#new boulder same hill

[exileorexodus]

holy shit maybe i should just make art that idgaf about the quality or novelty of. like just shit thats basic as fuck but hey, i. actually enjoyed making it. like dude. ive never avoided drawing more in my life. eugh. like who cares if the anatomy and shape language and general skill level isnt up to par with professional animation major kids, im NOT one of them i dont Need to conform to those standards. need to stop holding myself to them because, like. idfk maybe i just LIKE to draw? like damn cant i just oc for my own benefit who cares if isnt some world rocking reality shaking eyecandy shit i just need my stupid ass morons to exist i just need to indulge my own brainrot without wanting to die while i do it

[minamill]

ty to the ppl who sent me music related asks, but they rly stress me out so i won't answer them. sorry <3

[604to647]

What Was I Made For?

3.1K / Frankenstein AU Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: Left on his own, Tim learns a new way to live.

Warnings: None! Age gap cause Tim’s like hundreds of years old 🤷🏻‍♀️😂 Semi-sentient woodland creatures that meddle, I guess 🤭

A/N: Inspired by @almostfoxglove’s beautiful AU moodboard below - if you haven't already, check out that post and the tags, along with all her other AU moodboards! Thank you so much for sharing them with us 🥹🥰

Title by Billie Eilish / Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always 🥰

For a very long time, Tim did not go outside during the daytime.

Father said not to.

And even though Father has been gone for many years, Tim still heeded his words.  His being the only voice Tim had ever heard.

He still doesn’t know why Father left.  He’s even less sure of why he never returned.

Merge Mansion remains dark, even during the day.  Its halls empty, its candelabras unlit.  If anyone was to pass through the ivy choked iron gates and listen at its door, and no one ever did, they would hear only the skittering of mice and the occasional heavy footstep, so slow and deliberate it could be mistaken for the heartbeat of a slowly dying house.

Only ever at night, Tim goes out to the woods behind the now dusty and crumbling mansion.  Those same woods where Father would have him lift, throw, break - repeatedly.  And Father would write furiously in his notebooks.  Tim thinks maybe that’s what he was made for.

For more years than can be counted, enough so that he passes into legend, Tim continues to do what he knows.  He uproots trees and plants and heaves them over knolls and into streams.  He rolls boulders and smashes rocks.  He haunts the forest alone until the dawn threatens to pierce through the thick overhang of the old growth trees; hiding within the moss-covered stone walls of the only home he’s ever known until night brings cover once again.

Until one night after so many nights, he just… doesn’t.  Instead of his nightly exertion to prove something to the darkness, Tim just sits and bathes in the pureness of the moonlight.  He breathes in the earthy musk of the forest’s damp soil and the sweet scent of pine mixed with bark sap.  Instead of his own laboured breathing, Tim finally hears the babbling of the brooks, the hooting of the owls, and soft breeze whistling between the low berry bushes and the high tree tops.  Tim doesn’t know if he was made to be at peace, but he finds that he can do it all the same.

He teaches himself to read.  At first using words Father would say and the signs he would point to in the room Tim lived in: Lock.  Unlock.  Hot.  Cold.  On.  Off.  Danger.  Stop.

Then from books about nature that he finds in the library, remembering words that Father would use to describe their surroundings when in the woods that Tim now knows so well.

Tree.  Rock.  Hill.  Hole.

It takes a very, very long time.  But Tim has nothing but time.

He’s not even sure if he’s doing it right - he has no one to ask.  Not that he could even if there was.  He says the words in his head the way he thinks they sound, but with no voice, never out loud.  He wasn’t made for that.

It’s no matter.  Even if he isn’t sure he’s sounding them out properly, Tim thinks he’s assigned the words to the pictures in the books of animals and landscapes correctly.  There are other books, as well.  Ones with illustrations that are foreign to him and where the words denote meaning that he doesn’t think he will ever understand, but he learns them anyways:  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  Love.

In his woods, Tim no longer destroys: he clears, builds, tends.  Tim carves out paths that feel softer on the bottoms of his lumbering feet.  He removes dead branches from healthy trunks and uses them to sweep the forest floor.  He rolls away dead trees, some fell by age or disease, others by his own hand in the olden days when he thought that was what he was made for.

He still only does these things under the cover of night.  Father had said to be afraid of the village at the bottom of the looming hill upon which Merge Mansion perched.  He warned Tim that if he was discovered, the villagers would come and hurt them both.  Tim wishes that he had known the words or had the voice to tell Father that he would have protected him.  That perhaps it was the villagers who should have been afraid of him. Father’s notebooks say that he was built to be fierce. 

The bunnies in the woods do not seem to think so.  Nor the foxes, or the badgers, or the mice.  The deer do not find Tim to be fearsome, and the birds readily to flock to him.

He supposes it’s because he starts to help them build their nests; his long legs easily carry him to the farthest corners of the woods where the best nesting materials can be gathered.  He volunteers his big, pawlike hands to dig their burrows and holes.  His strength he uses to drag logs and branches to where whole furry families reside, breaking the thick wood into smaller pieces to help them expand and fortify their homes for their growing broods and the incoming weather.  He’s tall enough to lift baby birds back into their nests when they fall out before they’re ready to fly.  He forages and shares all his bounty, himself having no need for sustenance. 

Tim would not mind if this is what he was made for.

The years continue to pass.  The village at the bottom of the hill gets less busy, smaller, and is eventually gone.  Tim only knows because he witnesses the number of tiny square windows illuminated by bright candles during the night, dwindle until there is only darkness.

From the now dilapidated walls of Merge Mansion, Tim watches as what remains of the village rots and is reclaimed by the Earth.  It looks less frightening to him the way it stands now, wild and lush - much more like his beloved forest where he’s only ever known friendly creatures.

It’s the bunnies who convince him to come out in the daytime. 

It had been an especially abundant year for the rabbits, with baby bunnies almost overrunning the forest floor.  The mamas plead with Tim using their big brown eyes to help round up their little ones and keep them safe, making sure none of them strayed too far from the safety of the woods.

Little bunnies are hard to see in the dark.

The first time Tim steps outside during the day, he’s so blinded by the sky’s brightness that he thinks perhaps his eyes were not made for sunlight.  His forest is so green in the daytime.  A richness of browns with the occasional pop of red, blue, even lavender.  In the winters, the snow is so white during the day it appears almost clear.  Once the snow has melted, the streams splash with fish that jump during the day – something that never happens at night.  The sun’s beams warm Tim’s rough skin in a way the moon’s cold, comfortable ambiance never has.  The sounds of the forest are so much louder, cheerier in the day than they are at night – it strikes Tim as odd given it’s the same forest but he supposes he feels more alive during the day as well.

The deer are the ones that lead him out of the forest and to the front of the house.  The overgrown grass on the Merge Mansion hill begs to be grazed on, and with the village gone, Tim and the deer while away many days unseen and unbothered amongst the soft green blades – looking out to a splendid view of rolling plains and sprawling forests stretching all the way to the horizon.  He never strays far from the house - still heeding Father’s words of caution even though the dangers he warned against look to be long gone.

Tim doesn’t even know that another village has sprung up somewhere on the other side of a low mountain that he considers to be more than a fair distance away until you.  The first time he sees you, you’re but a little girl and you come with your own father to the cemetery that rests at the bottom of his hill, where it once bordered the old village.  The same cemetery from which Father gathered the parts that make up Tim as he is, if Father’s notebooks are to be believed.  The deer scamper away before you or your father see them, but Tim stays and hides, watches.

He hears your father tell you that these graves belong to your ancestors who once lived in the old village that’s now gone and that even though you live on the other side of the mountain, you should still pay your respects.  Tim listens to your cheery chatter and the hum of your father’s merry tunes as the two of you clean the gravestones, pull the weeds, plant fresh gardens.

You and your father come every week and Tim begins to look forward to it.  He watches you grow into a beautiful woman and your father into an old man.  He listens to the musical lilt of your voice and the gentle teasing of your father as the two of you care for and nurture the plot of land at the base of the Merge Mansion Hill so that it grows vibrant and fragrant with flowers that he’s only ever seen in Father’s books.  He hears your father tell you stories he heard as a child about the house that Tim lives in – the legend of a mad scientist and a terrible monster.  Tim doesn’t know why, but he feels relief when you laugh at these stories and call them ridiculous.

When your father stops coming with you, Tim watches over you in his stead.  You continue to do your duty in the cemetery joyfully and your sweetness is like an invitation.  The bunnies and the foxes and the mice and the deer all come down to join you.  You laugh and share your food with them and they enjoy your company as much as you do theirs.  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  He thinks he finally understands.  When his furry friends turn their soulful eyes up to the house, Tim knows they’re looking to him to come down but he shakes his head no.  He’s not made for this.

He doesn’t know that you see him anyways.

You’ve known he was there since the days you would come to this cemetery with your father as a little girl.  Most times as just a shadow on the Merge Mansion grounds, but once or twice you had seen Tim’s handsome, haunted face in one of the cracked windows.

You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence.  As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.

So, you try to make yourself to be as nonintimidating as possible.  You wear soft flowing fabrics that lie prettily over your equally soft skin in pleasing colours that compliment the hue of your hair and the brightness of your eyes.  You keep your voice gentle and the sound of your notes harmonious when you sing or hum your favourite songs of love and fantasy.  When your father tells you the old stories of the Merge Mansion Monster, you make sure to loudly decry this characterization.  Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.

Your woodland friends who proclaim to know him best seem to say, give him time.  So you do, waiting patiently for a sign.  For what?  You don’t know.  Just a sign for more.

It comes one summer day, many, many years after your weekly trips to the cemetery became solo trips.  For two weeks, you’ve been in a state of mild panic, unable to find the delicate gold chain necklace that your father gave you - his last gift to you before he passed.  A part of you fears that it may have come unclasped and dropped onto the path some time during your weekly trip to the Merge Mansion cemetery; your heart clenches – if that was the case, your treasured necklace is surely lost.

Your surprise when you find your necklace waiting for you on top of a gravestone next to a small tied bundle of lavender is palpable.  Your eyes threaten to overflow with tears as you look up the hill to the house and mouth, thank you.

You don’t know that you had actually lost your necklace next to this very gravestone and that one of your bluebird friends had carried it up to Tim in its beak.  Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required.  He refers to the instructions in the book he found so many times he can see the diagrams in his sleep.  But he keeps trying until he gets it right – wanting to offer you something more than just your returned necklace as a token of his appreciation for all the work you do.  Holding the delicate chain in his oversized hand, he can’t stop looking at it glittering in the moonlight and admiring its intricate craftsmanship.  It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  Well, second.

The next week, Tim discovers a large and fragrant bouquet of the cemetery’s best and biggest blooms laid outside of his iron gates.

Three weeks later, on the same gravestone, you find those flowers dried and pressed, then laced together in a pretty flower crown.

You weave your own from new fresh flowers and leave it in place of the dried one you take home.  The following week, the crown you made is gone, and in its place, a large pile of fresh wild berries that must come from the forest behind the mansion.

The squirrels had objected, but Tim promised that the reduction of berries from their weekly hoard would be for a good cause.  You helped prove him right the following week when he returned from the hill with a jar of wild berry jam which he happily shared.

This continues for months.  Each week a small, thoughtful trinket exchanged - neither you or Tim having much to offer except your consideration and time.  The giddy anticipation and resulting awe a gift in itself.

The day you bring a blanket that took you six weeks to knit, you’re imbued with a bravery (the source of which is unknown even to you) that brings you all the way to Tim’s doorstep.  The heavy door opens when you push against it, but no one answers when you call out.

While Tim is in the woods assisting with the birth of a newborn deer, you’re wandering the dark, musty halls of Merge Mansion.  You find where you think Tim must sleep: in a room that looks like a lab - electrical wire equipment, gurneys, restraints and medical utensils long since pushed against the walls of the room and abandoned.

You read the notebooks left behind by the scientist and seethe on Tim’s behalf.  To call him a Creature!  To experiment on him and put him through trials of endurance and strength as if he was merely an instrument for violence!  You’re grateful that Tim’s creator must be long dead by now, else he might not be able to escape the vitriol you feel rising in your chest at the mistreatment Tim endured at his hand.

You leave the blanket and the mansion in a hurry.

When Tim comes back into the house, he knows immediately that you were there.  He smells you.  The sweet floral perfume from your garden and the sticky scent of fruit from your jams hangs in the air.  Nothing in this house or the forest smells quite so lovely.  You were here. 

With growing distress, he finds your thoughtful gift in the room where he sleeps and knows that you’ve read Father’s notebooks.  You know the truth of what he is now.  He’ll never see you again.

But you come back.

You leave him a letter and for three weeks, he reads it every day. 

It’s a letter that tells him about yourself and your family, and how you came to be his weekly visitor.  You tell him how you’ve always known he’s been there but you were afraid to scare him away so you never let on that you saw him.  You tell him that now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you’re not quite so angry at Father but you do think that he didn’t understand Tim’s true nature, or perhaps, you concede, he simply wasn’t gifted enough time to understand. 

You tell him what you think of his nature.  In your experience, men who are strong are rarely gentle and those who harness power are hardly ever giving.  But Tim is.  His hands, arms and muscles may be sewn together from much lesser men, but he, Tim, wields his strength to protect and look after others.  His heart may not be able to pull down trees or break rock, but it’s tender and pure – and where his true power lies.

You write that even though you’ve never met him face to face, you only ever feel safe and cared for knowing he’s around.  And you hope that even if he never forgives you for trespassing in his home and going through his personal belongings without his permission, he will take your words to heart.

Every week you come back to the doors of Merge Mansion bearing a small gift and a big apology, but Tim is nowhere to be found.  You’re starting to fear that you’ve crossed an unforgiveable boundary and ruined your indescribable but cherished connection, when the most wonderous sight awaits you as you near the top of the hill nearly a month after you left your letter.

Tim. 

Impossibly large and broad, a hulk of a man is sitting on the front steps waiting for you.  His face is hard, lined from time and worry, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable.  You see some trace of old scars along his forehead and neck, and down the worn skin that stretches over the corded muscles of his forearms.  His clothes are outdated and entirely the wrong size, but somehow it works on him.  He looks formidable.  Wild, yet tame.  Handsome.

You run to him, beaming.  Tim stands when you come to a stop in front of him, towering over you as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the forest lands behind his home that he tends to so carefully.

When you reach out to accept, your small fingers brush his larger calloused ones, and the jolt of electricity that passes between the two of you feels like pure joy.  And although Tim can only offer a quiet grunt, unable to say the words that he wishes he could sing with his whole chest, you understand him perfectly.  Your incandescent smile and hopeful expression reassure him that you too, recognize the simple, unspoken truth: Tim was made for you.

🎶Obligatory Billie Eilish, What Was I Made For lyrics🎶:

'Cause I, 'cause I I don't know how to feel But I wanna try I don't know how to feel But someday I might Someday I might

Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be Something I wait for Something I'm made for Something I'm made for

[metalhoops]

Inspired by this post

Steve had watched the world end a hundred different ways. He’d lived the same day more times than he could count, watching the people he loved die or feeling himself die. There were things worse than death. There were memories he didn’t dredge up for fear of calling them into the waking world.

He'd held onto hope for the first twenty recurrent days, which had dwindled to a sense of steely determination until he’d lost count of the days. Then all that was left was the comfort of repetition. He was Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill, day in and day out. Steve kept trying and failing to save Eddie until it was all he knew.

Maybe he was Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods and spent his life paying for it, tied to a rock while birds picked at his liver, only for it to grow back with each morning. Prometheus whose name, by definition, means forethought; one’s ability to consider possible futures. Steve had spent a small lifetime considering futures. It wasn’t a comparison he would’ve made on his own. That was Eddie, who’d spent his childhood with his head in thick tomes of fantasy and mythology.

Eddie Munson came to him like cheap furniture, in crudely disassembled pieces that Steve had been working tirelessly to put together. Each new loop brought him another piece of Eddie. His favourite colour was blue. He only woke up early on weekends to watch cartoons. He liked too much cream in his coffee.

The Eddie that existed in a world where Steve stayed with him and Dustin during the swarm of bats had told Steve his biggest dream was to make enough money to buy Uncle Wayne a proper home. His biggest fear was that when he died, no one would remember him.

Days or months later, with Steve repeating the same damn day, he’d finally learnt why Eddie’s love for his uncle ran so deep. Wayne had taken him in before his dad went to jail when the man caught Eddie holding another boy’s hand. In that world, Steve had stayed with Eddie in the RV as the rest of the group searched War Zone.  

Eddie’s mother died when he was six. He’d told Steve that later, or earlier. Steve had and has lost his sense of past and present. Eddie loved his mother deeply, though was unsure if that love had been misplaced. He recalled two mothers, one who read him bedtime stories and threw herself around the kitchen each morning with her wild theatrics and another mother who was distant and whose temper could turn on a dime. Eddie wasn’t sure which of those mothers was his and which was the mother of memory. All good storytellers know the story shapes itself in the retelling. Eddie’s mother was Janus, god of duality.

Steve understood. He loved and hated his parents. These feelings weren’t mutually exclusive. Steve loved Eddie because he’d spent the last hundred-odd days getting to know him, but Steve hated Eddie because he kept dying. Until he didn’t.

The boys lay side by side in the red-blue soil of The Upside Down, their bleeding sides caked with mud and demonic bat viscera. In the end, Steve wasn’t sure what’d done it. It’d been so long since he’d lived Eddie’s original death that it’d been smeared by the haze of memory and conjecture. All he knew was that a sea of bats lay dead around them and that it was over. Finally, over.

Steve removed his hand from where it was pressed into his side and extended it to ensnare Eddie’s. He felt muscles tug and tear from the walls of his ribs with the effort. Blood flowed freely from the cavity, but Steve didn’t care. He wanted to hold Eddie’s hand. Holy shit, they’d done it.

Somewhere along the way, Steve had fallen in love. It’d taken him ten more iterations to reconcile with the fact he could not only like a man but love him.  That was months ago, in Steve’s time. It was old news. “Steve, you still with me?” Eddie asked, his voice horse.

He was hurt, though not as badly as Steve. All his wounds were superficial. He’d be okay. Steve had been so sick of watching Eddie die, he’d been willing to put his body on the line to make sure it didn’t happen again.

In this loop, he was still ‘Steve’, not ‘Stevie’. They hadn’t grown close enough yet. Eddie only called him ‘sweetheart’ in the iterations where they kissed. Steve wanted to kiss him, but there was the taste of iron in his mouth.

“I’m okay,” Steve insisted, squeezing Eddie’s hand. He felt a sharp pain shoot through his side as Eddie pressed his hand into Steve’s wound.

“Christ, there’s a lot of blood,” Eddie muttered to himself. 

He was bad with blood. He’d scraped his knee down to the bone when he was seven and ever since, the sight of gore made him queasy. Steve wasn’t meant to know that yet. In this iteration, he hadn’t told Eddie about the loop. He’d tried before, but it never helped.

Pain and blood loss drag Steve down into a familiar oblivion. He expected to wake at the beginning of the loop, emerging in The Upside Down from Lover’s Lake, but instead, he found himself in a hospital room with Eddie in a bed by his side. It was late, too late for visitors, but Eddie wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were trained on Steve, equal parts concerned and curious.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Eddie confessed, as Steve’s eyes met his. 

Steve wanted to cry or scream. He wanted to untangle himself from the knot of cords and tubes to crawl beside Eddie in bed as they had curled up together in the back of the RV dozens of times before. He needed to hold Eddie to know he was alive, to understand he wasn’t going anywhere. Steve blinked away tears, balling his hands into fists. He didn’t want to scare Eddie.

“I scared you?” Steve choked out a mixture between a laugh and a sob.

Eddie didn’t know what to do. He never knew what to do when people cried. Steve learned that in the iteration where they’d lost Dustin. He didn’t want to think about it.  

“You almost died, man,” Eddie explained.

He somehow understood Steve wanted him closer. Eddie got out of bed, clutching his I.V. drip as he flopped into the chair by Steve’s bedside. He wanted to hold Eddie’s hand again, but he was out of excuses. He could tell him the truth, but he didn’t know what good it would do.

Steve was still used to thinking of possible futures. He was Prometheus who, unlike Sisyphus, escaped his torment. Steve wondered what happened to Prometheus after he was rescued. Did he return to a normal life? Does anyone bother to ask? Prometheus’ story is always about punishment. Afterwards, he was a footnote in the story of Hercules, but once the heroes leave the story, what’s left?

Eddie would know the answer, but it wasn’t a conversation he’d had with this Eddie. That Eddie was dead. This Eddie was and wasn’t him. This Eddie was Janus, god of abstract duality, god of beginnings and ends, god of life and death.

“Sorry my lame-ass face is the first one you had to see. Robin and the kids were in here all day. Wheeler left flowers,” Eddie tacked on awkwardly.

This Eddie didn’t know Steve. They were strangers. Of course, things were awkward. He couldn’t know he was the one person Steve wanted to see more than anything.

“No, Ed’s—.” Slip of the tongue.

“Eddie. I’m really glad you’re here, man.”

They were back to square one, but Steve could work with that. He’d been working with that for months. This time, Eddie would remember. This time, they had the luxury of taking things slow.

“One thing’s been bugging me all day,” Steve began.

After hundreds of days of getting to know Eddie, Steve had learnt a few shortcuts, a few ways to jump-start his way into Eddie’s heart.

“Can you explain what the hell Mordor is?”

It was a tried-and-true method. By that point, Steve knew Eddie’s response off by heart, but he wanted to hear him say it. Eddie gave him the same perplexed look he always did when Steve asked. It was as though Eddie thought he knew too much like there was some secret he wasn’t letting him in on, but he didn’t challenge Steve on it. He never did.

“Harrington, have you heard of Lord of the Rings?” Yes.

“No.” A million times.

“Tell me about it.”

Read Part 2 Here

[yuesya]

Visitors from other lands were a rare sight in the territories of Mondstadt. Not to the point where it was unheard of, but quite an unusual occurrence nonetheless.

Understandably so. According to the legends, the result of the conflict between the Great Wolf-king and the Lord of the Tower was a drastic transformation of the surrounding landscape, including the weather. Rolling hills of lush, verdant greenery turned into endless fields of rime and snow, as the very earth was frozen underfoot. The God of Storms had responded to this by raising high, impenetrable barriers of fierce winds to keep the unnatural winter at bay and protect their people.

Ever since, eternal howling winds have surrounded Mondstadt’s borders.

No beast from the Wolf-god’s kingdom could cross the impenetrable barrier and encroach upon Mondstadt’s territory. Yet at the same time, the storm-winds also served as heavy deterrence to any prospective travelers from other lands. Those rare visitors who found themselves in Mondstadt were few in number, and rarely ever stayed for long before vanishing from the city.

(Coincidence? Unlikely. It was much more probable that someone didn’t want the people of Mondstadt to have contact with the outside world, and the only one who could give an order like that and have it unhesitatingly obeyed would be–)

“What do you mean, ‘vanish?’”

Ventus pauses. His little friend, Barbatos, peers up at him curiously.

“Well, ‘vanish’ might not be the right word for it,” Ventus hums. “It’s more like, ‘discreetly escorted out by the Knights,’ and usually they’re never seen again. Which makes sense, if we’re thinking about how–”

“I’m not interrupting anything here, am I?”

“Gunnhildr!” The wind spirit zips over, tumbling over the shoulder of the blonde-haired girl entering the room.

“Hello, Barbatos,” the young woman smiles, then turns towards Ventus. “I managed to convince my father to let me borrow the clan records you were asking about.”

Ventus’ eyes widen at the piece of good news, “Then, does that mean…?”

“My father agrees that something needs to change, for Mondstadt, and has promised to support our efforts,” Gunnhildr smiles, and there is a steely fire that burns behind her eyes. “Resources run thin within the barrier. There is only so much that can be done without consistent trade or expansion of new territories, and in order for either of that to happen…”

“The barrier needs to go,” Ventus murmurs quietly.

“Don’t let any of the Knights catch you saying that,” Gunnhildr warns.

“I know, I know.” The majority of Decarabian’s knights are from the Imunlaukr Clan. Although the Imunlaukrs were the youngest of the noble lines, they were also fiercely loyal to the Lord of the Tower. They saw the wind barrier as a blessing–

And perhaps it was, in the beginning. But literal hundreds of years have passed since then, and Mondstadt cannot remain cut off from the world forever.

“Here,” Gunnhildr passes him a worn-down book, one that’s remarkably well-preserved, despite its age. “This is my clan’s records of the founding of Mondstadt. You can see it recorded here –Lord Decarabian saved my ancestors from a monstrous beast that had been killing humans for sport. Afterwards, my clan settled in this area. The Hunter proceeded to kill any and all beasts and created a haven for humanity…”

A haven, which eventually turned into a cage.

Ventus flips through the pages slowly, Barbatos peering curiously from over his shoulder. Obligingly, Ventus tilts the book towards his little friend who’s reading alongside him.

… The God of Storms, He who bears the appearance of a youthful man, with hair as black as night-spun darkness and eyes as clear as the blue sky; the winds rise at His command, and thus were the heavy boulders used in the construction of Mondstadt’s first buildings carried down from the mountain kingdom of Sal Vindagnyr…

… flowers. The Cecilia Garden was originally constructed in tribute to the Lord of the Tower, yet He cares not for frivolity. Not once has He ever deigned to visit the garden, but every year the most resplendent blooms shall be gathered in offering to the God of Storms…

… so was the Prince of Wolves slain at last, and vengeance claimed for the Gale Knights who fought bravely in defense of their people. But there are those who express concern, for the Dominator of Wolves, the King of Beasts, shall surely retaliate for the death of a beloved child, and long have beasts feared the Great Hunter who brings death upon the winds for those who trespass on Mondstadt’s lands…

…

“My father said… my clan owes a great debt to Lord Decarabian. All of Mondstadt does, really. No one knows why he’s fallen silent, but… if there’s any way of getting a proper audience, then perhaps…”

It might not be the solution to their problems and concerns, but it would be a good starting point. Ventus exhales slowly.

Decarabian. The Lord of the Tower, God of Storms, the Great Hunter.

Stories have always painted him in the role of a savior, of a caring god who loved his people and had worked tirelessly to keep them safe. It didn’t exactly match up with the current reality of a tyrant who ignored the cries of his people, which meant…

… well, Ventus wasn’t sure about what this meant, exactly. But there were most assuredly missing pieces of the puzzle here –and Ventus intended to find them all.

He had to. For Mondstadt, and for freedom.

For the future.

“There are only a select few among the Gale Knights who’ve met Decarabian in person,” Ventus starts slowly, “The Knight-Captain Kairos Imunlaukr should be one of them, right?”

“It would be difficult to secure a meeting with him,” Gunnhildr frowns. “Unless I use my father’s influence, of course, but…”

“But that’s unlikely to get us a good impression.” More likely, if anything that Ventus has heard about Captain Imunlaukr was true, then they’d earn the man’s ire instead. Which would not be conducive towards anything whatsoever.

“What if we just ask Cecilia?”

Ventus blinks. Cecilia? The mysterious wind spirit who’d appeared out of nowhere that night and helped them, before vanishing again just as swiftly… “Wait, you’re in touch with her?”

Barbatos turns a little lazy loop in the air. “Nope!”

“Uh…”

“But maybe she’ll hear us if we ask nicely?” The young wind spirit giggles. “We could also play a few songs, too, just to make sure we catch her attention!”

Ventus finds himself smiling fondly, “Just admit it, you want a chance to play songs together again.”

Well, it’s certainly an idea. Ventus doesn’t know what role that Cecilia plays in Mondstadt, but… a wind spirit of her power, who was also older than Barbatos and had clearly been around Mondstadt longer... was much likelier to know what was going on with Decarabian, right? Ventus would also appreciate getting the chance to meet her again –and ideally, actually talk to her this time.

I think she needs friends.

… If all else failed, then they’d just have to attempt to ambush the Knight-Captain while he was off-duty, after a night of music and singing and attempting to befriend a standoffish wind spirit who was the opposite of Barbatos in personality. No biggie.

[billlydear]

hi, can i request a hurt/comfort fic where reader is struggling with family problems (maybe like billy or maybe something different) and they’re kind of a jerk like billy too? but then something happens that breaks them down and he just so happens to be there and he actually helps them deal with it. if you’ve already written something like this then i’m sorry, i’m new here 😅 but i love your writing and i’m excited to read more 💓

GOT A LIGHT? - BILLY HARGROVE X READER

W.C 1948 - INBOX (please request !) - GIF CREDIT TO OWNER

A/N: ohh my god i'm sorry i went MIA for like two weeks!! more to come soon, i promise <3 warnings: mentions of abuse, reader is abused similar to billy, they smoke together, angst, angst with a happy ending (? maybe hopeful, not happy 😅)

He's in his car when it happens. It's late, past 2AM, which is why he supposes your mother sees no problem opening the door and shoving you out. You trip over the porch step when she pushes you, landing hard on your ass on the concrete while she looms over you.

"Find somewhere to stay for the night," She seethes, spitting mad, "Because you're not welcome here."

He's suspected it for a while. Anger like the stuff inside of him, anger like the stuff he's seen ooze out of you, that doesn't happen for no reason. He's disappointed but not surprised to watch you fall, staying concealed in the darkness of his car as he watches from across the street.

You don't even try to get up, and Billy knows exactly how you feel. Sometimes, when you're knocked on your ass, you don't get back up. You're a modern day Sisyphus, and the boulder's rolled back down your hill one too many times. He decides to help you push.

He doesn't want you to startle if he slams the door to his car, so he leaves it open. Under any other circumstances, he'd close and lock it, watching from the other side of the street to make sure no one even breathes near it. But it's in the back of his mind as he crosses the street to your house, the slightly chilled night air nipping at his bare, toned arms.

He stops behind you, boots scraping slightly against the pavement. You don't dare look at him, you know who he is. There's only one person across the street that would be out at 2AM, and he's the last person you want to see.

"Come sit in my car," He murmurs, keeping his voice low in case your mom can hear from inside.

"Fuck off." You keep your eyes down, still turned away from him and splayed over the pavement. You're propped up on your elbows, and Billy sees one of them slowly staining the ground red.

"You can sleep in the backseat if you want," He presses on, ignoring your hostility the way no one ever ignores his, "I'll pass out in the front and keep the heater running."

"Fuck. off."

"I'm not allowed inside tonight either," Billy finally admits, "My dad and your mom took the same parenting class."

You're quiet, and Billy knows you're thinking about it. Thinking about all the times you've seen him threaten to blow, all the times you've heard the whistle of his teapot before it boiled over, all the times he lingers on the street too late to be casual.

"I have a first aid kit under the seat." Billy looks at the red-stained concrete, "And you can bum my cigarettes."

It's a peace offering. It's all a peace offering, a confirmation that there's someone else like him out there, and he'll be damned if he lets you slip through his fingers. He's spent enough time hiding from everyone that could never understand, and now that he knows someone can, he can finally talk. He can finally feel, he can finally relate, he can finally live.

Everything hinges on this. He can't keep doing this, he can't keep spending cold nights on the front steps or sneaking to the kitchen for an ice pack to put over his ribs. He can't do it alone, and you're the only one that can help him. He feels his heart beating out of his chest, pounding in his ears and pooling blood near his feet where they're bent against the sidewalk. His thighs are burning from how long he's been squatting, but he'd rather die than give up and walk away.

He uses your silence to mentally heal your wounds. He thinks about bandaging your fingers, disinfecting your cuts with a thin, pale antiseptic wipe that'll burn his own abrasions. He fantasizes about the simple act of sharing a cigarette with a friend, and you seem to share his thoughts.

"You- uh, you got a light?"

He knows that surrender. He knows the witty quip, the emotionally-distant snark meant to change the subject and disguise hurt for indifference. It's why he doesn't demand a 'Thank you,' because the way you look back at him is enough of one. You let him help you off the ground, and support half of your weight when the knee you'd tweaked gives you trouble. He helps you hobble back to his car, and he even shuffles you into the driver's seat to get you in quick and easy, where the door is still open. No one else has ever sat in the driver's seat of his car.

"I'll get the first aid kit," He murmurs, "Take a smoke."

He hears you wrestle with the pack of cigarettes he'd left on the center console while he digs around in the backseat for his first aid kit. When he gets back with the little plastic box there's one between your lips unlit, and he remembers your earlier question.

"Here," He fumbles in his pocket for his lighter. He yanks it out, sparking it until a flame roars to life. He holds it against your unlit cigarette, watching as the embers form and glow in the dark.

"Thanks," You mumble, and he nods while reaching for your hands. They're scraped and raw, blood dark in the creases of your fingers but light over your palms like you'd formed a fist and bunched it up there. There's rocks in your cuts from the concrete of your front steps, and he picks it out with his fingernails, crimson gathering under them that, for once, isn't his own.

You hiss as he pulls a particularly rough rock from its spot, and he fights not to acknowledge it. He doesn't want you to feel weak, so he keeps picking until your hands are gravel-free. He's far too good at wrapping wounds for an 18 year-old, but neither of you comment on it. He knows you are, too.

"There," He keeps your hands in his own, only a thin layer of gauze separating his skin from yours. He only moves his hands to pluck the cigarette from between your lips with one, and you blow smoke out of the side of your mouth instead of in his face as a thank-you.

"You sleep in here?" You raise an eyebrow, and he throws a scathing glance at his house.

"Sometimes. Only when my dad's having a bad night."

"So all of them," You scoff, "I've seen you out here before. I was gonna-" You pause, scoffing, then bury your face in your bandaged hands, scrubbing it clean of something Billy's sure is vulnerability. He takes a drag from your cigarette while you hesitate.

"I was gonna come out and ask if you were okay," You grumble from inside your protective shell, "But I- I dunno, I try not to be out here at night if I don't have to be."

"You don't know if they'll let you back in," Billy mumbles, nodding while funneling smoke out of the corner of his mouth, "I get it."

You nod, then shiver. Billy suddenly remembers he's still crouched on asphalt and not safe inside, because a cigarette and a friend concoct warmth he's never known before. He pats your knee, then stands, "I'll crank up the heater."

It's weird being in the passenger's seat of his own car. He's been in there to clean, scrape mud from the wheels of Max's skateboard off of the floor while he curses her under his breath. But it's different settling in the seat, head leaning back against the headrest while you shut the driver's side door. Silence envelops the car, and Billy clicks the lights on so that you've got a warm glow cast over you.

"Thanks for the cigarette," You take it back from him when he offers it to you, "That's what- uh, that's why I was out there. My mom found mine."

"My dad doesn't care," Billy spits, grateful for the freedom but doomed by the negligence, "I think he'll be glad if I die of lung cancer so he doesn't have to kill me himself."

You snort, and he's so glad you don't apologize. There's a certain familiarity that the two of you can speak with, you don't have to preface anything with 'okay, this is kind of dark, but-' or 'can i tell you something personal?'. You both have the same lives, and conversation clicks into place like puzzle pieces.

He wonders when the last time you got to relax was, as you sink into the seat. Your shoulders aren't tense and your eyes drift shut, both things that seem impossible for Billy in his own home. He suspects it's the same for you, which is why he doesn't lament the night ending so soon.

He wants to say goodnight to you, like a friend would. He wants to pretend he's at a sleepover on your floor, like your mom had brought you two cookies an hour ago, and now you're playing cards in your sleeping bags. He wants to pretend things are normal, that you're kids hopped up on sugar and giggles, not teenagers on nicotine and despair.

But the scent of smoke fills his car, and there are bandages on your hands. So he waits for your breathing to even out, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest in time with the seconds that slip away from your last encounter with your family. In, out, in, out, further and further away from the horrors in your house.

Only when he's absolutely certain you're asleep does he dare speak, and his voice is barely anything above a whisper, raspy and cautious.

"Goodnight," He murmurs, because he feels incomplete shutting his eyes without saying it. He keeps his head turned towards you as he sleeps, legs splayed open as he slumps against the seat behind him. He's almost afraid to go to sleep, on high alert to make sure that nothing can steal away his opportunity. Making sure the lights in his house are still off, that his dad won't give up and push him back into the house in case the neighbors see him sleeping in his car. He's busy making sure your lights aren't on either, that your mother doesn't storm over and demand that her child be released from the young man's car. And he's making sure you don't slip out yourself, like you're a puff of smoke that could vanish if he puts too much faith in you.

But eventually, his eyes slip shut and don't open again for hours. He goes to sleep with a friend in his car, and he wakes up with one, too. There's light streaming through the windshield, and the car is more than warm because of it. There's birds chirping, there's people walking their dogs, there's chatter over backyard fences, and there's you.

You're flipping through a book of postcards that he keeps in the driver's side door, all of California's scenic spots. Your fingers are brushing over his favorite now, the beaches along the coast that he'd swore to surf clean across. You glance over at him when he shifts in his seat, and you bite the inside of your cheek before breaking the silence.

"Morning," You mumble, averting your eyes to the postcard in your lap, "These are.. these are really pretty."

"Yeah they are," Billy rasps, morning voice in full effect, "Prettier in person, though."

"I'll have to go sometime, then." You hum, and Billy's decided before you flip to the next page that he'll be the one to take you.

[successblueprints]

Discipline is one of those things we all know we need, but rarely talk about in a real, no-nonsense way. It’s not about perfection or having everything figured out—it’s about how we show up, especially when things get tough. In this piece, we're cutting through the noise and breaking down some practical, grounded strategies for building and maintaining discipline in everyday life. No fluff, just straightforward advice you can actually use. Think of it as baby steps toward a more disciplined life—small actions that add up over time. Whether it’s pushing through challenges, setting clear limits, or learning how to embrace failure, these insights will help you take control of your mindset and habits, one manageable step at a time. Let’s dive in.

1. Embracing Learning

The idea here is to go beyond just surface-level knowledge. Think about it like this: you don’t just study to pass a test—you study because the information could be crucial when you least expect it. It’s like being the mechanic who knows every part of an engine, not for show, but because one day that knowledge might be the key to solving a real problem.

How I’d use this:I’m not going to just cram facts. I’ll take time to understand the material deeply so it sticks, especially in subjects where real understanding matters long-term, like chemistry or biology.

2. Becoming the Character

Instead of looking up to characters or people who seem to have it all together, what if you just became that person? It’s like putting on a new mindset, the same way you’d wear a suit that makes you feel more confident. You act the part until it’s real.

How I’d use this:When I’m feeling unsure or unmotivated, I’ll flip the switch and act like I’m already the disciplined, focused version of myself. It’s about adopting the mentality, even if I don’t feel it yet.

3. Honest Conversations

We often dodge the truth about where we’re slipping. But nothing changes until you face it. The sooner you admit to yourself that you’ve been cutting corners, the sooner you can fix it. It’s like finally cleaning out a messy room—it’s tough to start, but afterward, everything flows better.

How I’d use this:Next time I catch myself skipping workouts or studying less than I know I should, I’ll stop and call myself out. No more pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.

4. Overcoming Adversity (Sisyphus Mentality)

Think of discipline like pushing a heavy boulder up a hill, knowing it might roll back down tomorrow. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a daily choice. You either keep pushing or let the boulder flatten you.

How I’d use this:When things get overwhelming, like with exams or back-to-back assignments, I’ll focus on just moving forward. One task at a time, knowing every little push counts.

5. Embracing the Furnace (Let’s Skip the Dungeon)

Instead of shying away from challenges, face them head-on. It’s like stepping into a furnace where you get refined, not burned. The more time you spend dealing with hard things, the stronger you get. Avoiding discomfort only holds you back from leveling up.

How I’d use this:When I’m avoiding something tough—whether it’s a hard concept in class or just dragging myself to the gym—I’ll remind myself that pushing through now makes everything easier later.

6. Friction and Greatness

Every day starts with friction, that resistance that keeps you in bed or makes you procrastinate. That resistance doesn’t just disappear. The trick is to recognize it’s always there, but every time you push past it, you get a little stronger.

How I’d use this:Next time I feel like avoiding a workout or putting off a difficult study session, I’ll push through the friction, knowing that every time I do, it gets a bit easier.

7. Embracing Failure

Failure isn’t the end—it’s part of the process. Think of it like learning to ride a bike. You’re going to fall, scrape your knees, and maybe even get frustrated, but that’s how you learn. Without those failures, you’ll never figure out how to balance.

How I’d use this:If I mess up a quiz or struggle with a new concept, I won’t dwell on it. Instead, I’ll treat it as feedback, figure out what went wrong, and try again.

8. Set Clear Limits

Knowing your limits isn’t about being lazy; it’s about being smart. If you try to run full speed every day, you’ll burn out. It’s like running a marathon—you need to pace yourself to make it to the end without collapsing halfway through.

How I’d use this:I’ll stop glorifying overwork. Instead, I’ll set manageable study sessions and take breaks when I need them so I can keep going strong in the long run.

9. Declare Your Limits

Once you know what you can handle, it’s important to communicate that to others. It’s like drawing a line in the sand, setting boundaries so you don’t overcommit and end up exhausted.

How I’d use this:When I feel overloaded, I’ll be honest about it and set boundaries with myself and others. No more saying yes to everything just to prove I can handle it.

10. Prevent Overexertion

Whether it’s at the gym or in your studies, overexertion doesn’t help anyone. Going too hard too fast is how you end up injured, either physically or mentally. The key is to build gradually and pace yourself.

How I’d use this:When I’m tempted to do a marathon study session, I’ll pull back and focus on balance. No need to kill myself over one day’s work—steady progress is what counts.

11. Find Passionate Work

If you’re not passionate about what you’re doing, discipline becomes a grind. But when you care about something, discipline becomes easier. It’s not about forcing yourself to grind—it’s about genuinely wanting to put in the effort.

How I’d use this:I’ll focus more on the parts of my studies I’m actually excited about. That way, I’m working hard because I want to, not because I have to.

12. Clear Goal Setting

Without clear goals, you’re just wandering around aimlessly. Goals act like a map, keeping you on track. The clearer and more specific your goals, the easier it is to know what you’re working toward.

How I’d use this:Instead of vague goals like “study chemistry,” I’ll break it down into something actionable like “review 3 chapters” or “complete 10 equations.” It keeps me focused.

13. Routine Development

Discipline becomes easier when it’s part of your routine. Think of it like brushing your teeth—you don’t debate whether or not to do it, you just do. Building a routine takes the guesswork out of discipline.

How I’d use this:I’ll create a daily study routine so it becomes automatic. Same time, same place every day—no negotiating with myself about when to start.

14. Environment Design

Your environment matters. If you’re surrounded by distractions, you’re setting yourself up to fail. It’s like trying to run through quicksand—you’re not going to get far.

How I’d use this:I’ll make my study space distraction-free by clearing clutter, silencing my phone, and making sure everything I need is within reach so I can focus better.

15. Regular Reflection

If you don’t stop to reflect, you’ll never know how far you’ve come or what needs adjusting. Reflection isn’t about patting yourself on the back—it’s about checking the map and making sure you’re still on the right path.

How I’d use this:Every week, I’ll take a few minutes to look back at what went well and where I need to make adjustments. It helps keep me on course.

16. Self-Reward

Discipline doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the process. Small rewards along the way help keep you going, making the grind more manageable. It’s like giving yourself little checkpoints to look forward to.

How I’d use this:I’ll give myself small rewards after hitting certain study milestones—whether it’s a break, a snack, or something I enjoy. It helps keep the momentum going without burning out.

[functionalasfuck]

First Part of a PhayaTharn fic I’m too impatient to write based on a @writing-prompt-s I saw

Thousands of thousands of years ago, Wansarut held the dying frame of the love of her life. Overcome with grief and guilt, she gave him half her soul and begged the universe to tie their fates together and give her the ability to protect him in the next life and the rest.

Like a goddamn idiot.

Fate did as she asked. Over the course of the next few lifetimes, fate intervened to draw Wansarut and Sakuna’s reincarnated souls into epic romance. And in honor of Wansarut’s request to have the ability to protect him, she was gifted with visions of future danger, and knowledge of her past lives.

Problem was, Wansarut and Sakuna were not exactly a perfect fit. Their initial relationship was forged in the midst of a war, hidden in an illicit affair. Their romance existed within an isolated bubble until it inevitably popped and they were killed.

But Wansarut did love Sakuna, even after discovering the mismatched edges in their early lives. And Sakuna’s reincarnations loved her back.

So they worked on their relationship. They had fights. Big ones. They had to discuss and set hard boundaries. They had to reframe and recontextualizing and renegotiate their relationship as fate did its best to prevent them from parting. And those relationships ended up beautiful. Because a relationship is built with loving hands and hard work.

Problem was, Wansarut remembered all the fights. She remembered all the set backs and struggles and discoveries. And she brought her growth with her into each new life.

Sakuna? Sakuna reverted back to ground zero every time.

Wansarut has relived those same fights again and again. She was in Hell’s Groundhog Day. Sisiphys forced to push the same fucking boulder up a hill, only getting to revel in the top for the briefest of moments before having it fall down and have to start again.

She’s now on her 15th life. This time as a man named Tharn, about to start training to become a police officer alongside his longtime friend, Yai. This life has been good, but it’s been dragged down by constant anxiety over when he’ll be forced to push the boulder back up a hill again.

So when Tharn’s eyes lock on Phaya the first day of training, a dopey look crossing the man’s features as fate flushes him with the feelings of love and devotion from their first life’s run (since fate seems to think their first stupidly short life is the only one Sakuna needs context from) he makes a decision.

If this childish reversion of Sakuna’s new reincarnation wants Tharn in his life, he had better try to find a way to regain his memories so he doesn’t have to start from scratch.

Because in this life, Tharn is going to do whatever it takes to file for the cosmic version of divorce.

[alexaloraetheris]

Sysiphus is not happy, and that's the whole point

I never in my life understand Sysiphus as well as when I'm vacuuming.

Because rolling the boulder up the hill is a punishment. He's free to go to the Asphodel Meadows if he just stops. It's the promise of Elysium fields that keeps him pushing that boulder up, endlessly and forever.

Vacuuming is the same. The dust is endless, and so is the animal hair. I keep pushing that heavy machine, into every goddamn nook and cranny I can reach (but I can't physically reach them all) and it all feels pointless, but it must be done.

Could I alleviate my suffering? Could I have fewer animals? No. The dog is mom's. The two older cats have gone through enough trauma in their lives, I can't uproot them again. I can't give Kalašnjikovka away, because she may be cute and cuddly, but how do I trust her new owners won't throw her out of the house after she breaks their cups, their porcelain figures, their Swarovski bunny set? Her last owners did just that.

Could I share the burden? Have someone else push the boulder up the hill? No, my mother has chronic pain and a bad hip. On a good day she can do the dishes. There is no one to share the burden with.

Could I stop? No, because the dust accumulates. And the Asphodel Meadows (a dusty house) have no appeal to me.

So I push the damn boulder (vacuum cleaner) again and again, hoping against hope to see the Elysium Fields (a clean house). But the boulder is enchanted (the house is old, and the animals always shed). I shall never suceed. Because for a moment I reach the top of the hill, and the boulder stays still, I, in my endless hubris, am satisfied, and sit on my rock in Tartarus, in peace.

But then mother comes home, sees the dust bunny hiding in her slipper, and says: "I thought you said you were going to vacuum today! Have you even done anything?"

And just like that, the boulder rolls down the other side of the hill. And I have to get up from the rock again. And again. And again.

One must imagine nothing. Sisyphus is suffering. But if we must, I suppose we can imagine that Albert Camus has never had to push a vacuum cleaner.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Here's a 1925 chateau that looks like a castle in Waite Hill, Ohio. 6bds, 10ba, $4.425M.

It has a very castle-like entrance foyer. Like the stone, brick, and wood combo. That display shelf is unusual, too. Very nice.

Unfortunately, the home is empty and the realtor chose to use obviously Photoshopped furniture. But, let's focus on the architectural details like the coffered ceiling and the cool black fireplace in the sitting room. Really, I think it would look better empty.

This is a lovely sunroom that's an extension of the kitchen. The shape and color of the wood, plus the carved details and paned windows make it so attractive. Ignore the stupid modern Photoshopped furniture.

The large kitchen is wonderful- features a gorgeous stove with a stone backsplash and Medieval style hood. Love the huge carved island, light fixtures and detailed ceiling.

Beautiful counters, tile backsplash and gothic style upper doors.

This is nice- dark wood, detailed coffered ceiling, and a stone fireplace that looks like it's made with boulders.

Love that they used different woods in each room. Homes with the same wood throughout get boring and matchy-matchy. This game room is beautiful. Look at the details on the doors.

And, here, we have a large 2 lane bowling alley. Fantastic. And, it's a part of the family room.

Love the black and white ceiling in the huge primary bedroom. There's a sunroom area for sitting and relaxing, plus spiral stairs to a space above.

Here's the sitting area w/o the fake furniture and it looks much better.

Isn't this fabulous? A gorgeous secret hideout in the bedroom. This is so beautiful, it's the top of the tower. Note the details on the stair railing.

Gorgeous marble en-suite with a separate tub room features a copper clawfoot tub.

Castle hardware with amber glass door knobs.

Love the color of the wood and the shape of this hall.

The details in this home are stunning. Beautiful ceiling and railing. Plus, the piece on the left must be a built-in with a marble top.

Beautiful secondary bedroom with a lovely ceiling and large window seat also feature carved doors on the cabinet.

This bedroom is different- it's a more modern style with regular walls, but the ceiling is great and so is the long window seat. It might be part of the guest apt.

Another stunning bedroom. The woodwork in this house is superb. This fireplace wall is just beautiful. Look at the carved frame molding around it.

Every bedroom has something new and beautiful to offer.

Gorgeous marble and wood in this full bath.

Modern family room in the finished attic.

This amazing home is on 14.15 acres and features a pond, but no pool. There is a golf course just beyond the trees. In addition, there's a private ski slope that is already wired for a ski lift, full court basketball court, and guest apt.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/7265-Markell-Rd-Waite-Hill-OH-44094/34501560_zpid/

[elgaladwen]

Fictober 2024 - Day 5-6

Prompts: "It's a new day, let's go!" & "I'm not giving up."

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings Online (OCs)

Warnings: N/A

The morning was bright and brimming with potential as a tawny lynx trotted up a hillock, two elves not fair behind, their voices low on the wind as they conversed about the lands around them, excited for a new day of exploration and adventure.

“Ah, pity we broke our fast already,” Nimardril, the much shorter of the two elves, was saying as they reached the top of the small rise. “Wouldn't this be a lovely place for a picnic?”

Other small hills, all adorned with wildflowers and the occasional boulder, dotted the landscape around them, eventually rising to loftier heights as they approached the nearby mountains, before eventually becoming lost in the mist that had yet to burn away.

“We may stop whenever we wish, not just to eat.” The taller of the two elves, Daerhovan, chuckled. “Or did the ways of the pariain rub off on you during your last visit to the Shire?”

Nimardril snorted as she did indeed stop, drawing in a deep lungful of the clean air while she looked about, almost jumping as her gaze fell to Verya the lynx, who was now right in front of her, staring up at her expectantly.

“You know I can't give you jerky so much!” She uttered to the feline, who apparently had decided it was a good time for a picnic too. “I promised Daerhovan!” It was hard to resist the large, unblinking eyes, though, and she felt her resolve start to falter, before Daerhovan stepped up to her side.

“You would not wish for your hunting skills to grow slack, mellon. It is the same for Verya, since we cannot always be here to feed her.” He looked from one of his companions to the other, tone stern, but his pale green eyes bore nothing but kindness.

Reluctantly, Nimardril drew her hand away from the pocket where she kept the strips of dried, cured venison, shooting an apologetic look to Verya, who let out a puff of breath, and turned away to stalk through the tall grass.

“That is wise of course.” Conceded Nimardril. “But our whole friendship is built upon jerky. What if she doesn't like me anymore?” She was mostly joking, yet the smallest of worries did exist.

“I'm sure you two will be just fine bonding over the jerky you still slip her when you think I do not see.” Daerhovan huffed, and Nimardril could not help but laugh.

“Ah, so she and I need to work on our stealth, I understand!” She replied cheekily, before the pair fell into companionable silence.

Not long after they'd started walking again, Verya having rejoined them with a limp hare clutched in her maw, they spotted an opening into one of the larger hills, the dark space ringed with rock.

“Could this be a barrow?” Nimardril wondered aloud as they moved to investigate. Not hearing or sensing any immediate danger, and with both elves loving to explore ruins, they were soon inside with crudely fashioned torches, venturing down a steeply sloping path.

They'd gone deep enough for the air around them to be quite cold and damp by the time the passage opened into a round chamber, the far end barely visible in the warm, flickering glow of their torches. There didn't seem to be any other door leading out, nor were there bodies or anywhere obvious that any might have rested, had this place once be used for burial. Instead, there were metal pipes and contraptions on the wall, strange to Nimardril's eyes, and long rusted, looking nearly the same color as the stone behind them. She moved to examine an iron wheel, testing it out, and with little surprise, finding it stuck fast. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Daerhovan crouching atop a stone carving in the floor, mostly worn away by age, but soon enough she was absorbed in the wheel again, pulling out her most slender stiletto, and using it to push away and scrape some of the accumulated rust from the spot the wheel met the wall. More swiftly than she would have guessed, Nimardril got the wheel moving again, and gave a soft shout of triumph as she turned it with all her might, half expecting water or steam to appear somewhere in the room, but though she couldn't hear much over the harsh grinding of stone and metal, all she did catch when she stopped again, was a faint click to her side. “Sorry, all that noise for nothing, I guess!” She uttered cheerfully as she turned toward Daerhovan- Only to see that he was no longer there.

Frowning, Nimardril held her torch higher, peering around the room. Had he slipped away in that short time without telling her? But no, there was Verya, pawing at the worn stone carving in the ground, and as she bent to examine it more closely, she could see gouges etched into it, as if it had slid under the stone next to it countless times. Icy fingers of dread seeped into her heart, making her throat tight with worry. “Daer… Daerhovan?” She called, softly at first, then again loudly, her voice echoing back to her ears in mockery, but with no answer from the other elf. “He's down there, isn't he?” She uttered to Verya, who slowly blinked back at her in the way Nimardril took as affirmation.

Scrambling back to the wheel, she wrenched on it again, first one way, then the other, trying to do anything that might open the trapdoor once more, but to her utter horror, the corroded iron snapped off in her hands, and she blinked down at the bent shape before tossing it away with a cry of rage.

Panic began to cloud her thoughts. Had she just caused her friend's death? Was he lying somewhere in pain? Were there things down there, deep in the earth, that might cause him harm? Cursing, she forced herself to calm, deep breaths of damp air filling her lungs once again, as she uttered to Verya, “Alright. I will find another way down. There are many strange spots in here that we've not examined.”

The feline followed her, keeping within the circle of the torch’s glow, and Nimardril was glad for the company, even as she wondered if Verya blamed her as she blamed herself, for what had happened to Daerhovan.

Minutes passed, each feeling like an age to her, before Nimardril noticed a rotting wooden hatch in the ground, which disintegrated further as she dug her fingernails in to yank it up, revealing a rusted iron ladder. Both she and the large cat peered down into the darkness as hope began to rekindle deep within her. Surely this had to lead to where he'd fallen, since it wasn't too far away!

Raising her gaze again, she met Verya’s eyes, the slitted pupils wide in the dim light. “I don't think you can climb down there with me, so will you go back outside?” In answer, the lynx sat back upon her hind legs, not having to speak to signal she was staying put. Smiling softly, Nimardril nodded. “Ah, I understand. I do not wish to leave him either, but will you go if you sense danger at least?”

When the feline made no answer, Nimardril went on, her tone determined as she vowed, “I will not give up until I've brought him out. I promise.”

Verya gave her slow, deliberate, affimatory blink again, giving Nimardril the impression that she thought her rather dense, but now wasn't the time to dwell upon that. As quick as she was able, she fashioned and lit another crude torch, stabbing it into the ground near the hole, before putting out and stowing her own so that she could use both hands to climb.

“Alright. Well. I'll see you soon!” With that, Nimardril began to descend the old ladder with as light of steps as she could muster. Verya's face and the torchlight above becoming more and more distant when she did look up, despair for Daerhovan warring with the hope in her heart.

Notes: Apologies for the cliffhanger and the dryness here. I meant to also include today's prompt, but I decided to save the rest of the story for later, and other prompts. (And perhaps today's prompt still too!)

I'd blame the horrible writing on me sneaking this in between highly technical meetings today, but I find my writing way too dry and dull even when that isn't the case. This story feels worse than usual though, so I'm sorry to anyone who actually read this. Hopefully the continuation will be better!

Verya and Daerhovan belong to @loremastering on here, so I am just borrowing them, and of course anything I have them do is my own interpretation of the characters and not necessarily canon.

[xerith-42]

Hmgngmhn dialogue idea between Travis and Aphmau that I can't be bothered to make into a proper scene yet but I'm very proud of

"Aphmau, are you a reader of ancient mythos?"

"I can't say I am. Laurance always has some comparison to make to their plays though."

"Hm. Guess I'll have to tell him this some time."

"Tell him what?"

"There's an old myth about a man named Sisyphus. I've thought about it a lot."

"Care to tell me what's on your mind?"

"The finer details don't really matter, what's important is that Sisyphus was punished by the gods. As a punishment for his ambitions, he was cursed to eternal torture. Push a boulder up a hill, and then push it back down."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Does it accomplish anything?"

"Nothing."

"That's awful."

"It's how I felt on that island. For a while, every single day was the same thing. Wake up, fight off the Demon Warlock, get yelled at for fighting off the Demon Warlock, go to bed. Then you wake up and do it all again."

"Up the hill..."

"...Down the hill. It's maddening."

"Strangely enough, I think I can relate to that."

"Really?"

"Not exactly, but a similar concept. Being a lord can feel like that sometimes. Wake up, check in on everyone, address problems in the village, start a new project, go to bed. Then you wake up and do it all again."

"But you like being a lord."

"I love it. And I would never call it a punishment."

"So it's not really the same."

"Why not? Who's to say Sisyph-- Sisy-- That guy! wasn't able to eventually love that boulder!"

"Wh-What??"

"Or maybe he loves the hill. But he has to love something, otherwise why would he keep going?"

"Well, the gods also cursed him with immortality so he couldn't die."

"You said the finer details don't matter!"

"Okay, but that's not a finer detail!"

"Then why didn't you say it before?! You said--"

"I know what I said--"

"No! No, you specifically said "finer details don't matter." You didn't say Sisy-whoever was immortal, so it's counted in those finer details!"

"Oh my Irene. I said that in regards to things like his family, and why he was punished."

"Are you saying that someone's family doesn't matter in their story? That they should only be known for their most miserable moment?"

"...It sounds awful when you say it like that."

"Then tell me the full story."

"Fine. Sisyphus was a tyrant, who slaughtered so senselessly that the gods sought to punish him. In response, Sisyphus attempted to cheat death. He used his own wife and risked her life while doing so. As recompense he was given the immortal life he craved, but burdened with the punishment of his boulder and his hill. An endless task with no meaning, no purpose, no respite. Endless solitude, endless repetition."

"Oh."

"I'm... still trying to figure out what it means."

"Why did he do it?"

"I don't know. I don't know why he did any of what he did. And quite frankly... I don't know if he deserved his punishment."

"I... Don't either."

[anna99blog]

Dark x Reader: Nightly Expedition

The night has always amazed you. No matter what people said or how they feel about it, it never ceases your curiosity of what goes on when the sun sets. And this particular night was no different. You wanted to try and get a picture of a rare Eastern Screech Owl, a species of bird rarely seen by human eyes. So, gathering your camera, some snacks, a warm jacket, pocket knife, and your drawing supplies, you were ready for your little expedition. You left your home just as the sun was setting and began making your way to the woods ahead of you. By the time the sun's rays and the blue skies hid themselves behind the hills and mountains, the moon and the stars take their place. It was a wonderful sight as you walked through the woods. You can see the many animals walking up from the day's slumber, the moon shining brightly in the dark sky, and the plants surrounding you showing all new sets of colors. It is a beautiful sight to be hold. It was so beautiful, that you couldn't help but take your camera out and snap a few pictures of the environment around you. However, as you were doing that, you were completely unaware of the mysterious figure watching you from afar. His bright blue eyes observing you, watching your actions, making sure he isn't seen nor heard before deciding to make his way towards you.

You catch a picture of some Gardenia Augustas, a white flower that blooms only in the darkest of nights. It is also your favorite kind of flower (if it's not, then you can pretend that it's something else). As you were looking at the photo on your camera, you hear what sounded like rustling coming from one of the bushes behind you. You turn around, a light gasp escaping your lips as you did so. You look towards the bushes, which hasn't stopped shaking. Your brows furrowed a little, and your heart beat quickened. You place your camera down on a Boulder and you take one small step towards the shrubs. As you did, however, a small brown and white rabbit appears, it's small nose twitching, catching all the scents surrounding it. You let out a small sigh of relief. As you turn around, you look at your camera, and to your surprise, you see the same white flower you took a picture of on top of your camera. You pick up the delicate plant, being careful not to damage it. At that moment, you start to think 'who could have done something like this?' As you thought this, you could have swore you heard something from behind you, but you couldn't decipher what it was. Deciding not to think too much of it, you continued your trek through the woods.

You didn't have to travel far, as when you walked, you heard the screeching sounds coming from the high tree tops. You look up, your eyes widening in pure amazement. There, perching on a branch of an oak tree, you see your target, the Eastern Screech Owl. You couldn't believe your own eyes. You bring out your camera, being as quiet as you can. Making sure the frame and lighting are just right, you snap a few pictures of the bird before it decided to fly off into the night sky, leaving behind the sounds of screeching as it flew away. You look at the photos you've taken, feeling very satisfied with your findings. You couldn't help but wonder if there was someone or something helping you throughout your small journey. As you make the trek back to your home, a dark figure watches your form leave the woods, a soft smile appearing on his face. Feeling happy for what he did, he leaves the woods to finish up his nightly duties.

[theboywithburninghands]

Okay. Executive decision. Posting the first chapter of my two-parter here, because I'm loaded with caffeine and I want you guys to see what I've been up to all week. Uh it's pure Funnybunny, so sorry if you wanted some Ragatha romance stuff... Uhhhhhh also like... it's a bit long? And character driven rather than romance driven. Hope you like it anyway! Oh and I'm linking the AO3 if you'd prefer that. T/W: Mild cartoon violence, self hatred, a sex joke

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55822147/chapters/141729268

Like Rhinestones, Falling From the Sky (Part 1)

he grounds of the Digital Circus had two states. Daytime and sunny, nighttime and clear. It was a constant that no one bothered to disturb. Caine could grant a lot of requests around the circus, but rarely in any way the asker might want. Ask for a few wildflowers to add some color on the grounds? Congratulations, now there was an entire field of flowers, flowers that smelled like cheap, nose-tickling perfume and grew so thick and snared that it was impossible to walk around outside. Ask for a cool, dim day because you wanted a nap? Hey presto, now the entire circus was engulfed in an impenetrable fog that made Silent Hill look like the Aouzou Strip. The performers all followed the same motto when it came to the weather:

If it’s already broken, don’t break it any more. 

Due to this motto being in place, it was a complete mystery as to why all the performers were shaken awake early one morning by a skull-rattling crash of thunder. 

Kinger was the first out of his room, bursting through his door with a melodramatic wail.

“They’ve finally arrived! The harvest has commenced! They want ALL of our garmonbozia!!!”

Zooble was out of their room next, screwing their head back on their torso and limping over to the eldest performer.

“Relax! Chill the f#%@ out, old timer, it’s just thunder.” they snapped, still not quite awake. 

As if on cue, another rapturous tremor of thunder tore through the air, Ragatha emerging from her room and staring worriedly at the ceiling before joining the group.

“Are you guys okay? That’s some crazy weather we’re-“

Ragatha let out an “eep!” as Kinger seized her by the front of the dress.

“Ragatha! We’re under attack! What’s Morse code for SOS?!”

Ragatha gently took hold of Kinger’s wrists and guided them off of her dress. She smiled and her voice took on a warm, fuzzy tone. 

“Hey… no one is attacking us, Kinger. It’s probably been ages since you’ve heard a thunderstorm, hasn’t it? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” she cooed.

“Unless that’s what they want you to think.” came a slippery voice from behind her. Jax leaned against the wall, one foot flat against it. He sported a tired but nonetheless smug grin. 

“Jax, quit it. Can’t you see he’s scared?” Ragatha chided, but Jax continued as if she hadn’t spoken, walking right up to Kinger. 

“Who knows, maybe they’re after your bug collection, Kinger, or- OW!”

Zooble silenced Jax with a single, well aimed punch to the cheek. 

“Can you shut up? It’s too early for your schoolyard bull#%&$.” Zooble drawled. 

Jax massaged his cheek and gave a petulant “Jeez…” under his breath. Pomni was out of her room next, stirred from sleep like the rest of them. Her black eyelids hung over her eyes like an eclipse, and she dragged her body over to the others as if it had weights tied to it. 

“Hey, morning, Sunshine!” Jax smirked, a hand still on the cheek Zooble punched.

“Go #%&$ yourself…” Pomni mumbled, staring off into the void. 

“YEESH, everyone is crabby this morning. I can’t even say hello withou-“

KRK-BOOOOOOOMMMM!

A peal of thunder like a boulder tumbling into a dump truck shook the air again, everyone instinctively covering their ears (or where their ears should have been.)

“Okay, we should see what’s going on! Maybe it’s part of a new adventure..?” Ragatha proposed as soon as the rumbling subsided. 

“Wait! Where’s Gangle?!” Kinger cried.

There was a soft click as the door to Gangle’s room was opened just a crack, the ribbon girl peering just one eye out and trembling like a leaf. 

“What’s happening…?” she mewled. 

Zooble pressed their foot on top of Jax’s to keep him from speaking up. 

“It’s just a storm, Gangle… We’re gonna go see what’s going on. You wanna come with?” Ragatha smiled and approached Gangle’s door, offering a hand. Gangle gulped and took Ragatha’s hand with one of her ribbons.

“Okay…” she whimpered. 

Jax made a “gag me” motion but remained quiet. 

The six performers headed out into the main room, nearly tumbling onto the chessboard floor from another apocalyptic boom of thunder.

“Does this sort of thing ever happen out of nowhere..?!” Pomni shouted, her crabbiness from lack of sleep bubbling over.

“Didn’t you hear Caine when you first got here? ‘THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS IS A PLACE WHERE ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!’ Chaos is sorta par for the course.” Jax replied. His impression of Caine was actually pretty good, and might have made Pomni smirk a bit if she wasn’t so irritable. 

“Jax is right,” Ragatha chimed in from further ahead. “Around here you have to expect the unexpected, and prepare for what isn’t there.” 

“Yeah, but the way I said it wasn’t stupid.” Jax replied. 

The six of them reached the tent’s exit. It was zipped closed, but quavered feverishly. A small pool of rainwater oozed through the bottom of the flap, occasionally lit bright pearly blue by unseen flashes of lightning from outside. 

“Okay, so it’s definitely storming. Now we know.” Jax drawled, crossing his arms. 

“See Kinger? No one is coming, it’s just bad we-“

Another tremendous crash of thunder interrupted Ragatha, and a half-second later, all of the lights in the tent sputtered and died. The only light left was the heavily censored sunlight from outside filtering under the tent flap. 

“I f#%&$ng hate it here…” Zooble sighed. 

“Okay, no one wander off. Let’s all stick together and find our way back to our rooms…” Ragatha began.

Gangle jolted with a yelp. “Someone grabbed me!”

“Jax!” Zooble growled.

“It wasn’t me! I’m all the way back here, Hodge-Podge!” Jax retorted from the darkness. 

“It was me, Gangle! I grabbed your hand…” Ragatha interjected. “I’m sorry, I thought you would need a hand to hold.”

“Tha-That’s not my hand-”

The performers squinted as a corona of light bloomed in the middle of the room. From the center of the ring, Bubble appeared, glowing with an iridescent, rainbow colored light.

“And God said, let there be LIGHT!” he announced, his squeaky voice echoing throughout the tent.

“DON’T BE RIDICULOUS BUBBLE! IF ANYONE’S GOD AROUND HERE, IT’S YOURS TRULY!” Caine floated down from on high, emitting his own faint light, just enough so he could be seen clearly against the backdrop of darkness. 

“There is no God here…” Zooble muttered.

“Amen.” added Pomni.

“SO MY LITTLE SUPERSTARS! IT SEEMS YOU’VE ALL BEEN MADE AWARE OF OUR INCLEMENT WEATHER!” Caine unzipped the tent entrance. The sky was charcoal black and arcing with threads of lightning. Rain slashed across the grounds in great sweeps and the howling wind eagerly pushed its way into the tent, bringing in a spray of raindrops that doused the six performers, who covered their faces and demanded Caine close the tent again, which he thankfully did after just a few seconds.

“BUT NOT TO WORRY! WHILE I FIX THIS BROUHAHA, YOU ALL-”

He paused for another crash of thunder. 

“-YOU ALL WILL BE ENJOYING AN ADVENTURE!” 

“La dee da.” Jax drawled.

“SO, PLEASE ENJOY YOUR TIME IIIIN-”

Caine snapped his fingers. There was a moment or two of silence before Caine looked down at his fingers and snapped once again. Then again. 

“Huh. That was supposed to open a portal.” Caine said sheepishly. 

“Did you try turning it off and on again?” Bubble asked, squinting one eye.

“Havin’ issues there, Caine? It’s alright, it happens to guys your age.” Jax said with a grin. Pomni felt the corners of her mouth raise, despite herself. 

“I DON’T APPRECIATE YOUR INNUENDO, JAX!” Caine declared, brandishing his cane with a trembling hand. He tried a few more futile finger snaps. 

“So, we’re stuck here..?” Gangle asked, wringing her ribbons together. “In the dark..?”

There was an ill-timed crash of thunder that made her jump and squeak a little too loudly. She covered up her mask as bright pink blush marks formed under her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m with Ribbons, Caine,” Jax said, jabbing a thumb at Gangle. “Everybody knows monsters like the dark since it’s easier to hide.”

“Okay, cut the Twilight Zone bull$#!%.” Zooble scoffed.

“As someone who’s actually seen The Twilight Zone,” Ragatha piped up. “The quote is ‘There’s nothing in the dark that wasn’t there when the lights were on.’ So we’re fine, Gangle. It’s just us.” 

“Nerd.” Jax replied.

In the midst of this whole exchange, Caine had snapped his fingers a good two dozen times before clapping his hands to his face/teeth and bellowing in frustration. 

“Excusemeforjustonesecond!” he spat before disappearing in a flash of light and some confetti. Bubble looked around, barely managing a “Bye-!” before popping, dousing the light and plunging the room back into darkness.

There was a moment or two of silence before another peal of thunder shook the tent. Gangle let out a quiet, uneasy groan as everyone tried to get their bearings in an almost total absence of light. 

“I’m going back to bed.” Zooble announced flatly. The only indication that they were leaving was the sound of careful footsteps receding into the black.

“Wait, can you find your way there?” Pomni asked. 

“I’ll figure it out.” Zooble replied, nothing but a voice from the darkness. Pomni listened to their receding footsteps before she began to pace back and forth. 

“I can’t believe it, he just left us here. Not even a flashlight! Isn’t this place supposed to be magic?! How does the power even go out?!”

“It is the first time I’ve ever seen this happen since I’ve been here…” Ragatha admitted. “What about you, Kinger? You ever seen anything like this?”

“Right now I don’t see much of anything…” Kinger replied matter-of-factly. 

Another roar of thunder, Gangle making an unhappy noise and clinging to Ragatha. Since it was dark, Jax couldn’t see, and thus couldn’t tease her for it. Ragatha patted her on the mask. 

“I don’t want to go off by myself… What if something happens?” she whimpered.

“Come on, Crybaby, you’re not seriously worried about monsters, are ya?” Jax drawled. 

“You’re the one that put the thought into her head, Jax.” Pomni replied. 

“I was joking .” Jax snarked, as if it was the most obvious fact since “water happened to be a little damp.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny.”

“Yeah?” Jax’s tone darkened. “Well unfortunately, Clownface , the funny guy-”

They were interrupted by a dry, metallic scratch and a spark of orange light. Kinger held a silver lighter in his hand, which supported a tiny yellow-orange flame. 

“…That’s my lighter.” Jax said after a moment. “Where did you get my lighter?!”

“Wait, Jax, why do you have a lighter at all?” Ragatha interjected. 

“None of your business. You need to stay outta my stuff, Hoo-Hah.” Jax took a few steps towards Kinger. 

“I only found it.” Kinger said, taking an equal number of steps back.

“Bull. I don’t leave my stuff layin’ around. Hand it over.” Jax stuck a gloved hand out. 

Kinger looked down at the lighter, then to Jax, who put his hand forward more insistently. Kinger snapped the lighter closed, smothering the fire and disappearing into darkness. 

“Hey! Where’d you go?!” 

“Kinger, wait! We need the light! Don’t go!” Gangle begged. 

There was a grunt and a crash somewhere in the dark, the thunder replying in kind. Another dry, metallic scratch and Kinger reappeared, illuminated orange and standing over by Gangle and Ragatha. 

“What was that?!” he cried, stiffly holding the flame out in front of him. 

“It was me, you moron!” Jax’s irritated voice called out from somewhere in the void. “I couldn't see my hand in front of my face! Now hand over my lighter before I-”

Kinger yelped and snapped the lighter closed again.

“Both of you, stop it!” Pomni shouted. “Jax, I don’t give a $#!% if it’s yours or not, it’s all we’ve got for light right now, so quit acting like a p&!€# for two god&@#% seconds! Kinger!” 

They heard the jester take a breath and soften her voice. 

“Kinger. We need the lighter to see. Can you please turn it back on so we can at least get back to our rooms?”

There was a pause, another rumble of thunder, and at last, a metallic flick as the lighter sparked again. Kinger’s hands shook. 

“Thank you…” Pomni said with a weary smile. “Lead the way, if you don’t mind.”

The five performers made their way towards backstage, slowly and methodically in the cavernous tent. They passed an overturned pile of brightly colored shapes, Jax delivering a well aimed punt to a mint-colored cylinder, which sailed off into the darkness and landed out of sight with a drumroll of thuds. 

“Was that the thing you tripped over?” Ragatha asked, her smile audible in her voice. 

“Felt like kickin’ something.” Jax replied tartly. 

After a few minutes of careful maneuvering amidst peals of thunder, the five of them made it to the corridor backstage.

“Well… what do we do now..?” Pomni asked.

“Do we have to do anything?” Jax replied.

“Well… not really. But I think it might be fun to have a slumber party!” Ragatha said brightly. 

“No offense, Ragatha, but I don’t know if any of us are really in a party mood…” Pomni said, rubbing her left arm with her right hand. 

“No, no, it doesn’t have to be an actual party. We can all just hang around in my room! I’ve got some candles we can light so we can see, and I’ll teach you guys how to make a blanket fort-” 

“You have candles?” Pomni interrupted. “Oh, that’s really good news… Now we don’t have to sit around in the dark. How many do you have, Ragatha?”

“Oh gosh, um…” Ragatha rubbed her chin with her hand. “30? No, 40!” 

There was a period of silence. Kinger held the lighter out so she was illuminated. 

“What?” Ragatha asked, putting her hands on her hips defensively. “I need to de-stress every once in a while too, y’know!” 

“If the tent ever burns down, we know who to blame.” Jax quipped. 

“Oh stop it!” Ragatha flapped her hand dismissively.

“Can… we have a few? Just to have a little bit of light around here…” Pomni asked, touching the tips of her fingers together. 

“Yeah! Absolutely, come on!” Ragatha led her fellow performers to her room, unlocking the door with a bit of flourish and motioning them inside. “After you!” 

The four of them entered her room, Kinger leading the way with the lighter. Ragatha’s bedroom was… on brand. In the dim light, they could make out some plastic furniture that would have been right at home in a dollhouse. A pink, squat tea table surrounded by some plush and frilly cushions. The table came complete with an old fashioned white China teapot and cups, a glazed pink and yellow flower painted on the side of the pot, and the rims of both the cups and pot were lined with gold leaf (or at least a serviceable imitation of it). In the opposite corner, a CRT television sat within a yellow floral patterned hutch, and a game console was hooked up to it. Her bed sat neatly made on the far end of the room, a canopy like Pomni’s, although striped with magenta and cotton-candy pink rather than red and blue. At the food of the bed sat at least a dozen stuffed animals, a teddy bear, a camel, a tiger, and more, all in a neat pile. While they should have looked cute and inviting in the light, in the near dark, they looked uncanny. Their shoebutton eyes caught the flame’s reflection in such a way that made them look insectoid, and their vacant, pleasant expressions staring off into nothing gave off the impression of someone who had lost their mind gazing into the abyss. 

Ragatha hurried over to the hutch, opening a drawer and taking out a brand new white candle. 

“Here’s my stash,” she chuckled, rummaging around in the drawer a bit more. “I have a couple that are scented too. Do you guys like… apple cinnamon or toasted marshmallow more? I’m more of a sandalwood gal myself…”

Jax made a noise of disgust. Kinger stared intently at a stuffed elephant, as if waiting for it to blink. 

“Nanny cam…?” he whispered to himself. 

There was a crash of thunder and everyone jolted. Gangle covered the top of her mask with her ribbons and Kinger fumbled with the lighter, managing to keep hold of it. 

“Good thing you have that, Jax. I just ran out of matches…” Ragatha sighed, setting up a neat cluster of candles 

“Okay, um, I think we should use a couple to light the hallway, if it’s okay with you…at least until Caine fixes things.” Pomni said. “Um, and if I could borrow one or two for my room-”

“Me too please.” Gangle chimed in, raising a ribbon. 

“I need to get my camping stove…” Kinger muttered, still engaged in a stare-off with Ragatha’s stuffed elephant. 

“K-Kinger, you have a camping stove?” Pomni asked. 

“The h@!! do you need one of those for?” Jax also asked, crouching beside Kinger to see what was so interesting about that and stuffed animal. 

“…In case the power goes out.” Kinger replied after a moment.

“This is the first time the power has ever gone out…” Ragatha admitted, but she smiled anyway. “I’m glad you’ve been thinking ahead though.”

Ragatha then gasped. “Oh! We can make tea! I have the best recipe I need to show you guys! It’s perfect for a day like today!”

“I’d like some tea. Something warm to drink would really hit the spot.” Pomni said with a faint smile. Gangle also nodded. 

“Hey, I got a suggestion too.” Jax called, raising a finger. 

In one swoosh, Jax snatched the lighter out of Kinger’s hands, closing it with a clink and extinguishing their one source of light. 

“Jax, hey! I can’t see!” complained Ragatha.

“My lighter, my rules. I’m heading back to my room.” he said.

“What…? Jax, you’re kidding. We need the lighter for just a little longer, then it’s all yours.” Ragatha insisted. 

“It’s already all mine. You stole it. So now I’m keeping it.” Jax replied from somewhere in the dark. 

“Jax, come on!” Pomni shouted. “Everyone could have light again if you would just-”

“Everyone will have light again when Caine gets the electricity working. Just be patient.” 

“But… But Jax…” Gangle began, her voice quavering. “I’m… I’m scared of the dark, please just let us light a few candles…”

“Nope. Your eyes should adjust soon enough.”

The sound of Jax’s retreating footsteps and the open and shut of the door were muffled by another churning rumble of thunder. Ragatha sighed from her place in the dark. 

“Well, don’t worry everyone. We can have a slumber party even in the dark. It’ll take a bit more time to set up and we can’t do as much, but-”

Everyone jumped at a sudden angry yell and thunk. Pomni punched the wall, then felt her way towards the door, throwing it open and stomping out into the hallway. 

“Pomni’s very angry.” Kinger said in a hushed voice. Ragatha set her candles down on the hutch, a few of them rolling off and clattering to the floor as she carefully made her way to her door in almost complete darkness.

“Pomni? Pomni, where are you going?” she called out into the hall. 

It wasn’t too difficult for Pomni to find Jax’s door feeling around in the dark, it was right across from her room, after all. Her right hand aching from punching the wall, she banged on his door with her left. 

“JAX! GET OUT HERE!” she bellowed. 

“Pomni, hey, it’s okay-!” Ragatha insisted, alarmed at the newest member’s sudden explosion of rage. 

“NO! No, it’s not okay! I’m sick to death of him acting like this! It ends right the #%@& now, you hear me?!”

Pomni shouted all this as she feverishly twisted the handle of Jax’s locked door. After several mighty turns, she scoffed and took a few steps back. 

“You wanna hide like a coward? Fine!” 

“What’s going on?!” Zooble’s voice shouted. They had poked their head into the hallway after hearing the racket outside. 

Pomni took another couple steps back until she was almost touching the opposite wall, then ran forward, barging Jax’s door with her shoulder. Thunder roared. 

“Pomni!” Ragatha cried, her voice cracking. “Pomni, what are you doing?! Are you okay?!”

Pomni took the same number of steps backwards and ran forward, smashing into the door again, eliciting a splintery crunch from the jamb. She backed up once again, both her right shoulder and right knuckle ached now, but she barely felt it. Truth be told she couldn’t pinpoint just one reason why Jax’s behavior had enraged her so badly. She was angry from lack of sleep, she was angry that Jax was being such a selfish bully for no reason, she was angry that he had the capacity for kindness and yet chose to act like this- 

Her rage burned blue-hot as she charged at the door, bracing her shoulder for impact. The impact never came. She sailed right past the point where she should have met hard wood, stumbling forward into a boneless somersault. She tumbled over herself and ended up in a sitting position. 

Jax’s room had incredibly faint daylight filtering in from his window. The sky was still the color of a dusty tire, mostly black with flecks of lights. Flashbulbs of lightning popped from within swollen thunderheads. 

Pomni heard the door shut behind her. In the faint light, she saw Jax turn the lock on his door before turning to look at her, arms crossed.

“You almost broke my door, newbie.” he said with almost parental condescension. 

Pomni didn’t say anything in return, only glaring. Anger prickled down her back. Thunder boomed. 

“You know what? Take it.” Jax took the lighter out of his pocket. It shined in the stormlight. “If you’re gonna throw such a hissy fit about something so tiny, you might as well have it so you don’t embarrass yourself more than you already have. Go on. I don’t want it anymore.” 

Jax held his hand out, the lighter on his palm. Pomni reared back and slapped his hand away, the lighter bouncing off the wall with a weighty thud, doing a few midair loops and finally skittering to a stop a few feet behind her.

“What the h@&&?! I gave you what-”

“SHUT UP!!!”

Pomni barked this order with such ferocity that Jax immediately fell silent. It seemed to have shocked the jester herself, as she took a moment to find her voice afterwards. 

“…Why? Why did you do that?” was all she managed to get out.

“I don’t like people touching my stuff.” came Jax’s reply. Despite his shock at being yelled at, he managed to keep his tone cool and even. There was a millisecond flash of lightning. Thunder rumbled.

“Not that. Just… why do you always..? I know you’re capable of being kind. I’ve seen it firsthand. They don’t do anything to you, Jax! So why do you just keep picking at everyone?”

“Because they let me.” 

Pomni felt her anger froth to the surface again. 

“Oh. OH. That makes perfect sense! So you’re cruel because you can be! Nice to know you’re just a sadist then! Ha! That saves me a lot of time, then! We’re through. Get outta my way.”

Pomni snatched the lighter off the ground and pushed past Jax.

“…I’m not a sadist.” he said without turning around. 

“You just said you’re cruel to people for fun. That’s the definition of a sadist!” Pomni unlocked the door to his room and placed her hand on the knob. 

“It’s not for fun.”

Her hand slid off the knob. There was a rolling growl of thunder. 

“So what is it then?!” Pomni turned back to Jax, walking up to him and poking him in the chest. “You keep changing your story! First it was ‘I want them to hate me instead of their situation,’ now it’s ‘I do it because I can.’ So what is it? Tell. Me. The. TRUTH.”

“You want the truth, huh?” Jax said. Half of his face was silhouetted in shadow, his tone steeped in frosty ire. 

“YES. Or you can forget about us. About all of this. It’ll be like we never met.” Pomni asserted. 

“FINE.” Jax hissed. He turned to the window, looking out on the maelstrom of clouds and wind and rain. Another blinding flash of lightning and grumble of thunder.

 “I… I hate myself.” 

For a good 10 seconds, the only sounds were that of the rain on the digital grass and the wind buffeting Jax’s window. 

“S-S-Say again?” Pomni finally asked.

“I hate myself.” Jax repeated, not taking his gaze off the storm. His affect was neutral, but his eyes were distant.

“You… hate yourself?” Pomni echoed. 

“Yeah.” 

The jester chewed on one of her gloves. A flicker of lightning and a softer, yet prolonged burble of thunder rolled across the grounds. She removed her glove from her teeth.

“How do I know that’s not a lie too?” she asked, looking intently at the floor. 

“It’s not.” Jax immediately replied. “I guess, just, believe me.”

Pomni continued chewing on one of her gloves. She jumped a little at an especially loud crack of thunder, but otherwise remained rooted to the spot. An excruciating minute passed.

“…Okay. You hate yourself.” Pomni finally conceded, throwing her arms out and letting her hands slap against her hips. “So?”

This query got Jax to turn towards Pomni. The icy glare on his face could have shriveled flowers. “The £@€# do you mean, ‘so?’” 

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Pomni shot back.

“So? You hate yourself so you treat everyone but me sometimes like trash?! What kind of excuse is that?”

The corner of Jax’s mouth twitched. She had prodded a nerve with that one. He turned back to the window, looking out on the storm-swept grounds. 

“Get outta my room.” he ordered.

“No.” Pomni said with a humorless laugh. “You seriously think I’m gonna go ‘Oh you poor baby, I didn’t know; all is forgiven?’ just because you said you hate yourself? It doesn’t work like that! I hate myself too and I don’t act a FIFTH as awful as you do!”

“What do you mean, you hate yourself..?” Jax demanded quietly. 

Pomni took a deep breath. Well, he had been honest with her. She waited for the latest boom of thunder to quiet down before continuing. 

“I don’t remember everything about outside… but I remember that before I came here I… I was alone. I never went out drinking or dancing; I had no one to go with. Hadn’t kept in touch with my college friends and didn’t associate with anyone at work. How could I? I never had anything to talk to my coworkers about, I never reacted right to anyone’s jokes, I only went to team building exercises if they were mandatory… But it wasn’t like they didn’t try! I got invited to dinner or to birthday parties, and I always said no, I was busy. You wanna know what I was doing?”

“Pomni-” Jax began 

“No! Ask me what I was doing!” 

Jax didn’t reply. Pomni finally shrugged after a moment and answered her own question with a phony smile.

“Nothing. £@€# all. I was doing sudoku, or watching a movie I had already seen, or scrolling on my phone in bed. And I hated myself for it! I would cry into my pillow, I was so lonely! I would tell myself how stupid, stupid, STUPID I was, and how I was an idiot who didn’t deserve friends! I had every opportunity to get out of the hole I dug for myself, and I didn’t, because I was scared they would hate me even more than I thought they already did.”

Pomni felt her anger rise once again.

“Uh huh. But guess what? I never picked on anyone. I never made anyone else feel worse! I hurt so badly some days I wanted to DIE and I still tried my best to smile and treat everyone around me like a PERSON! You hate yourself? SO F#%&ING WHAT?! That doesn’t give you the right to make everything around you worse!” 

Pomni panted, doubling over to catch her breath. She braced herself for some sort of projectile Jax might throw at her. Instead, he only stared at her before turning back to the window. Thunder rumbled. 

“I’m… sorry you hate yourself. Really. It’s the worst feeling. But it’d be so much better if you just… didn’t hurt people. Let them in and helped you heal. It’s what I needed, and now that I have friends…”

Pomni stopped herself. She stared down at the floor again. She hated eye contact already, eye contact after an argument was like staring at the sun.

“So… why do you hate yourself?” Pomni asked after some more silence. 

“What does it matter?” Jax replied. 

Pomni scoffed. “Don’t give me that. Has it occurred to you that I actually care about you? If I didn’t, why would I even be asking? Why would I have kissed you after you made me salmon a few nights ago? I like you, Jax. But you can be a real p&!@% sometimes, and that isn’t okay, even if your pain is real. Why do you hate yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jax said firmly. 

Pomni let out a protracted sigh, chewing on the finger of one of her gloves and looking down at the floor one last time before looking back up at Jax. He was looking out at the storm.

“Okay. Thanks for at least giving me a real answer. I’ll bring your lighter back in a bit.”

Pomni headed for the door once again. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and she practically jumped out of her skin with a sharp gasp. She whirled around and took a few steps back, Jax pulling his hand back in shock. 

“W-What?! Don’t… don’t touch me!” she snapped reflexively. 

“…I’m…” Jax began. 

Pomni crossed her arms and waited, looking everywhere but in Jax’s face. 

“…I’m…” he tried again. “I’m not being… I’m not just being difficult. I don’t remember.”

Pomni quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t remember what?” 

“Why. I don’t remember why I hate myself. It’s just gone. Poof, right along with my name.”

Pomni licked her lips. She was thirsty from all the shouting. 

“You’re… being serious right now? You aren’t just trying to weasel your way-”

“No. No, I’m- I’m totally serious.” 

Pomni managed to look into his eyes for a moment. They were big, but his pupils were tiny despite the extremely low light. Just the way he’d looked after she had seen him have a nightmare. Scared. 

“…That’s horrible.” Pomni said, looking away after she began to feel itchy. “I… can’t imagine how horrible it must be to hurt and not know why… like a pain in a phantom limb.” 

Jax didn’t say anything, looking back out at the window. Lightning flashed, a bright pink-white splinter across the clouds, and there was a tremulous rumble of thunder that followed. 

“But… you shouldn’t take it out on people. Even if it makes the pain stop. There are other things you can do…” Pomni added. “And… And I’m willing to listen to you whenever you’re hurting. Even if I’m hurting too.” 

Jax looked back at the jester, who immediately stared down at the floor. 

“Why? You barely know me. You said it was so hard to make friends back in the real world. What makes me so special?”

Pomni swallowed. She really needed something to drink. 

“I know. That it’s bizarre for me to like you when I’ve always had such a hard time. But… I want to help you anyway. Isn’t that weird?”

She managed a smile and to look him in the eyes again. Jax gave a short “heh…” and looked away this time. 

“Thanks, Pompom.” he said.

“Anytime, Bunny-Boy.” 

The two of them shared an awkward chuckle. Pomni cleared her throat.

“Um… do you want to come with me? I’m gonna go have tea with Ragatha and the others…”

“I think I’m okay…” Jax replied. 

“Jax, come on. It’ll be fun… Please?” 

Pomni offered a hand. 

“Alright, alright. But only ‘cause you said please.”

Jax took the jester’s hand, Pomni sparking the lighter and leading the way back to Ragatha’s bedroom.

[amazingmsme]

(Elpenor anon)

If you got this already, I’m sorry but when I put this in an ask, Tumblr was breaking because of the sheer quantity of the fic, although that may have been like that because it was my phone.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

  Empty, is what all Elpenor knows at that moment. How empty his mind is, how empty his heart is, how empty his stomach is, how empty his eyes were, but the wet spot of the deck was especially empty, where Eurylochus of Same, his mentor, his friend, the second-in-command turned captain, used to be.

  What happened or the event that caused it should’ve been seen or at least thought about earlier, but everyone was too busy trying to survive, to get home, to eat; that any circumstances for what they did slipped from their mind. 

  What pushed the boulder down the steep hill, was the death of 14 men at the club of a cyclops (Polyphemus, a part of his mind reminded him), one of those men being Polites of Ithaca- a soldier, a kind man, and the closest friend of King Odysseus of Ithaca, the captain of their vast fleet. The cyclops, a shepherd of the sheep that the men killed, would’ve taken more men’s lives in blood-curling rage, would’ve taken their lives as revenge for taking his sheep’s lives- if his consciousness didn’t fade from the lotus Odysseus put in the wine he gifted to him (the irony is that Odysseus gave him the wine as an gift so his sheep was a gift to him, meaning that Odysseus used a gift as a way to deceive him, like how the cyclops deceived them into thinking he’s letting them go.)

   They were so close to leaving unscathed, without any circumstances; the cyclops was blinded by the same club that killed their friend by Odysseus’ command, the cyclops was unable to tell the cyclopes who blinded due to Odysseus’ cunning mind, they got to their ships without notice or loss. They were practically ready to sail away, but something happened to Odysseus. Something snapped inside him, there must’ve have been; what else would explain why he didn’t board the ship and instead ran towards the cyclops, with sharp sword in hand and sharper grief-filled anger in heart.

  Elpenor watched as Odysseus slashed the cyclops; stabbed, cut, sliced, anything that could’ve possibly killed the Cyclops and avenge the men lost. But he didn’t succeed in his attempt , instead, he angered the cyclops, beyond words. Elpenor remembered his last words, as he was held helpless in the blinded cyclops’ fist, lift above his gaping maw, ready to bite and chew and swallow to add the King of Ithaca to his stomach. His last words before that creature dropped him into his mouth, before the crew heard that sickening crunch and the agonized screams that lasted only for a few moments as he was eaten. His last words before Eurylochus commanded the ships to row and sail away from the island.

   His last words were “Eurylochus of Same, as your captain and friend, I am entrusting you with bringing the fleets home and taking care of my family until my son is of age to become king!”. The words were panicked and rushed, but that never stopped Odysseus, who was famous for his cunning and strategies, from being eloquent and clever with his words. That was the last time Elpenor saw the king of Ithaca alive and breathing, and the first time he saw Odysseus dead and still. But as the 12 ships rowed away as fast as they can, Elpenor swore the cyclops tilted his head towards the ships, just a little bit, as if he was almost contemplating. And whatever he was contemplating, he acted upon it, and in doing that, unleashes a tragedy upon the men that will take months or years to overcome and pass by. 

  The ships had to go through a terrible storm- a storm that could’ve ended more lives if Eurylochus didn’t command them properly. They rowed and sailed where the new captain demanded, and they were getting closer and closer to Ithaca, despite the storm. They were so close to home (or everyone else’s), so close, before all their effort was all for nothing, because of the actions and ruthlessness of a deity. Poseidon, the God of the sea, storms, earthquakes and horses, one of 12 Olympians, and the most horrifically important, the father of the cyclops Polyphemus.   The father of the cyclops they took from, the cyclops they drugged, and the cyclops they permanently crippled. It should’ve been obvious at the start, a cyclops would’ve never been created unless they have a divine deity as a parent. And whatever kindness the deity had for them, left as soon as his son told him who had a part of his mortal injury, a man that goes by Eurylochus of Same. 

   Poseidon threw the storms at them, made it hard to get to Ithaca, and when that didn’t work, decided to see them face-to-face. The actions and mannerisms made it abundantly clear that he’s pissed, pissed by the fact they caused permanently injury to his son and didn’t have the decency to put him out of his misery, and instead left him forever blind. His words held a sense of irony, because if they did kill the cyclops, not only would his son be put out of his misery, in which he wouldn’t go after them, but if they killed him, the cyclops would’ve never told his father who killed and blinded him. It was tragic and ironic that an act that some people would’ve thought as merciful, is actually seen as cruel. And the deity, in his anger, wanted them to teach that ruthlessness is mercy to yourself. A lesson taught in the cruelest way possible.

  Eurylochus tried to explain to him that they did try to kill his son, that their captain lost his life trying to end his life, but the deity made his decision, his cruel and cold decision. Not only would the god of the seas not allowed them to return home to Ithaca anytime soon, but he, as if it was taking a toy away from a child, drowned 6 ships filled with men; to show that by drowning the 294 men, he took mercy upon them from suffering the heartbreak of never returning home, leaving 291 men to suffer the consequences. It must’ve been poetic justice to him, how killing half of their men and left the rest to suffer parallels how they blinded his son and left him to suffer. It must’ve been satisfying to him. It must’ve been so satisfying that he changed his mind and planned to drown the other 6 ships; he would’ve, if Eurylochus didn’t speak up and made a big sacrifice for the remaining crew to live, and left Elpenor with big shoes to fill and a bigger hole in his heart.

  He made a deal with Poseidon, that for the safety and survival of his men and a possibility of getting home, he would give his life to him and he can do whatever he wants with him. Eurylochus was always loyal to the crew and was willing to sacrifice his life just for a chance that the rest of the crew survived and gets home. And Poseidon, possibly touched by his loyalty, accepted the deal. But told him that doesn’t mean that he’ll grant the crew easy access home, that they have to work for it. But Eurylochus still agreed, because a deal where all of them were alive and had a chance to go home was worth the sacrifice.

  What happened 5 minutes ago, but Elpenor feels like he could never accept what happened, could never wrap his head around it, could never even move from that position where Eurylochus was right in front of him, smiling at him with tearfilled eyes, with his big hands placed on Elpenor’s smaller shoulders, with his claymore on the floor besides him, a claymore bigger than Elpenor himself. He had to bend down to look Elpenor in the eyes, an action he did many times to help him sword fight. But this is different, this is his last goodbye to his mentee and his friends, his possible last words, and his last decision as captain. What he told Elpenor was heard by most of the crew, but he was looking him in the eyes, as if to tell him this was a final decision and it’s permanent, no matter what Elpenor says.

  “As my last decision as captain, I, Eurylochus of Same, am passing the title to you, Elpenor.” was what he said. The decision was made to further the chances of them getting home; after all, Elpenor was the heart of the crew after Polites- he kept the crew’s spirits and motivation up- he was a formidable opponent-taught by Eurylochus who made him an excellent swordsman- and knew what to do and what to say and where to go -due to Odysseus teaching him on those long stretches where Odysseus misses his son and Elpenor misses a father. The decision was made with the best intentions in mind, but hearing that, was like a funeral bell to the Elpenor’s ears. And then a few moments laters, Eurylochus was gone, swept away by the sea.

   And there, Elpenor stood, dead still and silent as if he was the one who died at that very moment. His eyes didn’t stray from the spot where his mentor stood, where the last person that felt like family stood. He didn’t move, hoping this was a nightmare, where he’ll wake up and find everyone okay, where all his friends were alive, where the 3 fucking people who practically raised him and took care of him were alive and breathing and they’ll be there to comfort him. But it’s not, this is reality, where he’s awake and alone and in charge of 290 men’s lives.

  How can he accepted what happened? How can he even accepted it? He was there. Eurylochus was right there. And now, he’s gone. He’s gone forever. His mentor was gone forever. The last person that treated him like family was gone forever. He couldn’t just, move on, can he? The last of the three people that gave them hope in going home was gone. He faintly heard someone call ‘captain’ as he stood there, motionless. His dark eyes were frozen on that wet spot where Eurylochus last stood. Was he even breathing, or was his lungs frozen with the same shock and pain as the rest of him? Someone was still calling the captain, but who’s the captain now? The captain is gone, eaten by a cyclops and drowned by the sea. 

   There was no captain, yet someone was still calling for one. Who’s going to respond? There’s no captain anymore. But someone is still calling for one. Through the daze, he vaguely felt a hand touch his shoulder, and the word ‘captain’ was repeated. He didn’t respond, he wasn’t the captain, he was Elpenor; the most unimportant and unimpressive of the crew of Odysseus. There’s no captain. They died, both trying to protect and avenge the rest of their crew. But still, someone was calling for the captain. How is there not a captain anymore?

(Elpenor Anon)

Also I accidentally (accidentally) gave Elpenor abandonment issues.

I don’t know how,

So sorry I didn’t get to this til now, but life has been crazy let me tell you! It did go the This is absolutely heart wrenchingly beautiful & so well written! I believe in Captain Elpenor even if he doesn’t believe in himself!

[lanitalay]

In the Woods Somewhere

Lucien x reader 

A/n: I am a Hozier girly and this song just screams Lucien to me. Enjoy.

Warnings: angst

Word count: 1.1k

When I awoke

The moon still hung

The night so black that the darkness hummed

A gasp broke through the delicate quiet of the night. Clutch your chest, heart pounds. Shallow and jagged breathing cloud your ears. It's all you can feel. All you can hear. You don’t know how long it's been since you were unconscious. Or how you ended up in the middle of the woods. 

I raised myself

My legs were weak

I prayed my mind be good to me

Calm now, you were calm. Check for wounds. Assess the situation. Feel around for your weapon. Find the dagger next on the ground. Sticky blood coating the blade. Slowly stand, try to avoid rustling any leaves. Feel trapped. Caged in by the walls of darkness, the moon a spotlight on your worst nightmare. They were getting closer, closing. The darkness now comes from above as a dense cloud blocks the moonlight. A coffin. The forest would be your final resting place. It was fair, you thought. The forest provides life but it also takes it. Eats up everything within, eventually. You feel wiggling underneath and over your feet. Worms. 

An awful noise

Filled the air

I heard a scream in the woods somewhere

He had heard the scream and ran towards it. These were his woods, his forest. But they were also his brother’s. His father’s. The scream reminded him of nights spent being flogged, blood splattered on maple trees and sadistic, power hungry laughter. So he ran, dodging trees and boulders and low branches from memory. He and the forest were one and the same, an extension of one another. 

A fox it was

He shook, afraid

I spoke no words, no sound he made

Dagger points in the direction of the rustling. The sound of crunching leaves nearing you by the second. You took a defensive position and hoped it was an animal. The noise stopped as quickly as it started. The lid from your casket lifted and the moon soaked the male face in front of you. 

He raises his hands “I mean you no harm”, he says in a low voice. The dagger stays in place “where am I?” 

 “This is the Hickory Groves”

“What’s your name?” 

“Lucien”. Vanserra. He didn’t have to say it and you knew enough of the High Lord’s heirs to know you were in danger. Killing him was not an option. Running would make it a chase. So you  standstill. Knife pointed at his heart. 

“I mean you no harm” he repeats, low, gentle. 

The Hickory Groves… the part of autumn that borders Spring. Where females of all ages get discarded by their families, elders or, in your case, lover. The top of the coffin gets brought down again. You gulp. Foxes like to play with their food. If he was here it was for no good reason. 

A small flame appears from one of his raised hands and you can see him again, more clearly now. He was handsome. At least you’d die at the hand of a pretty bastard. A miniscule mercy. His claws and fangs more preferable than the other creatures that stalk these woods. 

I saw new eyes were watching me

The creature lunged

I turned and ran

To save a life I didn't have

Lucien remained still. You had not moved an inch in what felt like an age. Slow, calculating steps circled you. He extinguished the flame. You had seen enough. When the steps sounded like they were right behind him you turned and ran as fast as you could in the opposite direction. Leaving Lucien in between you and the creature. 

Deer in the chase

There as I flew

Forgot all prayers of joining you

As you ran you heard the sound of a struggle. The thud of a fallen body. Then more steps racing. You zig zag and try to lose the hunter. The first rays of sun guide you towards the edge of the forest. You run and run and promise yourself that when you reach the valley whatever is following you will disappear. A pathetic wish of a desperate girl. But when you see more rays, the sky littered in pink and peach hues you run faster. The valley looks endless, mist coats the furry hills, green leaves fade to red in the distance. The steps had ceased, you notice but half way through a sigh of relief a towering figure appears next to you. Your heart stops.

“You’re a fast runner” 

“I thought you dropped dead”

“That was not me, to the dismay of some” 

“What is a lordling doing in the Grove of Rejects?” He snorts at the question “Is that what you call this place?” You shrug “everyone in my village knows that if you want to get rid of someone you send them here”. 

“You were sent here?” 

“Scrapped is more like it” 

“By who?” 

“Curious? I think it was a male from my village. He thought me too poor to marry but good enough to bed”

“Why bring you here?”

“I have a bit of a reputation for having a… temper. He must not want to face my wrath. Not that he had anything to worry about, I thought him too much of a brute to marry. Now though… I’ll gut him for this”

I clutched my life

And wished it kept

My dearest love, I'm not done yet

Warm skin presses against your back and drapes across your waist.  

“What did you think of me when we first met?” 

“I was sure you wanted to kill me”

“You were the one with the knife” 

“You were chasing me” 

“I’m still chasing you”

“You have me” 

“Do I really?” You tense. Lucien had taken it upon himself to deal with the male that dropped you in the middle of the woods that day. Ever since he had visited you under the guise of a routine check up on one of the more isolated villages of the Autumn Court.

He visited frequently enough that you became friendly. He stayed late enough that you became intimate. 

Turn to face him. Graze his cheek with the palm of your hand and savor the warmth that radiates within his caramel skin. Raw eyes pierce your own. He wants you. He wants this and he wants more. 

“A bride of Autumn has no happy life” he knew it. He saw his mother cry.

“We could leave it all behind” you place a shaky finger on his swollen lips. 

“One day, my love, but not today” 

How many years

I know I'll bear

I found something in the woods somewhere