#a hymn for the wild born

[thefiresontheheight]

I think part of what makes the Monk and Robot books so twee and unbearable to me when I love the Wayfarer’s series and A Closed and Common Orbit is one of my favorite books ever is because there is legit apparently NO conflict in Pangean society.

Like, in the Galaxy and the Ground within everything is as nice as ever with Becky Chambers but then Speaker accuses the entire Galactic Commons of being an entirely neoliberal project that will doom them all and has kept her species transient through their engrained power structures, and we’ve only had that peace between all the characters because she’s kept quiet. We have the conflict between the Exodans pacificism and the wars other species fight. We have conflict.

On Pangea as far as I can tell everyone is pretty much onboard with how their anarchist solarpunk society ought to be organized and all conflict is strictly internal. It’s nice. But it’s hardly anything that rings true.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here we go honeys. when me and aly (<3!) tossed this idea around months ago, this was the big question; how to do the reveal and what comes after. naturally it was as angsty as possible tehe <3 cw: canon typical violence

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: Azriel mourns a mistake that will haunt him for eternity as he races back to you. You play the leading role in one of your nightmares, but you can't seem to wake up.

CHAPTER SEVEN :: MATES

It's too loud and he can't think— that's the only coherent thing that Azriel can seem to grasp as he stumbles forward in the snow.

His shadows burst into a wild frenzy as he staggers towards the cabin door. It's not snowing here but the wind current is fast and wicked, tunnelling over the hilltop. His breath locks in his chest and even as he gasps, he can't seem to catch it.

It's too loud, too much— every single thought and feeling within him is just climbing over one another, overlapping, melding into each other so he can't tell where one ends and another begins.

Sadness, misery, torment, upset, anger. His emotions are thrown together with yours, a thousand afflictions all battling for his attention and he can't fucking think.

He shoves the cabin door open, falls through it, and it slams shut behind him.

Like a puppet getting its strings cut, all at once the noise... stops.

As though the very action of closing the door had managed to silence the bond between you and Azriel.

A different, very real fear suddenly burrows deep in his heart.

Still gasping for air, he shoves a hand against his chest and searches within himself desperately for that tether, his eyes crushing shut. For a moment, his heart hangs in the balance, teetering on the edge of agony.

And then— there.

Golden and rooted in his very soul, the bond that connects him to you. Only once he's found it does he release the breath captured in his lungs. He breathes an audible sigh of relief and shudders lightly, his knees giving out slightly.

He lets himself slump back against the cabin door as his scarred hand slips from his chest, his wings curling forward around himself. His head swims with the overload of new information, the first dregs of it only just sinking in.

You... were not the person you said you were.

...Was that such a bad thing?

Still breathing hard, Azriel's gaze turns to stare hard at his hands, their delicate scarring paining him nearly as much as the memory does. He thinks back to their origin.

Thinks back to a space too small for a growing boy, thinks of the darkness. He thinks of the never-ending misery that seemed to torment his life in a way he feared he would never escape.

It had taken a very long time for that fear to diminish in size; or perhaps, Azriel had just learned to grow around it.

But the cruelty of those mountains and the Fae that resided there was something he was intimately familiar with. The world up there, between the pines, was kill or be killed. Rise to the top of the food chain or spend every waking moment trying to figure out how to survive.

Isn't that what you had done? Learnt how to endure the conditions, to withstand the brute force of the winter and the merciless Illyrian way?

And wasn't that what he had done, all those years ago? Perhaps, the two of you weren't so different.

But his mind keeps snagging: liar, liar, liar.

Some vicious, prideful voice in his head makes a different point— he did it the right way. He didn't deceive anyone.

He fought for all he had, trained harder than any of his camp-mates to overcome every wretched obstacle in his way, earned his place at the top of the Blood Rite by being better, by working harder and winning.

Even with his... set back with learning to fly, he had still conquered it. He'd earned his place.

But… no, that wasn't right, was it?

He'd earned it, yes, but only because there was no other choice.

He had been kicked down at every possible chance, stalked for being born from a father who detested him and none of it was his fault. He'd earned his title as warrior but he had done nothing to reap every extra hurdle to get there.

Azriel had endured a great many terrible things in his life—and it took effort to recall that it wasn't fair. That it was an injustice he shouldn't have had to bear.

Sometimes, he hated how deeply ingrained the Illyrian way was within him. How it had changed him in the most unsavoury of ways, giving him an Illyrian pride that overtook his rationale at the worst of times.

It echoed out in the most unfamiliar of ways, like a hidden piece of himself he'd forgotten about— forgotten the person he'd needed to become to survive those camps.

So when Azriel thinks of the lie you've been hiding it, protecting yourself, the forgiveness is already there. It always was there. He could never had truly held it against you.

You had lied, yes, but as if there was any other way to survive. As if he could fault you for picking the option that let you fight, let you grow strong, let you keep your wings.

He remembers your words suddenly.

Please, I- I just wanted to keep my wings.

A sinister horror creeps up his throat and Azriel lurches forward, his forearms slamming against the cabin floor as his body forcibly retches. His stomach clenches tightly and bile floods his mouth but nothing comes out but his ragged breath.

How young had you been?

He knows to make your lie feasible it had to have been too young. Nine years old? Eight? He tries to recall the age that Lord Mylind said you started turning up trouble but it only succeeds in fueling the harrowing feeling that was running through his veins.

Azriel sags forward, his eyes drawing closed as he presses his forehead to the cool wood of the ground, trying to contain his growing dread. Still curled around himself, his wings quiver in the wake of his revelation. His shadows try soothe him, whirling down the planes of his neck.

You were pleading with him.

And... he had left you.

His stomach heaves once more, his breath a mixture of raspy pants.

It's impossible not to recount every single interaction you've had over the months, turning over every memory and seeing the other side of it with startling clarity.

The lone cabin, the outlier to the group. The tenseness in your shoulders when asked about the Blood Rite or your absences from training that Lord Mylind had spoken so crudely about.

Your drive to train and learn; the utter disappointment at the inadequacy of your tonics.

You had so much on the line, so much more than he ever could have imagined.

Azriel bites his cheek meanly as he recalls the conversation in which he asked why you hadn't completed in the Blood Rite. It makes perfect sense now; the exposure of the challenge was far too big of a risk and as a bastard, you would automatically be a target.

Even if you managed to succeed, which he had no doubt you could, the tattoos... removing your shirt...

All dead giveaways.

Your voice echoes in his mind.

Azriel, please, you have to understand—

You had begged him and he left you, he left you.

His body gives another awful retch, the horror of what he had done beginning to truly settle in. Gods, in a thousand ways you had been more trusting and vulnerable that he had ever known. Allowing him into your shelter, into your life...

Letting him get close to you, knowing that the closer he got, the more your secret threatened to reveal. And you let him anyway.

Azriel lurches to his feet, swaying for only a moment, his head reaching a clarity he so desperately lacked earlier.

He needs to go back. He should have fucking never left.

Somewhere between his ribs, there's an wallowing ache on the bond. A jolt of sharp pain.

Hand flying to his chest, Azriel stares at it and desperately prays to every god he can think of that he isn't too late to fix this. His eyes flick over to the Siphon on the back of hand, dim and lifeless. Drained.

Fuck. He snarls in his frustration. He can't even winnow back to you.

Turning and pressing back out the door, his boots smash through the snow outside for only a few steps— til he beats his mighty wings and takes to the skies.

Whether the bond had snapped for you or not, it didn't stop him from gripping that thread tightly and pouring every sincere intention down it. I'm sorry. I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I never should have left. I'm so fucking sorry.

He could only hope that you somewhere on the other side, connected to the same red string of fate, you could feel him coming back to you.

—

He's taking too long.

It's the thought that's stuck on loop, like a record that keeps skipping, repeating the same part over and over again. He's going as fast as he can and still, he knows he's taking too damn long.

As his wings strain from the long journey, the endless labyrinth of trees whirring past beneath him too fast to see, Azriel glimpses down at the siphons atop his hands.

They're still gleaming in that lacklustre way but there's more of a shine to them now. He can feel it too, the well refilling with a slow drip, the build up of his power.

His keen eyes scour the landscape, narrowed as he analyses the distance between here and Exordor. It's still far— it will stretch the reserve of magic that's barely begun to replenish but Azriel doesn't care. He'll do anything to reach you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowing, and folds the fabric once more. The world spins as he pushes through the fabric of it, feeling the strain in his bones. The snowy entrance to your shelter comes into view.

He lands with a sickening crack, his knees bending to catch himself as he touches down, one heavy motion into the snow which spins up in a flurry. It's raining heavily, the drops coming down with a vehemence, creating a thunderous applause against the frozen ground.

Around him, the trees groan and shudder as they bow to the powerful energy. Birds take flight, cawing as they do. In the distance, there's a loud snap, carried with the wind.

Azriel stares right into the cabin.

His stomach threatens to lurch again at the sight. The door to your shelter is wide open.

His mate, where is his mate?

Stretching out the doorway, there are obvious signs of a struggle. The muddy snow has been kicked around, the boards nailed to the inside of the door are fresh with splinters, and... and...

The blood. Crimson, scarlet, fucking red blood coats the floorboards, a ghoulish splatter of it leading from your bed out the door, turning the slurry of melted snow a soft pink. He knows from the pull in his chest that you're not here.

This isn't just some attack. They haven't just ambushed you, they've... found out.

Where before he had felt terribly ill, bile rising, there is only icy and raging fury. In the distance, another snap sounds and his shadows beg him to pay attention to it, their whispers kissing at his cheeks. Water soaks his dark hair, stray raindrops rolling down his face.

Azriel ignores them and stumbles forward one, two steps and stops, his heart soaking in the reality of what had happened.

He had left you and they had taken you.

They found out and they hadn't killed you, they had— they had—

The snap in the distance. This time when it sounds, it yanks Azriel's attention, his head whipping towards where it's coming from. It's towards camp. Dread curdles up in his gut, latching onto each notch in his spine and burrowing deep.

Every instinct in his body roars into overdrive as he realises what it is he can hear in the distance — the crack of a whip against skin.

—

One of your nightmares has come to life, dragging from the murkiest parts of your mind and taking the treacherous form of Brudam.

You keep begging yourself to wake the fuck up.

It can’t be real— this can’t actually be happening, you think desperately, none of this was ever supposed to happen- you had- it was- you secret was something you guarded with your life.

"Wake up," You plead to yourself deliriously. Your wrists are already feeling chafed from where they're bound against the wooden pole, the steel that binds them cold as ice. The rain has soaked you to the bone.

"Wake up," You all but sob, trying futilely to pull against the restraints on your wrists.

It only succeeds in tugging on the stakes driven through your wings, a searing, fiery type of pain the ripples along every nerve in them. A sob scrapes up your throat, answering the pain's call. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts in a way you haven't known before — everything, every cell in your body, is being tortured.

A shredding deep in your gut as though you've taken a fistful of claws to the stomach makes you seize, your vision flashing wildly. Even now, your cycle continues its bloody rampage. You can't stop crying, can't stop your body from convulsing in pure agony.

Somewhere behind you, your ear pick up the shifting in the mud, Brudam preparing to strike again.

Even sobbing, you tense up, unable to stop yourself—instinct drives you to hastily try tuck your wings, trying to pull them from their spread position. They catch on the stakes pinned through them meanly, the delicate flesh tearing with a sickening squelch and sending rivers of pain up into your body.

You cry out a strangled gasp, your head bowing further forward, trying to escape what's to come.

The blow rains down onto your unprotected wings all the same.

It's pure fire. Like they've doused the membranous skin of your wings with oil and set them ablaze, fiery hot pain licking at the tendons, tracing all the way up to your bare back. Your teeth grit to contain your scream. Tears streak down your face, lost in the thrum of the rain.

"Wake. Up." You demand to yourself again, panting heavily now.

You can't take much more pain or you'll be unconscious soon and some awful part of you knows, that's when they'll take your wings. You'll wake up midway to the worst nightmare of them all; the splintering sound of them cutting them off your body.

There's a boot pressed suddenly to your lower back, pressing meanly.

"Oh no, this isn't a dream," Brudam taunts as he leans down, all too happily. His tone shifts to something harder with his next words, nearly spitting the words. "I knew there was something off about you, you mutt."

His voice climbs to a shout, addressing the crowd gathered around you. "I always knew you were a FUCKING TRAITOR!"

There's a roar from the crowd, lead by the antsy group of warriors you've grown up and trained beside. All of them are eager to see justice delivered for your lies. None of them are pleased to have been duped, much less by a female.

They know, everyone knows. There's no coming back from this. Even if it weren't from the scent of blood from your cycle, your bound chest—revealed through your cut away armor— is proof enough.

Another convulsion rocks your body, the pain from your cycle making itself known. You're burning hot from every laceration on your skin and freezing cold from being bare in the icy rain. Your defence gets swallowed up in your pitiful whimper.

The mud behind you shifts again, Brudam no doubt winding up for his next hit.

You hold your breath, capturing the next sob in your throat. Your wings tug inwards, despite how you beg them not to, and your wrists ache as you try to wrench them free fruitlessly.

A sense of finality sinks in. You're going to die here.

A part of you feels like maybe you'd always known it would end like this, one way or the other. It's tired. So fucking tired of living in your intricate lie and spending each and every moment of your miserable existence on alert. On defence. Waiting for a break that never seems to come.

It's that part that can't, in any capacity, be truly upset at Azriel.

You can't resent him for leaving when you're the one who lied.

You can't regret him finding out, without regretting ever meeting him—and that means... regretting all the happiness you've truly felt.

But there's also an anger swirling within you, a rage that is as icy as it is hungry for vengeance.

Inexplicably, it feels unknown. Not your own. It starts somewhere in your chest and it only feels like it's getting bigger, growing in size, glowing hotter.

In the drone of the rain, blackness swims before your tired eyes as they begin to slip shut— only, no, they haven't closed.

The darkness is real and in front of you. It's surrounding you, curling up from under your captured arms. Despite the loud protests from your anguished body, you lift your head shakily. You're still quivering, quiet hiccups pushing out your lips.

"What are you doing, witch?" Brudam snarls from behind you, his boot on your back digging in harder. You wince, the motion dragging your wings against the splinters of the stakes. You shake your head, unable to form words.

It isn't me, you want to say.

But you're not entirely sure that's true either. The black plume is only around you, rising as though it is coming from you. Protecting you.

"Brudam!" A loud voice cuts across the rustling, nervous crowd, cutting through the din of the rain clear as night and sounding as deadly as venom. The courtyard falls into silence.

Your heart lurches up your throat. You know that voice.

Something within you cleaves in half, torn by opposite forces. On one side, there the mountainous evidence of your miserable life, of every thing that's worked against you time and time again. Of the fact that things don't work out for you, they never have. You're a fool to believe that would change now.

The other side... is a terrible, feeble hope.

Because he came back.

"Shadowsinger," Brudam greets with a sneer. The boot on your back shifts and then retreats, the warrior turning away from you. Agony tears through your body again and you hold your breath, shuddering through the silent pain with gritted teeth. A dangerous hope starts to cling to your heart.

"One chance," Azriel growls. The hair on the back of your neck rises at the promise of violence in his voice.

"Let her go."

Brudam snorts unattractively, forcing a bitter sounding laugh out. You focus on trying not to throw up as the pain fogs your brain, bile filling your mouth.

"Not fucking likely."

"Walk away." Azriel snarls his demand, sounding angrier than you've ever heard him.

"Over my dead body, bastard," Brudam spits back, the mud shifting as he digs his feet in, preparing to fight. His hand tightens around the whip in his hand.

There's a moment of silence, the wind carrying a whistle, the trees swaying as if leaning closer to listen in, two warriors sizing each other up in the pouring rain. Your ears strain for Azriel's response.

"Gladly."

And then the courtyard is doused in pure shadow.

—

Azriel moves without hesitation.

Illyrian warriors are fiercely trained to fight through every type of conditions, battling in the harshest of all seasons. Snow, sleet, rain, shine. They're disciplined to go days without sleep, to fight and win, even with one arm pinned behind their back.

But what defence is there against losing your sight?

Azriel hadn't even known his shadows were capable of such a thing. Their usual whirling expands in a blink of an eye, spreading out into a storm-cloud of blackness that drapes itself across the landscape. People murmur and bleat in fright as it creeps out deathly fast, snuffing senses and blinding everyone in the courtyard except him.

Like Rhys' own cloak of darkness, of midnight — but no, it's not night, it's shadow.

Azriel doesn't dwell on it, doesn't hesitate. Not when there's still territory, still enemies, in the space between him and you.

There's a ripple of unease from the warriors but Azriel's already advancing, the shadows beneath his boots silencing the shift of his feet. Through the darkness, Brudam gives himself away with an animalistic snarl and leads Azriel exactly to his his target.

He swings powerfully and Heartstriker does what it does best—aims true.

The bones in Brudam's shoulder makes a horrible sinking crack as the blade pierces it through, the brute giving a fiendish cry of pain.

Azriel drives it all the way through, his anger aiding his strength as he swipes out Brudam's feet. Heartstriker buries itself deep into the mud, driven by the weight of Brudam's body as it hits the ground.

All Azriel can think is that he should fucking gut him, should skin him alive. He should pull that blade and drag it forward, force it through all the muscle and shatter every bone on the way, until it pierces his awful heart.

The mating bond within him roars at him to do so, every inch of his body, of his soul, enraged at the state he'd found you in, the agonising hurt bestowed on you by this male—but it's not his kill. Azriel knows that.

So instead, he draws the Truth Teller with deft, deadly accuracy and then sinks it in deep into Brudam's groin, til the tip reaches mud on the other side.

Brudam howls, his whole body twitching as it tries to curl up against either blade unsuccessfully. Between the rain and the shadows, he's too incapacitated to do anything except wail.

Azriel doesn't waste a second, already moving. There's a warrior approaching on every side but between the gift of sight and silence in the shadow, he's devastatingly lethal.

One goes down with a slice across his throat, crimson soaking his front. The next crumbles after too many jabs of Azriel's dagger land in his torso, too slow to block them when he can't see them coming. The next, his head cut from his shoulders in one mighty swing.

Their cries join the thunder of the storm but somehow, through it all, all he can hear is the softness of your weak breath. Wounded. Fading.

Azriel's vision goes red. He moves expertly, his kills efficient until the burning rage in him gets too much and then he's slashing with pure malice, teeth gritted in hate, as he cuts down any warrior who stood by and watched. All he can feel is the thread between you and him, nearly torn from how much they've hurt you.

When the clashing of steel stops, the last foe dead, only the din of the rain remains.

Like a vacuum has opened somewhere in the sky, the inky cover of his shadow is sucked away, leaving only his sluggish moving shadows and exposing the bleak day. Carnage lies all around him. Bodies upon bodies of warriors.

Azriel can only see you.

You're still strapped to that torturous pole, your beautiful wings forcibly spread out and pinned, like you're being laid out for dissection. Across the flesh of your wings is a sickening number of thin, scarlet lines, gently bleeding.

Beneath you, in the mud, is the remains of your armor and Azriel can trace the scar that'll be left on your back from where it was cut off. The binding on your chest remains, now stained with blood.

You aren't moving.

He sprints without thought, without reason, following the bond. He finds the thread within his chest, grasps it tight, and tugs desperately. You don't even flinch.

A fear mounts inside him, more heart-wrenching than he's ever felt before. A glance down at his siphons reveals their still dull appearance—fucking useless to him.

Azriel staggers to his knees as he reaches you, his scarred hands reaching up to pry off the steel that binds your wrist to the wooden pole—ripping out chunks of the wood at the same time with his rapid, panicked motion. Your hands fall limply to your sides. He feels sick again.

"Y/n?"

He's scared to touch you, scared to do more damage that he's already caused, so so frightened that he just found you and you might already be gone.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you die. He can't—the thought is suffocating in itself, like a black hole that opens and starts pulling in his entire world— you can't die or he'll— he'll- nothing will matter anymore.

RHYS. He throws the plea out desperately, nearly delirious at the sight of your unmoving body. The words sound like a sob, even in his own mind. You have to help me.

Where are you? Rhys' voice fills his mind in an instant.

Then... a haggard breath sounds, like drawing through a mouthful of blood. You cough lightly, barely audible, and murmur, "...Azriel...?"

Something explodes inside Azriel, a burst of pure energy that fills him with relief so overwhelmingly he could cry.

Exordor. He barely manages to think properly, to even respond, beyond the staggering emotion. Come immediately. Please. I need you to- she needs—you have to help her. Please.

I'm on my way.

[NEXT PART: STRANGERS (AGAIN)]

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs @letmejustreadthanks @problemfinder @sevikas-whore @doodlebugg16-blog

@meandmysillywriting @justingnoreme @krowiathemythologynerd @hanatsuki-hime @sunny747

@coffeebeforewater @kalulakunundrum @marina468 @moonbirde (i'm so sorry! u asked me to tag u right at the beginning and i've forgotten this whole time! forgive me pls <3)

[chernabogs]

BERCEUSE

Inc: Meleanor, Raverne, Mallegg, Lilia, and Baby Silver Warnings: None WC: 1.3k Summary: Berceuse: A quiet song to lull a child to sleep (Promptober day 3)

She remembers it from her father. This fact often takes people by surprise when they first learn it. No one would have expected the former king consort, rest his soul, to be the type to hum lullabies to his daughter to soothe away nightmares—but he was. He was a calm man beneath the rough exterior of sea-born and battle crafted that he presented as. Softer, to balance out the typhoon that was her mother’s personality when it came to matters of ruling. 

Meleanor remembers very little of her father beyond the lullaby. On occasion something will trigger a memory of him—a certain smell, or a certain sound—but the image of his face in her mind appears to be held under water. His features are ripples, his voice like a hymn, and the phantom touch of his hand holding her own is a weighted reminder of loss. Many people passed condolences to her mother when her father died, but they all seemed to forget the impact it had on her, as well. She remembers standing at her mother’s side during the pyrrhic burning of his corpse, humming the lullaby to herself, only to be silenced by a hand on her head.

It was the last time she had dared sing the song out loud until Malleus had been born. Despite still developing within his egg, he was a restless thing, constantly shifting and squirming and making the egg tremble in precarious positions. If he was born a live birth then one would have diagnosed him as ‘colic’—crying and fussing for reasons. Raverne had joked one time, when the egg had nearly fallen off of its perch from the movement of the baby within, that Malleus was swiftly developing a typhoon-like personality himself.

Despite smiling, Meleanor had seriously hoped her boy was more like his father then the temperamental Draconia line. 

When Raverne disappears (not dead; she rebuked that notion) and she’s left to care for a war and a baby on her own, Malleus’ inability to remain still sends her to a near breaking point. It’s hard to divert your attention between making sure your nation doesn’t collapse and making sure your baby doesn’t crack his own egg open because he just has to get a move on. It’s in this borderline breakdown she’s having (in private, mind you) that she returns to it. She hadn’t forgotten the song over the years, but it had become a taboo to her, to consider forming the sounds with her voice once more.

But for Malleus—for the warm evidence of life and of love that she cradles—it’s a taboo that she’s willing to break. When she begins to hum the song in a voice that’s shaky from disuse and slightly out of tune, the movements she feels beneath the fragile shell exterior began to still, and the outline she can see of her precious son seem to settle in a fetal position. If she was to consider it, she’d say that he’s fallen asleep in her arms at the sound.

She becomes bold in its use after that. Alone in the throne room or before an audience of her court, if it serves as a means to comfort her baby, then she will use it. She won’t allow him to feel as cold and as forgotten as she had when she stood before that pyrrhic marker of an end. When the war escalates, she sings it. When the Silver Owls surround Wild Rose, she sings it. When the feeling of a blade cutting through the scales upon her breast drags her world to darkness, she sings it. 

A lullaby to soothe a son. A swan song to herald an end. 

_______________________________

He knew it from her. Lilia had spent many hours in the company of the royal couple before the picturesque life they lived was shattered, and in doing so he had been privy to many things. An engagement, a wedding, and the delicate bond between a mother and her son. 

He used to scoff at that bond. His lip would curl whenever his future of babysitting was brought up in discussion, drawing amused teasing from Raverne at the notion of ‘Uncle Lilia’—a title he would vehemently deny. He used to tell himself that he would never bring a child of his blood in the world, that there would never be a baby in his arms, and that there would be no ‘uncle’ for the future prince. 

He kept most of those intentions true. He never did bring forth a child of his blood, and he certainly was not carrying any ‘uncle’ title at the moment—another five-letter word beginning with ‘e’ and ending with ‘e’ serves in its place. 

He did, however, misjudge the second intention. 

Red faced and fussy, Silver is making it abundantly clear that he’s not to be disregarded in the moment. He’s wailing, and crying, and his pudgy cheeks are wet with tears as he refuses to be put down for the night. Lilia has probably paced around the kitchen for almost an hour at this point patting Silvers back, and kissing those cheeks, and speaking in the most soothing tone he can muster while trying to refrain from breaking down himself.

Lilia had never expected to come to love the little guy, but he knows it to be true by the way his heart is aching the more he sees Silver in such an upset. 

“Please, please,” he whispers softly, kissing Silver’s forehead again as the baby’s voice increased in volume. “Shh, you’re okay, little one. It’s all going to be okay. I’m right here.”

‘Colic’ is a term he read in a human parenting guide. The book defines it as the state in which a perfectly healthy baby cries for no reason beyond just apparently wanting to. Mind you, Lilia has gone through the checklist to make sure there isn’t actually something wrong. Silver was fed, had his position changed, was rocked, and was bathed. Lilia had shown him pictures and rubbed his back and even floated in the air with him for a while to see if that would work. He had tried a pacifier, and a baby swing, and all of the cuddles Silver could possibly need. Hell, he had even reached out to Baul, who was just as lost as he was on what to do. 

Silver, it seems, just likes to make his feelings known. 

“You are my sunshine… oh for fucks—fudge—sake,” Lilia sighs, looking up to the ceiling as he continues to bounce Silver gently. His exhausted mind scrambles for any other solutions that might be at his disposal until a memory finally resurfaces. It’s distorted, as though held under water, but the sound of it is as clear as day. In his final attempt to put his baby and his heart at ease, Lilia shifts to hold Silver just a touch closer, and begins to hum a song he had long hoped to forget. 

At first, Silver doesn’t buy it. He continues to cry and fuss in his fathers’ arms—until finally his auroral eyes open, still brimming with tears, and he looks up at the other in interest. His wails die down to the softest sniffles, his pudgy hands stop waving in the air, and he simply looks curious for a while. Lilia continues to hum and to rock his boy until Silver’s apparent ability to fall asleep with ease returns, and the baby goes from a typhoon of emotion to a picturesque infant. 

Lilia’s breath leaves him slowly as he presses another kiss to Silver’s brow and sends a silent word of thanks to the stars. In his mind, he can see Meleanor and Raverne’s smug expressions at the sight of this as Lilia carries Silver back to his crib. 

A swan song to herald an end. A lullaby to soothe a son.

[beautyofaphrodite]

Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite

Translated by Gregory Nagy

Muse, tell me the things done by golden Aphrodite,

the one from Cyprus, who arouses sweet desire for gods

and who subdues the races of mortal humans,

and birds as well, who fly in the sky, as well as all beasts

5 —all those that grow on both dry land and the sea [pontos].

They all know the things done by the one with the beautiful garlands, the one from Kythera.

But there are three whose phrenes she cannot win over or deceive.

The first is the daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, bright-eyed Athena.

For she takes no pleasure in the things done by golden Aphrodite.

10 What does please her is wars and what is done by Ares,

battles and fighting, as well as the preparation of splendid pieces of craftsmanship.

For she was the first to teach mortal humans to be craftsmen

in making war-chariots and other things on wheels, decorated with bronze.

And she it is who teaches maidens, tender of skin, inside the palaces,

15 the skill of making splendid pieces of craftsmanship, putting it

firmly into each one’s mind [phrên].

The second is the renowned Artemis, she of the golden shafts: never

has she been subdued in lovemaking [philotês] by Aphrodite, lover of smiles [to whom smiles are phila].

For she takes pleasure in the bow and arrows, and the killing of wild beasts in the mountains,

as well as lyres, groups of singing dancers, and high-pitched shouts of celebration.

20 Also shaded groves and the city of dikaioi men.

The third one not to take pleasure in the things done by Aphrodite is that young Maiden full of aidôs,

Hestia, who was the first-born child of Kronos, the one with the crooked mêtis,

as well as the last and youngest, through the Will [boulê] of Zeus, holder of the aegis.

She was the Lady who was wooed by Poseidon and Apollo.

25 But she was quite unwilling, and she firmly refused.

She had sworn a great oath, and what she said became what really happened.

She swore, as she touched the head of her father Zeus, the aegis-bearer,

that she would be a virgin for all days to come, that illustrious goddess.

And to her Father Zeus gave a beautiful honor, as a compensating substitute for marriage.

30 She is seated in the middle of the house, getting the richest portion.

And in all the temples of the gods she has a share in the tîmê.

Among all the mortals, she is the senior goddess.

These are the three [goddesses] that she [Aphrodite] could not persuade in their phrenes.

As for all the rest, there is nothing that has escaped Aphrodite:

35 none of the blessed gods nor any of mortal humans.

She even led astray the noos of Zeus, the one who delights in the thunder,

the one who is the very greatest and the one who has the very greatest tîmê as his share.

But even his well-formed phrenes are deceived by her, whenever she wants,

as she mates him with mortal women with the greatest of ease,

40 unbeknownst to Hera, his sister and wife,

who is the best among all the immortal goddesses in her great beauty.

She was the most glorious [kudos-filled] female to be born to Kronos, the one with the crooked mêtis,

and to her mother, Rhea. And Zeus, the one whose resources are inexhaustible [a-phthi-ta],

made her his honorable wife, one who knows the ways of affection.

45 But even upon her [Aphrodite] Zeus put sweet desire in her thûmos

—desire to make love to a mortal man, so that

not even she may go without mortal lovemaking

and get a chance to gloat at all the other gods,

with her sweet laughter, Aphrodite, lover of smiles,

50 boasting that she can make the gods sleep with mortal women,

who then bear mortal sons to immortal fathers,

and how she can make the goddesses sleep with mortal men.

And so he [Zeus] put sweet desire in her thûmos—desire for Anchises.

At that time, he [Anchises] was herding cattle at the steep peaks of Mount Ida, famous for its many springs.

55 To look at him and the way he was shaped was like looking at the immortals.

When Aphrodite, lover of smiles, saw him,

she fell in love with him. A terrible desire seized her in her phrenes.

She went to Cyprus, entering her temple fragrant with incense,

to Paphos. That is where her sacred precinct is, and her altar, fragrant with incense.

60 She went in and closed the shining doors.

Then the Kharites [‘Graces’] bathed her and anointed her with oil

—the kind that gives immortality, glistening on the complexion of the gods, who last for all time.

Immortal it was, giver of pleasures, and it had the fragrance of incense.

Then she wrapped all her beautiful clothes around her skin.

65 She was decked out in gold, Aphrodite, lover of smiles.

She rushed toward Troy, leaving behind fragrant Cyprus.

Making her way with the greatest of ease, high up among the clouds.

She arrived at Mount Ida, famous for its many springs, nurturing mother of beasts.

She went straight for the herdsmen’s homestead, up over the mountain. Following her came

70 gray wolves and lions with fierce looks, fawning on her;

bears too, and nimble leopards, who cannot have their fill of devouring deer,

came along. Seeing them, she was delighted in her thûmos, inside her phrenes,

and she put desire where their hearts were. So they all

went off in pairs and slept together in shaded nooks.

75 She in the meantime came to the well-built shelters

and found him [Anchises] left all alone at the herdsmen’s homestead,

that hero [hêrôs] Anchises, who had the beauty of the gods.

All the others [the other herdsmen] went after the herds, along the grassy pastures,

while he was left all alone at the herdsmen’s homestead,

80 pacing back and forth, playing tunes on his lyre that pierce the inside.

She stood before him, the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite,

looking like an unwed maiden in size of length and appearance.

She did not want him to notice [verb of noos] her with his eyes and be frightened of her.

When Anchises saw her he was filled with wonder as he took note

85 of her appearance and size of length and splendid clothes.

For she wore a robe that was more resplendent than the brightness of fire.

She had twisted brooches, and shiny earrings in the shape of flowers.

Around her tender throat were the most beautiful necklaces.

It [her robe] was a thing of beauty, golden, decorated with every sort of design. Like the moon

90 it glowed all around her tender breasts, a marvel to behold.

Seized with love, Anchises said to her:

“Hail, my Lady, you who come here to this home, whichever of the blessed ones you are,

Artemis or Leto or golden Aphrodite

or Themis of noble birth or bright-eyed Athena.

95 Or perhaps you are one of the Kharites, you who have come here. They are the ones

who keep company with all the gods and are called immortal.

Or you are one of those Nymphs who range over beautiful groves,

or one of those Nymphs who inhabit this beautiful mountain,

and the fountainheads of rivers and grassy meadows.

100 For you, on some high peak, in a spot with a view going all round,

I will set up an altar, and I will perform for you beautiful sacrifices

every year as the season [hôrâ] comes round. And I wish that you in turn may have a kindly-disposed thûmos towards me.

Grant that I become a man who is distinguished among the Trojans.

Make the genealogy that comes after me become a flourishing one. And make me

105 live a very long life and see the light of the sun,

blessed [olbios] in the midst of the people. And let me arrive at the threshold of old age.”

Then Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, answered him:

“Anchises, most glorious of earth-born men!

I am no goddess. Why do you liken me to the female immortals?

110 No, I am a mortal. The mother that bore me was a woman.

My father is Otreus, famed for his name. Maybe you have heard of him.

He rules over all of Phrygia, with its strong-walled fortresses.

But I know your language as well as my own.

The nursemaid who brought me up in the palace was a Trojan. Ever since I was a small child,

115 she brought me up, having taken me from my philê mother.

That is why I know your language as well as my own.

But then, the one with the golden wand, the Argos-killer [Hermes], abducted me,

taking me from a festival of song and dance in honor of Artemis, the one with the golden arrows.

There were many of us nymphs there, maidens worth many cattle as bride-price.

120 We were having a good time, and a crowd so large that you couldn’t count them was standing around us in a circle.

Then it was that the one with the golden wand, the Argos-killer, abducted me.

He carried me over many fields of mortal humans

and over vast stretches of land unclaimed and unsettled, where wild beasts,

eaters of raw flesh, roam about, in and out of their shaded lairs.

125 I thought that my feet would never again touch the earth, grower of grain.

And he [Hermes] said that I, in your bed, the bed of Anchises, would be called your

lawfully-wedded wife, and that I would give you splendid children.

But once he [Hermes] pointed this out and made note of it, straightaway

he went back, that powerful Argos-killer, to that separate group, the immortals.

130 I in the meantime reached you here, and there is an overpowering compulsion that I have in me.

In the name of Zeus, in the name of your parents, I appeal to you as I touch your knees.

Your parents must be noble, for base ones could never have conceived such a one as you.[12]

Take me, virgin that I am, inexperienced in making love [philotês ],

and show me to your father and to your caring mother

135 and to your brothers, those born from the same parents.

I will not be an unseemly in-law for them, but a seemly one indeed.

And send a messenger quickly to the Phrygians, trainers of swift horses,

to tell my father and my mother, however much she grieves.

They will send you plenty of gold, and woven clothing as well.

140 Take these abundant and splendid things as dowry.

After you have done so, prepare a lovely wedding-feast

that gives tîmê to both humans and immortals.”

After she said these things, she put sweet desire in his thûmos,

and Anchises was seized with love. He said these words, calling out to her:

145 “If you are mortal, and if a woman was the mother who gave birth to you,

and if Otreus is your father, famed for his name, as you say he is,

and if you have come here because of the Immortal Conductor [of psûkhai],

Hermes, and if you are to be called my wife for all days to come,

then it is impossible for any god or any mortal human

150 to hold me back, right here, from joining with you in making love [philotês],

right now, on the spot—not even if the one who shoots from afar, Apollo himself,

takes aim from his silver bow and shoots his arrows that bring misery.

Then, O lady who looks like the gods, I would willingly,

once I have been in your bed, go down into the palace of Hades below.”

155 So saying, he took her by the hand. And Aphrodite, lover of smiles,

went along, with her face turned away and her eyes downcast,

towards the bed, all nicely made, which had already been arranged for the lord,[13]

all nicely made with soft covers.[14] And on top lay skins of

bears and lions, who roar with their deep voices,

160 which he himself had killed on the lofty mountainsides.

And when they went up into the sturdy bed,

he first took off the jewelry shining on the surface of her body

—the twisted brooches and the shiny earrings in the shape of flowers.

Then he undid her girdle and her resplendent garments.

165 He stripped them off and put them on a silver-studded stool,

Anchises did. And then, by the will of the gods and by fate [aisa],

he lay next to the immortal female, mortal male that he was. He did not know what he was really doing.

But when the time comes for herdsmen to drive back to the fold

their cattle and sturdy sheep, back from the flowery pastures,

170 then it was that she [Aphrodite] poured sweet sleep over Anchises,

sweet and pleasurable. She in the meantime put back on her beautiful clothes, which covered again the surface of her body.

Now that her skin was again beautifully covered over, the resplendent goddess

stood by the bed, and the well-built roof-beam

—her head reached that high up.[15] And beauty shone forth from her cheeks

175 —an immortal beauty, the kind that marks the one with the beautiful garlands, the goddess from Kythera.

Then she woke him from his sleep and called out to him, saying:

“Rise up, son of Dardanos! Why do you sleep such a sleep without awakening?

See if I look like

what you noticed [verb of noos] when you first saw me with your eyes.”

180 So she spoke, and he, fresh out of his sleep, straightaway heeded her word.

As soon as he saw the neck and the beautiful eyes of Aphrodite,

he was filled with fright and he turned his eyes away, in another direction.

Then he hid his beautiful face with a cloak [khlaina],

and, praying to her, addressed her with winged words:

185 “The first time I ever laid eyes on you, goddess,

I knew you were a god. But you did not speak to me accurately.

Now I appeal to you by touching your knees, in the name of Zeus the holder of the aegis,

don’t let me become disabled [without menos],[16] don’t let me live on like that among humans!

Please, take pity! I know that no man is full of life, able,[17]

190 if he sleeps with immortal goddesses.”

He was answered by the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite:

“Anchises, most glorious of mortal humans!

Take heart, and do not be too afraid in your phrenes.

You should have no fear of that I would do any kind of bad thing to you,

195 or that any of the the other blessed ones would. For you are philos indeed to the gods.

And you will have a philos son, who will be king among the Trojans.

And following him will be generations after generations for all time to come.

His name will be Aineias [Aeneas], since it was an unspeakable [ainos][18] akhos that took hold of me—grief that I had fallen into the bed of a mortal man.

200 And yet, of all mortal humans, the closest to the gods by far

are those who come from your family line,[19] both in looks and in constitution.[20]

Why, there was blond Ganymede, whom Zeus the master of mêtis

abducted on account of his beauty, so that he may be together with the immortal ones,

as wine-pourer for the gods in the palace of Zeus,[21]

205 a wonder to behold, given his share of tîmê by all the immortals,

pouring red nectar from a golden mixing-bowl.

Tros [Ganymede’s father] was gripped in his phrenes by a penthos that is beyond forgetting. He did not know

where the miraculous gust of wind took his philos son, abducting him.

He [Tros] mourned him [Ganymede] without pause, for all days,

210 and Zeus took pity on him: he gave him a compensation for his son,

a set of high-stepping horses whom the gods use for their travels.

These horses he [Zeus] gave him [Tros] as a gift to keep. And he [Tros] was told all the details of what happened,

at the behest of Zeus, by the Argos-killer, the Conductor [of psûkhai].

He was told that he [Ganymede] would be immortal and ageless, just like the gods.

215 And when he [Tros] heard the message of Zeus,

he no longer lamented but was happy within his phrenes,

and merrily did he ride around, in a chariot drawn by horses with feet swift as a gust of wind,

In much the same way was Tithonos abducted by Eos [the Dawn Goddess], she of the golden embroidery.

He too belonged to your family line, looking like the immortal ones.

220 Then she went with a request to the Son of Kronos [Zeus], him of the dark clouds,

asking that he [Tithonos] become immortal and live for all days to come.

Zeus nodded yes to her and brought to fulfillment the words of her wish.

Too bad that her thinking was disconnected! The Lady Eos did not notice [verb of noos] in her phrenes

that she should have asked for adolescence [hêbê] and a stripping away of baneful old age.

225 Well, for a while he [Tithonos] held on to adolescence [hêbê] ,

enjoying Eos, the one with the gold embroidery, the one early-born.

He lived at the streams of the Okeanos, and the ends of the earth.

But when the first strands of gray hair started growing

from his beautiful head and his noble chin,

230 then the Lady Eos stopped coming to his bed.

But she nourished him, keeping him in her palace,

with grain and ambrosia. And she gave him beautiful clothes.

But when hateful old age was pressing hard on him, with all its might,

and he couldn’t move his limbs, much less lift them up,

235 then in her thûmos she thought up this plan, a very good one indeed:

she put him in her chamber, and she closed the shining doors over him.

From there his voice pours out—it seems never to end—and he has no strength at all,

the kind he used to have in his limbs when they could still bend.

I would not choose that you [Anchises] be that way, amongst the immortal ones,

240 immortal and living for all days to come.[25]

If you could only stay the way you are, in looks and constitution,

staying alive as my lawfully-wedded husband,

then akhos would not have to envelop me and my sturdy phrenes.

But now wretched old age will envelop you,

245 pitilessly, just as it catches up with every man.

It is baneful, it wears you down, and even the gods shrink back from it.

As for me, I will have a great disgrace [oneidos], in the eyes of the immortal ones,

a disgrace that will last for all days to come, without end, all on account of you.

My trysts and stratagems [mêtis pl.] with which I used to get all

250 the immortal gods mated with mortal women,

used to be feared by them [the gods]. For my power of noos used to subdue all of them.

But now my mouth can never again boast

about this among the immortals. I have gone very far off the track,

in a wretched and inexcusable way. I have strayed from my noos.

255 I got myself a child beneath my girdle, having slept with a male mortal.

As for him [the child], the moment he sees the light of the sun,

Nymphs, living in the mountains and wearing low-slung girdles, will raise him

—Nymphs that live on this great and fertile mountain.

They associate neither with mortals nor with immortals,

260 they live for a long time, and they eat immortal food.

They put on a beautiful song and dance, even by the standards of the immortals.

They mate with Seilênoi or with the sharp-sighted Argos-killer,

making love [philotês] in the recesses of lovely caves.

When they are born, firs and oaks with lofty boughs

265 spring out of the earth, that nurturer of men.

Beautiful trees, flourishing on high mountains,

they stand there pointing to the sky, and people call them the sacred places

of the immortal ones. Mortals may not cut them down with iron.

But when the fate [moira] of death is at hand for them,

270 these beautiful trees become dry, to start with,

and then their bark wastes away, and then the branches drop off,

and, at the same time, the psûkhê goes out of them, as it leaves the light of the sun.

These [the Nymphs] will raise my son, keeping him in their company.

And when adolescence [hêbê], full of loveliness, first takes hold of him,

275 the goddesses [the Nymphs] will take him here to you and show you your child.

As for you, in order that I may tell you in the proper order everything that I have in my phrenes,

I too will come back to you as the fifth anniversary approaches, bringing you your son.

And the moment you see this young seedling [Aineias/Aeneas] with your eyes,

you will be happy to look at him. For he will be very godlike.

280 And straightaway you shall take him to windy Ilion.

And if any mortal human asks you

what mother got your philos son beneath her girdle,

keep in mind [root mnê-] to tell him as I command you.

Say that he is the offspring of one of the flower-faced Nymphs

285 who live on this beautiful mountain, shaded over by forests.

But if you say out loud and boast, with a thûmos bereft of phrenes,

that you made love [philotês] to the Lady of Kythera, the one with the beautiful garlands,

then Zeus in his anger will smite you with a smoking thunderbolt.

Now then, everything has been said to you. You take note [verb of noos] in your phrenes.

290 And refrain from naming me. Avoid the mênis of the gods.”

So saying, she bolted away towards the windy sky.

I wish you kharis [‘I wish you pleasure and happiness from our relationship, starting now’], goddess, you who rule over beautifully-colonized Cyprus.

Having started with you, I will now go on to the rest of my performance.

[tylermileslockett]

HEPHAESTUS

  “Sing, clear-voiced Muse, of Hephaestus famed for inventions. With bright-eyed Athena he taught men glorious crafts throughout the world, —men who before used to dwell in caves in the mountains like wild beasts. But now that they have learned crafts through Hephaestus the famed worker, easily they live a peaceful life in their own houses the whole year round.”  (-Homeric Hymn, translated by H.G. Evelyn white)

HEPHAESTUS, (huh-FAY-stus) is the God of weapon smithing, craftsmanship, and fire. Born with a lame leg, and described as ugly, he presents a much humbler appearance than his more majestic siblings. But he shines in the ingenuity department, crafting marvelous weapons, tools, and traps with his sacred objects; his golden hammer and tongs. I took an artist’s liberty; portraying him with vibrant red hair and beard to reflect his connection with fire, while his skin is pale purple from long hours within his cave forge.

The many golden, forged objects within the image appear in a variety of myths. Let’s begin with the item he hammers; the armor of Achilles. In the Iliad, Achilles pleads with his Nereid mother, Thetis, for new armor. We can see her in the pool in the lower right, waiting for the armor as she sits upon a hippocampusi.  Looking to the background, the throne was made for Hera as a trick, trapping her in the seat. The female figure above is Pandora, the first woman, made upon Zeus’ orders. Beside her are the winged helmet and sandals of Hermes. Above is the chariot of apollo. And at the very top is the golden net which trapped Hephaestus’ wife, Aphrodite, in bed with her elicit lover, Ares. 

Although Hephaestus doesn’t terrorize mortals like some of his more vengeful siblings, one scandalous myth has him chasing Athena in lust, and ejaculating on her thigh when the rape attempt fails. When Athena wipes the seed onto the earth, a son, Erichthonious, is born and later becomes an early king of Athens.

Want to own my Illustrated Greek myth book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024. check my bio LINKTREE

[promptling]

CARMILLA by j. sheridan le fanu, edited by carmen maria machado

did you realize he killed her off?

who reads an introduction?

i long for the door to open.

i did not know that it was possible.

i did not realize my soil was not salted.

she is already dead.

someone did lie there, the place is still warm.

lord hear all good prayers for us, for jesus's sake.

the poor young lady is dead.

the letter appears to me to have been written in distraction.

i'm in one of my moping moods tonight.

i forget the rest.

was ever a being so born to calamity?

i cannot, dare not, delay.

it would be so delightful.

where am i? what is this place?

how do you like our guest?

tell me about her.

how very odd to say all that!

i hope i have not done a very foolish thing.

how wonderful!

i saw your face in a dream, and it has haunted me ever since.

i could not forget your face.

i don't know which of us should be more afraid of the other.

if you were less pretty i think i should be very much afraid of you.

i wonder whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as i do to you.

i have never had a friend.

i shan't require assistance.

it is very hard to part with you.

young people like, and even love, on impulse.

heavens! if i had but known all!

your little heart is wounded.

if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours.

you are mine, you shall be mine, you and i are one forever.

what can you mean by this?

i don't know myself when you look so and talk so.

don't you perceive how discordant that is?

i think it very sweet.

you pierce my ears.

you must die - everyone must die - and all are happier when they do.

i don't trouble my head about peasants.

tell me nothing about ghosts.

i hope there is no plague or fever coming.

sit here, hold my hand.

that comes of strangling people with hymns!

i shall demand redress from him.

then you have been ill?

let us talk no more of it.

you would not wound a friend?

you are afraid to die?

girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don’t you see—each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structure.

are you glad i came?

how romantic you are.

i have been in love with no one, and never shall, unless it should be with you.

i live in you, and you would die for me, i love you so.

is there a chill in the air?

it is the last time, perhaps, i shall see the moonlight with you.

i have been thinking of leaving you.

do you think that you will ever confide fully in me?

you do not know how dear you are to me.

i am under vows, no nun half so awfully.

you will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish.

how jealous i am you cannot know.

you must come with me, loving me, into death; or else hate me and still come with me, and hating me through death and after.

there is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.

you are going to talk your wild nonsense again.

were you ever at a ball?

i was all but assassinated in my bed.

love will have its sacrifices.

no sacrifice without blood.

you see it now with your own eyes.

you must not plague me with questions.

you are not to trouble your head about it.

i should tell you all with pleasure, but you should not believe me.

you puzzle me utterly.

i had no hope of meeting you so soon.

[deanlikeshisangel]

he can feel the grains of sand and sea glass replacing the calcium in his bones

nikolai lantsov and the ocean

warnings : none, kinda angsty?

for more : masterlist

gold threaded robes, the bitter taste of the freshly rolled cigar overwhelming his senses, smudged kohl at the corners of his eyes, his immeasurable wit and love for creation is what makes nikolai lantsov, sturmhond.

poetry about battles won and lost adorns his arms, the faint scent of leather and blood is masked by the salt of the ocean; his wild wicked smile and the crimson fire burning in his eyes, captures men and women alike. in the sickly summer's night he prays to the saints and the moon, a golden compass rests upon his chest, leading him to the true north. 

nikolai tasted blood the moment he was born; it disgusted him, as a boy he wanted to help, to love, and not rot away in the falsehood of the ravkan royals, so he left.

he learnt that the ocean speaks more honestly to those willing to drown, people like him. he listens to the sea shells sing hymns of the martyred, the seafoam in his footsteps a reminder of all he could save and the broken sea glass a reminder of those he lost. cries for help are a siren song to him, his heart chants ravka ravka ravka as he yearns to fight every war that comes his way, after all he is but a boy drunk on adventure.

he can feel the grains of sand and sea glass replacing the calcium in his bones as he puts himself to the mercy of the ocean while the wind caresses his pearl strung hair.

[chromiumagellanic06]

Just Me and You

Aegon I Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen

Summary: Aegon betrayed Visenya when he wed Rhaenys; She finds a way to do something about it. Pre-conquest.

Warnings: some NSFW, Incest, (vague) sex, Blood Magic, Sibling Incest, Jealous rage, alcohol, etc.

Disclaimer: All rights for the characters belong to GRRM and company. img credits to Pinterest.

Word Count: 4.4k

"Don't look so glum," Visenya told her brother, kicking his leg, "You're frowning like a man sent to the gallows." They lay on the garden grass, behind a curtain of wild roses none ventured into, a place they had made their own. 

The setting sun shone red and blushed orange in the sky as night tugged at the other end of the horizon, and the autumnal lights, the day's golden sun, made Aegon's face glow admirably. 

He laughed through his nose, "I lose my boyhood on the morrow, do show some mercy, dear sister." She laughed at his jab, and propped herself up on the grass to gaze at his face. 

His silver hair fell tardily across his brow, his lilac eyes watching her, touched with jest but drowned in hesitation. 

“I lose mine girlhood on the morrow also, brother,” she smirked, though she was unsure of herself, “I do not imagine it to be so dull myself.” Then she leaned close, trying her best to conceal the tremor in her frame, the hesitancy in herself. 

He sighed, reached for her lips, and her fear burned away, their noses brushing, and for a moment there was only silence in the garden, quiet and the smell of pine and rose and steel. 

When she laid back on the grass, both their faces were red, his more so than hers, but it was he who crept a lone hand to his side to hold hers. 

“You are right,” he tutted when his breathing levelled, “as usual—”  

She kicked his leg again, her words sharp despite his pained laughter, “Do not jest now.”

He quieted a second later, his hand tightening around hers, and she felt relieved instantly. He was there—he had been there, for as long as she could remember. Aegon and Visenya, meant to be wed, meant to be one, by the old ways of their homeland that was lost. 

They were their legacy, silver hair and lilac eyes. They were meant to wed since the day Aegon was born.

“It was all leading up to this, I know,” he sat up this time, “Our lives lead up to tomorrow, I just know it, Visenya,” and then, he leaned over Visenya's face, noses again touching, eyes again fixed. She smiled, eyes sparkling despite herself.

“We were always meant to be together, Aegon,” she whispered, arms wrapping around his neck.

Aegon smiled, “Just me and you,” brother and sister, husband and wife, lord and lady. 

He kissed her, tongues dancing, eyes flickering close, breaths mingling, and when he laid back down on the green grass, he said, “It shall be divine indeed, dear wife.” Dear sister, dear wife. She chuckled.

The fire was lit on the volcanic coast of Dragonstone, the company had gathered—people of their ancestry, an array of white hair and lilac eyes—Targaryens, Velaryons, Celtigars, even the occasional Volantian, all wrapped in dark tones, for only Aegon and Visenya wore white. Orys Baratheon stood alone with a head of dark hair, smiling throughout the ceremony, ignorant of the whispers that rang among the people of his paternity.

Aeron’s bastard son, they rumoured, before the rituals began.

A priest of the old faith stood presiding. He read hymns in the tongue of the dragon, declarations of purity, of love, of spiritual binding.

They cut the other’s lip with a shard of black dragonglass, stained the other’s forehead with a drop of their blood. Bled into a cup as dark as Valyrian Steel, drank from it, and swore allegiance to the other.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

Sēpar ao se nyke, Visenya.

Just you and me, Visenya against the world of the West. Ambition shall be our only limit, he promised.

Visenya soared through the skies on Vhagar’s back, holding onto the reins and saddle of her friend, urging her to gain speed. She had no wish to remain in her home that night.

She wore silks, a gown of black and red, rubies to match—as had Aegon, she recalled. Even after all this treachery, he was the other half of her soul. He wore ash black, his cloak as red as blood on the inside, the picture of their union—black and red, fire and blood, even as he took Rhaenys to wife.

Rhaenys. White wrapped and adorned in flowers. A disgrace to the dragon.

Rhaenys. Her tit-flashing, whoring little sister. Sister.

Visenya scoffed at the winds, felt her hair whip behind her, delighted in the world’s cold embrace which served to quell the fire within her. She should have known that her sister wouldn’t leave anything for her—her Queen that was her beauty had slain Visenya’s bishops, her rook, nearly all her pawns. It was horrid enough that every man or woman who visited the isle preferred her company to Visenya’s, that songs were sung of her art and beauty, her glory, rather than Visenya’s skill with the sword, but this had been too far.

She had taken her Aegon.

She had taken her husband.

She had taken her soul.

She should have known, Visenya chastised herself, shaking her head against the sky and the clouds, feeling the rush of flight, the risk of the moment. With every low curtsy, with every loud laugh at his less than funny remarks, with every zealous stare of her sister’s as Aegon returned to Visenya’s chambers every night, she should have known of her scheme—a net to entrap her knights, a trap to make her yield.

She should have known that Aegon was weak—weak to his dreams, but weaker still to his desires.

She should have known that he would fall to their brazen slut of a sister, rather than keep his vows to her.

Just you and me, the liar had promised three turns ago, and she, the fool, had believed him. She was wrothful of her tears, but held them regardless.

Visenya was a warrior. She wouldn’t weep over lost love.

When clouds came, and night fell, Vhagar plummeted from the skies, the flapping of her wings near silent, as was her general call. She landed in a forest, of all places, shoving her rider into a low-lying branch.

Visenya fell to the ground, brushing leaves out of her braid when she realised that the familiar heft at her waist was lost. She had left Dark Sister in her fury. Vhagar had made herself comfortable, and looked ready for slumber, curling into a canopy’s shadow till only her reptilian eyes blinked ominously in the darkness.

She crooned, growled. Hungry.

Visenya sighed, mindful that she had fetched her friend before the eve’s meal and had indeed forced her to miss her luncheon of cows and goats—she had been insistent, in her brooding rage before the wedding rituals, to smell only of fire and brimstone. If she couldn’t scream her ire, she’d make it be known in another way.

Visenya trailed out of the woods, finding a large village nearby. She recognised the grassy fields, the edge of forest, the dusty streets well enough. She was near the Dothraki Seas. As she treaded the village’s main pathway, passing homes lit with candles, happy families chattering within, Visenya nearly forgot her anger. It was dusty, even in the night’s darkness, and only a few walked the village at the hour. Most of them gathered around a well near the centre of the village. It had caught her attention by then.

She stopped at the periphery, watching the scene. Men, women, children, whole families, dropped gold, silver, jewels into the well, and joined their hands, bowed their heads and left. She followed suit, staring into the dark well. It was new, lined and well spent on, but jewels and ceremonial sacrifices floated on the surface. Jewels floated.

Visenya roped up a bucket of the water, and examined it. Salty. She cupped a handful and drank it.

She spat it out instantly. Inanely salty. The well had gone brackish when it was grounded. She threw the bucket back into the dark well, continuing her search.

So much for her interests. Unfaithful brothers and brackish wells.

She had walked to the outskirts of the village before she found any sheep. A whole herd, white and large, being handled by a boy too young to have gathered it all alone. He led the flock from a field to a pen beside a small, compact hut.

“You there,” Visenya called, and the boy shut the pen’s door firmly before greeting her. She must have looked odd, she realised. A white-haired woman in a black and red gown, gracing his doorstep an hour past sundown.

“I wish to have a half dozen of your sheep—”

“Not mine, lady…” he glanced at the hut. Just then, the door to the hut slammed open. Out of it hobbled an old woman, wrinkled and hunched, a shrivelled soul in a black tokar with a head of hair as silver as hers.

“Do as the lady says, boy, get six sheep,” the old woman ordered.

Strange…Visenya shook her suspicions away. Things were different this far east, she reminded herself.

“How do I pay you?” She asked the old woman as she took the reins for six sheep from the helper boy. “I have some gold, I believe.”

“A drop of your blood shall do.” Her voice was scratchy, her green eyes twinkled strangely.

“My blood?” Visenya raised a brow, unsure.

“Valyrian blood has power; this shall do a world of good for this village,” the old woman struggled towards her hut, returning with a discoloured glass vial. “Come you from across the Narrow Sea?” Visenya considered the exchange. Her heritage was guessable, a young face with silver hair, her lilac eyes, would give away her bloodline easily. Why blood? She had heard tales of maegi sorcerers who used blood to regain youth, used flesh to cure illness.

“Volantis,” Visenya lied, sure that her silken robes would let her pass for one of those worthless diluted slavers. “The Walled City.” She unsheathed a dagger, iron, not steel, to not give herself away, and struck a gash across her palm.

“Now, now,” the old woman smiled, her face wrinkling further, yellow, broken teeth glimmering in the dark evening, and gathered the blood in her vial. “You need not lie to me, Lady Visenya.”

Lady Visenya.

Visenya tightened a grip on her blade, cursing herself for having left Dark Sister behind on Dragonstone. Levelling her voice to dampen her alarm, she asked, “How do you know who I am?”

The woman corked her vial with an old piece of resin-laden wood, and waddled back into the hut, throwing the words behind her as she walked, trapping the door to her home open, “I see much that others may not.”

She took the sheep, convincing herself against seeking the old woman out further, and retraced her steps to the woods. She found Vhagar exactly as she had left her, and even after she roasted the sheep with a spell of flame, chewed on their flesh and spat out the bones, she wouldn’t budge.

“Soves, Vhagar!” She struggled atop her saddle, trying in vain to coax her beast to take flight. Vhagar only grumbled in her throat, shaking her rider off with a flick of her tail. Visenya rolled on the ground as she fell, unhurt but distraught.

“Fine,” she said, insulted and angered, and walked to the edge of the clearing. She laid down on the patch of moss there, gasping from the fall still and frustrated by Vhagar’s antics. She didn’t quite catch her sleep taking her.

She dreamt of flames, and scales. A dragon’s egg, in her grasp, warm from the embers she had found it in, the gash in her hand bleeding, bleeding, bleeding over ash and dragon scales, a mangled wyrmling in the distance—its scales and wings torn and bloody, twisted and knotted like some horrendous image from her sister’s poor childhood sketches come to life.

When she awoke, Visenya was grateful to the strange woman. However strange she had been, she had distracted the warrior enough for her rage to cool. But now, she knew not where to place her efforts.

“You are a pain, I hope you know that!” She screamed at Vhagar, who remained in the shadow of the woods’ canopy, slumbering in peace, unaffected by her rider’s rage, unresponsive at her attempts to force her beast to fly, for fuck’s sake, fly! She stumbled back to the village, dusty streets filled with people now, young children chasing each other through the fields.

She passed the ill well from the previous eve, raised an eyebrow at the people who huddled around it. A hoard of women chattered aloud, Westerosi mixed with lower Valyrian, some dialects of Dothraki and Pentoshi tossed around in the hubbub. They were filling water from the well, large barrels and wooden buckets laid out in rows.

“You there,” she beckoned to a young girl, barely ten, with pigtails and an ugly yellow dress, “The well had gone brackish,” she did not ask.

The girl shrugged her shoulders, “The priests have done rites for a sennight past. It worked.” Visenya needed to hear no more. She followed the cluttered houses and long alleys to the home of the old woman. Blood had power.

She found the desolate hut again, but no helper boy and no swine nearby. Climbing the three clayed steps to the closed door, she knocked—three raps with her fist, and the door swung open.

She took a careful step inside.

The woman’s hut only smelled of honey and metal, sickly sweet and bloody, though Visenya wasn’t sure if it was her gashed hand that stank of blood, for it had started bleeding again and profusely. The home was comfortable, with a familiar stench of old wine and everything inside the low-lying hut was warm and red and brown, lit by gold candles as the windows were curtained with dark, heavy velvet.

The old woman was no where to be seen.

In front of the flames, however, sat a young, rather beautiful lady, clad in red and gold silk. Her ebony hair was braided with intricacy, piled atop her head in the classical sense of the Ghiscari. Visenya recognised her robes to be resembling a tokar, and found her eyes to be a familiar green.

No.

A chilled breeze crept through the open door, leaving Visenya with a wave of shivers.

“Cold outside, isn’t it?” the beautiful woman read her mind, staring at Visenya with a crystal-clear interest through her shimmering green eyes. She waved a hand at the fireplace. Bizzare as it was, and quite shockingly also, a flame spluttered alive amidst the wood. Visenya backed away from the flames, turning to the door to find it shuttered close.

She turned back with trepidation, dagger in hand, “You’re a witch.”

“Yes,” the young woman stood, smiled in a way so dazzling that she’d put Rhaenys to shame, “I must thank you for yesterday. The villagers much appreciate your kindness.” Valyrian blood has power. “As do I, as you must concur,” she curtsied, her tokar catching orange in the light of the flame. She had used her blood for the gift of youth? The witch inched towards Visenya, “But you are not here for gratitude.”

Visenya considered the woman, the meaning of all this. Would he return to her? In one fluid motion, she sheathed her blade and addressed the witch, “No.”

“No,” she smiled, lips morphing red, teeth glinting white. It reminded Visenya of the old woman—same woman, she reminded herself. “No, you want knowledge,” she turned on her heel, her silk robe brushing against Visenya’s red and black gown. “It would be my pleasure to reteach the craft to one of your kind.”

“Reteach?” She followed the woman through a door, short and cramped such that they both had to bow to miss the head, into a poorly lit room with cabinets upon cabinets filled with jars and herbs and strange, browned fluids. Visenya saw the vial that had contained her own blood, empty save for a thin sheen left on the glass, next to old yellowed parchment with strange writings.

“Your people were the inception of sorcery, Lady Visenya,” the witch told her, standing far too close for Visenya to find agreeable, “But the craft has been lost to your people, as has your home.” Valyria’s gone. They belonged nowhere, Aegon had reminded her constantly.

She placed a candelabra on a rickety wooden table, clicking her pale, slender fingers to light the wicks, and asked for Visenya’s hand. Visenya watched, with bated breath, as her hand was held atop the flame. It didn’t burn, fire doesn’t burn a dragon, but her blood sizzled in the golden glow.

Aegon. She closed her eyes, brow scrunching, resolve hardening. They were meant to be together. Just them. Aegon and Visenya. A tale written in stone.

“You know what it is that I desire.” She harshened her voice.

“Yes,” the witch handed her a tome, old and wrinkled, the pages blanched and yellowed. “I return the knowledge of your ancestors to you, Visenya Targaryen.”

She didn’t stay long enough to ask why.

Three links of silver, blood drawn from iron and fire—Visenya reached for Aegon’s Dagger, taken from his solar without his notice, and she balanced the light, sharp blade on her lap as she read on, A circlet of ash, an object of desire, bound by a hymn that Meleys shall answer.

Dragon’s blood had power, but a god’s had more.

Visenya sat on the floor of her chambers, the hour of the bat bringing strange whispers with the ocean winds, whispers that rang strangely along her windowpanes, undrowned by the crackling blaze in the fireplace. Her legs ached from the harsh marble against them, and her chest heaved rampantly under her thin white shift.

Visenya sliced her thumb on the sharp edge of the dagger, staining the jagged curve with her blood, the blood of the dragon, then traced the dripping red across the three silver links in front of her. Visenya took a deep breath, shuddered, and sang a song, the likes of which had not been sung within the Keep of Dragonstone for years long passed.

“Oh, Meleys, jaesa hen jorrāela,” Oh, Meleys, goddess of love, she began, and voiced a testament to her power, against her own nature. She was Vhagar, the goddess of war, but all was in love also.

She threw the links in the flames, and sang the song again, her words echoing through the stone halls of the Keep to ring pure and melodious in the ears of Aegon, stark awake as he was at the balcony of Rhaenys’ chambers, eyes fixed westwards.

Queen takes queen.

A knock at her door—and Visenya stumbled towards the doors she had bolted shut. Her hand had been liberal in the pouring of wine. She sat alone, as she had every night since her return from Essos. Three nights spent alone—suppers missed, mornings lost, only flames and blood and spells and Vhagar in her days. Anything to allay herself of the pain of seeing Rhaenys and Aegon, the latter all but drooling over her tits at every stupid remark she made.

Gods, how foolish she felt, running from them, hearing her sister’s ugly lies of destiny and love. Grab any man by the cock that hard and he’ll dream himself a love story.

She opened the door a fraction, surprised to find her brother outside. Pawn forward? He looked the same, and it hurt her. The same silver hair, the same posture, the same expression on his face as whenever he treaded close to her—calm, calm, eternal calm, for they were one soul, so what had he to fear or reproach? Visenya ventured back inside, and he followed, bolted the door shut as though the rooms were still his. Ha. She supposed that he had never renounced her aloud.

“Quite soon of you to bore of the woman who warms your bed,” she remarked, gulping down wine from a silver goblet, caution thrown to the wind as anger surged through her again. She would not take the name of the woman she had once called sister, not to him. “Took you three years to bore of me, thought she’d last longer.”

That angered him, just as she knew that it would. His jaw tightened, eyebrows cross, “What are you implying, Visenya?”

Implying. Poets and dramatists implied. They twisted their words to reflect pesky things like sentiment and beauty. She was no beauty, preaching the arts. She was war.

 “I am implying nothing, brother. I am not a frolicking maid to dance around the truth, forever oblivious of how foolish she seems. Why the fuck are you here?” She threw the chalice in his general direction, missing by a considerable edge.

She expected him to rage after her, to scream, to argue, to order her to submit, ha, to fall to her knees in reverence of her lord husband—he did so adore the western ways.

He did not.

And it was then, that she wondered, whether the spell had indeed worked. Aegon embraced her, as drunk and writhing as she was, held her close, black and red—ash and rubies—fire and blood, and she lost her breath.

“You ran from me, Visenya,” Aegon whispered in her ear, his hands holding her tight, “Left me alone to face the day.”

Visenya laughed, bitter, mocking, more sobful than amused, “I left you?” She wished she could push away, keep her dignity, denounce his impish desire for both her and Rhaenys. She couldn’t. Between the nights he spent away and the atrocities she committed to regain him, she could not push him away, even if he burned her pride and turned her to ash.

“Did you not see me wear our colours for you?” En Passant. He wounded in passing, intention drowned by sheer will of might.

He kissed her, and she clenched her eyes shut to stop her tears from flowing. Red and Black. Targaryen colours, not their colours, but, yes, he had defied tradition. He had not worn cream or white to meet Rhaenys, had not claimed to be hers alone. But he had taken her still.

“I saw you wed our sister,” and she cringed at how high her voice sounded. Shrill and broken. A helpless damsel weeping for her losses. That she will not be. Visenya pushed Aegon away, turned away, walking to the gallery, gazing at the ocean and the night, unable to face him, to show him her weakness.

She heard him breath, heard him approach her, unsure, hesitant as he had been that sunlit eve in the gardens.

She scoffed, anger and confidence filling her again, “Was it all a lie, brother? All your proclamations? All your love?” He snaked his arms around her waist, wet lips touching her shoulder, her ear, her cheek. Visenya threw her head down, struggled out of his reach, refusing to let him have the final word, refusing to let him win her over that easily.

I am war.

“Was it funny for you?” She asked, “To flirt with her half our lives and come fuck me when night fell? Did it please you to use me?” Fool, she was. The greatest fool. Convinced that Aegon would be immune to her sister’s wiles, convinced that he’d put her first.

“I cannot say that I do not love her,” he admitted, and she watched the stars, blurry eyed, not trusting herself to speak and not weep. “You and I are one soul, Visenya,” he sounded wistful, as broken as she was, “When you ache this way,” he turned her forcefully, caught her face in his hands, though only inches below him she stood in stature, and she could see his eyes glisten, “I wish to bring the skies down to see you smile.”

To be as they once were—one heart, one soul, one flesh, one life. Dragons meant to be one for eternity. Balerion and Vhagar. Aegon and Visenya. His vision since boyhood broken in the face of another’s beauty.

“Then renounce her,” she confessed her wish, her voice loud and clear despite the treachery in her words, “Be mine, Aegon,” she buried her face in him, “Just you and me.” For eternity.

Aegon sighed, eyes again caught onto the horizon. Aegon gazed across the Blackwater, to the land ripe for conquest, his dreams returning to him. Dream of ice, dreams of blood. He told her, “I cannot.”

Visenya laughed, broken forever, and banged her fist against his chest in sync with her sobs that had finally broken free. He held her, his older sister, more torn apart by his fault than he had ever seen her before—and the thought crushed him.

What have I done? He dared ask, but he couldn’t—Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys. Music for laughter and blossoms for smiles. He couldn’t let her go.

When her tears ceased, her eyes were red. She left his embrace, left him cold, and turned the bottle of Arbor Red over her mouth. She gulped the sour wine more out of necessity than desire, unable to face her failure or the fact that he wished to amend their bond. Knights defend.

When the glass bottle emptied its last drop on her tongue, she fell on her bed, dizzy, warm, hot, burning. Her final move, in this game of chess against Rhaenys, where Aegon was both prize and puppet.

“Come here,” she beckoned to her brother. Aegon followed her words, stood beside her bed, took her hand and let her lead it to her heart. She told him, in drunken ecstasy, her eyes unfocused and words slurred, “I am not her, Aegon—but I am still yours,” and she heard her own heart’s beat, its thrum, its drum within her as frantic as her thoughts’ run. Oh Meleys, grant him lust. Her eyes closed.

She remembered screaming, but not out of pain, remembered him promise to honour their vow also. She felt his skin against hers, the heft of his flesh moving, shifting, rhyming with hers. She remembered little, other than the warmth of his lips on her breast, the shivering feel of his seed dripping out of her cunt, oh, so familiar.

When she awoke, she found her voice almost entirely lost. Her head ached, worse than it had in a long time. She recalled no dreams, found her bed empty—but her skin littered with bruises and bites, a milky mess between her legs.

Visenya fell back on her bed, relishing in the feel of that moment—pained, tainted, claimed.

Checkmate.

[t4tstarvingdog]

GOD IN HIS ALMIGHTY GLORY KNOWS ONE DAY I'M GONNA SCREAM BACK — timothy l.l.s.h.

for the @spnpoetryrenaissance day 16 prompt: "Parenthood (Motherhood/Fatherhood)"

my poetry tag list (ask to be added or removed<3): @gracekisses @soldoutsaints @icantleave @hauntedpearl @chaosnatural @raytoroinmybackpack @carveredlund @pinknatural @deanwinchestersfloralwallpaper @obsessionofspn @sleepynatural @destielgaysex @gilmorenatural @faithdeans @heartshapedcas @howldean @redwinesupernova @cosmosinfinity23 @impala67-aka-baby @samsrowena @aturnoftheearth @themichaelvan @casbeeminestiel @punishercd @notreallyaroad @fatedbuddie

image description under the keep reading

[Image Description: a poem that reads

God didn’t like me much I don’t think.

Ever since that bloody beginning, Garden of my mother’s womb. Holy.

I think she cried like a flaming sword, But who am I to say that?

She probably cried out with some Unnamable ferocity, Something that spoke of the Agony of life, Something that spoke of A child.

Something you can’t describe with words in the Bible.

Never spoke much like that, myself, Though I look like her, Or near enough that Dad never liked Lookin’ at me much, after.

Words too scripted to fall easy off my tongue, Nothing like the passion she must’ve had To shove me out into the world With a gun in one hand And my brother’s ankle in the other, Though he was born four years after me.

Don’t think God liked the way she screamed, wild-cat strong, For me. ‘Cause it takes a lot, to let someone you love  Live on, from your own body.

Don’t think He liked the way She gave the strength of her lungs to me, And the way I’m Always crying out the way I am.

Maybe it’s ‘cause she never got around to teachin’ me to pray, All soft like, and gentle, too. Never learnt the lyrics of those Pretty little hymns.

I’ve still got the first breath of life crying bloody in my ear, And I’m just tryna figure out how she shaped the words.

— timothy l.l.s.h.

/End Description.]

[vodkaneki]

Alright, so through the years I've learnt things and from one thing to another, all those things I learnt added up to one big whole thing that's been living rent free in my head for long enough, so it's time for me to tell you the story and buckle up, because it is a wild ride.

So why are barbershops poles white, red and blue? It's to symbolize the bandages, the blood and the veins. Before there were actual doctors, barbers didn't only shave beards, but also did some bloodletting and medical procedures.

Now, who was Monsieur Félix? Monsieur Charles-François Félix was a barber-surgeon from France born in the 17th century who was tasked with the delicate job of taking care of King Louis XIV of France's anal fistula.

On January 15th of 1685, the King's Physician discovered a swelling in His Majesty's royal derrière.

By February 18th an abscess had formed and by May 2 a fistula appeared.

Before I go further, what in the ungodly hell is a fistula? You may ask?!

A fistula is an abnormal connection between two body parts, such as an organ or blood vessel and another structure. Fistulas are usually the result of an injury or surgery. Infection or inflammation can also cause a fistula to form.

Fistulas may occur in many parts of the body such as the general butt area.

They first tried enemas and poultices to help, but to no avail. Since physicians at the time did not cut into their patient, the task was given to Monsieur Felix who was very much intimidated by that monumental, but yet delicate operation.

He then asked for six months (during which the poor King had to endure the pain) to prepare for the operation. He practiced on 75 mens from prison and countryside (Oh the ethics of that!!) to prepare his two new inventions:

The Royally Curved scalpel

And the retractor

The operation that was performed on November 18th, 1686 was a success and within 3 months the King was back to do his kingly activities.

Monsieur Felix did not follow suit on these operations, but was rewarded with money, lands and the title of Charles-François Félix de Tassy.

The courage of both Monsieur Felix and the King gave a newfound respectability to surgeons. On December 18, 1731, the king’s grandson, Louis XV opened the Royal Academy of Surgery, now known as the National Academy of Surgery. There you will find this portrait of Charles-François Felix with the caption: Louis XIV's first surgeon.

The royal fistula that changed the face of surgery

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

To celebrate the successful surgery, it is said that a famous hymn was written and performed for him: God Save The King. The actual British anthem is said to have taken it's roots in this famous piece that was originally written for King Louis XIVs marvelous recovery.

Also for the celebration, French composer, dancer and instrumentalist of Italian birth Jean-Baptiste Lully (Giovanni Battista Lulli) conducted a performance of Te Deum.

Back then, conductors would, well, conduct the orchestra with a long staff that would be struck on the wooden floor and, poor bugger, HE FUCKING STRUCK HIS FUCKING FOOT WHILE PERFORMING!

His foot was legitimately hurt and it eventually came to be gangrenous. He refused to be operated on or amputated, thus died from the infection.

So that's how through the years I learnt that and it's finally time you learnt that too!

[squeakowl]

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine. When the wild god arrives at the door, You will probably fear him. He reminds you of something dark That you might have dreamt, Or the secret you do not wish to be shared. He will not ring the doorbell; Instead he scrapes with his fingers Leaving blood on the paintwork, Though primroses grow In circles round his feet. You do not want to let him in. You are very busy. It is late, or early, and besides… You cannot look at him straight Because he makes you want to cry. Your dog barks; The wild god smiles. He holds out his hand and The dog licks his wounds, Then leads him inside. The wild god stands in your kitchen. Ivy is taking over your sideboard; Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades And wrens have begun to sing An old song in the mouth of your kettle. ‘I haven’t much,’ you say And give him the worst of your food. He sits at the table, bleeding. He coughs up foxes. There are otters in his eyes. When your wife calls down, You close the door and Tell her it’s fine. You will not let her see The strange guest at your table. The wild god asks for whiskey And you pour a glass for him, Then a glass for yourself. Three snakes are beginning to nest In your voicebox. You cough. Oh, limitless space. Oh, eternal mystery. Oh, endless cycles of death and birth. Oh, miracle of life. Oh, the wondrous dance of it all. You cough again, Expectorate the snakes and Water down the whiskey, Wondering how you got so old And where your passion went. The wild god reaches into a bag Made of moles and nightingale-skin. He pulls out a two-reeded pipe, Raises an eyebrow And all the birds begin to sing. The fox leaps into your eyes. Otters rush from the darkness. The snakes pour through your body. Your dog howls and upstairs Your wife both exults and weeps at once. The wild god dances with your dog. You dance with the sparrows. A white stag pulls up a stool And bellows hymns to enchantments. A pelican leaps from chair to chair. In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs. Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields. Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs. The hills echo and the grey stones ring With laughter and madness and pain. In the middle of the dance, The house takes off from the ground. Clouds climb through the windows; Lightning pounds its fists on the table And the moon leans in. The wild god points to your side. You are bleeding heavily. You have been bleeding for a long time, Possibly since you were born. There is a bear in the wound. ‘Why did you leave me to die?’ Asks the wild god and you say: ‘I was busy surviving. The shops were all closed; I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’ Listen to them: The fox in your neck and The snakes in your arms and The wren and the sparrow and the deer… The great un-nameable beasts In your liver and your kidneys and your heart… There is a symphony of howling. A cacophony of dissent. The wild god nods his head and You wake on the floor holding a knife, A bottle and a handful of black fur. Your dog is asleep on the table. Your wife is stirring, far above. Your cheeks are wet with tears; Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting. A black bear is sitting by the fire. Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine And brings the dead to life.

-- Tom Hirons, Sometimes a Wild God

[rinaforstars]

eurovision acts name meanings bc im bored

please correct me if im wrong

solo artists !

gustaph (stef caers) : crown in a fortress

andrew lambrou : strong and brilliant

reiley (rani peterson) : joyous song sung by the son of peter

alika milova : most beautiful happiness

käärijä (jere pöyhönen) : spear holding ruler

la zarra (fatima-zahra hafdi) : captivating independent flower

iru khechanovi : citizen with strength

victor vernicos : just conqueror

diljá pétursdóttir : born in heart of her parents, feeling

luke black (luka ivanović) : light of his father, ivan

noa kirel : motion on the wall of god

marco mengoni : of mars (mengoni was found at foundations of venice)

monika linkytė : advisor

parsha parfeni : pure admiration

mia nicolai : moon for the victor of the people

dion cooper : follower of dionysus, someone who makes wooden vessels

alessendra mele : charming defender of mankind

blanka : fair

mimicat (marisa mena) : of the sea, mena is a topographic name

theodor andrei : manly gift of god

remo forrer : dweller at the waterfall from rheims

blanca paloma : white dove

mae muller : may miller (yes, literally)

brunette (elen yeremyan) : torch that the lord exalts

loreen (lorine talhaoui) : laurel plant that bares fruit

albina kelmendi : white and merciful

groups/duos !

voyager

daniel estrin : star judged by god

simone dow : listen to the dark haired [girl]

ashley doodkorte : ash meadow (couldnt find doodkorte, but i did find he is like my 4th cousin)

alex canion : defender of humanity on a footpath

scott kay : pure man with a shield

-

teya & salena

teodora spiric : gods gift on a spire

selena-maria edbauer : hesitant moon and star of the sea

-

turalturan x

tural bağmanov : to be alive with creativity

turan bağmanov : dedicated to turan (the goddess of love in etruscan mythology), or the land of tur, creativity

-

let 3

zoran prodanović : to sell till dawn

damir martinović : one who gives peace and is the son of martin

dražen baljak : emotional beloved

matej zec : the rabbit is a gift of god

-

vesna

patricie fuxová : noblewoman

bára šůstková : innocent

olesya ochepovská : girl from the forest (they mean the same thing)

markéta vedralová : pearl

tereza čepková : playful harvester

tanita yanková : giant daughter of yanko

-

lord of the lost

chris harms : bearing christ’s army

class grenayde : peoples victory

gared dirge : rules by the spear, hymn of mourning

pi stoffers : swimming pool, bearer of christ

niklas kahl : bald person of victoy

-

sudden lights

andrejs zitmanis : brave

kārlis zitmanis : strong

mārtiņš zemītis : of mars, samogitian

kārlis vārtiņš : strong giver of roses

-

wild youth

david whelan : beloved & joyful

conor odonohoe : lover of hounds whom is brown haired

callum mcadam : dove, son of adam

ed porter : prosperous guardian of the gate

-

the busker

david meilak : beloved admirer

jean borg : god is gracious in a castle

sean meachen : god is gracious, meachen is topographic

-

piqued jacks

andrea lazzeretti : manly who has help from god

francesco bini : mosest free man

tommaso oliveri : twin olive

marco sgaramella : of mars

-

joker out

bojan cvjetićanin : battle on veliki cvjetnić

jure maček : farmer cat

kris guštin : follower and servant of christ

jan peteh : god is gracious, rock

nace jordan : fire is dissipating

-

tvorchi

jeffery kenny : peace & handsome

andrii hutsuliak : manly outlaw

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Obituary: The son who soared: Jeff Buckley

Date: June 6, 1997

From: The Guardian (London, England)

Publisher: Guardian News & Media

Document Type: Obituary

Byline: ADAM SWEETING

FEW ROCK business careers began more tantalisingly than that of Jeff Buckley, who has drowned in the Mississippi river, aged 30 (his body was found on Wednesday this week). In 1991, record producer Hal Willner, known for assembling imaginative, star-studded tributes to Charles Mingus and Kurt Weill, put together a tribute concert for Jeff's father, Tim Buckley, at St Ann's Church, Brooklyn, New York. Tim had died of a heroin overdose in 1975, aged 28, but his early death ignited a slow-burning musical legend. It was founded on his recorded legacy in which soul, blues and jazz influences mingled freely, the process stirred by his arrestingly elastic vocal style.

His son Jeff, born in California during Tim's brief marriage to Panama-born Mary Guibert, had always been ambivalent about his father. Tim left Mary when Jeff was six months old, and his son was brought up by his mother and stepfather during a peripatetic childhood. 'We moved so often I had to put all my stuff in paper bags,' Jeff recalled. 'My childhood was pretty much marijuana and rock 'n' roll.'His decision to participate in Willner's tribute event launched Buckley Junior as a new phenomenon on the New York music scene, and simultaneously affirmed his quasi-mythic credentials, particularly when he performed his father's song Once I Was. 'It bothered me that I hadn't been to his funeral, that I've never been able to tell him anything,' said Jeff. 'I used that show to pay my last respects.'

Thus launched in public, Buckley was rescued from a string of odd jobs by joining the avant-garde combo Gods &amp; Monsters, which featured Pere Ubu's ex-bassist Tony Maimone and Captain Beefheart's erstwhile guitarist Gary Lucas. But it was more a loose group of individuals than a real band and Buckley quit in early 1992 to pursue a solo career.

He began performing at small Manhattan clubs, particularly the Cafe Sin-e, where record company executives and A&amp;R men were soon arriving by the limo-full, waving chequebooks. 'I went into those cafes because I really felt I had to go to an impossibly intimate setting where there's no escape, where there's no hiding yourself,' he explained.

Buckley's remarkable voice (his most obvious inheritance from his father) and movie-star looks left nobody in doubt that he was a star in the making, though the eclecticism of his shows confused some listeners. Buckley would pluck songs out of the air as the mood took him. It might be something by Van Morrison, the Hollies or Big Star, or a tune made famous by Nina Simone or Mahalia Jackson.

With a hippie-esque suspicion of large corporations, he turned down several deals before signing with Columbia at the end of 1992, apparently because he knew and trusted the label's A&amp;R man Steve Berkowitz. The company previewed their new acquisition with a live EP, Live At Sin-e, following which Buckley travelled upstate to Bearsville to start work on his debut album, Grace.

The disc was released in 1994 to instant critical adulation. The sleeve pictured Buckley clutching a microphone and looking poetically dishevelled, while the music inside was a cornucopia of rockers, ballads, hymns and even a bold rendition of Benjamin Britten's Corpus Christi Carol, by no means standard rock 'n' roll fare. His voice was wild, passionate and sensual. If his music was hard to describe in a soundbite, it was bursting with hidden depths and infinite potential. Grace won Buckley the Best New Artist award from Rolling Stone magazine in 1995.

Buckley's inquisitiveness and musical ambition earned him acceptance across a broad spectrum of fellow performers. Elvis Costello brought him over in 1995 to perform at London's Meltdown Festival, where he easily held his own among string quartets and jazz ensembles, and last year he featured on Patti Smith's comeback album, Gone Again. He was also a fan of Eastern music, particularly the Islamic devotional Qawwali songs of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

Buckley had been in Memphis since February, recording new material. He decided to go swimming in the Mississippi, fully clothed and carrying his guitar, but was apparently pulled under by the wash from a passing tug.

Jeff Buckley, rock singer, born August 1, 1966; died May 29, 1997

[inbetween-beast-and-man]

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,

You will probably fear him.

He reminds you of something dark

That you might have dreamt,

Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;

Instead he scrapes with his fingers

Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow

In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.

You are very busy.

It is late, or early, and besides…

You cannot look at him straight

Because he makes you want to cry.

Your dog barks;

The wild god smiles.

He holds out his hand and

The dog licks his wounds,

Then leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.

Ivy is taking over your sideboard;

Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades

And wrens have begun to sing

An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say

And give him the worst of your food.

He sits at the table, bleeding.

He coughs up foxes.

There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,

You close the door and

Tell her it’s fine.

You will not let her see

The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey

And you pour a glass for him,

Then a glass for yourself.

Three snakes are beginning to nest

In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.

Oh, eternal mystery.

Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.

Oh, miracle of life.

Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,

Expectorate the snakes and

Water down the whiskey,

Wondering how you got so old

And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag

Made of moles and nightingale-skin.

He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,

Raises an eyebrow

And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.

Otters rush from the darkness.

The snakes pour through your body.

Your dog howls and upstairs

Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.

You dance with the sparrows.

A white stag pulls up a stool

And bellows hymns to enchantments.

A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.

Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.

Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.

The hills echo and the grey stones ring

With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,

The house takes off from the ground.

Clouds climb through the windows;

Lightning pounds its fists on the table

And the moon leans in.

The wild god points to your side.

You are bleeding heavily.

You have been bleeding for a long time,

Possibly since you were born.

There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’

Asks the wild god and you say:

‘I was busy surviving.

The shops were all closed;

I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and

The snakes in your arms and

The wren and the sparrow and the deer…

The great un-nameable beasts

In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.

A cacophony of dissent.

The wild god nods his head and

You wake on the floor holding a knife,

A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.

Your wife is stirring, far above.

Your cheeks are wet with tears;

Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.

A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine

And brings the dead to life.

[tylermileslockett]

HEPHAESTUS

  “Sing, clear-voiced Muse, of Hephaestus famed for inventions. With bright-eyed Athena he taught men glorious crafts throughout the world, —men who before used to dwell in caves in the mountains like wild beasts. But now that they have learned crafts through Hephaestus the famed worker, easily they live a peaceful life in their own houses the whole year round.”  (-Homeric Hymn, translated by H.G. Evelyn white)

HEPHAESTUS, (huh-FAY-stus) is the God of weapon smithing, craftsmanship, and fire. Born with a lame leg, and described as ugly, he presents a much humbler appearance than his more majestic siblings. But he shines in the ingenuity department, crafting marvelous weapons, tools, and traps with his sacred objects; his golden hammer and tongs. I took an artist’s liberty; portraying him with vibrant red hair and beard to reflect his connection with fire, while his skin is pale purple from long hours within his cave forge.

The many golden, forged objects within the image appear in a variety of myths. Let’s begin with the item he hammers; the armor of Achilles. In the Iliad, Achilles pleads with his Nereid mother, Thetis, for new armor. We can see her in the pool in the lower right, waiting for the armor as she sits upon a hippocampusi.  Looking to the background, the throne was made for Hera as a trick, trapping her in the seat. The female figure above is Pandora, the first woman, made upon Zeus’ orders. Beside her are the winged helmet and sandals of Hermes. Above is the chariot of apollo. And at the very top is the golden net which trapped Hephaestus’ wife, Aphrodite, in bed with her elicit lover, Ares. 

Although Hephaestus doesn’t terrorize mortals like some of his more vengeful siblings, one scandalous myth has him chasing Athena in lust, and ejaculating on her thigh when the rape attempt fails. When Athena wipes the seed onto the earth, a son, Erichthonious, is born and later becomes an early king of Athens.

Want to own my Illustrated Greek myth book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024. check my bio LINKTREE

[the-light-finds-its-way]

I'm obsessing over my Exo Hunter, Anthem-99, all over again. He was one of the first Exos ever made. He became an Exo because he was born as Marie, a woman, in the wild west circa 1890s, then lived to be over 100 before becoming an Exo. He knew for all those 100+ years he was a man, but the technology nor vocabulary existed to describe what he was experiencing.

Anthem, as Marie, journaled about his feelings, his desires to be a man, and remembers nothing of his old life before becoming an Exo except for this desire, and that he was offered the chance to become an Exo by someone he doesn't know anymore (he assumes Clovis Bray, but both are not sure since they went through several memory wipes).

Anthem, at over 100 years old, went through the process to erase all his past memories and become an Exo, programmed with his name of Anthem. However! Marie wouldn't escape his mind regardless of the process. Anthem knew he was trans when he woke up, rather than thinking he'd been born male. And so, a few months later, he went through a reset, but still, the name Marie, and being born in the wrong body, wouldn't leave.

Anthem went through enough resets that he surpassed the 20 maximum limit, and Marie still lived as just a lingering memory unable to fade away entirely.

Eventually, Anthem died (unknown how, this is lost to time), and was risen toward the end of the Dark Ages of Iron Lords. This time, all his past had been erased, and he'd truly forgotten about his family that outcast him, or maybe he outcast them? He was unsure. He forgot about his struggles in his first life. But, despite everything being gone, one thing remained.

Marie.

A name.

Anthem's memory hardly worked at all. His Ghost, Hymn, told him he'd gone through 99 resets. Immediately, those words faded and the Exo asked his Ghost what his reset count was again.

Anthem far surpassed any Exo in resets. He'd gone through 5x the maximum amount allowed, but somehow survived. Lost, dazed, like an old person with Alzheimer's, Anthem's Ghost led him to the Last City. But the entire time, Anthem knew only one thing that was certain: he used to be Marie.

When Anthem relearned about Exos, he put two and two together, recognizing his journey to transition to male as an Exo, and he began questioning why Marie never went away. How, after 99 resets, and becoming a Guardian, did he still remember the most vile, awful, least desirable thing of himself and his past? The very reason he became an Exo was because it promised forgetting about his past life and giving him a new start. Furthermore, Guardians lived with a clean slate, no memories at all except for their names.

And somehow, with just a name, and nothing else, Marie lived on. As Anthem. In Anthem.

And he didn't want her to. He wanted her dead. He killed her, the world killed him, and he lived again as a new person with the knowledge of transitioning, with the knowledge that Marie cannot ever die. Nobody can truly escape their past. Regardless of how bad they want to.

Anthem is an allegory for myself. He is the reminder that, although I am me, although I've changed entirely and let the past go, it hasn't let me go in turn. It never will. It'll exist, even if just faintly.