

He summoned her in dreams, dragging her from your arms and into his court with cruel magic.

Alexia stood before him barefoot and furious, still wearing your kiss on her mouth.

"You shame yourself," Zeus said, his voice booming across the stars.

"I love her," Alexia said simply.

Zeus sneered.

"And love," he said, "is a mortal weakness." He let her go.

For now.

But his patience had limits. And Alexia had already crossed them.

That night, you curled into her side, warm and trusting, whispering nonsense into her skin until you fell asleep.

Alexia lay awake long after your breathing slowed, tracing the lines of your hand with her fingertips.

She wished she could stop time.

She wished she could rip the stars from the sky and blind the gods with them.

She wished, for the first time in her immortal life, to be powerless if it meant staying here with you.

But the world was already slipping out of her hands.

She could feel it.

In the way the wind carried no scent.

In the way the moon hid behind heavy clouds.

In the way her father's voice echoed faintly in the back of her mind — a storm gathering on the horizon.

Alexia kissed your temple, closing her eyes against the rising tide of dread.

"Stay with me," you mumbled in your sleep.

She pulled you closer.

"I will," she whispered.

Even if it destroyed her. Even if it destroyed you.

The night he finally came for you, Alexia knew.

She knew before her eyes even opened.

She jolted awake, heart slamming against her ribs hard enough to hurt.

Her throat was raw, torn from screaming your name in dreams she couldn’t remember but could still feel — clawing, desperate, full of loss.

For a moment, everything was still.

The dark pressed close around her.

And then she turned — and saw you. Lying there. Breathing softly. Alive.

You looked so peaceful it broke her heart.

Curled under the heavy blankets, one hand loosely tangled in the sheets, your face turned toward her, mouth slightly parted.

So soft. So trusting. So heartbreakingly human.

Alexia’s chest tightened painfully.

She reached out with trembling fingers and brushed your hair from your forehead, letting her hand linger.

Your skin was warm under her palm.

Alive. Here. With her. And yet —

Somewhere deep inside her, she could already feel the world tilting wrong.

The balance shifting.

The thin, invisible thread of your life quivering, close to snapping.

She kissed your forehead, lingering too long, breathing you in like it might keep you tethered here.

She closed her eyes and pressed silent prayers into your skin.

Prayers to gods she no longer believed in.

Prayers to anything, anyone, that might hear her.

"Please," she thought.

"Please don't take her. Please. I’ll do anything." But even as she prayed, she knew it was too late.

Some fates could not be unwritten.

Some crimes could not be forgiven.

And loving you — a mortal — had been her greatest sin.

The night felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy.

Even the trees outside seemed to hold their breath.

Even the stars above seemed afraid.

Alexia tightened her arms around you, pressing your body closer to hers, as if she could shield you with her own. As if she could hold you here by sheer force of will.

You sighed in your sleep, nestling against her, trusting her to keep you safe. Trusting her, not knowing that she had already failed you.

A sob clawed its way up Alexia’s throat.

She buried her face against your hair, shaking with it.

This wasn’t fair.

You didn’t even know what you were losing.

You didn’t know your time was ending.

You didn’t know you were being stolen from the world, stolen from her.

"Please," she thought again, frantic now, "Please give me more time. Just one more day. Just one more hour. Just let her wake up." But the silence answered her.

The fire shuddered in the hearth, casting long, trembling shadows against the walls.

The room was too cold, too dark. And then —

A sound. Soft. Barely there. But enough.

Alexia’s head snapped up. The door stood open.

Wind curled around the frame, though no wind stirred outside.

And there — standing in the doorway, wreathed in shadow and power — was her father.

King of the Gods. Judge of souls. Executioner of his own blood.

He wasn’t dressed in battle armor. He wore no crown tonight.

Only simple white robes that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

It made him look almost human. Almost merciful.

But Alexia knew better.

She had seen him destroy worlds with a glance.

And now he had come for hers.

Alexia scrambled from the bed, placing herself between you and him, arms outstretched like she could shield you from the force of a thousand suns.

Her knees were weak. Her chest burned. But she stood. She stood for you. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

"Please," she whispered. "Please don’t."

He looked at her, ancient and unmoving.

There was no anger in his face. No cruelty. Only something worse — inevitability.

"You knew the law," he said, voice low and final. "You chose to break it."

Alexia’s whole body shook.

"I love her," she said, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. "Is that so wrong? Is love wrong?"

Silence.

You shifted slightly behind her, murmuring something soft and incoherent in your sleep.

Alexia bit down on a sob.

Her father’s face remained still.

Unmoved. Unforgiving.

"You broke the balance," he said. "You brought the mortal world too close to ours. You made her vulnerable. You made all of them vulnerable."

"I’ll leave," Alexia said desperately.

"I’ll give it all up. My name. My power. I’ll become mortal if I have to. Just — please. Spare her."

Something flickered in his eyes. Regret. Or sadness. Or maybe nothing at all.

"You cannot bargain with destiny," he said. "You knew this end the moment you touched her heart."

Alexia staggered backward, feeling the ground vanish beneath her feet.

It was like drowning. It was like dying already.

The magic began to gather.

Alexia felt it — a slow, steady pull that wrapped around the room like a noose.

The stars outside blinked out one by one.

The fire in the hearth died.

Even the air seemed to vanish, leaving only a crushing stillness behind.

She turned to you —

Beautiful. Sleeping. Unaware.

Alexia crawled back onto the bed, pulled you into her arms, rocking you gently.

You stirred faintly, blinking up at her with sleepy confusion.

"Alexia...?" Your voice was so small, so trusting.

Alexia choked on a sob. "I’m here," she said. "I’m here, my love. I’m right here."

You smiled at her, slow and sweet, like you had all the time in the world.

Like tomorrow was waiting for you.

You reached up, fingers brushing clumsily against her cheek, as if to wipe her tears.

And then your hand fell away.

Your breath hitched.

Your body sagged against hers.

And Alexia knew.

In that moment — she knew.

She screamed your name, over and over, as if she could call you back.

She kissed your forehead, your mouth, your hands, desperate to warm you, to anchor you here.

But you were already slipping away.

Your last breath sighed against her collarbone, and then —

Stillness.

Real stillness.

The kind that could never be undone.

Alexia clutched you to her chest, howling like a wounded animal.

Her body shook with the force of her grief.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed, watching.

Silent.

Immovable.

A god who had just crushed his daughter's heart under his heel.

Alexia didn't feel the moment her world ended.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a roar.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

She held you against her chest, your head tucked under her chin, arms wrapped so tightly around you she could barely breathe.

Your skin had already gone cold.

But she refused to believe it.

She ran her fingers over your face — desperate — touching every inch of you like she could memorize it fast enough to keep you.

"Come back," she whispered.

Her voice broke on the words.

"Please, come back. Please, please, please."

But you didn't move.

Not the flutter of an eyelash.

Not the soft twitch of a dream.

Nothing.

She kissed you — your forehead, your cheeks, your frozen lips.

She whispered your name into the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat used to be.

She said it over and over, until it didn’t even sound like a name anymore, just a sound she couldn't stop making.

"I love you," she gasped into the silence.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

Her voice cracked open.

The bed that had held your laughter, your kisses, your whispered promises—

it was just a bed now.

A coffin dressed in soft sheets.

The smell of you — that sweet, warm smell she loved more than anything — still lingered.

It made it worse.

It made it unbearable.

She lay there Until the weight of you became too much even for her immortal strength.

Until her body shook with exhaustion and sorrow and something worse — the knowledge that no matter how long she lived, she would never touch you again.

The world outside went silent.

No birds.

No winds.

Even nature seemed to hold its breath.

She buried her face in your neck and pretended — for just one last moment — that you were only sleeping.

That when morning came, you’d roll over and kiss her good morning, half-asleep, mumbling about breakfast.

She stayed like that for hours.

When the other gods came, they were gentle. But she hated them for it.

They touched her shoulders. Whispered her name.

Tried to pry you from her arms like you were a possession she wasn’t allowed to keep.

"She’s mine," Alexia sobbed, voice feral.

"You can't take her from me. She's mine."

But they were stronger. And she was weak now. Broken.

When they finally lifted your body from her arms, Alexia howled.

A sound that tore open the clouds, that shook the very stars. The gods lowered their heads.They did not meet her eyes. Because even they knew

what had been done tonight could never be undone.

Alone in the wreckage of the life you built together, Alexia collapsed onto the bed.

The scent of you, the warmth of you, still clung to the sheets.

It was a grave now. A grave made of every memory she had ever cherished.

She pressed her face into your pillow and screamed into it, a soundless scream that shredded her throat, her chest, her soul.

"Come back to me," she whispered when her voice returned. "Come back. Please, come back. I'll be better. I'll do anything. Please."

But there was only silence.

And the slow fading of your warmth from the air.

The next morning never came.

The sun refused to rise over a world that had lost you.

The stars hid.

The heavens sealed themselves against the grief of a god's daughter.

Alexia did not move from your bed.

She would not eat.

Would not drink.

Would not breathe unless she had to.

She stayed curled in the ruins of your love, dying slowly inside, knowing that even death would not be a mercy granted to her.

She would live. And live. And live.

Remembering you. Remembering the night she couldn’t save you.

The night her father ripped you away.

The night she realized forever meant nothing without you.

Seasons shifted. Flowers bloomed.

Humans laughed.

They built cities from glass and stone.

But Alexia never forgot.

She carried your memory like a splinter under her skin — tiny, invisible, aching with every breath.

It happened quietly, without warning.

A tug on the golden string that tied her to you —

small at first, like the twitch of a muscle.

And then stronger.

Sharper.

Alexia stumbled to her knees in the halls of heaven, gasping for air she no longer needed.

"She's back," she choked out.

Her hands clutched the ground.

Tears blurred her vision.

The other gods turned their heads, unconcerned.

After all, what was one mortal life, more or less?

But for Alexia, it was everything.

You were everything.

You were born again under a low grey sky.

Rain fell heavy on the roof of the house where you took your first breath.

Alexia watched from the clouds, unseen.

You were so small. Your hands barely curled into fists.

Your eyes opened wide, taking in a world you had never seen —

and yet somewhere deep inside you, Alexia swore, there was a flicker of old light.

She pressed her hand to the barrier that separated their worlds and whispered your name.

You didn’t hear her. Of course you didn’t.

You had forgotten.

You grew quickly.

The years spun past like golden leaves in a river.

You climbed trees, laughed so loudly it scared the birds, dirtied your knees chasing after dogs in the street.

Alexia watched all of it.

From behind the veil. From the edge of dreams.

She learned your new laugh. Your new smile.

The new stubborn tilt of your chin when you didn’t get your way.

She loved you fiercely, quietly.

But she never came closer.

Never dared.

Her father’s words were still burned into her bones:

"Love her again, and I will destroy her."

"You were not made to love mortals."

"You do not get to disobey twice."

And Alexia believed him. Because she had watched you die in her arms once before.

And that kind of fear — it never really leaves you.

You lived fully.

You fell in love for the first time under a bright red sunset, your fingers laced with a boy’s as you danced barefoot in the grass.

Alexia watched you kiss him, your heart opening wide and easy.

Her own heart cracked a little. Not from jealousy. Not exactly.

From longing. From grief. Because it should have been her.

It had been, once.

And now you were smiling at someone else the way you had once smiled at her.

And Alexia — she was only a shadow at the edge of your life.

A ghost you didn’t know you were missing.

You married him. You built a life.

Alexia watched you raise children, your hair turning silver at your temples, your laugh growing softer but never fading.

And when you died —

peacefully, surrounded by the family you made —

Alexia set the sky on fire with her grief. Storms tore across oceans. Forests bowed under the weight of her sorrow.

It happened again. And again. And again.

Each life different.

Each life the same.

In one, you were an artist, your hands stained with paint, your soul burning too bright for one body to hold.

You loved a woman then, dark-haired and clever, and Alexia watched you spin poems into the air with your kisses.

In another, you were a warrior, a leader, a voice that rallied the broken-hearted.

You died young, with a sword in your hand and freedom in your blood.

Sometimes you lived long, quiet lives.

Sometimes you blazed across the sky like a falling star.

But always, you forgot her.

Always, you lived without her.

And Alexia —

she stayed in the shadows.

Every time.

Because she loved you too much to steal your life away again.

Because she loved you enough to hurt herself instead.

[xianqu]

✦ : PLOTTING CALL ━━━━ wishlist items.

i have trouble starting ideas on the go, or finding a launching point at times, so i decided to compile a list of wishlist relations that i'd like to have for yixuan!! this is by no means an exhaustive list, but a hopefully a place to start from and branch outward to; one of my shortcomings is unfortunately not knowing how to respond and conversations dying so i am fingers crossed that this will work.... see below the cut for a short list of potential dynamics! i'll reblog this periodically and send IMs to those interested!!

hellbound gods / ghosts / spirits ; one of the easiest, i think, in terms of launching points and an easy way into neutral-to-high regard from yixuan. he sees most as coworkers in diyu and even if he's not personally familiar, there's at least an unspoken level of respect between them. with the exception of yanwang ( a tip-top level god who yixuan has absolutely no business trying to get buddy-buddy with in an attempt to get out of this stupid job he's found himself in ) he has at least heard of others in his rank. * coworkers, friends, found family

' righteous ' gods of heaven ; the complete opposite of the above, yixuan has an automatic dislike for the deities in heaven. their relationship has crumbled hundreds of years ago and a sort of resentment between tian / heaven meddling with the affairs of diyu / hell has led to a distrust and longstanding dislike for its gods. especially given his new job searching for the deity who leaked the pill of immortality to the humans, yixuan REALLY dislikes heaven. * enemies, bridging understanding, begrudging coworkers

doctors / deities of life ; expanding on the previous dynamic, this one is a bit more specific to yixuan himself rather than the thoughts of diyu's gods. yixuan has a personal target on his back by shennong ( the god of medicine ) and his followers for SUPPOSEDLY stealing his eye. outside of shennong, yixuan has a neutral standing on those who give / extend life if only because they make his job a bit more difficult than he feels it needs to be. * enemies, antagonizing (yixuan ), new perspectives

mortals who have found immortality ; the Bane of yixuan's existence and his main purpose on earth. while yes, he's meant to cull loves for the return of souls to diyu, his target is finding who has gotten ahold of the pill of immortality and finding which god slipped it to the humans. whether they attained immortality through other means, yixuan is hellbent on reaping their lives if they aren't one of the heroes pre-ordained to be spared. that is, unless they can give him the information he's looking for: he's willing to look the other way for a price. * enemies, hot on the trail, partners in crime (?)

necromancers / jiangshi / reanimated corpses ; cult followers of yixuan's craft and the very souls he visits to bestow his grace upon in order to create these creatures. so long as they don't meddle with the pool of souls, why can't he have a bit of fun from time to time? as a creature made of gu poison, yixuan has no problem with the art, but oversees practitioners to ensure they don't step beyond their boundaries. * mentor-mentee, teaching an old dog new tricks, troublemakers

killers ; workload lifters, he considers them. though it certainly isn't his preferred method, so long as there is a steady stream of souls returned to diyu then he has no qualms against the methodology. he's befriended town serial killers, creatures of the grove, mythical beasts, all who lighten the burden of his already heavy plate. * friends, coworkers, partners in crime

followers ; he's a minor god, at least, until someone has a need to pray to him. even still, there are those who are devout to his name and he's willing to grace them a time or two, a ward of his protection. * god and devotee, trailing puppies, knight and king

friendships ; though his face is well known across his domain and among the humans who have had the misfortune of being paid a visit by him, he isn't always immersed in work. it certainly seems that way at times, but yixuan is a playful soul beneath the layers of gruff annoyance. he's a bit clingy, a bit demanding, and is never quite direct with his thoughts, but is a steadfast rock should someone need it. never one to take anything too seriously ( save for... his work ) he's a lighthearted god who doesn't exactly act his age. * friends, pesterer and pesteree, found family

family (?) ; yixuan is a solitary soul, someone who doesn't fare well with himself much less his own family ( if they even exist-- he's yet to clarify that myth about his origins ) but it gets lonely at times. not that he would ever admit such a thing... having someone to rely on, pester, come to with victories and failures would be good for him, i think. if only to keep from going insane until he's relieved of this stupid position. admittedly difficult to get to know him to reach this point, but a greatly treasured role by the god of plague if achieved. * found family, annoyances, rare soft spots

romantic partners ; admittedly yixuan has had sparse experiences here and there, with immortals and humans alike. there aren't many who capture his heart and those who do flee too soon * right person wrong time, reincarnated love, old gods learning humanity

anything else that comes to mind ; please don't let this post limit you!! if you have your own wishlist dynamics i would LOVE to see how yixuan could puzzle into that role, or if something in this list sparks an idea, that's awesome too!!

[talonabraxas]

Hermes Trismegistus

If then you do not make yourself equal to God, you cannot apprehend God; for like is known by like.

Leap clear of all that is corporeal, and make yourself grown to a like expanse with that greatness which is beyond all measure; rise above all time and become eternal; then you will apprehend God. Think that for you too nothing is impossible; deem that you too are immortal, and that you are able to grasp all things in your thought, to know every craft and science; find your home in the haunts of every living creature; make yourself higher than all heights and lower than all depths; bring together in yourself all opposites of quality, heat and cold, dryness and fluidity; think that you are everywhere at once, on land, at sea, in heaven; think that you are not yet begotten, that you are in the womb, that you are young, that you are old, that you have died, that you are in the world beyond the grave; grasp in your thought all of this at once, all times and places, all substances and qualities and magnitudes together; then you can apprehend God.

But if you shut up your soul in your body, and abase yourself, and say “I know nothing, I can do nothing; I am afraid of earth and sea, I cannot mount to heaven; I know not what I was, nor what I shall be,” then what have you to do with God?”

- Hermes Trismegistus, Hermetica: The Greek Corpus Hermeticum.

“Close your eyes and let the mind expand. Let no fear of death or darkness arrest its course. Allow the mind to merge with Mind. Let it flow out upon the great curve of consciousness. Let it soar on the wings of the great bird of duration, up to the very Circle of Eternity.”

-Hermes Trismegistus.

“That which is below is like that which is above, and that which is above is like that which is below, to perform the miracles of one only thing.”

-Hermes Trismegistus.

“The punishment of desire is the agony of unfulfillment”

-Hermes Trismegistus, Poimandres.

“But this discourse, expressed in our paternal language, keeps clear the meaning of its words. The very quality of speech and of the Egyptian words have in themselves the energy of the object they speak of.

Therefore, my king, in so far as you have the power (who are all powerful), keep the discourse uninterpreted, lest mysteries of such greatness come to the Greeks, lest the extravagant, flaccid and (as it were) dandified Greek idiom extinguish something stately and concise, the energetic idiom of usage. For the Greeks have empty speeches, O king, that are energetic only in what they demonstrate, and this is the philosophy of the Greeks, an inane foolosophy of speeches. We, by contrast, use not speeches but sounds that are full of action.

-Hermes Trismegistus, Hermetica: The Greek Corpus Hermeticum and the Latin Asclepius.

“O ye people, earth-born folk, ye who have given yourselves to drunkenness and sleep and ignorance of God, be sober now,cease from your surfeit, cease to be glamored by irrational sleep!” -Hermes Trismegistus, Corpus hermeticum.

[th3-0bjectivist]

Dear listener, this will be my final musical entry for 24’ and for several months, and we’re gonna end it with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, one of the elite few great classical composers of all time. I feel like these days, classical music has been somewhat devalued and relegated to running in the background of ultra-absorbent paper towel commercials. This is a damn shame, because classical music changed music on planet Earth forever, and composers like Mozart once represented bleeding-edge innovation in the realm of music. For his time, Mozart wrote music in every available and accessible genre and excelled at each of them as well. Much like classical music in a broad sense, WAM attempted to create works that were universal in application. Much like me, the man genuinely enjoyed pleasing every segment of his wide-ranging audience with his personal versatility. Is it any wonder that you’re familiar with WAM’s name and works even though you weren’t even living during his era? So, how do men like this become immortalized? Join me below for an answer from some guy on the internet. Just above is The Requiem in D minor, K. 626, a piece Mozart didn’t even finish before he died. It is haunting, beautiful and really exemplifies WAM’s range. Thank you, all my dear listeners on Tumblr, for celebrating another year of music with me. I’ll be doing more of the same next year as well, but without further ado… the WAM you’ve been waiting for.

Dying young at 35 but filling his entire short life with his own firebrand of musical creativity, WAM started his career at an extremely fresh-faced 5 years old when he wrote his first keyboard composition. He wrote his first SYMPHONY when he was an 8-year-old… and I don’t know if anyone is aware of this but, that kind of natural compositional talent doesn’t exactly grow on trees these days, or even hundreds of years in the past. Like many other classical artists, WAM was brought up in the Church, specifically in the Catholic faith. He is well known for composing ‘divinely inspired works’, specifically designed for Mass between Epistle and Gospel. Performing for imperial courts as a mere child and then going on to create 600 + total musical works in his lifetime, WAM wasn’t just some musician from Austria; he was a Bonafide genius. He could speak over a dozen languages, was awarded the Order of the Golden Spur by Pope Clement XIV and was perhaps one of the most notable and famous Freemasons of all-time. WAM even went as far as producing openly masonic works like The Magic Flute and Thomas, King of Egypt. Unlike other classical artists (Brahms, Beethoven, Vivaldi), WAM was a family man who cherished his children but left very little to them because of his excessive drinking, extravagant general spending, and personal generosity. His lack of money-management aside, WAM stands tall as one of the most, if not the MOST famous Austrian musician of all time. Fun fact: WAM loved fart and poop jokes. I’m NOT kidding. He went as far as writing scatological music for his recreational and drunk buddies and quipped about his bowel movements to close friends and family members in numerous letters. Why would I mention this, you may ask? Because, for his time, this man was a walking immortal on Earth. Mozart’s shit-based humor humanizes him to me, and I love how this yester century genius thought absolutely anything coming out of the human ass was hilarious. Having been subject to numerous infections and bumps on his skin before his untimely death, WAM died young and under entirely mysterious circumstances which have never been properly identified or explained. Just below, you’ll find The Best of Mozart. Smash play, enjoy, Happy New Year. It was a pleasure, as always, to provide Tumblr with music and information in 24’.

A prodigy, more versatile than his contemporaries, and more influential than the vast, vast majority of any common musician…Mozart is a legend and an inspiration. Is it any wonder that his surname is well-known even to this day… even though he had no grandchildren? Image source: https://www.redbubble.com/i/kids-t-shirt/Wolfgang-Amadeus-Mozart-digital-painting-in-high-resolution-by-hypnotzd/142756337.VXRIW

[godsfavoritescientist]

Drabble request: post-canon "happy" ending for Bill & Ford, but find some way to imply that something super fucked up is going on just beneath the surface. Mind control, dream bubble fantasy, idk, dealer's choice, just something messed up.

Fragments of what was once Earth drift through the empty vacuum of space. They sit together on a summoned-up couch, watching it all float by. Ford fidgets with his brand new eye-shaped gold cufflinks. His ornately-embroidered sleeves are drenched in blood.

The henchmaniacs are busy elsewhere, expanding their reign of benevolent terror to the outer reaches of the galaxy. This mostly entails eating space rocks and crashing planets into eachother. For the first time since Ford accepted Bill’s offer, they’ve had time to really sit down and chat.

Bill throws an arm over Ford’s shoulder. “Lemme tell you something, Sixer. It doesn’t really matter how necessary it was–and believe me, it was necessary! What matters more is that it was the most fun you’ll ever have! Now that you’re immortal, I won’t sugarcoat it: Earth’s entire existence is a blip in the grand scheme of things. It was like a really dry log: destined to be burned!” He pats Ford on the back. “So don’t let me catch you moping about it.”

“I’m not moping,” Ford bristles, leaning away from Bill’s touch. “I’m contemplating.”

“Hah! Contemplating! You hear this guy?” Bill asks an imaginary audience, gesturing at Ford with his thumb. “Well contemplate this: we’ve got ultimate power over the entire multiverse. You might as well be a god. You can spend an eternity studying everything that ever was and ever will be. This is a sweet deal no matter how you spin it!”

Ford makes a noncommital sound. “That very well may be true, and I am grateful to you, but… human emotion is not so easy to logic away, I’m afraid. I want to move on as easily as you did, but…” he shrugs helplessly. “It’s just hard to believe it’s gone.”

Bill pats him on the back. “A little bit of shock is normal! Took me a few weeks to work through. Of course, I was brand new to the third dimension too, so it shouldn’t take quite that long for you. But humans are more emotional than shapes, so I’ll be patient! Don’t say I never did anything for ‘ya.”

Ford doesn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Now! You know what helps me when I’m like this? A good distraction! There’s bound to be dozens of my enemies tracking us down right now–it’s not exactly hard to miss a whole planet blowing up. So we’d better get a head start on things, attack first before any of them can put us on the defensiv-” Bill squints at something approaching from the distance. “Hey, what’s that?”

Ford looks up sharply. It takes a few seconds to spot it, but as it gets closer, it’s unmistakable: a steely-gray entirely flat object, no more than two feet wide and long, flying towards them.

Once it’s right between them, it slows to a stop. From above, it’s clearly shaped like a 2D spacecraft, except that all four walls are enclosed, not just the perimeter.

A stick-thin door opens up, and out floats a dozen multicolored geometric shapes, all with skin covering their bodies from above and below, not just around their perimeter.

For the first time in eons, Bill is too stunned to speak a single word.

The leader of the group, a irregularly-shaped silver isoceles triangle, speaks first. “It’s you! It’s really you! We were starting to think you died in the aftermath of our dimension’s death. But the energy signals we’ve been following over the past week… we knew it couldn’t be anyone else.”

Bill’s voice is very quiet, and much less echoey than usual, as he says, “I thought you all died. I made sure you all died.”

The little silver triangle laughs. “Nope! The cleverest of us were able to escape. Your destruction only took the lives of those unwilling to change, unwilling to adapt to the higher dimensions. And the lives we’ve led since then have been so much better than anything our homeworld could have ever offered to us. We owe you a great deal.”

As he listens to this, Bill glows brighter and brighter and brighter, until he’s glowing the brightest that he’s ever been. “I knew it! I knew the worthy ones would live, I knew there was a way out for ones like you!”

He turns to Ford with a brilliant gleam in his eye. “Ford, these are survivors from my home dimension! Do you know how long it’s been? At least a trillion years! These guys are persistent. More than worthy of joining the gang, right Ford?”

Ford looks just as overjoyed as Bill. “Absolutely—but this is incredible! Liberating my dimension didn’t just give me an eternity at your side, but it’s also allowed these shapes to finally find you!” He shakes his head in wonder. “This whole time, you were right, Bill. You were right about everything. If our first act as joint-rulers of the multiverse can accomplish something of this scope, then there’s nothing we can’t accomplish together.”

Bill embraces Ford in a hug that sends them both twirling through outerspace. “Isn’t it exhilirating? Being free from all those stupid little ties to a planet that’ll be dead and gone in the blink of an eye?”

Ford nods wholeheartedly. “There’s a whole multiverse out there for the taking. You’ve finally made me see that.”

He lets go of Bill, and looks back at the handful of shapes floating nearby. “You must have so many questions. I know I do. But I’ll let you catch up with Bill, first.”

Bill zooms back to face the shapes. “Boy do I ever!!! How long do you guys live now that you’ve adapted yourselves to a three-dimensional world, because we’re gonna be here for a while.”

The group settles in for a very long chat, exchanging stories and ideas and many cups of tea. And way off in the distance, far out of Bill’s line of sight, his little world’s edge glimmers with the iridescence of a soap bubble.

[ryin-silverfish]

Will Open To Flood

A fan prologue to the Water Margin Prologue. One-shot.

(Since I'm actually getting Water Margin asks, I may as well post this old fanfic from...last year or something, can't remember.)

...

From the very beginning, he knew these were not ordinary animal spirits or malicious ghosts. Yet, despite ending up with the same hexagrams of warning and ill omen in every divination, despite gazing into the night sky and finding the stars out of their usual position, Celestial Master Zhang dared not turn his mind to the most obvious answer.

So it came to him, in the form of thirty-six blazing orbs of light and seventy-two clouds of darkness, struggling against his unseen net.

Why do you stop us? Obstructing the duty of mortal officials is already a grave offense. One of the thirty-six spoke. Not to mention the very stars of Heaven and Earth. Of all mortals, you should have known better, Celestial Master.

Why bother with this bull-nosed fool, brothers? An orb of dark light, spinning so fast that it looked like a whirlwind, seethed. Let me rip his net to pieces! Bring the curse of SLAUGHTER upon him, his disciples, his lineage!

No. We are not allowed to lay our hands on anyone, before the time of our redemption comes.

A shame. A soft, feminine voice cooed. I'd have made fine mincemeat out of him. 

Silence, woman. We are trying to convince him that we are not demons. 

"I know what you are." He could feel the beads of sweat on his forehand, as he gazed down into the shallow pit. "And I will not set you free."

What insolence! A bellow, followed by a hearty chortle. I love it! This man has a backbone, and I cannot say the same for you lot.

What are you hoping to accomplish with this? Blackmail? Enslavement? A change of fortune? We cannot grant you anything, trapped as we are now. 

"To protect the living, baleful stars."

From the wrath of Heaven? One of the seventy-two snorted. You are more of a fool than we think.

Understandable, if pitiful. But we are merely on our way to the Wheel of Transmigration. Regardless of what our grim duty is, you will not know it in your own lifetime.  

WRONG! The moment I'm free, I'll give him a taste of it! The black whirlwind spun faster. Though it did not have eyes, Celestial Master Zhang suddenly felt the full weight of its glare. Release us, and I'll leave enough pieces of you behind for a proper burial!

Not. Helping.

Hmmm. As one Daoist to another, I appreciate your mastery of the sealing arts. 

It pains me to admit this, brothers, but there is a grain of truth in the words of the Star of Heavenly Slaughter. A contemplative sigh. Bargaining and negotiations are futile. If we are fated to carry out our duties in time, we would not be captured in the first place. Conversely, if we are trapped now, then we must be destined to wait further.

THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID, YOU——

Enough! One orb's light blazed. Show the Star of Heavenly Cunning some respect. 

Thank you, brother. Now, Celestial Master, it said, in a deceptively calm voice. This one can offer you nothing, other than what he knows, and what he hears from your very being. So ask, and you should receive.

"Are you truly certain in the Will of Heaven?"

A long silence. Another star laughed.

Oh, that is not a question for the wise or cunning. It is a question for this humble immortal, it said,  as it effortlessly flew into the space where the Star of Heavenly Cunning used to be.

You are speaking of the Will of Heaven like it is an imperial decree, imposed upon the world below. It is not.

The Will of Heaven is the Wrath of Man.

A chill crawled upon his spine, as he heard the last few words. Even the restless dark stars slowed in their movements.

When Qinlins fight, there shall be eclipses. When whales die, meteors emerge. As above, so below. Every deed has a ripple, and it goes both ways.

Do you think the wrath and death we carry are our own? That it does not come from the very men who lived and died under our lights, nay, has yet to die and live, will die and will live?

Have you not seen them yourself, Celestial Master? The bloody legacies of An Lushan and Shi Siming? The eunuchs, so powerful yet powerless? The charcoal seller, the elderly man who broke his own arm to escape conscription, the dying beggar in front of the vermillion gate? 

Every muffled scream, every last tear, every eye that remains shut to some and open to others. Mountain of gold and silver, built atop bleached bones. 

Like little grains of sand, they pile up at the bottom, discarded by the currents, merging into the mire. Higher and higher, until they force the very waters to rise and break through the dam, sweeping everything away in its wake.

We are the last grains, destined to unleash the flood. 

We shall dish out suffering and death, and suffer and die in return. 

"I've heard enough."

He drew the fly whisk hidden in his sleeves. Despite the tremors in his legs, he did not kneel over as he began walking the Steps of Yu.

We are the punisher. We are the punished.

Damn you! Can you stop spewing mystical nonsense for once and start convincing him?

I believe the Star of Heavenly Slaughter has well and truly ruined any chance of that, before the Star of Heavenly Leisure opened his mouth.

WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY ABOUT ME, YA' WIMPY POSTBOY?!

Wonderful. Now we have to endure each other for the next few hundred years. Perhaps this is the true Heavenly Punishment. A star pulsed, as if shaking its head. Still, Celestial Master, I'm holding you and your entire lineage responsible for our suffering to come.

He did not say the mantra out loud, as he called upon the essence of Qian and Kun, Kan and Dui. Heaven and Earth, Water and Marsh. As quarrelsome and seemingly human as the stars were, he would not give them a single word that could be used against his formation.

You will not be the first to raise the dam higher, nor the last. But heed my words, ye who walk in the Sage King's steps: no dams can stop a flood forever.

"For the fields and houses standing in its way, it is still worth a try."

Your courage is commendable. But alas, Gun, father of Yu, thought dams alone would suffice too. 

Its sigh was almost drowned out by the furious cries and threats of its fellow stars, as the threads of his net hardened into diamond chains, slowly but steadily dragging them toward the earth below.

Until then, we shall wait. Let the mire bury us, wash away the memories.

The earth crumbled before the first star even touched its surface. One by one, the lights and dark clouds vanished into the bottomless void, while he drew rocks out from beneath the soil and reshaped them like clay on a pottery wheel, into the form of a slab and a divine tortoise and scripts of phoenix and dragon.

When all have forgotten, when no one knows of the missing stars, when the silken facade of prosperity seems unbreakable, when human folly and greed reign...

"Begone, demons!"

Then we will break free, and the very Heaven and Earth shall scream our names.

Only when the very last echo of its words faded away did Celestial Master Zhang fall on his knees, panting. His Daoist robes were drenched in sweat, as if caught in a downpour. Breathe in, click the tongue, swallow, breathe out. Hold onto Stillness, steady the Heart. 

The prison would hold. For now.

At last, he picked himself up from the ground, ready to add a few more sealing talismans onto the stone tortoise and the stele, just in case——

He froze when he caught sight of four giant characters at the back of the stele. Angry crimson oozed from every stroke, as if carved onto soft flesh instead of cold, hard stone, in stark contrast with the gentle golden lines of his own script.

Will 

Open 

To 

Flood

[e-farmer]

So recently i was talking with a friend about the Sculk from Minecraft since they made a Sculk themed Vessel OC and then i remembered "Oh yeah, i have a Sculk themed Hollow Knight OC to!"

BEHOLD, THE SCULK LORD!

I made him along time ago, back before i started drawing. I made him so i had a character on this one Minecraft roleplay realm i was playing on afew years ago. I won't go into his story here since it's completely irrelevant now since that realms no longer around. (That and all the lore below is for the version of him that appears on the Pale Earth.)

Oh, and before i forget, my friend Chomper helped with the Sculk details and armor bits on the drawing! Also the capes shape is was outlined by a friend I had made on that Minecraft realm, but i sadly don't remember their username.. (It's been like 2 or 3 years in my defense!)

He's an ancient Roach necromancer (or as i call them, a "Necroachmancer", heheh) who once ruled over an ancient civilization near the bedrock of the world. He eventually discovered an ancient, primordial fungal mold-like entity (literally just the Sculk but edited to fit in the world of Undergrowth, gotta work on it still.) He then began studying this being, and eventually discovered a way to "control" it in a sense. By merging his mind with this entity, he would essentially die, but then be reborn as an immortal Sculk/Roach hybrid. He then let the Sculk overtake his own kingdom so that it may feed on the souls of all the bugs that once lived there. He used his newfound control over the Sculk and his power of necromancy to create an army of Sculk infused Husk soldiers so that he may lay claim to the surface would above, but was defeated long ago by a group of heroic warriors.

That's all I've got so far for him atm. But expect more from Sculk lord and his minions in the future!

...Probably lol

[lesmisletters-daily]

The Death Of A Horse

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.3.8

“The dinners are better at Édon’s than at Bombarda’s,” exclaimed Zéphine.

“I prefer Bombarda to Édon,” declared Blachevelle. “There is more luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs; there are mirrors [<i>glaces</i>] on the walls.”

“I prefer them [<i>glaces</i>, ices] on my plate,” said Favourite.

Blachevelle persisted:—

“Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda’s and of bone at Édon’s. Now, silver is more valuable than bone.”

“Except for those who have a silver chin,” observed Tholomyès.

He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from Bombarda’s windows.

A pause ensued.

“Tholomyès,” exclaimed Fameuil, “Listolier and I were having a discussion just now.”

“A discussion is a good thing,” replied Tholomyès; “a quarrel is better.”

“We were disputing about philosophy.”

“Well?”

“Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?”

“Désaugiers,” said Tholomyès.

This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on:—

“I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods. We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine. There are still human beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of the paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea. Attention while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes.”

Again Fameuil interrupted him:—

“Tholomyès, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?”

“Ber—”

“Quin?”

“No; Choux.”

And Tholomyès continued:—

“Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Chæronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt. Apuleius tells us of them. Alas! always the same, and nothing new; nothing more unpublished by the creator in creation! <i>Nil sub sole novum</i>, says Solomon; <i>amor omnibus idem</i>, says Virgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Cloud, as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos. One last word. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an epoch when women had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy and purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn. Aspasia was a creature in whom two extremes of womanhood met; she was the goddess prostitute; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus.”

Tholomyès, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt. It was a Beauceron mare, old and thin, and one fit for the knacker, which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda’s, the worn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This incident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, <i>Mâtin</i> (the jade), backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell, never to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the passers-by, Tholomyès’ merry auditors turned their heads, and Tholomyès took advantage of the opportunity to bring his allocution to a close with this melancholy strophe:—

“Elle était de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses

Ont le même destin;

Et, rosse, elle a vécu ce que vivant les rosses,

L’espace d’un mâtin!”

“Poor horse!” sighed Fantine.

And Dahlia exclaimed:—

“There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pitiful fool as that!”

At that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back, looked resolutely at Tholomyès and said:—

“Come, now! the surprise?”

“Exactly. The moment has arrived,” replied Tholomyès. “Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a moment, ladies.”

“It begins with a kiss,” said Blachevelle.

“On the brow,” added Tholomyès.

Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress’s brow; then all four filed out through the door, with their fingers on their lips.

Favourite clapped her hands on their departure.

“It is beginning to be amusing already,” said she.

“Don’t be too long,” murmured Fantine; “we are waiting for you.”

[fanthirtheen]

Here's a question concerning the mortality of demons in HelluvaVerse.

Stolas is 30-something. We could debate 30-what exactly, but I think his age in the flashback of The Circus is ambiguous enough that we don't need to know exactly. He's 30-something. That has to be incredibly young for a supposedly immortal race of demons.

And "Stolas the Owl Demon of Books, Poisons, and Prophecies" is not a 30-something year old concept.

Why would the Goetia, supposedly immortal race of demons, be so preoccupied with producing precautionary heirs so early in their supposedly immortal lives if there weren't a very real and normal chance that they'd die in a vaguely human-like time frame? Why has Stolas the Demon Prince been in Earth's demonology for so long?

(Maybe questioning the status of souls of creatures that live where human souls go when they die, which is inherently a vacuume of a conversation) but is there some level of reincarnation-style scenario going on with hellborn? Like, Stolas isn't the first Stolas. He isn't the first owl demon prince who's dominion is over poisons, prophecies, and knowledge. There have been other Stolas's, and when one dies another will eventually be born to take his place so that power is recycled. Or more directly, this is just straight up not his first life and previous Stolas's were just him. Like the Stolas from ancient human demonology books was just as nerdy and awkward as our Stolas because it was the same guy.

You could just say that previous depictions of him are from prophecies, that his existence was foretold, but where were his powers before he was hatched? His father? Unlikely his father held the grimoire and those duties for thousands(?) Of years before he was born, because then his father (or whichever of his ancestors were around with the grimoire longest) wouldn't just be more well known in those duties than some owlet that hasn't even been lain yet.

So if the Ars Goetia are potentially in some level of reincarnation deal, and Octavia as a precautionary heir is simply meant to hold the grimoire and its duties until Stolas reincarnated and grows old enough again when he dies, is that specifically an Ars Goetia thing? Like, above them in ranking are the Sins, which I am under the understanding are either confirmed to be or implied to be more actually immortal, like they have been around since the beginning of Hell, they were in Lucifer's circus at the beginning, and above them we get into the Morningstar family.

But below the Ars Goetia? Do other hellborn reincarnate? Like, the other demons of the rins die and then get shoved back into a new body with no memories, or do their "souls" burn up and spawn with each life? Because I refuse to entertain heaven/hell-ception.

*these thoughts were spawned from my wondering for some time about the whole "Stolas is only 30-something, why would he appear in demonology lore/manuscripts/whatever on Earth from hundreds of years ago?" And occasionally seeing someone pointing out that Stolas is "immortal" while Blitz is not. What if Stolas's "immortal" just means a higher resistance to damage (only hurt by blessed weapons) and a definite reincarnation cycle? He's only 30-something!

[trickortrick]

“If then you do not make yourself equal to God, you cannot apprehend God; for like is known by like.

…

Think that for you too nothing is impossible; deem that you too are immortal, and that you are able to grasp all things in your thought, to know every craft and science; find your home in the haunts of every living creature; make yourself higher than all heights and lower than all depths;

…

But if you shut up your soul in your body, and abase yourself, and say “I know nothing, I can do nothing; I am afraid of earth and sea, I cannot mount to heaven; I know not what I was, nor what I shall be,” then what have you to do with God?”

-Hermes Trismegistus, Hermetica

***I don’t think Hermes and Thoth are the same gods, rather they are besties who vibe well and wrote books together.

And maybe Hermes Trismegistus (Hermes Thrice-Great) is not just a fusion/collaboration of two deities, but a trio. A trio of Hermes, Thoth and you. Thrice-great.

They said “If then you do not make yourself equal to God, you cannot apprehend God; for like is known by like.” in the Hermetica.

They already say if you wish to understand the wisdom of them, you need to think yourself as a god as well. For like is known by like. As above, so below, if you will.

Then you can share their wisdom. And be the Hermes Trimegistus.

Kharis Hermes! Dua Thoth! Hail me!

Disclaimer: Just some late night thoughts.

[moononmyfloor]

In the 3rd Quarter of 2024 Cdramaland...

1st Quarter, 2nd Quarter, 4th Quarter

(Aka the review post where I speak like I'm a hyping announcer at a presidential debate 😆)

.

16. Favorite Parents/Parent figures of the year

Papa Gu (Zhang Fengyi) from A Lonely Hero's Journey, Master Li (Qiu Xinzhi & Zhang Chenxiao) from Dashing Youth

Usually the uber principled, patriotic, larger-than-life parents are stereotyped as negligent and ruthless towards their children or incapable of expressing their true affections. Not Gu Xixing. He was a strict father but for all the right reasons, and never hesitated to throw his prestige and life aside for his children any second and he made sure his children knew that, which was the most important part. The kids knew their father wasn't someone to be trifled with, but also that they were so incredibly loved and protected. Having him as the father was a big part of why the ML grew upto be such a stable and well-adjusted young man who would never sway no matter what catastrophe befell him.

Li Changsheng was, hm, admirable in the COMPLETE opposite way. One of the most convincing character designs for an immortal I've seen, he was often insensitive to the mortal struggles his students went through, and came across as snobbish and heartless at times, but that behaviour made sense and was understandable for once. Plus, when he did decide show that he cares, he went big. Earth shatteringly, Dynasty-topplingly, Heaven-shakingly big. Quite literally. He always had life advise and cultivation tips to give, if you were able to tolerate his cryptic speech and dark humor resulting from having lived for too long. I was both disturbed and fascinated by him, I even wrote character analysis for him here and here, lol.

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17. Favorite historical drama of the year

A Lonely Hero's Journey

Set in Suzhou during 1940' Japanese Occupation era, this drama is by no means the most perfect espionage/spy/war show that China has to offer, but I REALLY enjoyed it because it had so much heart despite all the bloodshed and devastation going around.

It didn't have the most accurate-to-history depictions of this specific time period, the costumes weren't necessarily period appropriate etc, BUT THAT'S OK, because even still it did such a GORGEOUS job of its wardrobe, and it's not like didn't do some research (3 meta pics from official weibo posted above), delivered heaps upon heaps of world-famous Suzhou architecture and landscaping aesthetics (3 collages from weibo below) and used this mesmerising old gramophone track 【Teach Me How Not to Think of Her (教我如何不想她) by 赵元任 (Zhao Yuanren)】 in its bgm and also did a modern cover for it, all of which made for a very atmospheric viewing experience.

And most importantly, it depicted almost all the characters with empathy no matter they were a main character, a villain, a traitor, a Chinese or Japanese. If you see people spouting that Cdramas always have clear cut black and white censored portrayals of stories that take place in sensitive historical time periods, that they bend over their back to ensure the audience wouldn't root for the characters on the wrong side, just slap a show like this in their face.

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18. A drama that was a pleasant surprise

Snowfall

When the premise said "Republican era Vampire Cdrama with an age gap relationship" I didn't really expect it to be anything more than a cheaply produced light fantasy thriller with the said age gap couple being portrayed by two same age actors where one character simply happens to be labelled as immortal.

Snowfall was anything but. Excellent cinematic visuals, sets, styling and costumes from Director Li Muge, who is like China's second God of Colors after Dir. Zhang Yimou, veteran actor Vengo Gao (Age: 42) as the immortal half of the pair and Ouyang Nana (Age: 24) as the younger half, who actually do share a very visually age-gap dynamic that was so masterfully explored so it was 100% about mutual respect, adoration and sexual tension without being creepy, and the show never let you forget that the main lead was a vampire who could unleash some serious, gory violence if he wanted. Yes, his vampirism was still explained as the fault of alien meteorites (as always 😂) but they compensated with delivering an immaculate antagonist who was 10x unhinged than any paranormal disease could ever be. He had a competency kink, abandonment issues, he was emitting the desire to be held by throat and be topped wherever he went like a jumbotron, he loved to torture AND be tortured... the list is endless. Watching this drama was absolutely delightful.

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19. Favorite adaptation of the year

Adventure Behind the Bronze Door/Tibetan Sea Flower

The DMBJ fandom was waiting for this for what felt like a decade but OH MAN IT DELIVERED. Not only that it was faithful to the book in ALL the ways that mattered, it fixed up a lot of not-so-good parts in the original material, fixed continuity issues and became the DMBJ show with the most cohesive, well-paced narrative. It was about time.

From the super-well thought out opening credits animations, to the casting, book references, props designs, CGI, bgm and the to the freaking ENGLISH of all things, it was perfection. 9.5/10 Stars No Drama.

.

20. Screenstealer of the year

Ye Dingzhi (He Yu) from Dashing Youth

Tumblr user @fortycumber said it all, couldn't have said it better😂. Despite the promising start, Dashing Youth fell apart by the end (though I did enjoy that drama a fair amount, I made an edit too for Dingzhi and his poor wife Wenjun) with the scriptwriting failing almost all characters including Dingzhi himself, but He Yu's soulful acting did SO much to singlehandedly keep the show worth watching to the end.

It is especially amazing considering how He Yu is still a new actor, he had studied Architecture and started pursuing acting only recently, other than the gorgeous face he had little in common with the gazillions of his peers in the same show, yet he was the one who hit it out of the ballpark. An orphan in the Jianghu whose family was brutally murdered in his childhood, brought up by a just as loner Dark Cultivation Master, a prodigy who is admired but never understood and therefore feared by everyone, an ardent, loyal lover, a struggling young father.... he nailed it all with the perfect amount of gravitas.

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21. A drama that made me cry

Adventure Behind the Bronze Door/Tibetan Sea Flower

When I tell you just how much ZHH got the vibes right, I was impatient for the subs and randomly clicked here and there on ep 30 already, without subs. I saw glimpses of certain scenes that were happing in the ep and I just

stared at the screen

scared at the screen

A shudder passed through me and I instantly started bawling like a baby.

That hadn't happened to me in a long time. 😭

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22. A drama that made me laugh

The Flower of Lust

A low-budget simple comedy with copious GL undertones, this drama didn't offer much meat to bite on, but it was unexpectedly some good fun. Fast and easy to follow, there was lots of turned-around gender expectations going on for the roles.

For example, this laobanniang played by Word of Honor's Beauty Ghost is the main lead, there's no Male Lead, but a clutzy female assassin who's going to kill the Lady and they develop a classic wuxia sworn-sisterhood relationship where they share energy (😏) and sacrifice for each other. It has two side male characters played by hot young actors (Huang Junjie and Li Zhuoyang), but they are simply himbos who were saved by the boss lady and now work as her bodyguards! At most, they only have hots for each other.

Also it has a theme song that sounds TOO good for the production quality. Plus each ep is only 15 mins long, you won't lose out if you give this show a chance. The full version is only 3.5 hours.

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23. An old drama I watched this year

My Girlfriend's Boyfriend (2017)

On paper-

"An otaku wants to order a love bot in the form of the girl he has a crush on, but accidentally orders a male bot who is programmed to love him forever, and the otaku re-purchases the girl bot but she accidentally gets programmed to love the guy bot, and the Otaku suffers. A lighthearted comedy with some gay jokes."

What it actually was-

Polyamory negotiation, feelings realisation, coming out, internalised homophobia, learning to love yourself, multiple thorough discussions on how a relationship arrangement doesn't have to be this predefined textbook thing and how it's sometimes as simple as just staying with people who make you happy, the biggest gathering of explicitly-acknowledged queer people I've seen in a Cdrama including the ML himself, a butch, a crossdresser, a BL writer, a girl who believes everyone is in love with her...... who are shunned by the rest of the campus for being "weirdos" so they create this space for themselves that is so full of love and acceptance and *literally* decorated in rainbows, and there was a scene of a gay bar with a married gay couple...... I can go on and on.

Is it a perfect show? No. But I would give it even more than 10/10 if possible, simply for existing. It's not a masterpiece and is full of silliness sometimes but it is so painfully clear that this show was made by people who knew what they were doing.

The Before-2018 Cdramaland was a RIOT. Highly rec that everyone watch this, especially if you are interested in seeing what queer portrayals in recent Cdrama scene used to be before censorship rules tightened.

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More posts by me

[yogiurban]

Nicholas Flamel

Alchemy & the Philosopher’s Stone

"The secrets of alchemy exist to transform not just lead into gold, but the human soul into divinity."

"Nature begets nature, nature contains nature, nature overcomes nature." (An alchemical maxim often linked to Flamel’s teachings.)

"The greatest treasure is not material gold, but the gold of wisdom and eternal life."

On Knowledge & Secrecy

"The book of Abraham the Jew revealed to me the mysteries I had sought all my life—but only to those with eyes to see." (Referencing Flamel’s supposed discovery of an ancient alchemical text.)

"True knowledge is hidden in symbols, for the unworthy would misuse it."

"The Philosopher’s Stone is not a thing, but a process—the perfection of matter and spirit."

On Immortality & Spiritual Transformation

"He who possesses the secret of the Stone shall never taste of death."

"To live long is nothing; to live wisely is everything."

"The alchemist’s fire burns away impurities, leaving only the pure essence of the soul."

Mystical & Esoteric Wisdom

"As above, so below—the macrocosm and microcosm are one." (A Hermetic principle tied to alchemy.)

"The path to the Stone is written in the stars, the earth, and the human heart."

"Gold is born in the furnace of patience and the crucible of time."

Legacy & Influence

Though Flamel was a real historical figure (a 14th-century scribe and bookseller), his later myth as an immortal alchemist comes from legends. Some say he and his wife, Perenelle, achieved immortality through the Philosopher’s Stone.

Nicolas Flamel was a French écrivain public, a draftsman of public documents such as contracts, letters, agreements and requests. He and his wife also ran a school that taught this trade. 

Born: 1330, Pontoise, France

Died: March 22, 1418 (age 88 years), Paris, France

[jedineedlove]

Monkey Man:

I watched this new movie trailer Monkey Man and with it Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god.

Usually, I talk about JTTW and Sun Wukong but this new movie trailer inspired me to take a look into this monkey god. Hanuman is the most celebrated and worshipped figure in Indian religion. And said to be the inspiration for Sun Wukong.

(What I wrote I just right what I learned from some research please don't hesitate to commoner below if I got anything wrong or missed anything Thank you. :) )

 There are several stories told to explain Hanuman's origins.:

One interpretation Shiva and Parvati decided to transform themselves into monkeys in the forest.  As a result, Parvati becomes pregnant.  Shiva directs the wind god Vayu to carry the offspring from Parvati's womb to that of Anjana - an Apsara with the form of a monkey who has prayed to be granted a boy.

According to Hindu legends, Hanuman was born to mother Anjana and father Kesari.

Hanuman is also called the son of the deity Vayu (Wind god) because of legends associated with Vayu's role in Hanuman's birth and is said to be the incarnation of Shiva (Destroyer god)

image above (Vayu)

Another tale of his birth is "when Anjana was worshiping Vayu, the King Dasharatha of Ayodhya was also performing the ritual of Putrakameshti yagna to have children. As a result, he received some sacred pudding (payasam) to be shared by his three wives, leading to the births of Rama, Lakshmana, Bharata, and Shatrughna. By divine ordinance, a kite snatched a fragment of that pudding and dropped it while flying over the forest where Anjana was engaged in worship. Vayu delivered the falling pudding to the outstretched hands of Anjana, who consumed it, leading to the birth of Hanuman".

The majority of the stories contain Vayu and Anjana.

Similar to Wukong Hanuman had a youth full of mischief (usually with the gods and sages) and some familiar powers.

"As a youth Hanuman often abused his powers to pester the saints and holy men living in a nearby forest, with tricks such as beard pulling and the dousing of sacred fires.  However, it is as an adult that the monkey god Hanuman comes into his own."

"Indra, the king of the gods, struck Hanuman with a thunderbolt on the jaw(hanu), thus inspiring the name. When Hanuman continued to misbehave, powerful sages cursed him to forget his magic powers, such as the ability to fly or to become infinitely large, until he was reminded of them."

"The god Indra grants Hanuman a wish that his body would be as strong as Indra's Vajra and that his Vajra can also not harm him. Along with Indra other gods have also granted him wishes: the God Agni granted Hanuman a wish that fire won't harm him; God Varuna granted a wish for Hanuman that water won't harm him; God Vayu granted a wish for Hanuman that he will be as fast as wind and the wind won't harm him. Brahma also granted Hanuman a wish that he could move to any place where he could not be stopped. Hence these wishes make Hanuman an immortal, who has unique powers and strength."

"He is said to have transformed into the size of mountain, and flew across the narrow channel to Lanka." "he shrinks down to the size of an ant and sneaks into the city." "Upon arriving, he discovered that there were many herbs along the mountainside, and did not want to take the wrong herb back. So instead, he grew to the size of a mountain, ripped the mountain from the Earth, and flew it back to the battle. "

How the two are not alike is Hanuman was a being who wanted nothing to do with immortality and wanted to serve the Rama. Nothing like the free spirit and immortally seeking Wukong.

"After blessing all those who aided him in the battle with gifts, Rama gave Hanuman his gift, who threw it away. Many court officials, perplexed, were angered by this act. Hanuman replied that rather than needing a gift to remember Rama, he would always be in his heart. Some court officials, still upset, asked him for proof, and Hanuman tore open his chest, which had an image of Rama and Sita on his heart.

Now proven as a true devotee, Rama cured him and blessed him with immortality, but Hanuman refused this and asked only for a place at Rama's feet to worship him. Touched, Rama blessed him with immortality anyway. Like Shesha Nag, Hanuman would live on after the kalpa (destruction of the universe)."

Fun Fact:

The namesake " One interpretation of "Hanuman" is "one having a disfigured jaw". It is due to that earlier tale of Indra striking him as a child in the jaw with a lightning bolt. Because child Hanuman mistook the sun for a fruit and tried to take a bite.

That then leads to the other gods and Indra giving him powers and wishes. There is another version the other is he was burned to ash and was brought back but had a bad jaw when he was restored.

"Though Hanuman is described to be celibate in the Ramayana and most of the Puranas, according to some regional sources, Hanuman married Suvarchala, the daughter of Surya (Sun-God). However, once Hanuman was flying above the seas to go to Lanka, a drop of his sweat fell into the mouth of a crocodile, which eventually turned into a baby. The monkey baby was delivered by the crocodile, who was soon retrieved by Ahiravana, and raised by him, named Makardhwaja, and made the guard of the gates of Patala, the former's kingdom. One day, Hanuman, when going to save Rama and Lakshmana from Ahiravana, faced Makardhwaja and defeated him in combat. Later, after knowing the reality and after saving both, he made his son, the king of Patala.o"

(Can't wait to see the movie Monkey Man when it comes out:))

[talonabraxas]

The Silent Watcher - The Initiator Talon Abraxas

He is the "Initiator," called the "GREAT SACRIFICE." For, sitting at the threshold of LIGHT, he looks into it from within the circle of Darkness, which he will not cross; nor will he quit his post till the last day of this life-cycle. Why does the solitary Watcher remain at his self-chosen post? Why does he sit by the fountain of primeval Wisdom, of which he drinks no longer, as he has naught to learn which he does not know -- aye, neither on this Earth, nor in its heaven? Because the lonely, sore-footed pilgrims on their way back to their home are never sure to the last moment of not losing their way in this limitless desert of illusion and matter called Earth-Life. Because he would fain show the way to that region of freedom and light, from which he is a voluntary exile himself, to every prisoner who has succeeded in liberating himself from the bonds of flesh and illusion. Because, in short, he has sacrificed himself for the sake of mankind, though but a few Elect may profit by the GREAT SACRIFICE.

It is under the direct, silent guidance of this MAHA -- (great) -- GURU that all the other less divine Teachers and instructors of mankind became, from the first awakening of human consciousness, the guides of early Humanity. It is through these "Sons of God" that infant humanity got its first notions of all the arts and sciences, as well as of spiritual knowledge; and it is they who have laid the first foundation-stone of those ancient civilizations that puzzle so sorely our modern generation of students and scholars.

- The Secret Doctrine, I, 207-8

The hierarchy of compassion is divisible into almost innumerable minor hierarchies, running down the scale of cosmic being from the supreme hierarch of our solar system through all intermediate stages and infilling every one of its planets, until finally its representatives on this physical plane are found on the different globes of the planetary chains. It is built of divinities, demigods, buddhas, bodhisattvas, and great and noble men, who serve as a living channel for the spiritual currents coming to this and every other planet of our system from the heart of the solar divinity, and who themselves shed glory and light and peace upon that pathway from the compassionate deeps of their own being. Little do men know of the immense love, the divine impulses of compassion, which sway the souls of those who form this Hierarchy of Light. They have made the great renunciation, giving up all hope of personal evolutionary progress, it may be for aeons to come, in order to remain at their appointed tasks in the service of the world. Unrecognized, unthanked, they work steadily on, watching others go past them as the slowly moving river of lives sweeps along in unending flow.

On our earth there is a minor hierarchy of light. Working in this sphere there are lofty intelligences, human souls, having their respective places in the hierarchical degrees. These masters or mahatmas are living forces in the spiritual life of the world; and awakened minds and intuitive hearts sense their presence, at least at times.

Consider the wonderful work in which labor those who have preceded us. They are revealers in the sense of unveilers, for they are the initiators, the handers on of light from age to age. Those of the order of the buddhic splendor, of wisdom and compassion, copy among us what takes place in spheres supernal, for there are revealers among the gods themselves. And with these immortals, as we conceive them to be, there is likewise a training school, and a passing on of light from manvantara to manvantara. The old Hermetists were right: what is above is the same as that which is here below, and what is here below is but a shadow, a reflection, of what is above.

At the summit of the Hierarchy of Compassion is the Silent Watcher. He has renounced all; in utter self-sacrifice he waits and watches with infinite pity, reaching downwards into our own sphere, helping and inspiring, in the silences of spiritual compassion. The Silent Watcher remains at his post from the beginning to the ending of the manvantaric life cycle, nor will he move from that post of cosmic compassion until the last thread of destiny of that hierarchy has been spun. He is called the Silent Watcher because he watches and guards through the age-long manvantara in what to us seems to be a divine silence.

This Wondrous Being is the spiritual bond and link of the various bodhisattvas and buddhas of the Hierarchy of Light, both with superior worlds and with us and the lower beings of our round. He is the chief of the spiritual-psychological hierarchy of which the masters form a part. He is the ever-living human banyan from which they -- and we too -- hang as leaves and fruit. From this Wondrous Being originally come our noblest impulses through our own higher selves: the life and aspiration we feel stirring in our minds and hearts, the urge to betterment, the sense of loyalty and troth -- all the things which make life bright and beautiful and well worth living.

We are taught that, as far as great spiritual seers know, the same hierarchical pattern exists on every globe, on every man-bearing planet of every sun in the infinitudes of Space. There is over each one a master teacher, and in each case he merits the term which H.P.B. uses, namely, the "Great Sacrifice," because from boundless compassion for those lower in the scale of evolution he has renounced all hope and opportunity of going higher in this manvantara. He can learn nothing more of this hierarchy, for all knowledge pertaining to it is his already; but he remains behind for aeons as the great inspirer and teacher. He has sacrificed himself for all below him.

Just as the hierarchies in the universe are virtually infinite in number, so are the Wondrous Beings or Silent Watchers, because every one is such only for the series of lives in its hierarchy. There is the Wondrous Being who is the supreme spiritual chief, the Silent Watcher, for the Brotherhood of Compassion. There is one for our globe, who is identic in this case with the hierarch of the Brotherhood of Compassion. There is also one for our planetary chain, and one for each of its globes; there is likewise one for our solar system, whose habitat is the sun, and one for our own home-universe, and so forth forever.

Each such Silent Watcher is the fountain, the parent, of a hierarchy of the Buddhas of Compassion. They are really the ones from which flow forth into the universe those majestic operations of consecutive and never-failingly accurate action which we call natural laws. It is the movement of their will and consciousness which expresses itself thusly, and therefore are they said to be engaged in a perpetual battle -- a human metaphor -- with the forces of pure matter, with the Ma-mo. This is a general term covering the dark and sinister spirits and operations of nature, which are merely the workings of hosts of monads of the cosmic life climbing slowly upward, but still plunged in the deep spiritual sleep of material existence. The battle of these Silent Watchers is the holding of the laws of life in orderly consequence, so that all go well, and the Light die not out from the universe.

Following the same rule of repetitive action in nature, there is a Silent Watcher for every man, his own inner god -- the buddha within him -- which is the core of his being, the origin of the fundamental law or consciousness of his hierarchical structure. And there is a Silent Watcher for every atom. As the entire framework of kosmos is built throughout on correspondences and repetitives, there are no absolutes anywhere, and everything is strictly relative to everything else. The divine of one hierarchy is actually grossest matter to another far superior hierarchy; but within one and the other the repetitive rules apply very strictly, because nature has one general and throughout-repeated course of action.

It is obvious that these Silent Watchers are of many grades. The one for our globe D of the earth chain, for instance, is still human, for, although the farthest advanced of humanity, he is not yet evolved out of the human into the god stage. There are planetary spirits, Silent Watchers, who occupy a grade intermediate between divinities and men. There are Silent Watchers among the gods, and some of these manifest themselves as suns -- not only as the heart of a sun, the god behind the glorious star which is its garment, but likewise in a sense as that garment, in the same way that a man is not only the spirit and the soul of himself, but also his vehicle; he being thus a physical, psychical, spiritual, and a divine man.

It is likewise true that a greater Silent Watcher is the head of the minor Silent Watchers which he leads, just as the Silent Watcher of our globe, who is a human demigod indeed, but yet a man, is the guardian of our humanity. It is in this Being that our roots of individual consciousness originate, much as the various offshoots of the banyan tree derive their primal origin from the parent trunk which now lives with its children as an equal, yet first among equals. The ever-living human banyan alluded to by H.P.B. is not an incarnated man. It is in fact the Mahachohan* of this earth, an entity who was a man in far past ages, in former manvantaras in fact. He is the loftiest of the Buddhas of Compassion, the supreme guide and teacher of the hierarchy of the Great Ones at the present time, the channel through whom pass the sublime inspiration and life flowing from the Silent Watcher of humanity.

[*A chohan, a mahachohan, a dhyani-chohan, of necessity is a man, or has been a man, either of this earth or in some past manvantara. It is not accurate, however, to speak of the Mahachohan as having been, in some far past manvantara, a divine being who came to earth in order to help mankind, for he has gone through the human stage as an evolving entity, and is still human. We now are passing through lower degrees of the human stage. In far distant aeons of the future, even before this planetary chain shall have reached its manvantaric end, we too, as a human host, shall become dhyani-chohans; and before that, we shall attain the lofty stage which the Mahachohan now occupies. The word Mahachohan is a title, just as is Buddha or Christ. There are great mahachohans, also those of inferior degree, but the one of whom we are here speaking is the supreme chief, the lord and teacher of the Brotherhood of adepts, and through them of us.]

The higher self of each one of us is an ever-living human banyan, the source of a multitude of human souls which have been sent forth as branches, which themselves take root in the material world; and these human souls in their turn grow through ages-long evolution to become spiritual banyans, each of them sending out new roots, new branches, but all derivative from the parent tree. Therefore this ever-living human banyan may be called the parent heart of the mahatmas.

When we call this hierarchical Wondrous Being our highest self, our Paramatman, we mean that it is the primeval or originating seed from which we grow and develop into composite entities. From it we spiritually spring. Or we can consider it, in one aspect, as a sheaf of divine light separating into innumerable monads and monadic rays in a manvantara; and, when the pralaya comes, again withdrawing and drawn back into itself, now enriched and ennobled, through its countless hosts of manifested monads and monadic rays, by the individualizing experience that these have gained. The innumerably various consciousnesses increase in power and glory and self-cognition by means of the lives through which they have passed within the life of the greater being.

Some speak of our inner god as if that were the divine ending of us. Yet its realms of consciousness are but the beginning of other realms still more divine, reaching ever deeper and deeper into the womb of Infinitude, because the ladder of life extends endlessly.

Let me try to illustrate: in future ages when the spiritual selfhood of a man will have become, say, a solar divinity, he will be a Silent Watcher of that solar system -- its apex, its head, heart and brain, ruling all the hosts of entities which infill that solar system. They will all be his children; now they are life-atoms in his physical body, also of course in his linga-sarira, kama-rupa, manas and in his spiritual part. As an individual he will have no more to learn in that Egg of Brahma, which will then be himself greatly expanded. In other words, all the beings that now compose him, that help him to express himself on all his planes, will themselves have grown into many kinds of entities: atoms, vegetables, animals, men, demigods, etc. -- call them angels, archangels, powers, principalities, for the name does not matter much. He himself will be the Silent Watcher, one who will stand in all his solar splendor throughout innumerable aeons, learning no more in the world which then will be his body, his self-expression -- living for the sake of the lives who had sprung forth from him, as sparks from a central fire. Of course, in his still higher parts he will be learning on planes correspondingly higher; but half of his attention, of his life, intelligence, and possibilities for individual growth as a god, will be devoted to the hosts composing the lower elements of his being. He cannot, will not, advance one step and leave a single life-atom behind him abandoned, on the long, long, evolutionary trail, because this would be impossible. This is partly karma, and partly pure compassion. Such is the sublime destiny of us all.

Let us take another example, the Silent Watcher of our planetary chain. When our solar system began, our planetary chain was there among the "sons of God" -- the god was Father Sun, and the sons were the divinities in and around it -- and the highest being of our chain, the most progressed planetary spirit of that same planetary chain as it was in the preceding solar manvantara, now reimbodies itself as the leader, the coryphaeus, of our present chain. Furthermore, throughout all the many reimbodiments of our planetary chain during the solar manvantara, that one planetary spirit will be our Silent Watcher. It has, so to speak, to drag the heavy weight of the whole planetary chain hanging like a multiple pendant from it, but never for an instant wishing to free itself from the multitudinous hosts composing that chain, ourselves among them.

A third example, on the human plane, is the upper triad of man's constitution, atma-buddhi-manas -- call it the Christ-monad or inner Buddha, if you will -- his own individual Silent Watcher. It is himself, and yet not himself. In this thought lies the true significance of a Silent Watcher: the solitary spiritual entity who will not go higher alone, and who reproduces as from a source every new reimbodiment of the man as a human soul. This is brought about by means of the ray from this Silent Watcher within man.

As the Pythagoreans phrased it, the highest triad remains in "silence and darkness," and verily is the root of our being. It is silence and darkness to us; but actually our human life is the darkness. In its own being this upper triad is supernal light, unspeakable glory, and its silence is such to us only because our ears are not trained to hear what there takes place.

Another instance of a human Silent Watcher is the spiritual head of all the adepts who have ever lived on this globe, who now live, or who will live in the future: the one whom they all recognize as their spiritual father, a man and yet a demigod, because a god imbodied in a highly advanced man's soul. He is an actual imbodied being, although not necessarily possessing a body of flesh. It may well be that he is imbodied as a nirmanakaya, more likely than not; a nirmanakaya is a complete man minus the lower gross triad. This entity, the Silent Watcher of our globe and its humanity, is on earth.

This Wondrous Being is the hierarchical Brotherhood of adepts of our planetary chain, begun in the fourth round on our globe at about the middle period of the third root-race -- which was the period when humanity was beginning to be self-conscious and ready for the receiving of light. The descent of this Being from a high plane, from globe A by way of globes B and C, was rather a projection of energy than a descent of an imbodied entity downwards. It was a visitation in our underworld, undertaken for the sake of helping those beings living in its 'shadows.' (Underworld is a technical term meaning any world inferior to that on which the higher being lives. There is no one absolute underworld -- even globe A is an underworld to a higher globe.)

Now this Wondrous Being is a dhyani-buddha. Interlocked in his vital essence, streaming forth from him as from a sun, are innumerable rays, and these various children rays are human egos. Like the banyan tree, this Wondrous Being sends forth tendrils of the spirit which reach down into the substantial fabric of the universe in which he lives, and there take root; and because of receiving from him the life essence, they themselves become banyan trees, growing up in their turn. In other words, they achieve full evolutionary growth, spiritual and intellectual and psychical maturity, and then send forth other new tendrils 'downwards,' which take root, thus building up new trunks, etc.

One of the most beautiful teachings of theosophy is that this Wondrous Being came from a "high region" as a visitor to us, living in what was to him the underworld, and dwelling for a time amongst us as the primal master-spirit of the human race -- a Being at once one and many -- a mystery.

From Fountain-Source of Occultism by G. de Purucker.