#entablature

[fieriframes]

[Entablature.]

[qfabraywrites]

Sun Room Medium Mid-sized contemporary sunroom design idea

[shslsyoko]

Traditional Sunroom An illustration of a mid-sized traditional sunroom style

[seabreezebazaar]

Contemporary Sunroom - Medium

Mid-sized contemporary sunroom design idea

[visionify]

Sun Room Medium Mid-sized contemporary sunroom design idea

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Interiors

As a followup to the very popular post on architecture, I decided to add onto it by exploring the interior of each movement and the different design techniques and tastes of each era. This post at be helpful for historical fiction, fantasy or just a long read when you're bored.

Interior Design Terms

Reeding and fluting: Fluting is a technique that consists a continuous pattern of concave grooves in a flat surface across a surface. Reeding is it's opposite.

Embossing: stamping, carving or moulding a symbol to make it stand out on a surface.

Paneling: Panels of carved wood or fabric a fixed to a wall in a continuous pattern.

Gilding: the use of gold to highlight features.

Glazed Tile: Ceramic or porcelain tiles coated with liquid coloured glass or enamel.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Mouldings: ornate strips of carved wood along the top of a wall.

Wainscoting: paneling along the lower portion of a wall.

Chinoiserie: A European take on East Asian art. Usually seen in wallpaper.

Clerestory: A series of eye-level windows.

Sconces: A light fixture supported on a wall.

Niche: A sunken area within a wall.

Monochromatic: Focusing on a single colour within a scheme.

Ceiling rose: A moulding fashioned on the ceiling in the shape of a rose usually supporting a light fixture.

Baluster: the vertical bars of a railing.

Façade: front portion of a building

Lintel: Top of a door or window.

Portico: a covered structure over a door supported by columns

Eaves: the part of the roof overhanging from the building

Skirting: border around lower length of a wall

Ancient Greece

Houses were made of either sun-dried clay bricks or stone which were painted when they dried. Ground floors were decorated with coloured stones and tiles called Mosaics. Upper level floors were made from wood. Homes were furnished with tapestries and furniture, and in grand homes statues and grand altars would be found. Furniture was very skillfully crafted in Ancient Greece, much attention was paid to the carving and decoration of such things. Of course, Ancient Greece is ancient so I won't be going through all the movements but I will talk a little about columns.

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Ancient Rome

Rome is well known for its outward architectural styles. However the Romans did know how to add that rizz to the interior. Ceilings were either vaulted or made from exploded beams that could be painted. The Romans were big into design. Moasics were a common interior sight, the use of little pieces of coloured glass or stone to create a larger image. Frescoes were used to add colour to the home, depicting mythical figures and beasts and also different textures such as stonework or brick. The Romans loved their furniture. Dining tables were low and the Romans ate on couches. Weaving was a popular pastime so there would be tapestries and wall hangings in the house. Rich households could even afford to import fine rugs from across the Empire. Glass was also a feature in Roman interior but windows were usually not paned as large panes were hard to make. Doors were usually treated with panels that were carved or in lain with bronze.

Ancient Egypt

Egypt was one of the first great civilisations, known for its immense and grand structures. Wealthy Egyptians had grand homes. The walls were painted or plastered usually with bright colours and hues. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds. Woven mats and tapestries were popular decor. Motifs from the river such as palms, papyrus and reeds were popular symbols used.

Ancient Africa

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Japanese Interiors

Japenese interior design rests upon 7 principles. Kanso (簡素)- Simplicity, Fukinsei (不均整)- Asymmetry, Shizen (自然)- Natural, Shibumi (渋味) – Simple beauty, Yugen (幽玄)- subtle grace, Datsuzoku (脱俗) – freedom from habitual behaviour, Seijaku (静寂)- tranquillity.

Common features of Japanese Interior Design:

Shoji walls: these are the screens you think of when you think of the traditional Japanese homes. They are made of wooden frames, rice paper and used to partition

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Japanese furniture: often lowest, close to the ground. These include tables and chairs but often tanked are replaced by zabuton, large cushions. Furniture is usually carved of wood in a minimalist design.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Islamic World Interior

The Islamic world has one of the most beautiful and impressive interior design styles across the world. Colour and detail are absolute staples in the movement. Windows are usually not paned with glass but covered in ornate lattices known as jali. The jali give ventilation, light and privacy to the home. Islamic Interiors are ornate and colourful, using coloured ceramic tiles. The upper parts of walls and ceilings are usually flat decorated with arabesques (foliate ornamentation), while the lower wall areas were usually tiled. Features such as honeycombed ceilings, horseshoe arches, stalactite-fringed arches and stalactite vaults (Muqarnas) are prevalent among many famous Islamic buildings such as the Alhambra and the Blue Mosque.

Byzantine (330/395–1453 A. D)

The Byzantine Empire or Eastern Roman Empire was where eat met west, leading to a melting pot of different interior designs based on early Christian styles and Persian influences. Mosaics are probably what you think of when you think of the Byzantine Empire. Ivory was also a popular feature in the Interiors, with carved ivory or the use of it in inlay. The use of gold as a decorative feature usually by way of repoussé (decorating metals by hammering in the design from the backside of the metal). Fabrics from Persia, heavily embroidered and intricately woven along with silks from afar a field as China, would also be used to upholster furniture or be used as wall hangings. The Byzantines favoured natural light, usually from the use of copolas.

Indian Interiors

India is of course, the font of all intricate designs. India's history is sectioned into many eras but we will focus on a few to give you an idea of prevalent techniques and tastes.

The Gupta Empire (320 – 650 CE): The Gupta era was a time of stone carving. As impressive as the outside of these buildings are, the Interiors are just as amazing. Gupta era buildings featured many details such as ogee (circular or horseshoe arch), gavaksha/chandrashala (the motif centred these arches), ashlar masonry (built of squared stone blocks) with ceilings of plain, flat slabs of stone.

Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526): Another period of beautifully carved stone. The Delhi sultanate had influence from the Islamic world, with heavy uses of mosaics, brackets, intricate mouldings, columns and and hypostyle halls.

Mughal Empire (1526–1857): Stonework was also important on the Mughal Empire. Intricately carved stonework was seen in the pillars, low relief panels depicting nature images and jalis (marble screens). Stonework was also decorated in a stye known as pietra dura/parchin kari with inscriptions and geometric designs using colored stones to create images. Tilework was also popular during this period. Moasic tiles were cut and fitted together to create larger patters while cuerda seca tiles were coloured tiles outlined with black.

Chinese Interiors

Common features of Chinese Interiors

Use of Colours: Colour in Chinese Interior is usually vibrant and bold. Red and Black are are traditional colours, meant to bring luck, happiness, power, knowledge and stability to the household.

Latticework: Lattices are a staple in Chinese interiors most often seen on shutters, screens, doors of cabinets snf even traditional beds.

Lacquer: Multiple coats of lacquer are applied to furniture or cabinets (now walls) and then carved. The skill is called Diaoqi (雕漆).

Decorative Screens: Screens are used to partition off part of a room. They are usually of carved wood, pained with very intricate murals.

Shrines: Spaces were reserved on the home to honour ancestors, usually consisting of an altar where offerings could be made.

Of course, Chinese Interiors are not all the same through the different eras. While some details and techniques were interchangeable through different dynasties, usually a dynasty had a notable style or deviation. These aren't all the dynasties of course but a few interesting examples.

Song Dynasty (960–1279): The Song Dynasty is known for its stonework. Sculpture was an important part of Song Dynasty interior. It was in this period than brick and stone work became the most used material. The Song Dynasty was also known for its very intricate attention to detail, paintings, and used tiles.

Ming Dynasty(1368–1644): Ceilings were adorned with cloisons usually featuring yellow reed work. The floors would be of flagstones usually of deep tones, mostly black. The Ming Dynasty favoured richly coloured silk hangings, tapestries and furnishings. Furniture was usually carved of darker woods, arrayed in a certain way to bring peace to the dwelling.

Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD): Interior walls were plastered and painted to show important figures and scenes. Lacquer, though it was discovered earlier, came into greater prominence with better skill in this era.

Tang Dynasty (618–907) : The colour palette is restrained, reserved. But the Tang dynasty is not without it's beauty. Earthenware reached it's peak in this era, many homes would display fine examples as well. The Tang dynasty is famous for its upturned eaves, the ceilings supported by timber columns mounted with metal or stone bases. Glazed tiles were popular in this era, either a fixed to the roof or decorating a screen wall.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles. The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways. As per the name, Romansque Interiors relied heavily on its love and admiration for Rome. The Romanesque style uses geometric shapes as statements using curves, circles snf arches. The colours would be clean and warm, focusing on minimal ornamentation.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic style is what you think of when you think of old European cathedrals and probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe. Decoration in this era became more ornate, stonework began to sport carving and modelling in a way it did not before. The ceilings moved away from barreled vaults to quadripartite and sexpartite vaulting. Columns slimmed as other supportive structures were invented. Intricate stained glass windows began their popularity here. In Gothic structures, everything is very symmetrical and even.

Mediaeval (500 AD to 1500)

Interiors of mediaeval homes are not quite as drab as Hollywood likes to make out. Building materials may be hidden by plaster in rich homes, sometimes even painted. Floors were either dirt strewn with rushes or flagstones in larger homes. Stonework was popular, especially around fireplaces. Grand homes would be decorated with intricate woodwork, carved heraldic beasts and wall hangings of fine fabrics.

Renaissance (late 1300s-1600s)

The Renaissance was a period of great artistry and splendor. The revival of old styles injected symmetry and colour into the homes. Frescoes were back. Painted mouldings adorned the ceilings and walls. Furniture became more ornate, fixed with luxurious upholstery and fine carvings. Caryatids (pillars in the shape of women), grotesques, Roman and Greek images were used to spruce up the place. Floors began to become more intricate, with coloured stone and marble. Modelled stucco, sgraffiti arabesques (made by cutting lines through a layer of plaster or stucco to reveal an underlayer), and fine wall painting were used in brilliant combinations in the early part of the 16th century.

Tudor Interior (1485-1603)

The Tudor period is a starkly unique style within England and very recognisable. Windows were fixed with lattice work, usually casement. Stained glass was also in in this period, usually depicting figures and heraldic beasts. Rooms would be panelled with wood or plastered. Walls would be adorned with tapestries or embroidered hangings. Windows and furniture would be furnished with fine fabrics such as brocade. Floors would typically be of wood, sometimes strewn with rush matting mixed with fresh herbs and flowers to freshen the room.

Baroque (1600 to 1750)

The Baroque period was a time for splendor and for splashing the cash. The interior of a baroque room was usually intricate, usually of a light palette, featuring a very high ceiling heavy with detail. Furniture would choke the room, ornately carved and stitched with very high quality fabrics. The rooms would be full of art not limited to just paintings but also sculptures of marble or bronze, large intricate mirrors, moldings along the walls which may be heavily gilded, chandeliers and detailed paneling.

Victorian (1837-1901)

We think of the interiors of Victorian homes as dowdy and dark but that isn't true. The Victorians favoured tapestries, intricate rugs, decorated wallpaper, exquisitely furniture, and surprisingly, bright colour. Dyes were more widely available to people of all stations and the Victorians did not want for colour. Patterns and details were usually nature inspired, usually floral or vines. Walls could also be painted to mimic a building material such as wood or marble and most likely painted in rich tones. The Victorians were suckers for furniture, preferring them grandly carved with fine fabric usually embroidered or buttoned. And they did not believe in minimalism. If you could fit another piece of furniture in a room, it was going in there. Floors were almost eclusively wood laid with the previously mentioned rugs. But the Victorians did enjoy tiled floors but restricted them to entrances. The Victorians were quite in touch with their green thumbs so expect a lot of flowers and greenery inside. with various elaborately decorated patterned rugs. And remember, the Victorians loved to display as much wealth as they could. Every shelf, cabinet, case and ledge would be chocked full of ornaments and antiques.

Edwardian/The Gilded Age/Belle Epoque (1880s-1914)

This period (I've lumped them together for simplicity) began to move away from the deep tones and ornate patterns of the Victorian period. Colour became more neutral. Nature still had a place in design. Stained glass began to become popular, especially on lampshades and light fixtures. Embossing started to gain popularity and tile work began to expand from the entrance halls to other parts of the house. Furniture began to move away from dark wood, some families favouring breathable woods like wicker. The rooms would be less cluttered.

Art Deco (1920s-1930s)

The 1920s was a time of buzz and change. Gone were the refined tastes of the pre-war era and now the wow factor was in. Walls were smoother, buildings were sharper and more jagged, doorways and windows were decorated with reeding and fluting. Pastels were in, as was the heavy use of black and white, along with gold. Mirrors and glass were in, injecting light into rooms. Gold, silver, steel and chrome were used in furnishings and decor. Geometric shapes were a favourite design choice. Again, high quality and bold fabrics were used such as animal skins or colourful velvet. It was all a rejection of the Art Noveau movement, away from nature focusing on the man made.

Modernism (1930 - 1965)

Modernism came after the Art Deco movement. Fuss and feathers were out the door and now, practicality was in. Materials used are shown as they are, wood is not painted, metal is not coated. Bright colours were acceptable but neutral palettes were favoured. Interiors were open and favoured large windows. Furniture was practical, for use rather than the ornamentation, featuring plain details of any and geometric shapes. Away from Art Deco, everything is straight, linear and streamlined.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Architecture Vocabulary

Arcade: a succession of arches supported on columns. An arcade can be free-standing covered passage or attached to a wall, as seen on the right.

Arch: the curved support of a building or doorway. The tops of the arches can be curved, semicircular, pointed, etc.

Architrave: the lowest part of the entablature that sits directly on the capitals (tops) of the columns.

Capital: the top portion of a column. In classical architecture, the architectural order is usually identified by design of the capital (Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian).

Classical: of or pertaining to Classicism.

Classicism: a preference or regard for the principles of Greek and Roman art and architecture. Common classicizing architecture is a sense of balance, proportion, and “ideal” beauty.

Column: an upright post, usually square, round, or rectangular. It can be used as a support or attached to a wall for decoration. In classical architecture, columns are composed of a capital, shaft, and a base (except in the Doric order).

Cornice: the rectangular band above the frieze, below the pediment.

Dome: a half-sphere curvature constructed on a circular base, as seen on the right.

Entablature: the upper portion of an order, it includes the architrave, frieze and cornice.

Frieze: the wide rectangular section on the entablature, above the architrave and below the cornice. In the Doric order, the frieze is often decorated with triglyphs (altering tablets of vertical groves) and the plain, rectangular bands spaced between the triglyphs (called metopes).

Metopes: the rectangular slabs that adorned the outside of Doric temples, just above the exterior colonnade.

Order: an ancient style of architecture. The classical orders are Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian. An order consists of a column, with a distinctive capital, supporting the entablature and pediment.

Pediment: a classical element that forms a triangular shape above the entablature. The pediment is often decorated with statues and its sides can be curved or straight.

Pronaos (pro-NAY-us): the entrance hall of a temple.

Triglyphs: a decorative element of a frieze consisting of three vertical units.

Vault: an arched ceiling usually made of wood or stone, as seen on the right.

Source ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[scavengedluxury]

Relief by András Kocsis, which was later placed above the main entablature of the National Sports Hall (later the Gerevich Aladár National Sports Hall), Budapest, 1942. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.

[m1male2]

The caryatid is a term that in architecture refers to a female sculpture, with the appearance of a column, which holds an entablature above its head. One of the most typical examples is the tribune of the caryatids in the Erechtheion. Athens.

[mcaelius]

once the first stage of a roman senator's life cycle is nearly complete, the larvae (colloquially known as 'tribunes') search for safe places to pupate. some burrow underground, while others hang suspended from the entablature of various temples near the centre of the city or choose an at-home pupation. they remain in their chrysalis forms for upwards of two months, during which time the senators' digestive enzymes dissolve their bodies from the inside. once they have remoulded, the senators emerge from their cocoons as fully-formed adults.

[ottpopfic]

“Oh my god” Leo cackles “Oh my god Querido are you okay?”

“M’ good m’ good” Jason reassures, sitting up so he can kiss Leo all over his face. He may be chuffing out how pretty he is in Wolf at the same time, who's to say

When he pulls back to look at Leo he is backlit in the pre-sunset haze of the big arched window. It sets his hair into a glowing halo, laurels of light and fire, the entirety of him glowing and golden. Jason can't help but think he looks divine smiling down at him all gap-toothed and auburn, like the vistage of the gods who visit him and ask for his prayers, like he is made of more than mere flesh and bone and fire.

Jason could build such a temple to his Leo, one that all of Olympus would be envious of. Gold and copper and bronze, painted marble and intricate mosaic. Ionic pillars, open impediments, detailed entablature. And a skylight, so when Jason goes down on him on the alter the light will still catch his hair

It's probably sacrilege, even thinking about it in his position, but Jason doesn't care. Not when it's Leo, never when it's Leo. He kisses him all the same

[yoursinisforgiven]

CARYATID ──

pairing: xanthus x reader (love) 

cw: age gap relationships (xanthus is at least 400 years old, reader is at least 18), ideally set after the trimidian issues, minor existential crisis, reader is described to be wearing sandals.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

A woman with the weight of the world on her head—quite literally.

The British Museum was quiet in the early afternoon, save for the faint echo of footsteps on marble floors and the distant murmur of tourists marveling at stolen history. The air was still, holding the crisp sterility of a place meant to be looked at, not lived in. Unlike the world outside—where spring painted London in pastels and warmth—these halls were a stark, indifferent cold, untouched by time or season.

You walked deeper into the exhibit, past glass cases filled with fragments of civilizations long faded, until the corridor narrowed into a dead end. Dim lighting pooled in soft halos above the display, casting elongated shadows against the walls. It was almost eerie how undisturbed this section felt. No half-empty Starbucks cup forgotten on a ledge, no stray museum pamphlet left behind, no smudged fingerprints on the placards. As if no one had been here in a long time.

No one except you.

And Xanthus.

He wasn’t near, but he was close. He always was. The bond between you hummed with a low, steady presence, threading through your chest like an unspoken reminder. A tether, ever-present.

Your eyes lifted to her.

She stood tall and unwavering, carved from pale stone, her figure draped in the soft folds of an impossibly heavy chiton. The sculptor had captured her in such delicate detail that the fabric seemed to ripple, as though she might shift her weight at any moment, adjust the crushing burden of the entablature on her head. But she never would. She would stand like this forever—her arms at her sides, her expression unreadable, her fate unchanging.

There was no rope, no glass barrier to separate you from her.

You hesitated, then reached out, your fingertips grazing the cool stone of her gown. The sensation sent a shiver up your arm, the cold sinking into your skin as if she were breathing it into you. It was unnatural, this chill. Like she had been frozen in something deeper than just time. You pulled your hand back quickly, a whisper of unease brushing against your spine.

She had carried weight.

Still carried it.

Not just the marble pressed upon her crown, but the weight of centuries. Of expectation. Of servitude. She had been a daughter once. Perhaps a sister, a wife. But here—here, she was no one. A relic of empire, stripped from her home and placed beneath foreign lights, in a foreign land, where millions passed by her without ever considering who she had been before she became stone.

A part of you wondered if she resented it.

If she could.

Would it matter?

Your gaze lingered on the placard beside her.

"Caryatid from the Erechtheion, 421-406 BC, Athens. One of the six original maidens from the Acropolis, removed by Lord Elgin in the early 19th century."

Removed.

Not brought. Not gifted. Taken.

Like so many things in this museum. Like so many histories, fractured and severed, put behind glass under the guise of preservation.

A shift in the air pulled you from your thoughts.

The bond between you and Xanthus stirred, deep and familiar. He was here now. Watching.

“You shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours.”

His voice was low, edged with amusement but holding something else beneath it. Something softer, something unreadable. You didn’t turn to look at him yet. Instead, your fingers twitched at your side, as though still remembering the cold of the stone.

“She isn’t theirs either,” you murmured.

A silence stretched between you. Not tense, not uncomfortable—just filled with something unspoken.

Then, a sigh. Footsteps approached, unhurried, steady. Xanthus came to stand beside you, his presence slipping into the space as easily as shadow into dusk. When he spoke again, it was quiet.

“Do you think she remembers?”

You glanced at him then, your eyes catching the way his lingered on the statue, his expression unreadable yet thoughtful.

“Remembers what?”

“Home.”

You swallowed, looking back at her. The unyielding stone. The weight she bore. The life she had lost.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Do you?”

Xanthus didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than before, almost distant.

“Sometimes.”

Another silence. But this one was heavier.

Your fingers curled slightly at your side, the ghost of cold still lingering on your skin.

And for the first time, you wondered if Xanthus felt the same way.

Carried weight.

Carried history.

Carried a home he could never return to.

──

Despite Xanthus's teasing remark about your poor sense of direction—delivered with that infuriatingly confident smirk of his—you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of determination rise within you. He'd assured you, with his usual sarcastic flair, that you’d find your way just fine. That was, of course, before his comment about your “lack of compass bearings” caught you off guard, making you momentarily question whether you’d misjudged your path. But then, in an act of defiance—or perhaps simple stubbornness—you told him firmly, “I don’t need it, Xanthus. I know where I’m going.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, amusement flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “As you wish.” A quiet chuckle followed, its warmth curling through you, but the sound seemed distant as you spun on your heels and set off, determined to prove him wrong.

A few turns later, and you realized the truth: you hadn’t a clue where you were going. The labyrinthine halls of the British Museum stretched out endlessly before you, each corridor leading to another, as though the museum itself was a living, breathing entity designed to test your patience. The stone walls were cool and impersonal, but the exhibits whispered stories, drawing your attention at every corner. Statues of gods and kings seemed to watch you with silent, judgmental eyes, and the echo of footsteps beneath your feet felt a little too loud, reverberating in the stillness of time.

Fifteen minutes passed in a haze, the weight of uncertainty pressing against your chest. You’d wandered far enough to feel the thrum of discomfort in your legs. Your feet were aching now, the sandals you’d chosen in haste that morning offering little support on the marble floors. It was inevitable—you’d been so sure of your bearings, but now, in the maze of history and culture, you’d lost your way.

With a barely audible sigh, you finally gave in. Xanthus, ever the perceptive one, had probably sensed your discomfort long before you’d even registered it. The cool, steady presence of his gaze was on you now, his hand gently pulling you toward a nearby bench as if he knew you’d stop anyway. You didn’t argue. It was easier to surrender to him than admit your own defeat.

You slipped off your sandals and settled onto the wooden bench, the cool air in the museum brushing your bare feet. You sighed in relief as the pressure eased, your toes curling in the soft texture of the floor beneath you. You didn’t look up at him, knowing the expression on his face would reveal too much. His smirk—always so damn self-assured—would be there, no doubt, a reminder of your earlier arrogance.

“Close, but not quite,” he murmured, his voice low, warm, and teasing. You felt the gentle press of his fingers against your feet, his touch both soothing and intimate, as if time itself had slowed. “You took a left when you should have taken a right.”

The admission startled you, and before you could even question how he knew that, or why he’d been watching you so closely, he shifted, his hand leaving your foot to retrieve something from your pocket. A soft rustling of paper echoed as he pulled out the pamphlet you’d refused to take. You hadn’t even noticed it was there.

“You kept it?” you asked, a mix of surprise and embarrassment threading through your voice.

He didn’t answer immediately, simply unfolding the pamphlet with a quiet flick. “I thought you said you didn’t need one.”

The words hung in the air, a gentle reminder of your earlier declaration—and the irony of it all. Could you ever really be sure of your own path? You had walked confidently, choosing your direction with every step, yet here you were, forced to sit, to acknowledge that sometimes even the most confident of us lose our way.

Xanthus's fingers traced the pamphlet’s edges, but his gaze remained on you. There was a softness there, something you rarely saw in him. You didn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the way his thumb skimmed the edges of the paper. His touch was a paradox—comforting yet unsettling, an unspoken connection pulling at something deep within you.

A moment passed in silence, the kind of silence that felt filled with too much and yet not enough. It wasn’t the type of silence you could fill with idle chatter. It was heavy with meaning, or perhaps the lack of it. There was something philosophical about it—the nature of direction, of knowing, of the very essence of discovery.

“I wonder,” Xanthus finally said, his voice shifting to something softer, almost reflective, “how often we think we know where we’re going... only to find ourselves somewhere else entirely.”

You tilted your head slightly, taking in the weight of his words. Was this about the museum? About your journey here? Or was it a broader metaphor, one that ran deeper than either of you had first realized? A philosophical query, wrapped in the mundanity of lost directions.

“You think it’s all just random?” you asked, voice quiet.

“No,” he replied, his smile now more subdued, thoughtful. “But sometimes, the right path isn’t as clear as we think. Sometimes, we need to get lost to find what we’re really looking for.”

You couldn’t argue with that. In some strange way, your detour had led to something far more valuable than just reaching the Rosetta Stone. Maybe it wasn’t about the destination after all. Perhaps it was about the journey—the pauses, the missteps, the moments in between that shaped us just as much as where we ended up.

And in that moment, sitting on the cool bench with Xanthus at your side, you realized that some of the most important discoveries didn’t lie in the artifacts you could touch, but in the conversations you shared, the unspoken connections between you, and the way even a wrong turn could lead to something new.

──

The moment you stepped into the Rosetta Stone room, an overwhelming sense of regret washed over you. It was subtle at first—just the smallest whisper of doubt as you tried to push through the crowd. The space was packed, too packed for your liking, and the air felt thick with murmurs and shifting bodies. There were people standing too close, shifting from one foot to the other, their eyes scanning the stone with a sense of urgency, as if trying to unravel its secrets before it slipped away.

You immediately felt a pang of frustration, a sense of discomfort bubbling beneath your skin. You had fought your way through this—almost stubbornly refused Xanthus’s suggestion to grab the pamphlet, convinced that you knew where you were going, and now you were here, surrounded by more people than you wanted, straining to get a good view. It was almost as if the universe was throwing a little irony your way.

But as always, Xanthus sensed it before you could even articulate your frustration. His presence behind you became an anchor, steady and unwavering. You felt his gentle hand on your back, a silent reassurance that he understood. Before you could even take a breath, his hand guided you through the crowd, moving with an elegance that seemed almost too natural, as if he’d done this a thousand times. People instinctively stepped aside when they saw him, a quiet respect emanating from them. With a soft push, he found a space right in front of the stone, giving you the clearest view possible.

For a moment, you could only stare at the Rosetta Stone before you, the iconic artifact sitting encased in glass, as if it held the very essence of history itself. The stone was more than just a physical object; it was a bridge between worlds, a testament to humanity’s need to understand and connect across time. Your eyes traced the carved hieroglyphs, the ancient Greek, the Egyptian script—the layers of meaning that had once been shrouded in mystery, now slowly unlocking the doors of history for those who were patient enough to listen.

You tilted your head, trying to make sense of the English translations, the words that were supposed to be easier to comprehend. But the glare of the glass reflected the harsh museum lighting, making the characters dance and blur before your eyes. You furrowed your brow, the frustration creeping back up. Why was it so difficult to read?

As you shifted uncomfortably, trying to balance the glare and your curiosity, a sudden warmth brushed against your ear. Xanthus had leaned in close, his lips grazing your lobe with such precision that a shiver ran down your spine. His proximity sent an immediate flush across your cheeks, your heartbeat quickening in that familiar way. It wasn’t just the physical closeness—it was the way his presence seemed to fill every part of your space, how effortlessly he navigated these intimate moments.

A quiet chuckle escaped him, a low, rich sound that made your skin tingle. “Demotic, Greek, and hieroglyphs,” he murmured, his voice a rich undertone that barely disturbed the hush of the room. “Three languages, one decree.”

You glanced up at him. The museum’s low lighting did little to dull the sharpness of his features, the angles of his face carved in soft contrast against the glow of the display. His gaze, however, was something else entirely—piercing, unwavering, as if he could read the stone with the same ease one might skim a familiar book.

Then, without a sound, he leaned in. Not just close—closer than necessary, closer than any proper museum patron had the right to be. The movement was seamless, a whisper of motion, and suddenly his lips were near your ear, his breath cool against your skin.

“It’s amusing, really,” he mused, voice low enough that it sent a slow shiver down your spine. “A royal proclamation so grand they had to carve it thrice, yet here it is—trapped under glass, reduced to a museum exhibit. I imagine Ptolemy V would be rather offended.”

The quiet chuckle that followed was rich and smooth, but it held something else beneath it—something older, knowing. A sound shaped by the weight of centuries.

Your curiosity stirred. “What does it actually say?”

Xanthus exhaled softly through his nose, his fingers twitching at his side, as though resisting the urge to trace the worn grooves of the text himself. “The usual nonsense. Praise the king, honor the gods, remind the people of their obligations.” He gestured lazily toward the inscriptions, his pale fingers illuminated by the soft glow of the display case. “It’s less about language and more about power—communication as control.”

His fingertips hovered just above the glass, so close that, for a fleeting moment, you half-expected the alarms to sound at his mere presence.

“The hieroglyphs are the most poetic. Always are,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, richer. His eyes darkened slightly, lost in something distant as he began to murmur under his breath—a language you did not know, syllables slipping from his lips like water over stone. The foreign cadence sent something warm curling through your chest.

He translated, voice smoothing into something almost indulgent. “‘The gods who made Egypt great, whose temples shine like the rising sun, whose names are etched in eternity, have bestowed wisdom upon the king, and in his light, the people will prosper.’”

A pause. Then, Xanthus scoffed, the sound soft but undeniably amused. “A rather flowery way of saying, ‘Do as you’re told, or suffer the consequences.’”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “That’s a bit cynical.”

His lips quirked, the barest hint of a smirk touching his features. “Is it? Or is it just honesty wrapped in a more palatable form?” His gaze flicked back to the stone, and for a moment, there was something almost wistful in his expression. “It’s fascinating, though. This slab bridged worlds. For centuries, no one could understand the hieroglyphs. Entire civilizations left mute. And then, suddenly—clarity. A single key to a locked door.”

His fingers finally—finally—tapped the glass, feather-light, as if touching the past itself. His expression softened in a way you had rarely seen. “That’s the part I find beautiful,” he admitted, almost to himself. “Not the decree, not the politics. The patience. The dedication. The moment when meaning slipped from the grasp of time and into human hands again.”

You found yourself staring at him instead of the stone, captivated by the way he spoke—like a man who had lived long enough to see both sides of history and was still deciding how he felt about it.

“And now?” you asked, tilting your head.

Xanthus’s eyes met yours, and for the briefest second, something unreadable flickered there—something vast, something ancient.

“Now,” he said, voice softer, “it’s just another relic behind glass, waiting for someone to look past the words and see the story beneath them.”

The silence between you was thick, charged with something unspoken. Then, after a lingering pause, he leaned in once more—deliberate, knowing. His lips barely ghosted past the shell of your ear, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

“Much like me, wouldn’t you say?”

Your breath caught, and he stepped back before you could reply, his expression betraying just a hint of amusement—because he knew exactly what he was doing.

And just like that, the Rosetta Stone felt far less significant than the man standing beside you.

──

"Okay, be honest," you say, a grin curling on your lips. "Did you own anything in here?"

Xanthus exhales sharply through his nose—his version of a chuckle. "You think I'm old enough to have my personal belongings on display?"

"You're old enough that I had to Google half the wars you lived through."

He huffs in amusement but doesn’t deny it. The two of you continue walking, the low hum of museum-goers filling the space like distant waves rolling onto shore. You occasionally stop to point at something, eyes alight with playful curiosity.

"That goblet—was that yours?"

"No."

"That sword?"

"No."

"That—" you point to an almost comically large hammer.

"Love, I was not an ancient warlord."

You hum in amusement but don’t relent. The museum air is sterile and crisp, carrying the scent of aged paper and polished glass. You pass a section dedicated to early European trade, complete with fragile, handwritten ledgers and ornate coins locked away under bright museum lights. Names of long-dead merchants and aristocrats are scrawled in slanted ink, their lives condensed into neat little plaques.

Then, you pause in front of a case filled with jewelry—delicate rings, lockets, and brooches lined with tiny pearls. The sign beside them reads: 18th-Century Accessories of the Aristocracy.

"What about these?" you ask teasingly.

Xanthus, who had been preparing another automatic no, suddenly stills. His gaze lingers on one of the pocket watches, forever frozen at 01:36—

His expression is unreadable, his fingers curling slightly at his side.

Then, quietly, he murmurs, "That one actually was."

Your head snaps toward him. You search his face, half-expecting amusement, but find none. Your eyes flicker back to the pocket watch. "Wait. Seriously?"

Xanthus offers you a wry look. "Would I lie?"

You stare at the watch again, as if looking hard enough will reveal some trace of him in its design. The gold casing is faded, dulled by time, its intricate engravings softened by centuries of touch. There’s a small crack near the glass rim, barely visible under the light.

It’s strange—standing in a museum, looking at a relic of history that is, in fact, personal to the man beside you.

"How did it end up here?"

"I gave it away," Xanthus says simply. "A long time ago."

His voice is even, betraying nothing, but something about the way he says it feels heavy, like the words themselves have been carried through centuries just to land here, in this moment, between the two of you.

You glance at him again, searching for something—an answer, an explanation, a flicker of sentiment—but his expression remains still, unreadable. The museum hums around you, the low murmur of visitors, the steady buzz of fluorescent lights, the occasional creak of old floorboards beneath careful steps. Time doesn’t stop for either of you, but for a moment, it feels like it slows.

"You gave it away?" you echo, tilting your head. "Not lost, not stolen—just gave it up?"

Xanthus lets out a quiet breath, more exhale than sigh. "Would it be easier to hear that I lost it?"

You hesitate, considering. The idea of him losing something—something as personal as a pocket watch—feels wrong. He isn’t the kind of person who loses things. He’s meticulous, measured. If he gave it away, it was intentional.

"Who did you give it to?"

There’s a long pause. A flicker of something in his eyes before it vanishes beneath years of practiced indifference. Then, instead of answering, he does something unexpected—he steps closer to the glass case, his fingertips barely hovering above the surface. The glass fogs slightly from his breath before clearing again, leaving no trace behind. Just like time.

You find yourself staring at his reflection instead of him, the dim museum lights casting faint shadows across his face. He looks the same as he always does, and yet… there’s something different now. A quietness, a pull of some distant memory just out of reach.

"I gave it to someone who needed it more than I did," he says at last, voice quiet. "And now, it belongs to history."

You look at him, then at the watch, forever frozen at 01:36, trapped behind glass. "That’s kind of sad," you murmur.

Xanthus’s lips twitch, and this time, his smirk is unmistakable. "Is it? Or is it romantic?"

You snort. "Romantic? A pocket watch?"

"It was sentimental," he muses, a playful lilt in his tone now. "And sentimentality is terribly romantic."

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. "You’re deflecting."

"Am I? Or am I philosophizing?"

"Deflecting."

He chuckles, the sound warm despite the cool air of the museum. "Very well then, I’ll tell you everything—over a cup of coffee."

Your expression softens as you glance down at your museum pamphlet. "Are you bribing me with caffeine?"

Xanthus places a hand over his chest, feigning innocence. "I would never."

You sigh dramatically but grab his hand anyway, lacing your fingers through his. "Fine. But this time, we are using the map. I refuse to wander around for another hour."

Xanthus hums in amusement, letting you pull him along. "Ah, but you did so well guiding us earlier?"

You roll your eyes, tugging him gently in the direction of the museum café. As you walk away, the watch remains in its glass case, frozen in time—its story shifting, even now, as the two of you disappear into the present.

──

Weeks later, you find a small velvet box resting on the kitchen island. It doesn’t belong there. The sight of it stops you mid-step, a strange, quiet weight settling over the room. Your name is written on the lid in elegant cursive—each letter flowing seamlessly into the next, deliberate, practiced. Xanthus’s handwriting.

Your fingers hesitate over the box, hovering just above the soft fabric. There’s something almost sacred about it, something that makes you second-guess whether you should open it at all. It feels too delicate, too intentional. As if it wasn’t meant for you despite your name inked in his steady hand.

A slow breath steadies you. You press your fingertips against the edge and pry it open.

Inside, nestled against black silk, is the pocket watch.

But it isn’t how you last saw it.

The gold casing gleams, polished to a brilliance that makes it seem untouched by time. Not a single dent, not a smudge. The crack in the glass is gone. And when you tilt the watch slightly, catching the light, you notice something else.

It’s ticking.

But not forward.

The second hand moves backward in slow, measured beats.

You stare, something in your chest tightening.

Beneath the watch, a small folded note rests at an angle. No love letter, no poetic confession, just a few words scribbled on a torn slip of parchment. You pick it up with careful hands, smoothing the fragile paper.

"Love is not bound by the ticking of a clock. It does not fray with time, nor fade with distance. It only changes form—again, and again, and again. Wherever you are, whenever you are… I will always find you."

Your chest tightens.

The room feels unbearably quiet, save for the slow, backward ticking of the watch.

Your fingers tremble around the note, the words sinking into your bones. Xanthus never speaks of forever, never makes promises he cannot keep. And yet, this is something deeper, something heavier than a vow.

This is a truth.

Your eyes flick toward the hallway, sensing him before you see him. He lingers just beyond your sight, quiet, waiting—watching without intruding. You know he will not speak first. He will wait for you to understand.

You swallow, glancing down at the watch in your palm.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Backward.

Time does not move in only one direction.

And love, it seems, does not either.

──

author's note: writing for xanthus is so hard for me, i heavily dislike how this turned out. i may edit it if i have the time to, the james and andrew requests are in the works!

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[livingsspecter]

𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢’𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛

pairing: Gregory violet x reader

content: gn!reader and Violet go on a date at the local cemetery on Valentine’s day and awkward flirting ensues (reader is down bad)

word count: 886 words

A medley of leaves rustle under my feet and Violet’s, as we walk towards the goth-spiked cemetery gate. This time, he allows me to intertwine our arms while we chaperone; especially since I had to steady my pace to match his hurried steps.

One thing I noticed about Violet is that even if he always walks with his head hung low, his steps remain firm. Though unlike mine, they make little to no noise…I wonder if it’s intentional or-

My thoughts are sent to space when I feel an insistent gaze upon me, Violet stares until I look back, and calls:

“Come on”

I nod my head urgently, as if to get out of my mind zone and watch as he lets go of my arm to push the grand gate with both hands. We step in, and I dare to reach out for his arm again; he stops and raises a thin brow, but makes no move to create any distance.

“Are you scared of cemeteries?” The corner of his lips raise ever so slightly, and I scoff.

“Of course not! Why would I be?” I roll my eyes and let my hands slide down from his sleeve.

Violet watches my touch slip away, and just when my hands were about to hover in the air; he takes one of them, intertwining it with his.

“...No reason”

He gives me one last stare-down, squeezes my hand and picks up his pace, carrying on without any halts and double takes and I follow. The sight of the numerous tombstones are lost on me while the coldness of his hand fill mine, like an ice pack in a hot summer.

Our hands quit swinging and he stops, I look up from our interwoven hands to face a multiple-crypt, gothic masoleum; its columns were covered with overgrown vines, reaching an opaque entablature.

I keep on contouring the tomb’s extremities with my eyes, until Violet tugs on my sleeve to pull me down so I could sit beside him on the leaf-covered grass. He lets go and pulls his clipboard out from his pouch, supporting it on his thigh and occupying his left hand with a brand new charcoal pencil.

“It’s quiet here…” He mutters, close to whispering

Even if the words hang in the air, his ample gaze is already drawn to an empty page and he starts sketching, so I hesitate before answering.

“I assume you like it, then?” I cock my head, smiling warmly.

He nods, his gaze flickering from the page to my eyes, staring and unblinking—as usual. I chuckle and scooch closer, making leaves scatter around beneath me.

“Oh yeah, it’s…Valentine’s day today, did you know?”

His eyebrows raise and his grip on the pencil finally loosens.

“I’m aware…why?”

I gulp and the incoming words stop in the tip of my tongue, but I manage to push them out.

“So is this like…a date?” With each word, my voice got more strained.

To my surprise, Violet simply keeps adorning the sketch with a few lines, and hums in approval.

“…I suppose so”

My belly is filled by erratic butterflies, flapping their wings on my skin and giving flight to my hope. Hope calls for boldness and I feel on the top of the world, above all shame and restraint.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind paying homage to Mary Shelley-“*

The words roll off my tongue like a heavy bucket falling, my eyes widen and I freeze, becoming a hostage of Violet’s response…or lack thereof. He raises his head and sets the sketchbook down on his lap, his jaw was on the floor, his cheeks petal-pink under the shadow of his hood.

“Excuse me?”

I wave my hands frantically, increasing the volume of my voice without realizing. The pathetic flush on my face rivals the ripest tomato.

“Forget it!! It was a joke…I-“ My hands fly to cover my face, seeing nothing but the comfort of pitch black.

I let out a groan, wishing with all my heart that a tree would fall on top of me, it’d be an undignified, but quick death; anything to not face Violet’s imminent rejection. I sit motionless, with tense muscles and tightly shut eyes until I feel a tap on my arm, it was far from rough and furrowed like a tree’s trunk; and felt the same as the cold skin on my palm earlier.

My eyes shoot open and I let Violet lower my hands from my face to my lap. He was close enough for our breaths to mingle, his black painted lips were displayed like a savoury dessert on a bakery showcase. Before I could justify myself, he inched forward and pressed his lips on my forehead, leaving a dark lipstick mark.

“A bit too quick..don’t you think?” He whispers in my ear and I could see a smile, rare and precious right in front of me, and just for me.

The vision was so unberably bright that I quickly averted my eyes, taking a sudden interest in the clipboard laid across his lap.

Just then, I saw it: an unfinished depiction of my profile, down to my bust, so realistic I could dive in the paper and run my fingers through my own hair. My heart started pounding like a drum being striked and my lips curled up to match his.

“Yeah…definitely too quick”

*a!n: the author of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley, is rumoured (likely true) to have lost her virginity on top of her mother’s grave

[dabiconcordia]

Canticle to the Setting Sun

High in my tree-top gazebo, I nest among gray squirrels, watch cardinals fly and blue jays fuss and flutter. Yellow-robed finches harmonize elaborate duets while a grosbeak sings solo. As an orchestra tunes before evening performance, each sound intones a distinct timbre. The air hushes

and the ceremony of the sun begins. The sky colors quietly, opens with chords of peach, lavender and vermillion. Arches and beams of hickory and oak soften. The leafy green entablature, like the mossed limestone, whispers wind and waves. The wafer of light deepens to blood red. Its slow descent to the sea becomes the bread and wine of nature. The ritual complete,

chipmunks burrow home while bird chant fades into memory. Crickets and hoot owls awaken. A German shepherd barks. Finally the mind quiets and there is a moment of no sound. Fireflies flicker, candling the dark. Only the hummer's sweet syrup hangs unchanged. Ruby red, it witnesses day's death, its rebirth, catches the first glimmer of dawn. by Mary Jo Balistreri

[whencyclopedia]

Temple of Vesta/Hercules, Rome

The Temple of Vesta is the popular name given to the round temple near the Tiber River in Rome (now Piazza Bocca della Veritá). The association with Vesta is due to the shape of the building but in fact it is not known to which god the temple was dedicated. It may have been dedicated to Hercules Olivarius, patron of the Portus Tiberinus oil merchants, as three or four temples to the Greek hero are known to have stood in the area of the Forum Boarium where there was also a Great Altar to Hercules.

The temple is Greek in style and was probably the work of an eastern Greek architect. The building also uses that quintessential Greek building material, Pentelic marble, from near Athens. At the time of construction Pentelic marble was one of the more expensive building materials and so was rarely used for large projects. The columns, entablature and cella walls were constructed with this marble whilst the inner cella wall was lined with tufa and stucco.

The temple is 14.8 m in diameter (50 Roman feet) and has 20 exterior Corinthian columns standing on a 360 degree, 5-stepped tufa podium. The unusually high columns are 10.65 m (36 Roman feet) tall and are topped by composite capitals, which have a combination of Ionic volutes with Corinthian acanthus leaves. All of the capitals are constructed from two separate pieces and the flat ends of the column flutes, the single block used to carve the foot, base and plinth of the column, and the integration of the base into the first step of the podium are all typical features of 1st century CE architectural practice. The cella entrance was flanked by two tall rectangular windows, one on each side, and these remain visible today.

Some sort of disaster struck the temple in the 1st century CE as 10 columns on the north side were replaced using Luna marble and a capital, very similar to the originals but not an exact replica, was replaced on the south side.

The relatively good condition of the building is due to the fact that it was converted into a church and the oldest records (1132 CE) refer to the building as the church of S. Stefano alle Carozze ('of the carriages'). The building is today without its original roof and entablature. In addition, the top portion if the cella wall was replaced using brick-faced concrete and windows were added in the 12th century CE. In 1475 CE a fresco was added above the temple's altar. In the 17th century CE the church was re-dedicated to S. Maria del Sole ('of the sun') only to be then deconsecrated within two centuries. Finally, between 1809 and 1810 CE the podium of the building was excavated, the surrounding ground level was lowered, and the building was restored once again.

Continue reading...

[ancientrome]

Wall painting from the west wall of Room L of the Villa of P. Fannius Synistor at Boscoreale. Roman ca. 50–40 BCE. x

This large painting fragment comes from the west wall of the exedra (Room L), opening off the rear of the villa's peristyle. A sacrificial bull's head (boukranion) originally occupied the center of the wall, from which an opulent garland of fruits and leaves is suspended to left and right against a brilliant wall of simulated masonry. Preserved are parts of four of the original five red slabs of the central zone, separated by golden bands and crowned by a white molding. There follows a course of alternating green and golden blocks that bears an elaborate entablature consisting of a white architrave, a purple frieze decorated with brackets in the form of bearded horned snakes with interlacing tails, and a white cornice. Hanging from a red cord tied in the bull's mouth is a wicker basket, the cista mystica, its lid removed to reveal a snake uncoiling from a bed of ivy. Suspended from the garland also in red cords are a cymbal and a satyr mask.