#museum of the slain

[toadlett]

TWO of them #swordtember

The first was Mawric, slayer of wyrms, who beleived he saw serpents in the mouths of great men.

The second was Lord Bibion, the Saint's own spymaster, whose buzzing servants swarmed too thickly.

[sparrownnax]

wonder if i can hire a hitman in this game

[melxncholyman]

Selected works of the French Symbolist painter Gustave Moreau at the Musée national Gustave Moreau in Paris.

[mcflymemes]

ATLANTIS: THE LOST EMPIRE (2001) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the film, adjust as necessary

it's been my experience when you hit bottom, the only place left to go is up.

i sleep in the nude.

about time someone hit him. i'm sorry it wasn't me.

i didn't say it was the smart thing, but it is the right thing.

i came down the chimney. ho ho ho.

we've done a lot of things we're not proud of. robbing graves, plundering tombs, double parking... but nobody got hurt.

maybe somebody got hurt, but nobody we knew.

will you look at the size of this? it's gotta be half a mile high at least.

our lives are remembered by the gifts we leave our children.

you're so skinny, if you turned sideways and stuck out your tongue, you'd look like a zipper.

hey look, i made a bridge.

as far as me goes, i just like to blow things up.

come on. tell the kid the truth.

does it match my dress?

it was like a sign from god.

i got your four basic food groups: beans, bacon, whiskey, and lard.

you have disturbed the dirt.

what have you done?

if you give back every stolen artifact from a museum, you'd be left with an empty building.

i gotta admit, i'm disappointed.

you ask too many questions!

who are you? who sent you?

do not be such a crybaby.

now tell me your story, my little friend.

trust me on this one. you don't wanna know.

if you're looking for the pony rides, they're back there.

what else have you got in there?

forget your jammies, [name]?

you're gonna want a pair of these.

i think we've seen how effective my decisions have been.

have i left anything out?

you did set the camp on fire and drop us down that big hole.

i took this job when my dad retired.

you are a scholar, are you not?

who told you that?

let's go over it again, just so we got it straight.

we're all gonna die.

someone needs to talk to that girl.

for the good of the mission, i will go!

tonight's supper will be baked beans. musical program to follow.

hey, i had nothing to do with it.

i'll have to quit my job.

you didn't just drink that, did you?

don't move, don't breathe, don't do anything...

carrots? why it it always carrots?

with something like that, i would have white wine.

we can't let him do this!

okay, now you can go.

how was my accent?

we are not thriving.

where are you going?

don't take no for an answer.

look, i have some questions for you, and i'm not leaving this city until they're answered.

somebody's gonna have to suck out this poison.

i thought you said he only had guns!

mercenary? i prefer the term "adventure capitalist."

do you wanna do my job? be my guest.

i'm gonna need you to fill these up.

thank god i lost my sense of taste years ago.

why don't you translate, and i'll wave the gun around.

this was not part of the plan.

you do swim, do you not?

your heart has softened.

you would have slain them on sight.

what they have to teach us, we have already learned.

something wrong with your neck?

so i guess this is how it ends? fine. you win.

get back! i've got soap, and i'm not afraid to use it!

look at all those tattoos!

i've got a bone to pick with you.

any last words?

i really wish i had a better idea than this.

i know i'm forgetting something.

you're the one who got us here.

you must've read it a dozen times by now.

sometimes i get a little carried away.

all will be well. be not afraid.

i hate fishing. i hate fish. hate the taste, hate the smell, hate all them little bones.

you will not regret this!

hard to believe he's still single.

can you drive a truck?

no time like the present.

i love it when we win.

you pick now of all times to grow a conscience?

[boombox-fuckboy]

As a hobby worldbuilder who works primarily in what I assume is the weird fiction zone (with fair sized fantasy or scifi elements, depending on the project), I sometimes get stuck about what to do with the sky. If reality doesn't work the same, how do I account for the sun? Should I even have a moon and stars? If I do, are they true moon and stars, or an equivalent?

While you can gently sweep the conundrum under a rug, it can of course become part of the game. Here's some examples of solutions I've enjoyed:

Midst: The natural state of the universe is, in fact, light. Darkness acts like a reality-warping, breathable liquid. Midst is an islet, which here means it's one of many floating planetoids. Midst specifically floats and rotates slowly at the border of light and dark, causing day and night. The moon is an even smaller floating body, but it's mostly just there to explode. Space is dangerous not for breathing or temperature reasons but because you'll get ripped to shreds by floating mica.

Campaign: Skyjacks: The sun is the creation of the Sovereign (now dead patriarch god), and the stars were his angels. The Morningstar is the only one that doesn't move, guarding the empty throne, but the few remaining stars (angels) do, and also aren't always up there, which makes navigation difficult. There are so few stars now as most angels were cast out of the heavens a couple centuries back (when The Sovereign was slain). The moon was created by The Forest Queen, allowing her to see by the light of it, which she could not by the Sovereign's sun. If you fly an airship above the moon, she cannot see you.

The Mistholme Museum: Specifically, in the world of The Beast and The Queen, the stars are beetles, which roam about on the dome that is the sky. The sun? Different beetle.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

here is a little introduction to the original fantasy world i came up with for the eflorr trilogy.

series masterlist | pinterest board | playlist | masterlist

Welcome to the world of Tyhmalaa. Our stories take place on the continent of Aton where the two major kingdoms (Eflorr and Obelón) have had a feud spanning decades. 

here is a little list of facts to give you a sense of what kind of realm this is:

currency: platinum, gold, silver and copper 

monsters: yes

magic: no

calendar: the year is just divided by the four seasons (each with 90 days in them) with 7 days in a week (Moonsday, Tidesday, Windsday, Thundersday, Fogsday, Stormsday and Solarsday) and the year shift is on the longest night of the year on the 30th day of winter

year the first story begins: 856 PR (post-rimesunder, an ancient white dragon that once froze the entire continent of Efira for 2 centuries till he was slain)

climate: the weather in Aton goes through all four of the standard seasons (sping, summer, autumn and winter), though most of the stories take place on the northern side of the continent, so it is on the colder side.

religions: there are multiple gods people worship (some notable ones are: Apa – goddess of wilderness and the sea, Kotris – goddess of knowledge, Cicero – god of war and peace, Zondür – god of atonement and love, Sona – goddess of life and death)

kingdoms on the continent: Eflorr (capital: Borün) and Obelón (capital: Ingorn)

maps and doodles:

it took me around 30 hours of work to draw all of these, but it was super meditative.

map of the continent of Aton.

⊠ squares = capitals

⊗ circles = smaller towns

△ triangles = speciality locations

the continent of Efira is located to the north east of Aton.

Fort Borün. The ivy-covered stone castle on the top of the cliff is home of the royal family of Eflorr.

Elm Square. The beating heart of Borün, it is not only a central meeting place for all, but also the district where the majority of the city's shops, taverns, etc are. The town square gets especially sparkly during the seasonal festivals with booths are stalls crowding the market.

Willow Grove Cemetery. As the name would suggest, a large weeping willow tree grounds this cemetery that it is built around. Although Eflorr as a whole commonly isn't very religious, this graveyard does house a few alters and shrines to various deities.

The Valerian Ward. You'll find all manner of schools, museums, as well as Borün's beautiful aquarium in this part of town.

The Port of Borün. The city's docks are always bustling with excitement and possibilities.

The Western Farms. Up on the hill that swiftly blossoms into The Noll Woods, are a plethora of rolling fields and cosy cottages.

The Beach. Down the little steps on the northern side of the docks is not the only way to access this cove. Though the steep path some way further north is no secret, not everyone is privileged to the knowledge that the castle's cellar opens up into a cave system that leads out onto the beach. Created as a safety measure and a last resort for the royals to escape, the tunnels most commonly got used by the young royals as a daring playground.

The Tulip Neighbourhood. The homes in this part of town have generous courtyards that bring the households together.

The Dandelion Quarter. Part residential, this neighbourhood also houses a grand park (The Riverview Public Park), where combat courses/training are held every weekend, as well as The Water Lily Orphanage.

The Snowdrop Sector. For those not inclined for the bustle of the city's centre but still want to live close enough to the action often settle down in a little cottage out in this district. Many also chose to retire out here, living out the rest of their days in a cabin by the sea.

The Barracks. Through the main gate lies a grand courtyard to welcome you to the castle. The surrounding buildings are designated mainly for the wardens. There are living quarters for them, training areas, armoury, small stables that also house the royal horses, as well as the city's small garrison.

The Western Wing. In here lies many of the more public spaces: throne room, ballroom, banquet hall, servants quarters, the kitchen, war room, the meeting room that's utilised mostly for gatherings with the town council.

The Conservatory. This secluded greenhouse was built as a memorial to King Edward III. who apparently had quite the green thumb.

The Topiary Garden. A private courtyard separating the two main buildings is a serene space where one can come sit on a small bench and listen to the trickling water of the fountain in the centre.

The Eastern Wing. This part of the castle is home to the royal's private chambers as well as numerous other spaces such as the library.

The castle also has a basement that's not only utilised for storage (both of common items as well as the most precious that's kept safe in the grand vault) it also connects to a tunnel system that leads all the way out onto the beach.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[eretzyisrael]

by David Harsanyi

People love to bemoan the fate of dead Jews who were unable to defend themselves. They’re not too crazy about the living ones who do.

On Holocaust Remembrance Day, Israel entered Rafa in Gaza to clear out remnants of a modern-day Nazi organization that’s embedded itself among women and children. Joe Biden, who is giving a speech at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum’s Days of Remembrance ceremony in Washington today, tried to stop them.

Holocaust remembrances can often be little more than empty virtue signaling. It takes no moral courage to condemn crimes of the past if you’re not willing to stop the crimes of today. Save your sympathy.

Indeed, perhaps the most self-destructive myth within the modern Jewish American community is that the best way to temper hate is to fund more Holocaust education. It probably causes the opposite reaction. If the Holocaust taught us anything, it’s that Jews can’t wait for others — not even the most educated people in the world — to protect them. As Jeff Jacoby notes, “Israel doesn’t exist because there was a Holocaust. There was a Holocaust because Israel didn’t exist.”

And if keffiyeh-wearing Hamas cheerleaders weren’t moved by Oct. 7 videos of Jewish women being sexually tortured and slain, they sure aren’t going to be shocked into decency by 80-year-old grainy black and white pictures of bodies piled in pits. Do we really believe the Hamas apologists on major newspaper editorial boards, in the State Department, on Ivy League campuses, and in Congress don’t know this history? Of course they do. They often appropriate this past Jewish suffering by risibly accusing Israel of Nazi war crimes.

For the left, even minor political setbacks can be likened to Nazi Germany—but don’t you dare point out that cosplay revolutionaries on campus are trying to reenact Kristallnacht. Oh, it’s not about the Jews? Where are the “peace” protesters when Syria deploys chemical warfare against civilians? Or when the Chicoms open internment camps for Uyghurs? Or when the mullahs crack down on Iranian women? On foreign policy, the social justice warrior has an exceptionally narrow focus. It is not happenstance.

Perhaps it’s because Jews are too “white.” Maybe it’s because Jews have been successful and capitalistic and thrive in meritocratic Western nations. Perhaps it’s because the alleged victims of fictitious Jewish “colonialism,” “apartheid,” and “genocide” are brown and poor and Muslims.

Or perhaps it’s because Israel is more powerful than its enemies. This, of course, is due to the Jewish state having to fight and win wars instigated by its foes. Every time Israel repels new aggression, as it has for seven decades, the would-be invaders demand everyone rewind history to a time more convenient to their cause. In this one case, Westerners always seem to oblige.

Whatever drives the hate, it speaks to the violent stupidity and immorality of contemporary identitarian beliefs.

[demonslayedher]

Things that went through my head while watching this episode: --This was a great episode to notice during the OP that in the clip right after Muichiro throws the sword and Tanjiro goes rushing forward in a strike presumably with that sword, you can see Yoriichi in the back lined up next to Tanjiro--almost like the pose Tanjiro strikes with Pillars in the OP! (Hmm, how are they going to do that for the Pillar Training Arc?)

--Kanamori, in some not very well-placed exposition, says that Tanjiro asked him to be understanding of Muichiro, and that is why as Muichiro's new swordsmith, he looked into who used to smith his swords. First of all, when? We only saw Tanjiro interact with Kanamori the day or two before this all goes down, but Kanamori already has Muichiro's new sword ready and stashed away in the same shop where Haganezuka is busy putting his life on the line for polishing a sword even before Gyokko shows up. The first we see of Tanjiro even hearing of Kanamori being responsible for Muichiro's sword is when Muichiro woke him up maybe an hour or so ago. This means Tanjiro had to have known this and had an opportunity to talk to Kanamori long before he even witnessed Muichiro in the Swordsmith Village. Perhaps Tanjiro brought it up as general advice to Kanamori who expressed feeling pressure for being assigned to a Pillar, and Tanjiro just wanted to be encouraging to him based on what little impression he had of Muichiro at the Pillar Meeting and whatever he heard from Shinobu (and Shinobu did tell Tanjiro Muichiro's name, at the very least). But also, perhaps Kanamori started this endeavor to understand Muichiro after completing his first sword for him, because Tanjiro only said this to him yesterday? In which case, was this truly a matter of Tanjiro seeing that Muichiro is in need of that kindness, or was it Tanjiro throwing his hands up and saying, "I don't know what to make of him, you try!"

--And that, friends, is how you can dig too deep into canon to find fanfic ideas.

--Kotetsu-kun truly is a brave kid whose response to seeing his friends in pain was to attack instead of run away. I love how close-knit everyone in the village is, they all know (and recognize!) each other by name. --Muichiro is the kind of person who would walk around a modern art museum saying, "I could do that." Kotetsu would be the one saying, "but you didn't." Gyokko, of course, is the worst of modern artists. There must be a modern day AU which Gyokko leans a bean in Chicago and Muichiro starts a "paint the bean pink" event.

--Gyokko deserves some credit here for his cleverness! Although what Muzan would have preferred is Gyokko finding Ubuyashiki or the blue spider lilies, Gyokko has honed in the Corp's weapons and focused his efforts on eliminating those. Maybe he was merely lucky to have found a clue about the village, but he developed a technique, I assume specifically, to deprive swordsmen of their Breath.

--Being taunted for having "a dull life" and an existence with no meaning sure adds weight to that "I was born to be happy" statement. --Kimetsu Academy answered some of my wishes by having Uzui-sensei and Gyokko hang out and talk art, but what I really want is to see Shinobu see those fishes.

--I love the BGM and sound effects for Love Breath. Mitsuri is just so special, you guys. I love hearing her in this Taisho Secret showing off her sword skills to Tanjiro & Nezuko, and a sound that lives in my head rent free is the the sound she made in the previous episode's Kimetsu Academy short as she falls to her knees. --One of my favorite background characters in this whole series is the guy who tried to protect Tecchin by charging at the fish monster with a naginata. ----First, naginata. I have bias. ----Second, such upstanding character! That is not a man who runs away even when the swordsmen have been slain. ----Also, while Tecchin and the other guy who got his head bumped are shameless in fishing for Mitsuri's care and attention, this is the guy who had the view up her skirt and who made no mention of it whatsoever. ----That might be because he was so rightfully distracted by the sight of her sword instead, and he gave us some smoother exposition with which to appreciate it. --Another random thing, but I love the nighttime lighting in this season! The BGM in general feels more experimental and sometimes takes me out of it (opposed to how the Yuukaku spin plunged me deeper into it), but when it slaps, it slaps, like on the new variation as Tanjiro attains a lightsaber Red Blade. Also also, there are a lot of characters in this one with peculiar and kind of old-timey ways of speaking (Kanamori, Tecchin, Hantengu's clones, etc.) that are still distinct from other characters (like Rengoku). I don't know how much of it comes across in translation, but my ears enjoy the extra characterization.

--I love--and the first time I watched this, my friends loved it too--how Nezuko and Tanjiro take turns carrying each other when they lose consciousness. It keeps the pacing fast and desperation high, while also illustrating their bond really well. What also gets me is how Tanjiro frets and tells her to let go of the sword because her fingers will get cut. It doesn't feel like a big concern because we know she's already lost a forearm and being impaled through through the torso and neck tonight, but any reasonable brother doesn't want to see his sister's fingers cut off, much less sliced with a sword at all.

--I love how Sekido is the only demon around here whose perspective is worth anything

--Quickly jumping to the end of the episode to note how we see the base of Aizetsu's neck and the top of his head still intact, so that implies that Genya munched on the bottom half of his head. In general I'm not much into ship content, but I know there is a fandom for Aizetsu and Genya out there, and I do find the idea of it being one-sided infatuation on Aizetsu's part an amusing premise. With that in the back of my mind, I could also imagine Aizetsu mistakenly thinking Genya was going to make out with him and how quickly and shockingly he'd have his hopes dashed. --Okay, so, HINOKAMI KAGURA WITH A RED BLADE AND THE MARK, TIME TO DIAL UP THE ANIMATION

--And they do

--And it's so sad Haganezuka doesn't get to see it --Like, after how much the fight with Rui blew up and the internet collectively lost their minds, we tend to just expect this from Ufotable, so the beauty they accomplish doesn't always stick out because they have to work harder and harder to stand out from what they've already given us, but this attack on Karaku, Urogi, and Sekido is a thing of wonder and it is highly worth appreciating.

--The lighting! The fluid motion and changing camera angles! But also the ability to show changes in expression, and to differentiate Tanjiro in the marked state from his usual state.

--But, again, the timeline has me in knots. Tanjiro says he was "always" thinking about that last strike on Gyutaro and how it felt different, but when would he have had time to do that, since he's spend so much of his wakeful life, like, fighting for his life against a mechanical doll? He's of course had downtime, but given the Taisho Secret in the hand-out at the early Mugen Ressha showings, I suspect comatose Tanjiro spend a lot of time analyzing and replaying that moment and doing image training. --On the first watch, when Tanjiro is thinking about how his will is tied with that of everyone around him, and even if he can't do it, someone else will take over for him, it's easy to get wrapped up in "THAT'S RENGOKU" or "this is foreshadowing all the hands in that truly final battle with Muzan!" but, I can't wait to think back to this scene when he's talking to Giyuu in the next season. Giyuu is the first person he thinks of, but also, Giyuu's hand is absent from among the ones on Tanjiro's back.

[racheljoyscott]

Community Response

Five weeks after the shootings, the district worked with the Colorado Historical Society to take down the memorials and begin preserving them for future museum displays. The public grieving began almost immediately and increased as the days wore on. Clement Park, which sits adjacent to Columbine High School, was the center of the mourning.  It became the site of literally thousands of informal memorials, as people from around the world came to leave signs of remembrance and support for the students of Columbine.     Foothills Park and Recreation District, which manages the facility, estimates that more than 200,000 people traveled to the park before the memorials were dismantled in May. The visitors left stuffed animals, crosses, angels, candles, bouquets, photographs, ribbons and numerous other items.       A pick-up truck and a small compact car, discovered the next day parked in a Clement Park lot by Columbine students, became memorials to two of the slain students.  The vehicles were nearly unrecognizable as friends and strangers covered them with flowers and countless pictures, cards, letters and drawings in memory of the owners.      Mourners mingled with the media, which were set up at Clement Park to cover press conferences and response efforts at the school. The high volume of foot traffic and wet weather wreaked havoc on the park. The Foothills staff placed tents, plastic and more than 2,000 bales of straw around the memorials and grass to minimize the damage.     Items from the informal memorial were removed and put in storage in a vacant building at the Denver Federal Center. The district staff provided all of the logistics and volunteer coordination for the removal of the memorial items, a process that took three days to complete with over 300 volunteers.  Under the direction of the Colorado Historical Society the main focus for the memorial removal was to be sensitive to community needs and save as many items as possible, while recognizing the need to return the park to normal operations within a reasonable time frame. The inventory of items removed from the park included over 2,500 stuffed animals, 250 crosses, pictures, artwork, a new bicycle, and over 300 banners from all over the world.  In addition, thousands of flowers were recycled into potpourri or mulch for planting beds.  

[itsmarjudgelove]

Tomoe Gozen holds the head of slain enemy Uchida Ieyoshi at the Battle of Awazu in 1184. She is one of the first and most legendary warrior women in the centuries samurai ruled Japan.

Photograph Courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Estate of Samuel Isham, 1914

[therenlover]

Slain (Vampire Hunter!Helmut Zemo/Vampire!Reader)

Chapter One: No Compasses, No Signs

Synopsis: The world undergoes change. Helmut Zemo finds new residence and perspective on his journey for revenge.

Tags: Vampire!AU, Vampire Hunter!Helmut Zemo, Slow Burn, Blood Drinking, Manipulation, Everyone Is Morally Grey, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers

Rating: E (+18) For Later Chapters, Minors DNI

Warnings: Mild Gore, Minor Mentions of Child Death

Word Count: 9,900~

--------------

Her lips were a breath away from his neck, fangs bared, when his weapon found purchase in her heart. She settled there a while, leaning closer into him and the great bolt of wood that sat between them. He stilled as she did. 

One last shuddering breath escaped her lips. “Thank you, Helmut,” It was more than that, though. A confession of love hid itself within her words.

Helmut grimaced. Not this. Not now. 

Before there was even a moment to reconsider, he wrenched the stake free and brought it down again, and again, and again, and again… Better to make sure the job gets done than leave her to suffer. 

He walked from that room into the daylight an untethered man. The hunt was just beginning, though.

Every inch of the floor sat soaked red in his wake. 

———

Sokovia was always most beautiful in the autumn. 

It was a timeless place, or at least that’s what all the brochures had said. After spending the morning exploring old-growth forests or quaint villages, a three-hour car ride could take you straight into the city, filled with modern Sokovian culture and art. The capital city of Novi Grad was bursting at the seams with theaters, galleries, museums, historical districts, and Michelin-rated restaurants serving farm-to-table cuisine: anything you craved on an international vacation, you could find it there. Students the world over chose the Sokovian National University over all others across Europe and the globe for its arts department. People thrived there. 

At least they had. 

Now the theaters that still stood sat empty, never to play another film or host another symphony. Museums were looted, restaurants burned, and the university, with a campus several hundred years old, turned to dust as Novi Grad disappeared off the map forever. The bricks that had once built a nation came crumbling down in one final, fatal blow. In the span of one night, the history of the whole country was lost forever. 

Some things still remained, though; things older than even Sokovia had been.

Helmut Zemo just had to find them. 

There was no map to follow towards his prize. There had been once, an ancient thing that sat rolled up tight in a glass case on his father’s desk for all his life. It had been there, untouched, in every memory Helmut had of that office. He imagined his father and grandfather had similar memories there, looking up at the very same desk and pondering the stiff, crumbling parchment above. Not anymore, though. There would be no more young Zemos to gaze up at that sturdy oak desk. It had been found crushed beneath the rubble of their ancestral home. 

In fact, there wouldn’t be any more young Zemos at all. 

Carl had been found crushed in that rubble too. 

It was better that way. He had met a nobler fate than most Sokovian citizens had. Still…

Sometimes it was better not to dwell on things like that. 

Helmut’s father hadn’t had much time to teach him the ways of the family before his passing, but some things came with time and the rest could be gleaned from superstition.

Silver, for example, was plentiful across their vast collection of heirlooms. Those trinkets had become incredibly useful to melt down for bullets and crossbow bolts when he started to hunt. Much more helpful, though, was the fact that the furniture in their homes was often made of fine wood, and some of those handcrafted bedposts and coat racks, when twisted just so and pulled at the socket, would reveal a perfectly sharpened end hidden within. 

Those stakes had come in handy.  

And even if there hadn’t been any childhood lessons on how to slaughter a creature soundlessly in the darkness of the night, Helmut had learned plenty about that in the Sokovian special forces.

After months of little revelations, his preparations were long past done. Now the only thing left to do was follow his father’s footsteps. 

Surviving the journey was a secondary priority. 

Helmut didn’t need his family’s map to know exactly where to seek the first of his quarries. He had heard tales of her for his whole life in nursery rhymes and whispered childhood stories. 

Women, children, and wandering folk with pure hearts couldn’t be led astray, but if a man  with a guilty mind followed the Behnit River, he might just get lost. Thankfully, Helmut had that part covered. Once lost, the poor soul would trek through the winding Sokovian mountain passes, traveling far beyond the shadow of Mount Wundagore until he came across a forest of fog. If the man wandered the forest long enough, evading the great beasts that lurked there, he would find the castle of the Grey Lady. 

Anyone foolish enough to seek her there would see the face of death. 

Now, Helmut Zemo was not afraid of death. He had been intimately acquainted with it from birth as had twelve generations before him. Ever since his father’s head arrived home on the morning of his eighteenth birthday, shipped neatly in an ice-packed crate and wrapped with a red ribbon, the abyss was attached to him like a lover. Not even his wife or child could escape that cruel mistress’s clutches. Without anything left to lose, Helmut found himself in only death’s company. 

Even now, as he wandered the abandoned villages and barren fields of the country he once called home in search of the Grey Lady, he spent his time slaughtering the last stragglers of Ultron’s army and putting any live victims out of their misery before they turned. Neither tended to last long once they were starved, but a few stubborn bastards held on. He liked to think of it as a mercy when he drove his stake through their skulls. 

Death walked beside him like a friend, and Helmut didn’t fear his friends. 

They feared him. 

That suited him just fine. 

To be fair, not everything was bad here. The Behnit flowed through fields of flowers and fruiting trees where all manner of soft, warm, innocent creatures slept, untouched by the horrors of modern civilization. Helmut slept among them unnoticed. He sustained himself off of their sacrificial charity. 

Another silver lining: the longer he traveled along the riverbank the less it seemed to rain, which was appreciated. His coat kept him warm and the stars kept him company. The autumn leaves seemed just as beautiful as they were advertised to be in the travel brochures he used to wipe his ass on the trail. 

He had pitched his tent for the night in a cluster of boulders by the pebbled shore. The greatest of the stones were still jagged from where a slowly dying glacier rended the earth and left a river its wake. Still, they were softened somewhat by moss and time. 

When Helmut woke that morning, emerging from the boulder’s shadows, the once open field that had surrounded the river the night before had been replaced with more trees than could be counted. Thick morning fog rolled in from the water’s edge. Visibility was at almost zero. There were just trees and trees and trees and nothing.

It was exactly as he thought it would be. 

So he packed up his tent, tucked it away in his bag, and freed his wicked, silver blade from its holster- another heirloom coming in handy. Its weight rested naturally in his hand. Then, he walked on. 

Thus began the first leg of Helmut Zemo’s journey towards revenge.

———

Black blood splattered against the cobbles as my ringed fingers slammed into the younger man’s cheekbone again. 

It pooled in the stones’ creases; a thick, stinking ichor that clung to my jewelry and my skin as it continued to dribble down from his face and body. I couldn’t help but lick a stray droplet from my lips. 

He wasn’t quite broken yet. It wouldn’t take much longer, though. My hunger could wait until then. 

The pathetic creature stood his ground in the corner of the darkened stable as his eyes darted about to search for an escape route. 

There were none. I had made sure of that. There was only me and the sturdy walls behind him. Nowhere to go but down. 

As expected, he sunk to his knees after just one more sharp hit to the cheek. 

I allowed my hand to linger for a moment. It may have been cruel, but I didn’t care to think too much about it. “Are you ready to tell me now?” 

His red eyes glinted with tears. Slowly, he nodded. 

“What is your name,” I asked. 

“Pietro,” 

“Pietro,” I repeated the word on my ancient tongue, feeling each syllable roll over the muscle. A strong name. Sokovian. I brought myself down to his level, resting on the balls of my feet before him. My fingers danced along his skin. “How did you receive the gift?” 

“Please, I don’t kn-” 

His voice shuddered and stalled as one of my pointed nails slowly began to dig into the cold meat of his cheek and more sticky blackness coated my fingers. 

I smiled right through it despite the growing unease in my stomach. Maybe a gentle hand would be more helpful…

“You do know, Pietro, even if you don’t think you do. Don’t you want to tell me? To get this over with?” My voice was sickly sweet. The dank stall, once reeking of stale piss and rot, began to match my cloying tone. The air grew thick with a dizzying perfume and Pietro’s stiff posture softened at the first breath of it. All at once his eyes swam with not fear, but relief. He wanted to make me happy now. Nothing would make him feel better than following my command. It almost made me want to vomit more, if I were capable of it. 

The words came soft and dreamlike from his trembling mouth. “Novi Grad, at the university. My friend was a student. We were walking back from the bars to meet my sister and a man was waiting in the alley… oh god. No.” Pietro shook his head. His pulse began to speed. “I ate him. I ate Paul. The man attacked us and Paul tried to run and I- I ate him!”

His story was sad but unhelpful. 

My voice stayed even despite his hyperventilation. It was best to keep him calm for both our sakes. “Who changed you, Pietro? Who was that man?” 

The air grew heavy around us both, blanketing him in warmth and pleasant feelings from all sides. It was calm. It was safe. It was all a deception. 

Pietro leaned into my touch like a young, blind animal searching for his mother and I hated to admit it stirred something more in me than nausea. Whatever it had awoken, and I didn’t care to find out, it was bringing out my mercy. Death no longer waited for him at the first wrong move. I sat quietly at his side, smearing dark blood across his hair as I stroked it without meaning to; a small comfort. Absent tears dripped from his empty eyes. 

After a long while, Pietro decided he was ready to speak again. 

“He said he was a friend of Stark… that he would change the world,”

My voice came in a low sigh. “Starks always think they will,” 

I had known. Even if I hadn’t been absolutely certain, it was hard to ignore the sinking feeling his scent brought on. If I wasn’t in so much denial I could have guessed as much the second even a drop of Pietro’s blood hit my lips. He was of my own flesh in a way, however diluted by distance and time. I had tasted it in him. There was a flavor only attributable to myself under his chemical bitterness and the musk of wet dog. 

Slowly, I let my hand slip away from his face and stood, kicking at a pile of rotting straw on my way up. 

Pietro drooped further into the corner. His sandy hair covered enough of his face that I couldn’t tell if he was still crying or not. “I was just so hungry,” he breathed, “I couldn’t even think, I just kept eating them. All of them. Anyone I could catch. I was just… so hungry,” 

“Are you still hungry,” I asked. 

The stable went silent. 

He nodded. “I’m starving,” 

It was a huge risk, and a stupid one too. I hadn’t taken on a familiar since the 1800’s. It had been much longer than that since I’d created a thrall or spawn, and this… this was much more complex in new and different ways. He was not mine, even if he shared traces of my disease in his blood. Whatever hybrid monstrosity he was—I was almost certain he contained something other than the vampiric curse I bore—it meant he could not be controlled by force as a young spawn could. Pietro would instead need to be tamed to be trusted, much like the legacies of wolves that dwelled alongside me in my woods. 

Pietro didn’t look particularly defiant, though. Keeping him leashed to my side couldn’t be that difficult. Besides, the idea of having some company wasn’t a completely unpleasant thought. 

In fact, I rather liked it. 

I approached him again like I would have approached a wounded animal, undoing button after button on the sleeve of my coat and exposing the smooth flesh of my forearm. It was an offering. An olive branch. He swallowed hard. 

“I will not give you this gift lightly Pietro but I am in a particularly giving mood. You only need to answer one more question, and this can all be over. Do you wish to pay penance for your hunger? Or do you wish to die?” 

His body trembled as the pungent reek of fear took over the room once again. My glamour had worn off well before. It was only fair to let him make this choice with all of his mind in his own hands. “What are you doing?” He asked. His accent trembled on every syllable. 

“I’m offering you a choice,” I replied. “You weren’t given the luxury of choosing what you have become, but now you can choose what you do with it. We’re similar, you and I. We’ve made mistakes. I know from firsthand experience that one needs to learn to control this curse or die before it kills them in the ways that matter, and you don’t look dead to me. At least, not yet. So what would you prefer, Pietro? How does this end?” 

Pietro gulped. His shaking hands were fisted in the soft cotton of his dirty AC/DC t-shirt. “I don’t want to die,”

My face relaxed into a soft smile. That would do just fine. 

“Then drink,”

He attacked my wrist like a mad dog. It didn’t even feel like a pinch as his teeth ripped into my skin. 

Cool, red blood flooded his mouth in an unholy communion, and, in that moment, I could have been his god. 

Pietro ate like an animal. 

It was clear that nobody had guided him when he was created. No one had sat at his side as he fed for the first time, showing him just where to put his teeth or how to keep things from getting messy. Of course he’d had to kill to eat. There were no lessons on where the major veins and arteries lay: which ones were deadly, which could be pierced and healed, how to heal them… It was a damn shame. He could have been so much more than an animal. 

Now, blood splashed wildly from his mouth as he tried to swallow as much as he could, ripping with his new, sharp molars to try to coax more viscera into his throat. I pitied his lack of understanding. He could barely feed himself, even off of my near-endless supply.

That being said, his desperation was almost cute. 

He drank his fill of me until his eyes glazed over. As a fed man, he was flushed with life again, breathing deeply and gaining color in his pallid complexion with every breath. From the looks of it, a few more hours without a meal would’ve killed him before I could. When he finally detached from my wrist there wasn’t a hint of guilt or shame or fear in his eyes. Instead, they reflected pure satiation into the darkness. His look promised gratitude. Servitude. 

I released a cold huff of breath into the air. “Full?” 

Pietro replied shortly, wiping his mouth with the butt of his palm. “Yeah, much better,” 

“Good,” 

His eyes darted to the wound he’d left. “Are you ok?” He asked. For all of his previous boldness, he now refused to meet my eyes. 

It didn’t matter much to me, but I shrugged, examining the previously mangled flesh. “No harm done.” 

Pietro gaped at the improvement. My skin was already knitting itself back together, though it was working a bit slower than usual. I needed to feed soon myself. 

Strong with a fresh supply, his pulse beat hard enough in his jugular that I could watch it pulse from half a meter away. More thoughts sparked behind my eyes. 

Well… it couldn’t hurt. 

I needed far less than he did to keep myself running. It would only take one bite. One big mouthful. One swallow. I had given him far more than that, so it shouldn’t leave him wanting in the least. 

“Would you do me a favor, Pietro?” Using his name was a manipulation. The air grew thick again with the scent of pear blossoms and juicy, dripping stone fruits. “The first step towards controlling your new form,” 

“Anything,” 

The graphic on his t-shirt was soaked with blood and bits of ripped vein.

“Give me your neck,” 

It wasn’t a question. Instead, I found myself demanding access to him. 

The worst part was he followed me blindly, even with his own understanding of what it meant to feed. Pietro tilted his chin to the sky as if he might begin to wail at the moon and waited. Not a muscle moved as he waited for brutality. 

I didn’t quite know what to do with him anymore. He was filled with too many unexpected surprises.

This man, barely more than a boy, was an abomination, a scientific marvel, living and dead all at once. He never should have been thrust into his creation, but abomination or not he would satiate the hunger that gnawed at every cell in my body better than any other source of blood at my disposal. His blood, however tainted, was warm beneath his skin. It called to me like the predator I was made to be. 

As I moved in for the bite, though, his eyes met mine again despite the obvious effort he was taking to close them and imagine he was anywhere else. I found a new terror overwhelming him there. Something even more ancient than I was sat deep in the dilated pits of his pupils, like a pig finally understanding his purpose as the axe began to drop. I had seen it more times than I wanted to count: The looks they gave when it was too late to squeal or run. Fear, understanding, and acceptance of the end. It was the place they went when there was nowhere left to go as they waited for the slaughter. I could stomach it in animals, a needed sacrifice to sustain myself, but to see it in the eyes of one so much like me, his eyelashes wet with blood and tears… I saw my own face looking back at me. 

Slowly, deliberately, I guided his head back to its front-facing position, patting his unscathed cheek with a cool but soft hand. “You passed the test, now go to the house. Find somewhere comfortable. I’ll meet you there,” 

I wasn’t that hungry anyways. 

Pietro sat still for a moment, eyes shifting warily from wall to wall, but as soon as he realized there were no more instructions to wait for he scrambled to his feet, bolting from the stables almost on his hands and knees until he managed to keep his balance. In a moment’s time, he was shoving his way out the door. Every few seconds, though, he would look back at me until he couldn’t manage to keep me in his sights. 

He still reeked of fear. 

Good. It was best for him to fear me. I would rather keep him in line with fear than with pain, and we weren’t here to make friends. Things would be better this way. 

Brushing wet straw from the thick leather of my day pants, I rose to follow, leaving the bloody stall behind me. I only paused long enough to spare a look towards the piles of rotting, ichorous bodies packed into the adjacent stalls from the months and weeks before. It would need to be dealt with eventually, but not tonight. I continued into the gloom, locking the door to the stables on my way out.  

There was more important work to do. 

———

Pietro adapted to my solitary life far better than I could’ve expected him to.

He mostly kept himself entertained, never lingering too long in my presence, not that he should want to. There was very little of mutual interest between the two of us anyway outside of mealtimes. Still, I kept a close eye on him, from a distance of course. 

The garden had become his main refuge, and that suited me just fine. It had gone neglected for a while anyway. Having a hobby would help him adapt to his new life more smoothly, and hey, a little uninformed TLC at his hands couldn’t possibly hurt the plants that had already survived generations' worth of being harvested but otherwise ignored. 

When he wasn’t scrounging around the loamy dirt, Pietro spent his days patrolling the grounds. He had probably seen more of the expansive property in the past weeks than I had in the past decade. It was a stark reminder of what a homebody I’d become in the past hundred years.

Every night, when the gardening and patrolling was done, he would trot back to his seat at the dinner table, right beside my own at the head, and share his informal report on the events of his day. Once it had been news of the wolves he’d befriended, then a broken fountain that needed repair, then a deer caught in a fence. I figured this was his way of earning his keep, even if I had never asked him to. I had barely done more than feed and house him since his arrival. No progress had been made on controlling his power. His proverbial leash grew longer each day I refused to put in the time (and effort) to discipline him. 

It would be so easy for him to slip away 

I had no more control over him than I did over the weather. If he truly wanted to, Pietro could have run off into the mist the second I let him out of that stable, escaping to whatever fate awaited him outside the bubble of my protection. There was no glamour, no psychic energy compelling him to stay. It would be as easy as him making the choice and enacting a plan. 

Still, he came back each night like a hound with a rabbit in his teeth, sometimes literally. We shared the details of his day over light, meaningless conversations each dinner time until he fed from my wrist once more and shuffled off to rest. 

Despite everything, the time I spent with Pietro in the evenings was the most fun I’d had in ages. 

Not that I’d ever admit that. There was still a certain air of decorum and fear-based respect that hung between the two of us and I refused to bridge the gap. He was my ward, after all. Or… manservant? No, he didn’t do enough around the interior of our home to warrant the title. Housemate indirectly threatened with death upon his departure? Whatever. The semantics of what he was to me were unimportant. What he wasn’t was a friend or equal. I lorded above him in every way: age, knowledge, sheer supernatural power. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to pretend we were closer than tentative acquaintances. 

That didn’t mean I couldn’t privately relish in the meals we shared, though, and the brief bits of humanity he coaxed out of me somehow with his presence. Our quiet companionship would perfectly toe the line to keep him respectful but less fearful. At least, I hoped so. 

It would be painfully miserable to be alone again now that I’d remembered what it was like not to be. 

My own days hadn’t changed much, with the exception of my evening meals. Dawn was spent in the animal pens. I fed and watered the pigs and chickens and lambs before taking their offerings: the sheep were sheared on seasonal rotation, the chickens laid in the mornings, and every once in a while, a pig would grow round and tired enough to be culled. Mostly I would toss anything slaughtered and drained to the wolves to keep them happy, but on occasion, I’d leave with a lamb of my own to quench my unending thirst. Not often these days. Instead, I supplemented my diet with wine in the hopes that, eventually, I could overcome my hunger entirely. It hadn’t happened yet. I hadn’t given up hope. 

Once the beasts were tended, the rest of the day was spent curled up in one nook or another attempting to pass the hours with whatever useless activity was available. If I stayed put too long, I had learned my flesh would begin to petrify, so I forced myself into monotonous, limited activities each day. Recently that meant embroidery, which made its way into the rotation once every few decades. Before that, I’d organized the library alphabetically by the author’s names (before it had been by book title), taken up oil painting until I ran out of paint, and spent a small stint attempting to design my own clothes for the hundredth time. It turned out as well as it always had. That was to say, every single design was awful and/or impossible to sew with the materials at my disposal. Even the garden Pietro loved so much had once been a time-sink to keep me from turning to stone. After almost a thousand years, though, nothing kept my attention long. 

Nothing new was left to discover here. On rare occasions, a new hobby would arrive on the body of an interloper, like the Game Boy with its drained batteries that sat next to my bed, but even those didn’t take long to break or lose their novelty. 

Besides, visitors had become a rarity as soon as cars and highways came into fashion. 

Who would spend their days wandering down old forest paths when they could take their new vehicle down a well-mapped road instead? It was quicker, cheaper, safer- and then came the airplanes and the busses and the high-speed rails. By my nine-hundred and eighty-seventh year of immortal life, I was lucky to get a lost hiker at my door once or twice a year that the wolves didn’t shred before I found them. 

Things changed for a bit after the world shook. Suddenly, it seemed as though there was a wave of new bodies wandering the wood every dusk and dawn. No companionship could be found with those maddened newborn creatures. They were like only one man-made monster I had ever witnessed, almost seventy-five years before, but they were mindless with the endless tug of their starvation, an unprecedented side effect of their disease. Always so hungry. Few retained any scraps of humanity by the time they made it to me, sunburnt and emaciated and so very confused. 

After a while, though, even they became rare. It was as if they had all been sent in a great burst before whatever event that bore them was over. The whole situation concerned me. I wondered if they weren’t coming to me anymore, where were they going? There must have been more of them than the ones who had come to my door. If this hadn’t been an attack on my home, organized to finally rid me of my life, why were they created? And if so many had made it as far as my castle, what had become of Sokovia? I feared I would never get an answer. 

Pietro was the last. 

I couldn’t have known it when I spared him, but no more followed in his footsteps. He himself had arrived almost a month after the young man who came before, and he had taken a few weeks to find me after the one before him. Then, after Pietro, there was nothing. If he hadn’t been spared, I would never have known of Ultron, or the children he sired to prove himself to Stark, or the bomb Stark had dropped to rid the world of the vampiric plague that would descend upon it.

Maybe it was the renewed scarcity that made me pause when I first saw him stumbling through the bushes. That split second of indecision before I gutted him on sight, was it curiosity or loneliness? Or was it luck? Whatever it was, and I didn’t care to dig too deeply into any of my feelings on the matter, I was glad for it. 

The pair of us kept each other company. Fog rolled in each morning and the moon glowed full each night and the world kept turning, but things were new now. The same china and linen and dining table I had stared at for hundreds of years seemed to have new detail in it every day. 

We had peace. 

Until the morning Pietro came wailing through the study doors with that mangled wolf in his arms. 

“There’s a man!” He gasped, blood running down his front and into the deep auburn of the rug at his feet. The poor thing was long dead. From a few feet away I could tell it had gone quickly to whatever had felled it. Even still, Pietro’s eyes were wild with something more than fear at the sight of the corpse’s state. “He-“ 

I cut him off, rising from my chair. “Where,” 

His eyes darted to the dripping gash in the wolf’s neck. 

“The front walk,” he said, “I didn’t see much of him, just a shadow, but he’s armed with something bad, something that felt wrong. There are more dead too, too many to carry, but I thought she might make it. I thought I could fix her,” Pietro was babbling now, talking faster than he could even rationally think. It was evident that he had never seen a slaughter like this. At least, he had never seen a slaughter like this without a driving bloodlust that would drown out every thought other than hunger. A slaughter that wasn’t his own to make. 

I crossed the room to him. “Watch the house,” 

“But-”

My eyebrow raised. I was chillingly calm, tutting at him softly. “Do you think I am incapable of defending my own home?”

“No, no, but he’s just… I… how can I help you?” 

Despite his fear, Pietro still so desperately wanted to do what was helpful. His moral compass was strong. I appreciated it. He was already making progress all on his own. I didn’t need him though, not for whatever awaited me in the woods. There were few people who had any knowledge of my location, and fewer still who would be able to enter and hold their own against my defenses. Knowing what I knew of Ultron, I was prepared for my feud with the Starks to come to an end. Besides, he would just be a liability, a clear weakness in my rock-solid strong persona. He was still too young. 

Teeth bared, I let out a soft growl. “Like I said, watch the house. That is how you can help me, just in case someone else attempts to enter while I’m distracted,” I gestured towards the door into the greater hall outside. “Eat, then keep watch. I would only judge you if you wasted her body. If I need you, I’ll whistle,” 

“How will I hear you from so far?” 

“I have my ways,” 

Without waiting for confirmation, I started my warpath towards the front of the house, leaving the sounds of sloppy tearing in my wake. 

———

As soon as I was out the doors I could feel him at the end of the walk, but it wasn’t until he had broken the tree line, several hundred yards away, that he noticed me waiting for him. 

Not a word was exchanged. That blurry body on the horizon shifted, reached back, postured, and- snap.

One soaring arrow cut through the air and found its target in my chest. 

He wanted violence? I would give him violence. It had been so long since I had someone to toy with, someone who had the capability to even try to resist the toolbox of horrors that my nature had lent me. I grinned. This was a game, and I was a sore loser when my life laid on the line.

Time turned to mist in my grasp. 

All at once, I was acutely aware of the bolt that had shredded through the shoulder of my coat. It stayed embedded there, the tip jutting out just below my shoulder blade, but the shaft sat too high, missing my heart by a significant margin. Stoney flesh burned all the way through the wound. When I tried to send a tendril of energy through the tunneled muscle, it fizzled out and died. 

The damn tip was silvered. 

This was a clever one; more than just another mindless, bloodthirsty drone in search of a throat to rip. This man had knowledge. He was a craftsman. A hunter. 

My revenge awaited. 

With a speed that defied the laws of the natural world, I greeted my opponent. 

I moved with the wind. Every molecule of my body sang as I pulled them apart and brought them together at will, drifting over his shoulder in an amorphous cloud of smoke. Blood thrummed under his skin like thunder even if he could not actively comprehend my presence. 

He was mortal. 

I could feel the loose amalgam that made up my mouth almost watering at the sheer feeling of a human pulse so close to me, however slowed in the wake of my speed. Every bit of him was lean muscle, too, wrapped up in leather and military-issue kevlar. It would rip like butter under my predator’s teeth. He didn’t know that, though. In his mind, he was blissfully protected from the things that went bump in the night. 

A quick scan with the looser edges of my cloudy form revealed that, despite his silver weapons, he wore none of the metal on his person. 

This man may have been a hunter, but he was also a fool. He wasn’t a Stark, either. No, he smelled wrong, not a note of wolfish musk surrounded him besides the stench of dead dog in his wake. A wild card, then. Or something I couldn’t quite recognize without my nose all put together. 

Plum, perhaps. 

A sword, silvered like his crossbow bolts, was strapped high on his hip, but it didn’t take much maneuvering to undo the clip and send the blade clattering to the ground. Next came the crossbow itself. Taking something from the man’s hands was a little trickier, but nothing was beyond my grasp, especially when I unleashed this power. Usually, it was kept close to my chest. It was a secret truth I couldn’t even burden myself to recognize. I was ancient. I was so much more than any living soul could be forced to comprehend, I was-

The seal on the crossbow caught my eye. A badger posed regal, gnawing on the snake in its dripping teeth. My snake. Their crest. 

Oh. 

Oh.

The game had just become so much more fun. 

I felt the air, bringing my nose together enough to sniff at it. I had to be certain. There could be no mistakes if it was who I knew it had to be. And it was: It was like a perfume I could never quite wash out, a song that always resided in the back of my head, as familiar as my own name after all of the years I had known it. Maybe, just maybe, I knew it better than my own scent. 

He was a Zemo. 

Twelve generations I had killed over that stupid attempt at a takeover to expand their barony. Twelve fathers of twelve sons, each more horrid and twisted than the last, had willingly walked into the lion’s den on the eve of their eldest son’s 18th year to fulfill their end of a bargain struck by the first of them all in the hope to spare their bloodline from total annihilation in my wake. One by one they sought me out of their own free will. Every time they believed they would improve on the failings of the last, finally besting me, but their pride was their fall. They were cocky and stupid enough to think they knew enough to defeat me. 

Every single son had died for their gall. 

They didn’t have to. If one had simply disobeyed or learned mercy, I would have let them go without a second thought. It wasn’t as if I could leave this forest to find them. Nothing compelled them besides their own hubris. 

And now, the thirteenth was there to take his place at the grave. 

This was wrong, though. An unshakeable feeling gripped my mind more than even my rage at the damned bloodline before me. Maybe not wrong, no, but not quite right either. He was far too young. 

It wasn’t as if he looked exceedingly youthful. The man’s eyes held a certain wisdom that only came with time. I was sure that, if I were capable of seeing my own reflection clearly, it would be a trait we shared. His face showed age too. A thick but well-trimmed beard decorated his cheeks and chin, obscuring the thin line of his scowl. I spent what felt like hours memorizing those features— searching for hidden signs of age, of course, or other features that might give away his weaknesses. 

The point wasn’t to admire him, though, or let his features become the focal point of my focus. This was not a man who had raised a man.

He had simply come too soon. 

There was no reasonable explanation I could find to explain him birthing a blood son who had reached the age threshold to fulfill our bargain. To take a father from his child… the thought haunted me. Even with the acrid stench of death and dog permeating my home from all sides, with the culprit all but waiting for release in my hands, I couldn’t do it. My standards remained. 

It just… wouldn’t do. 

I let loose my tight grip on time, letting each shred of my body come together into its correct place like the snap of a fresh rubber band. It was always dizzying to find time’s proper flow again but I leaned into the exhilaration of my physical form’s newness. My voice escaped my lips- at last, my real lips. It was a bone-chilling whisper. To him, I seemed to appear at his back in an instant, traveling with the breeze that froze him. 

“Next time, son of Heinrich, you’ll have to aim better than that,” 

He went stiff at the feeling of my cold breath on his neck, like every hair on his body had stood at attention the second he became aware of my closeness. It was more than just a startle, though. That fear was genetic, bred into him by father and father and father before him. It was in every drop of blood that rushed to his face in my wake. He masked it as well as he could have. His expression remained schooled even as a freezing hand came up to brush against his neck. I knew better, though. I saw things humans could never dream of comprehending about each other. 

Minutiae. Breath and pulse and scent and temperature. Predator senses. 

“You were expecting me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. 

“And you weren’t expecting me,”

Zemo laughed, a bitter thing. “Perhaps not. None of the others have been quite so… fast,” 

I tossed his crossbow aside. It landed in the nearby brush and shattered as it slammed against the ground. My own strength was unknown to me. I could only pretend it had been intended. “Your father should have taught you better than this. This is a disappointment,” 

“He might have,” he said, “but he didn’t live long enough. So, I believe you are to blame for his inability to mentor me in the rules of your little game. 

My pulse raced even as my mind paused. His dark eyes took in the surroundings, surely searching for something to get him out of my grasp and back into the upper hand. Little did he know that uncertainly was creeping below my skin. 

Men. They were all the same. They lacked the sight. 

“You’re free to believe that if you choose,” I replied, “but eighteen years was plenty of time for the rest of them. If it was not enough for you, well, I can only call that greed. Of thirteen men, you are only the second to lose your weapon before even crossing my threshold. That and the fact that the first was not your father, it seems, means it is your father’s failing that he did not pass on the wisdom he had learned.” 

“How long did he last?” 

“He lasted more than six hours of combat before I gutted him. It’s a shame you couldn’t do the same. At this rate, you won’t survive the hour. What a bore,” Slowly, and without a wince despite the burning at my fingertips, I snapped off the end of the bolt in my shoulder and placed the silvered tip in my pocket, patting it softly through the fabric once it settled at the bottom. Extracting the rest of the solid metal rod was an easy feat from there. His eyes remained trained on me over his shoulder as it joined his bow on the ground. 

Zemo, to his credit, mastered his fear beautifully. 

His pulse had stabilized some, though its steady rhythm still rushed through my nostrils and into my dizzy mind like an intoxicating symphony. He was a cocktail of emotion inside his well-kept exterior. The scent of sudden horror was now morphing into surprise, perhaps even curiosity. His gaze only escaped mine to examine the blood dripping lazily from my shoulder to my feet.  

“Confused?” I taunted. 

He shook his head. “Not confused, no.” 

“Then what are you?”

I wanted to know him. I wanted to rip the deepest secrets of his mind from his chest and devour them. I wanted to taste it. It would be so much sweeter if I didn’t have to take it, though. If it were given freely. 

“Learning,” he replied. 

It was my turn to be unprepared. 

I stalked around him, coming to face him head-on, and he held my gaze again. His pulse stayed steady despite the fact that the space between us was near nonexistent, as if he thought of himself as a predator too, just like me. Still, those damn eyes examined me like some sort of experiment, not like prey. Questions sat unsaid between us in the fog. 

What makes you different? What makes you special? What makes you tick?

Stars above, he made it so easy. It was impossible to keep from smiling just a little at the absurdity of it all as he took in the sight of my neck and the puckered scars that littered it. This was nothing like my dinners with Pietro. This was dangerous. Almost fun. 

Everything I gave to him he shot right back at me in spades, almost as if he was toying with me too and deriving his own sick satisfaction from the electricity in the air. It reminded me a bit of the great bacchanals that had been thrown here in my youth, when the castle halls ran red with the blood of my victims, both unwitting and all too willing to die by my lips. I hadn’t been alone then. There were faces to entertain me around any corner. Even when the party ended and the bodies ran dry, my creator waited patiently for me in the bedroom as dawn broke each morning. It was horrifically, terribly, irredeemably fun. I wanted to forget it so badly that I almost had.

Now, though, the memories were fresh. 

How long had it been since I’d really spoken to someone without their fear leaking from every pore? Since there had been someone to laugh with? To bounce off? To feed from?

My throat twitched shamefully at the thought. 

Blood was a varied thing. No two feeds would ever taste exactly the same, even if they were almost interchangeably similar. Every emotion, every dietary choice, and every passing second spent aging would affect the profile as it hit my taste buds. Omnivorous or herbivorous animals tended to be brassy and harsh on the tongue, yet somehow watery. Overall, unfulfilling. Carnivores left me a bit more satisfied, but not much, and definitely not in terms of flavor. Other vampires were more substantial than animals, but bitter depending on their age. A young vampire tasted a bit like a berry that wasn’t quite ripe. 

Humans, though… humans were uniquely human. There were no words to describe it. Mortals could not comprehend the kind of sensations that fresh human blood would fill me with enough to create the vocabulary to depict it properly. Some were savory, some were sweet; some were stomach-churning and heavy and some lighter than water on the tongue. They were ephemeral. Unique. Devastatingly addictive. 

There was one unchanging fact about the taste of blood, though, that haunted my waking dreams on my worst nights. 

However disgusting they had been in life, every Zemo had been orgasmically delicious in death from the very first. 

I resisted the urge to unleash my glamour and drain him dry right there and then heroically. I was not that woman anymore. I had to promise myself that, at least, to keep it all reined in. The last human I’d fed from had been his father and before that his grandfather. It would do me no good to give in to my basest urges which I had fought so hard to suppress. He would die with honor and dignity when it was his time, and it wasn’t. 

Not yet.

So, instead of ripping his throat clean out, I dragged a nail down the column of Zemo’s neck, relishing in the gooseflesh that raised at my touch. 

“Do you always play with your food?” He asked. 

I shrugged, playing the persona he needed from me to keep his dignity. “Only with your family. It keeps me young,” 

And suddenly, that little playful light in him died. I didn’t quite know what had set him off, or how, but it was as if a switch had been flipped on his mood. 

“I would appreciate getting on with whatever this is, then, if you wouldn’t mind,” He hissed. Zemo took a sharp step forward, closing the space that lingered between us in one swift motion. My nail pressed dangerously close to his jugular. “I am not your toy, nor was my family. This little game you’ve played with us is finished. It’s long past time. No more sons,” his nose was almost brushing my own as he spoke. I could taste every lick of hate in his breath. “This ends here.”

Even now, at my mercy, he was spending his last moments protecting his son from meeting the same fate. Not even once had any of the other men who came before even mentioned them. Not even in passing. 

For a moment, I almost let him go. 

The first of the Zemos had deserved it. The second had almost deserved it more if such a thing were possible. The generations seemed to snowball through the decades like some sort of horrid disease. Each man had found their way through the warding around my forest, and that in and of itself was evidence of their crimes in my eyes. The weight of guilt in their hearts had guided them to me like the light of the north star. Once they’d arrived too, every man had only continued to prove themselves unworthy of life. Every time, I thought maybe I could impart a lesson. 

Twelve men had failed to understand their own failings, though, and until they did, I had doomed them to pay the same price, over and over, in an unrelenting loop of loss.

But I was so tired. 

So, so tired. 

Who could say if they’d ever learn? The blood I spilled might have taught them nothing at all, and it might never teach them. How many years would I spend alone, haunting the halls of an empty castle, waiting for them to learn? 

Always starving. 

Always hurting. 

Even the guilt was gone. It was just… 

Emptiness. 

Deep down, I had to wonder if I was really doing it to teach them a lesson, or if I was just glad to have a warm meal and a conversation these days. When had it started to become less about them than it was about me and my own feelings?

Thirteen men. An unlucky number, but a prophetic one. 

Maybe it was time to let go. 

I took a deep breath and crossed my arms, letting my hand slip away from Zemo’s neck. “I have to admit, son of Heinrich, it takes a lot of nerve to demand anything of me,” I sighed, reluctant, “I’m impressed,”

He quirked up an eyebrow. “This sounds like the beginning of another game, vampire,” 

“You might find out if you let me finish,” 

Zemo stayed silent. I could almost hear the whispers daring to escape him as he licked his lips. Around us, the fog sat heavy and thick. 

“As I was saying,” I cleared my throat and my stomach turned. When was the last time I’d been so nervous about something? When had I last felt anything at all? “You want to end the games? Fine. Lay this bare. Why are you here? Thirteenth son of Zemo, what brings you to me? Why risk your life, your youth, for this?”

I did not dare unleash my glamour to pry the truth out of him, nor did I need to. His words came easily from the very depths of his soul. 

“Revenge,” 

His eyes glossed over as he said the word. No longer was Zemo looking at me, though, even if his eyes were trained on my own. Instead, he was looking somewhere distant. A wrath that moments before had seemed so personally tailored against me and my existence now resided not within me, but far beyond me… Interesting 

I could work with that. 

The whole situation was incredibly delicate. One wrong move from me and he would be lunging for any remaining weapon in the vicinity. I walked the razor’s edge, the snake in Eden. But would he bite?                                                   

My voice came low like a prayer.

“Against who? Me?” 

“Against all of the monsters in this world,” Something akin to madness pushed through the man’s demeanor. It smelled inky and burnt on the skin: a human crematorium. Loss. “The things that roam and kill without a second thought, bloodsuckers like you who thrive off the deaths of those around them. Mostly, though,” Zemo grimaced, “I want to put a silver bullet between the eyes of Tony Stark and every monstrosity he’s ever created,”

Tony. He had a son. 

Despite the palpable tension in the air and the pang of shock that hit me at the mention of Howard’s offspring, the wrong Stark, I shrugged my shoulders, keeping up my unbothered persona as long as I possibly could. Anything to keep this moving forward. Anything to keep him talking and not attacking. Any excuse to keep him alive just a few minutes more. “You aren’t the first person to wish for a Stark’s demise,” 

He stilled. “Maybe, but I will be the last,” 

“What makes you so certain that you will succeed where even I have failed?” 

“He killed my wife and son,” 

After all the years I’d spent surviving off of the sacrifices of others, I had thought my heart was stone. That there was nothing left, just petrified muscle and dust. Somehow, though, I could feel it thump and ache for him. Ache for his wife, his child. All at once his early arrival made all the sense in the world. 

There would be no eighteenth birthday to wait for. 

No more sons, he’d said. Not now, not ever. 

My voice shook ever so slightly in the mist. “I’m sorry for your loss,” 

Zemo shook his head. Greasy, unkempt hair fell over his eyes, shading them, hiding them away from my prying gaze. “You say that now, and yet you were the one who killed my father,” 

Touche. 

Uncomfortable emptiness filled the air. Neither one of us made a move to continue the banter. 

It would be as easy as breathing for me to put him out of his misery. I could drink my fill of him and forget. After a few decades, my imagination would stop being haunted by the chubby cheeks of a boy who would never find a calling, fall in love, or have chubby-cheeked babies of his own. Zemo could have destroyed me too, in that moment, just as easily as I could have destroyed him. He couldn’t know it, but I would have let him. It would be as easy as lunging for his unbroken sword and ending it all. I wouldn’t dodge. I wouldn’t dare. Not when the guilt I had hidden away so well was finally rearing its ugly face.

This one felt different. He was like nothing I’d encountered in all of my long, miserable years of life. Maybe he was even more needed than Pietro had been. 

If I were to end my empty existence at his hand, I could die happily.

The idea came clear.

It had been foggy before, a half-assed imagining. I could overpower him, control his fragile mortal mind, and keep him tucked away somewhere where I could covet the feeling of his resistance against me, all to ease the endless, aching loneliness I still felt every day. He didn’t need to come willingly. Just like Pietro, I could break him to my will. If I could do it to another vampire, how hard could a stubborn mortal be? 

Now, though, I saw a different path through the darkness. It was a terrible idea. Self-destructive. Awful. 

The worst part? It might just work. 

“Howard Stark stole something from me too, once” 

Zemo scoffed in disgust. “Your wealth?” 

“No, my blood,”

My deepest secrets flew plainly from my lips like they were nothing more than facts. We lapsed into momentary silence once again. 

“So those creatures in the countryside…”

“Are a part of me, yes,” I mindlessly fiddled with the hem of my coat pocket, feeling the weight and heat of the silver within. “I have regretted trusting him every day for the last seventy-two years,” 

Zemo stepped back and I let go of the breath I’d been holding for what felt like decades. Finally, someone else knew. The jig was up. In its wake, he seemed pensive. Thoughtful. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he seemed lonely too. 

This mess was my fault, that much was plain. I hadn’t set foot outside of this damned forest since 1943 and yet, somehow, the choices I had made back then had led to the destruction of my mother country. No amount of solitude could pay the penance I owed for the crimes I had committed now, no matter how desperately I had tried. 

The worst of it all was that so much was still unknown. If so many of those hybrid spawn had made it here to my home, how many more had ended up elsewhere? Was it just Sokovia that was overwhelmed by them? Who made it out? How many women and children had died at the hands of my own blood?

I rid my head of the poisonous memories as best as I could, shoving down the growing pool of guilt and regret that had been threatening to boil over for longer than I thought I could have swallowed. 

One thousand years of death was finally here for its vengeance, and it was fast approaching; finally catching up to me. It was poetic, though, for it to come from him. 

“I am willing to listen to your proposal,” Zemo said. “Let’s get on with it,” 

“Alright. I’m offering information about the Stark family; everything I know about their affliction, my affliction, their plans to use it, the weaknesses of the monsters that will stand in your way. Anything you want, anything I know from all of my years in this life, is yours for the taking,”

He replied plainly, eyes suspicious. “I won’t spare your life,”

“Did I ask you to?” I stepped towards him. We were nose to nose again. “You can’t kill me. It wouldn’t even take a second for me to snap your neck and leave you here to die in paralyzed agony—it would be so easy—but I’ve decided against it. I’ve already had my fun for far too long, so stay here and learn all you must know from me for as long as you’d like. If you ever manage to learn enough to kill me, we shall duel honorably as your forefathers did before you. Either you will die here a failure, or you will leave here with all of the information you need to become the deadliest hunter in history. Once that’s completed, your revenge will be all but guaranteed,” 

Ever the skeptic, he tilted his head to the side. “But what do you gain from this? Why would you decide against getting rid of me before I become a threat?” 

“Companionship, stimulation, absolution; take your pick,” 

“A meal?” 

“Not until you die. Not unless you ask,” 

Stroking his beard, Zemo took a step back and looked me over with a discerning eye. He had examined me intensely before, but it was like a canine scoping out its prey. Now, though, he searched me for signs of verity, any reason to distrust the suspiciously beneficial deal I had all but laid at his feet. Around us, the world seemed to pause for him as it might have for me. 

“As soon as I have the power to kill you, you’ll be dead,” he muttered. 

And so my final deal was struck. 

“I look forward to you trying,” 

--------------

Thank you for reading! Once completed, the next chapter will be linked here.

This work has been crossposted to Ao3

[lionofchaeronea]

Fallen in Their Prime

Anthologia Planudea 26 = Simonides Note: This epitaph commemorates the Athenians killed during a victory over the Euboean city of Chalcis in 504 BCE. Dirphys is a mountain on Euboea; Euripus is the strait separating Attica and Euboea. Beneath the fold of Dirphys we were slain; a mound At public cost was poured on us near Euripus, Not unjustly: for we lost our lovely youth When we received the gritty cloud of war.

Δίρφυος ἐδμήθημεν ὑπὸ πτυχί: σῆμα δ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἡμῖν ἐγγύθεν Εὐρίπου δημοσίᾳ κέχυται, οὐκ ἀδίκως: ἐρατὴν γὰρ ἀπωλέσαμεν νεότητα, τρηχεῖαν πολέμου δεξάμενοι νεφέλην.

A hoplite with lion shield and trumpet. Interior of an Attic red-figure kylix (drinking cup), made by the potter Euxitheos and painter Oltos ca. 515-510 BCE. From Vulci; now in the Altes Museum, Berlin. Photo credit: ArchaiOptix/Wikimedia Commons.

[seafoamme]

A Poem, A Friend Shep-en-Mut "The painted wooden face was known to me. She stood in the dusty museum sun, Painted eyes lengthened with kohl. Azure, terra-cotta, white, Emblazoned cartonnage. The Isis wings, spread in care and love. Curving protective Neckbet and Nepthys. Beneath, the corticated skin, Black bitumen. Eyeless, cracked and black, Dessicated viscera, wrapped apart. Leaving child and husband, moving through satin bands of shadow, Singing in the ecstatic sun. Feet hissing through the silken sand She carried the Milk Jar and a Palm frond, Worshipping and serving each day. This lady was the songstress of Amun-Re, Her songs curved upward in the great Temple of Thebes. The stone beauty of the face of the God above her frailty Gave her voice a scope of praise denied to our dessicated senses When death stooped on her, claws and beak ripped. Then feathers lay outstretched in love. Horus wings, Night Heron beak, Having slain, now standing guard in fearful phalanx. Leaving the echo between the roof trees. Her flesh must be pickled, cured with cinnamon and myrrh. The skull, frail as a blown egg, Emptied of its convolute majesty, Stuffed with delicate resinous rags. When the sucking natron has had its meal Her shell will taste the shriving sun and wind once more. Blow gently, shine kindly down, Amun-Re, on thy slave. She shall be wrapped in fine linen Layer on layer, and laced like a shoe. The last we shall see in linen and plaster and paint. May her journey be safe through the dark tunnels May her soul sing in light before her God, In soft peace. The holding wings enfold my friend. Priestess of Thebes. Singer of Amun-Re Bearer of the little Milk Jar." - Elizabeth Sigmund

[mhaynoot]

[ tw suicide , suicidal thoughts and intentions - orv spoilers - epilogue joongdok ]

yjh progressed so much and so far through 1863 regression turns not only to cut down the constellations and systems that made him suffer but also to find a way to either save the world or die permanently, whichever came first.

out of all the yjh and the regressions, the one who achieved that goal was the half slain by himself in the 1863rd round, the one who encapsulated all yjh's feelings of "i want to die".

the one that said "i want to live" was all that was left.

yjh remembers renouncing his regression status. his character trait.

"yoo joonghyuk, former regressor."

but he who hated his regression the most, who experienced suffering like no other because of it, chooses again to regress once more to save kdj. he tries not to think why but does anyway when the the scenario nights once again drag on long and agonising.

"are you sure?" people had asked right before the group regression. as if he would have ever brought it up as a suggestion if he hadn't been sure.

was he sure?

yjh closes his eyes.

he remembers renouncing his regressor status. he remembers delcaring not only that he will lived this round - this life - fully but that he will live solely for the ending in which kdj was an anomaly. he remembers kdj too. the little twist to his lips, the downcurved tilt, and his eyes, yjh was always reflected into his eyes. but they only saw him then. "I was twenty-eight, and I was an employee of a game company. my hobby was reading web novels…"

yjh remembers.

"yes, I'm sure."

but more than reliving the hellish nightmares of the scenarios once more, it only completely breaks him when regressing still fails-fails-fails-

(like kdj had told him over and over again)

two years passes by. time is supposed to ease grief. he should have moved on.

yjh breaks into the museum to grab the broken [final ark] with no real plan and fights hsy with his all so she could kill him because that's what he wanted. because yjh wants to fucking die and had tried everything from clutching a gaming mouse to training to talking endlessly with his teacher and sister but still- still he finds no purpose in life after the failed regression.

he imagines that guy yelling at him, calling him a sunfish.

even though he was free from the scenarios, free from the regression skill, can grow old normally with all his loved ones into a happily ever after. in a world surely and carefully forgetting the secnarios, erasing almost everything of that nightmare. today, the night sky is forever dark with only the glimmer of weakened constellations. yjh had saved the world and his companions and his sister and himself. it was everything he had ever wanted. everything that could have ever made him happy.

kim dokja, he grieves and grieves and grieves.

it is only the dumb blind faith and hope of a hacked brained plan that lets him live until he's shooting through space with a faint, infinitely burning wish.

and because of course nothing ever goes right, the ship breaks down and then everything else is breaking down and he's drifting through space in the vast loneliness and hollowness of his own dying stories.

1, 2, 10, 100, 333 days of drifting.

it is the kdj's story that revitalises him again and again as he reads and rereads and reads more and more

until, finally, he could understand kdj just a little more.

he wonders if this is what it means to have a soulmate. to have someone who completed him so much. who is his everything and to know he is everything to that guy too.

they are each other's beginning and end, salvation and damnation, life and death.

and then,

on death's door, he draws his sword. he regrets but he does not give up.

words echo between his ears in his final moments. that guy was right in the end. of course.

he dreams of fighting and that damn journey to the west remake and he dreams-

his eyes search around, always desperately searching. it's like chasing a ghost. like trying to bridge a bridgless gap between him and-

"where is kim dokja?"

"captain!"

everything in him knows it, knows what happened even if it remained a dream in his memories. the stories vibrantly holding him together was proof enough that he got saved by that bastard. he'll be damned if he ever reveals the truth to biyoo that though.

they crest and bob through the ebb and flow of the wordlines and the universe.

some worlds a peaceful. no scenarios.

yjh wonders if the stardust reincarnated in these worldlines is happy. selfishly, he hopes not and that they'll always wish to come back. to stay. he's already doomed countless worlds for this purpose. spreading this dream of destruction for a single man.

its with these selfish wishes, they drift through space and the brief stops along the way.

some, he leaves faster than others. it depends on how quickly he and biyoo can find a suitable webnovel author. but it doesnt always go all that quickly. authors. they're reclusive annoyances. yjh thinks of hsy and her first appearance and edits the latest update with particularly brutal comments on her prose. so some worlds, they linger on.

somehow, he finds himself on a high building in every world. sometimes they're in seoul but not always. all cities eventually start looking the same anyway. similar but foreign concrete city scapes. large, open skies.

that guy had said the view was beautiful.

"wake up, yoo joonghyuk."

centuries and world lines drift by.

he was not the 41st yjh and she was not the 41st shin yoosung. they had lived and grown to become the them they are now. had both been touched by that guy and his actions. her more so than him.

sometimes, he gets caught in her visage. on the way she smiled or her eyes gleamed. nebulae dwarfed in comparison. every bit of her father.

more than her eyes and her smiles, it was the way she talked. that slightly annoyed, flippant wit. she talks so much now, babbling, scheming, or just talking for the sake of talking. like she was making up for the years of being pretty much nonverbal. or the years of travelling alone. although, her father had always able been to understand her quite well. maybe it was a connection between parent and child.

yjh didnt try to remember his own child, they were always there. a small swaddled thing. it was a worn out grief. memories so bright it faded. a life too short.

biyoo's dad had said he understood. he had never lost child. had sacrificied himself over and over again to ensure not a single one of his went through that cut fate.

yjh knows that kdj had never experienced it. but yjh understands kdj too.

every world, she finds recent trends in webnovels and the world news and what strange "gimmick" the world operated on. some had game systems like the star stream. some had an old apocalypse lingering. some were in the middle of a breaking world. nothing quite bad enough to not find an author, of course.

he wonders if kdj was thriving in those less peaceful worlds like he thrived in the star stream. yjh selfishly hopes not. hopes that something is irreversibly missing in a life without his companions, without yjh.

even if they only stopped in the world for an hour, biyoo always finds the time to report her findings to him. she settles into the arc beside him and rambles on about how the different systems compared to each other or talks about a popular webnovel and the characters in them. the arcs they go through.

something in his chest loosens at the fimilarity. it wouldnt do to get lost in the memories of another person in someone else but he was a regressor.

maybe she understands that too because she always continues to talk even when he stops responding, stops looking quite at her.

he was glad she was there with him. in this long journey.

in the arc, through the worldlines, on the highest points of city buildings, he edits the story, he adds his own chapters. he finds their memories and their stories and writes it all down. he types with fingers tracing only a singular name.

he reads more.

he writes more.

protagonist, reader, author.

the star stream seems to be finally over. their epilogue was upon them.

that pivotal last chapter had not be written yet. the one where kdj comes home.

yjh settles his hands on the keyboard.

as he enters the stratosphere, as the cockpit burns and lights through earth's blue skies like a shooting star, and he finally breathes in the air his and kim dokja's world again, yjh thinks about his long journey. about his 0th turn. about 1865 regressions. about answers and questions and the future. about his happiness.

the [ark] slams into the ocean. he can already see lee jihye screaming at him in the distance. the rest of his little nebulae wait for him. his little sister looks ready to beat him up.

he looks at them and smiles.

as he's pulled towards his and kim dokja's companions, moved back into their embrace and circle as if he's never left, he thinks about his long journey. about his 0th turn. about 1865 regressions. about answers and questions and the future. about kim dokja.

yjh thinks about every stardust that scatters through the wordlines that he had visited. some of them had been peaceful. some of them less so.

yjh hopes each stardust reincarneted into these worldlines are doing well. that they are warm and eating well and are loved. and, yjh hopes that he could still find the ending where he can love that guy and show it to him too. tell him, eventually.

[lectern-fullcauldron]

mmm hello yes I've been gone a while (comes with living in a field for a bit). anyway, thinking about it, I'm beginning to think museum is cleo's natural habitat. because at surface level thought there was the season two museum (with the fish) and false's season six alien museum that Cleo decorated and lived in the basement of (and added murder scenes to), and now a new museum.

mmm something something crack the cases for the exhibits rise, and the bodies slain in the coliseum walk the halls after closing time.

Cleo is in ruins and decay and the afterlife - Babylon, and temples and pillaged towns. Cleo is the rubble that comes after, and the rot of once was. Cleo is decay, but beautiful. Cleo is time passing, whilst Joe (also found in ruins and graveyards) is the time between the skips

liminal harmony

[winter-dayz]

Every side of the story

Pairing: Choi Soobin x Reader Greek Mythology AU; Gorgon AU Genre: Fluff Words: 1404 Warnings: assault

Masterlist | Fictober Masterpost

Taglist:  @soobin-chois

“It’s said that she was the only Gorgon that was mortal, which is why she was able to be slain by Perseus.” You spoke up, approaching the quiet man in front of the Medusa statue.

The Greek section was your favorite in the museum, having painstakingly curated the pieces yourself.

You had wanted the exhibit to be engaging and eye-catching while retaining a storyline and educational aspect. You wanted people to learn that there is more than one story—and more than one side to every story—for each of the figures you displayed. You wanted people to want to know more about the mythos, to want to keep coming back to the exhibit.

You supposed it had worked since you had seen this same man meandering throughout your exhibit at least once a week for the past couple months.

While you tried to add new pieces or change out ones that didn’t seem to garner much attention after a while, the Medusa and Gorgon display was the one he constantly returned to. So you made sure to keep it around and updated. Truth be told, it was always one of your favorite displays as well.

The quiet man hummed in acknowledgement and glanced towards you. He had seen you buzzing around the museum every time he visited, although you tended to stick as close to the Greek section as you could—even if there was no one but him in it to help or answer questions for.

When he offered no other words, you nodded politely. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to bother or intrude. I’ve just noticed you in my exhibit a lot so I thought I would offer some discussion on a shared interest… My mistake…” You began to pass by, not wanting to annoy him.

“Your exhibit?” He questioned back, just as soft-spoken as you imagined.

To most, he wouldn’t seem so quiet. He was tall, towering over you even in your work heels, and extremely handsome. He was always well-dressed and seemed to carry himself fairly confidently.

What you had noticed, though, was that he shied away from eye contact, which was such a shame since he had such beautiful, blue eyes. He kept to himself, especially when the museum was busy or the exhibit was crowded, and made sure not to brush against or touch anyone. While he normally stood so tall above everyone, he seemed to cave in on himself when ignorant museum-goers would rudely comment on the Gorgons.

It was peculiar, his reactions, yet intriguing. Everything about him made you want to know him more, made you want to speak to him more. You hoped this minor interaction wouldn’t be the only one.

“Yes, I’m head of the Greek section here. So I curated the entire exhibit.” You hesitated before motioning towards the Medusa statue, “The Gorgons are actually one of my favorite stories in all of the mythos.”

He was a bit stunned. Obviously he had seen you each time he visited the museum, secretly admiring you from afar. But hearing that you were the one who had dedicated so much time into such an amazing exhibit… The passion you must hold for his own history… It made him admire you a bit more.

“Well, like I said, I didn’t mean to bother you so…” You mumbled at his silence, once again pulling away.

“You aren’t a bother!” He exclaimed, not wanting to see you walk away now that he had the chance to talk to you. “I’m sorry. I’m not– I just–” He huffed in obvious frustration with himself.

You giggled at his flusteredness. “My name is Y/N. It’s nice to meet a fellow Greek mythology enthusiast.”

“Soobin,” he offered with a small, grateful smile.

“My work day ends soon. Would you like to join me for coffee at the café so we can keep discussing the Medusa stories?”

Soobin’s pouty lips broke into a bright grin, eyes closing into crescents. “I would love that.”

🎃

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sor–” Soobin was panicking.

And as much as you wanted to comfort him, you were too stunned. The statue of the man harassing you stood stone-still, literally, in front of you. You couldn’t believe it.

“You turned him to stone…” You finally whispered; your words ripping a loud whimper out of the man as he curled further into himself, scratching at his eyes desperately. 

That snapped you out of it. You wrapped your arms gently around Soobin’s middle, pulling him up from where he was beginning to crouch and, and pushed his head into the crook of your neck. He was hunched awkwardly, but he clung to you regardless.

“Hey, hey, shhhh…” You soothed. “Whatever happened, we’ll figure it out together.”

What had happened was far from something you could just “figure out together.” In fact, you could hardly believe what had happened even once Soobin was calm and explained it to you.

Soobin was a Gorgon.

Or a descendant of one, apparently.

His abilities were in the same realm as his ancestral origins. He could turn mortals to stone. However, because of his own mortal blood, his ability was diluted. It wasn’t so strong that he had no control over it; it also didn’t last forever. The stone would crumble away from the man in a few weeks or so, and he would be unharmed and without memory of what happened—granted no one broke his statue form first.

That would kill him… Apparently.

Normally, Soobin had pretty good control over his ability, and it didn’t affect him too dramatically. It was the reason for his beautiful eye color, though; it was a physical manifestation of the Gorgon genetics. However, when Soobin would get overwhelmed or experience too strong of negative emotions, he risked losing control.

That’s what happened when he saw you being attacked. Apparently.

Soobin was supposed to meet you at your usual café for your fifth date, but he couldn’t wait to see you. He wanted to pick you up from work and walk with you those extra few blocks, just to get as much time with you as possible. He was smitten with you.

So, when he arrived at the back-alley that employees of the museum used to leave and saw you pushed against a wall with a man pulling at your blouse, Soobin lost it.

He had wrenched the man away from you, instinctively dodging the swing of a fist that came his way. Soobin had only meant to shove the guy away, maybe throw a punch or two, but his carefully reined in ability activated instead.

The man’s eyes widened when he could no longer move his legs; his mouth dropped open and he let out a confused, garbled shout, but the stone encased him quicker than he could call for help.

He was a heavy statue to move. That’s what really made the reality of Soobin’s existence sink in. That man that had harassed you, attacked you, tried to… He was really a stone statue now. Just like the ones in your exhibits.

🎃

Surprisingly, you moved past Soobin being a Gorgon rather quickly.

Some days you still couldn’t believe it, but then you just looked at him. He was beautiful. Striking and eye-catching. Of course he was a descendant of Medusa.

He didn’t know her, but he had heard family stories about her and her sisters passed down through the millenia.

According to his own family’s sayings, she was beautiful—way more than him, he claimed when you teased him about his own good-looks. She was beguiling and strong and was a mortal woman originally, turned into a creature with wings and snakes for hair. She had been attacked by a man too, no one is sure who; although, poets claimed it was Poseidon or Zeus; Soobin claimed his family never knew and that Medusa refused to tell anyone. But, unlike you, Medusa didn’t have anyone to protect her. Instead, she wept at the shrine of Athena, the same shrine she had been attacked on the steps of, and begged the goddess to protect her. Athena turned her into a woman who could protect herself instead.

“It might not be true…” Soobin explained, after telling you the story he had been told.

You shrugged, cuddling into your boyfriend’s side. “It’s wonderful anyway. You know I love the different stories, true or not. I want to hear every side.”