#seven hills of rome

[flying-ham]

kings landing is so ancient rome coded

[silver-survey]

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

There were too many other things that I left out or I had to cut because of poll limitations, so sorry in advance 🥹

[covertrook]

Just like Ancient Rome Swansea was built on seven hills, one for each of the deadly sins. Trouble was they needed some new hills, they’d been busy enough inventing new sins. - Matt Thomas

[graceandpeacejoanne]

Revelation 17: Seven Heads and Ten Horns

Although the angels gives some concrete interpretation, those interpretations create more questions! #Revelation17 #SevenHeads #AntiChrist #TenHorns

Then the angel said to me, “Because of what do you marvel? I myself will tell you the mystery of the woman and of the dangerous creature carrying her, the one having the seven heads and the ten horns.   “The dangerous beast which you observed was and is not, and is about to rise up out of the abyss, then withdraw into ruin, the loss of eternal life: then the dwellers upon the earth will marvel…

[janusfranc15]

You could also say that any time a Revelation occurs, the world is destroyed. An Earth-shattering recontextualisation.

You will never see the world the same way again. That world is Dead. Lost. And you now must struggle in the new. With the burden of knowledge.

Funny thing is, "apocalypse" as a word used to refer to the end of the world is a form of metonymy

The Greek word  ἀποκάλυψις (apokalypsis) means revelation. Hence why the last book of the New Testament is referred to as "The Revelation of John" and "The Apocalypse of John" almost interchangeably

Technically, in Christian eschatology, the apocalypse doesn't refer to the End Times, but the revelation of the End Times to John

That's right: we live in post-apocalyptic times,

[lokischocolatefountain]

home in three days, do not wash

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: age gap, mild choking, mentions of child death, hurt comfort, breeding kink, lactation, reader has children, taboo for the time oral sex, talk of war. Word count: 3.6k words Summary: Your General returns home ravenous for you and you cannot decline him, even if any exposure of his act would bring him great shame. A/N: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the awesome graphics. Napoleon said 'be home in three days, do not wash' and what was I supposed to do? Not use it for our big thicc roman general returning home from war to fuck us? I did research and shit and came to know that eating pussy was a big no no back in the day. dj Khaled would love to be an ancient roman ig. also learned that rich ladies didn't breastfeed and used a wet nurse but they knew that breastfeeding could help and some women did it. Outside all that research, it's just depravity, baby. Anyway, validate my depravity with some comments pls.

Laughter echoed through the hallways of your palatial home and you stood at a balcony with the best view from atop the hill. The campaign that had taken your husband away had finally come to an end with victory for Rome. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, you were always one of the last people to receive the latest news of importance. This time was an exception to the rule. 

Home in three days. Do not wash.

All you wanted when you received the message was to run in the direction of the roads that would bring your beloved home. Three days were too long. You wanted to curtail the long wait, run to him so you would be in one another’s arms in a day and a half. 

But you chose the more realistic path and prepared the home for his arrival. The servants polished every surface, your handmaiden ensured you had all your most preferred clothing— that which he loved to see on your body. The kitchen was busy preparing every meal that the master loved. Your two older children with your general busied themselves recollecting everything they learned from their private tutor to impress their father. 

Your youngest, your first son, was still so young he had never met his father. He was the child your dearest had longed to have for so long. For all the luck the gods had given him in the battlefield, they had given very little in the way of children to carry his legacy. In his heart, he was father to seven daughters and six sons. The gods had only allowed four daughters to live. Two of his sons passed in infancy, one passed in birth, taking his mother with him. One other was taken by disease and another killed in battle. 

He now had only one son and he hadn’t yet the joy of holding him in his arms. Everyday that Marcus was in the battlefield was torture. Babe on your breast and fear in your heart over whether his father would live to see him. Fear sometimes subsided for anger to have its way. That very anger remained in your chest, prepared to unleash on him the moment he stepped into the home. 

When the sun dimmed, night crept in and so did Marcus. You refused to greet him at the door. A warm welcome was reserved for men who told their wives where they were going before they left. You had half a mind to ask for a bath to be prepared. To wash yourself with milk and fragrant oils in front of him so he could see your defiance in action. 

But you remained in the balcony, eyes set on the moon who served as your companion when he left you. For all the fury you had for him, there was also an ache of sympathy. You wouldn’t sour his mood the moment he entered. He must see his son first. Then you would see to that he groveled at your feet for his cruelty. 

Just as you thought, you had a long time to relax on the settee. He always went to his children first. Be it after months away on the battlefield or a mere day in the city. You asked for your son’s crib to be moved to your daughters’ room so he would be able to see them all at once, saving him the battle of choosing between his great loves. You’d sent word to him on the battlefield after you gave birth, sent him the name of his son so he would know to include him in his prayers. 

You heard whispers of his voice conversing with a servant. Your heart quickened its pace, each thud against your ribs matching the thuds of his feet against the floor. Oh how you wanted to turn around. It had been so long since your eyes were blessed with him. His towering height, broad frame, the pink of his lips and the curls you so loved to comb through with your fingers. You trembled, the cold breeze reminding you how devoid you’d been of his warmth. Yet you were resolved to not give yourself up to him so soon. You stayed in place and closed your eyes.

He stopped behind you and your name spilled from his lips like honey. It had been so long since anyone spoke your name so… The servants called you mistress and your children called you mother. Your birth family only wrote your name in their many letters. He was the only one who spoke your name, leaving you without hearing your own name since his departure. But you stayed, did not turn, did not open your eyes. He spoke it again, his voice gentle but louder as he stopped at your side. 

“Open your eyes, dearest.” 

“Where have you come, General?” You asked, your voice cold enough to be the envy of the winter breeze. 

“General?” He asked, a hint of amusement playing at his lips. 

“Are you not a General?” You taunted, finally opening your eyes. He looked weary from battle and travel. You longed to take him to your chambers and strip him of his armor to count his wounds, kiss each one be it new or old. His hair was grayer than when he left, his skin duller, but his eyes were still the soft brown that gave you peace when you first saw him as his young bride. 

“Your General,” he said with a small smile as though his words were supposed to make you forgive him at once and shower him with kisses. It only strengthened your resolve. If he wouldn’t treat you as a wife, you wouldn’t give him the respect of a husband. 

“You have a son,” you said, stretching your legs out in the settee just as he made to take his seat there. His hand wrapped around your ankle and you kicked it off, daring him to make another attempt at moving your legs so he could sit. He smiled softly, conceding as he moved to stand by your head. 

“He is beautiful, mellilla,” he said, caressing your cheek. You slapped his hand away. All of Rome may fall at his feet and welcome him back with praises of his victory. He was deserving of course, not only for his achievements but for his undying loyalty to Rome. If Rome were a woman, she would be his principal wife and you— you would only be a tavern whore he fucked and left in the dead of night. 

“You block the moonlight, General Acacius.” 

“Marcus,” he said, moving to allow you sight of the moon once again. He sat in the little remaining space on the settee and looked down at you. Despite the toll war had taken on him, he was incredibly handsome. Bold nose, pink lips and graying curls that only made him look ever so slightly more distinguished. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your lips. You did not return the kiss, but you did not push him away. There was an limit even to your anger. You placed a hand on his shoulder, the act of denying yourself the joy of your lover weighing heavy in your heart.

“I’m afraid I haven’t such an honor.” You bit down on your lip, annoyed at yourself for the trembling of your voice as you spoke. Your anger for him had a foundation of pain after all. 

His face fell and he sighed. He looked down at his lap and you hoped it was from shame.

“If you have nothing to say, you may leave. If you need it, you may summon the servants for your meal. But I am sure the emperor did not send his best general hungering for food or cunt,” you spat, rising to sit up on the settee. Hand as strong as iron wrapped around your wrist, coupling with his strong torso that trapped you in place to keep you from getting up. You squirmed in his grasp, but he did not budge.

“Listen to me.” 

“Is that an order?” 

He wrapped an arm around you and held your cheek in his hand. You looked up at him, giving him biting fury to his firm yet gentle gaze. “If it is the only way I will have your obedience, then yes. It is an order.” 

“You may speak, but you cannot make me listen and you most certainly cannot make me respond.” 

“I am your husband.” 

“A husband doesn’t leave for a year long war at the dead of night with no explanation to the woman swelling with his child,” you screamed, fist slamming against his chest. It didn’t affect Marcus. Nothing affected the great General Acacius, you thought with derision. You hit him in the chest again, tears brimming in your eyes and clouding your vision.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You ceased your attacks as his apology coupled with the pain in his eyes reduced you to tears. You’d kept everything in for so long, put on a brave face for your daughters and hid your heart in your letter to your father. It was only with Marcus that you didn’t need to hide. He always tore your fears down and pulled you into the safety of his arms.

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave had I said goodbye.” 

“I was so afraid,” you confessed, leaning into his chest. Every pretense of strength and composure left your body as you let him hold you to his chest. The gold earrings you wore to please his eyes pressed cold against your skin under his hand. He moved next to your hair and then you neck, the hand that held swords and spilled blood only to return home to love you. 

“Carissima…You were all I could think of after I left. Forgive me,” he begged, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to each finger. 

“Later. I have missed you. Marcus,” you whispered, craning your neck to kiss him. He returned your kiss in an instant, arms cradling you as you devoured each other. He smelled of war— blood, soil, sweat, and leather. It was far more pleasing to your senses than any fragrant oils and flowers. Your Marcus and his distinctly masculine scent was above all but the fragrance of your newborn. 

You whined as he retreated. He laughed and returned to scatter kisses along your jawline like Rome scattered rose petals along the steps of the Colosseum for his feet. He reached under your layers of silk and linen, making you tremble and press yourself closer to his chest. 

“So soft…” 

“I need you, please.” It was all he needed to hear before he walked up to the doors of the balcony and slammed them shut. What he did with you, for you, wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but your own. 

He unlatched the gold clips that held your palla to your shoulders and set them aside. Your stola and tunic followed, piling up on the marble floor. Cold air caressed your bare breasts, bigger and fuller now as you nursed your son yourself. You traced your hand up his arm, feeling his vambrace before finding his muscular arms. You whimpered from just how big he was in your hands. You squeezed, feeling the hard muscle and rough skin. 

Your General knelt before you and you sat up straight, confused by his action. He couldn’t be… You sought his apologies and regret, but by no means would you ask him to humiliate himself for you. Such a man, superior to you in every way. 

“Dominus!” You shrieked, reminding him who he was even when he came home. 

“Shh…” 

“Are you going to—?”

“Lick you cunt? Yes. Sit back, now,” he said as he guided you to lean back on the settee. You shook your head from side to side, appalled by the circumstances and confused as to how you were supposed to stop him. He spread your legs wide, planting your feet upon the seat. He licked his plush lips and looked up at you, his eyes those of a ravenous beast. 

“You cannot. I only want you to understand the torture you put me through, not debase yourself in front of me. It’s not right.”  

A corner of his lips curled up slightly. He spat on his hand and rubbed it into your cunt. You arched into his palm, your cunt chasing any contact you could have with your beloved. “Tell me, who do you belong to?” 

“You.”

“Speak fully and speak my name.” 

“I belong to you, Marcus.” 

“Correct. Why do you think then, that you can tell me what I can and cannot do with you?” 

He parted your cunt lips and slid a finger inside you. “You belong to me. All of you. This cunt belongs to me. Does it not?” You nodded as he pumped his thick finger in and out of you. It had been so long since you’d been touched that even his finger felt a little much for you to take. You shuddered as you thought of his cock, promising the virility that came with such a size. 

“Speak,” he commanded, every bit the fearsome General who led men into battle. When even warriors couldn’t defy him, how could you? 

“It belongs to you, Marcus.” 

“Mmm,” he rumbled, curling his finger inside you, making you whimper. “If I want to lick this cunt then, do you have any right to stop me?” 

“N-no,” you cried, grabbing his wrist and imploring him to slow down for you couldn’t take such intoxicating pleasure. “If peo— Marcus! If someone knew—”

Then he dove into your core and licked the nub above your cunt, eliciting a squeal from you. He looked up at you from between your legs, tongue still licking you as he smirked. It was sinful, the sight and the act of a man serving a woman. You shook your head, your senses already addled from being so close to him after a long year. It was wrong. Wrong. But oh gods, he made all the wrongs feel right and who were you to deny him? 

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no longer from the agony of separation from your dearest but from the building pressure in your core. 

“Marcus…” you said, unable to say anything else. You reached your hand towards him, needing to be anchored to the Earth as he flew you to the heavens. He enveloped your hand in his and gave a small squeeze. His other hand and his lips were unrelenting, giving him new ways to torment you. 

How did anyone deem it submissive for a man to kneel and lick cunt? Your Marcus still looked as majestic as ever. The picture of victory that Rome worshiped. The Marcus Acacius who slew and killed was home and ruthless in his conquest of you. Even as he licked your core, he was the one with all the power in hand. This was but a new way for him to take you. 

You gasped inaudibly as he inserted another finger in your cunt, stretching you in preparation for his cock. You felt your unraveling come closer. He pulled you deeper into whatever spell he had you under whenever he touched your cunt. You squeezed his hand tighter, saying everything your lips couldn’t. Hold me, keep me safe, never let me go.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shores of the beach as you came crashing down from the heavens. Marcus kept his wordless promise. You tightened your legs around his head yet he held you in place and kept you safe. 

When you came to, you found your fingers tangled in between his dark curls. You loosened your grip on him but did not let go, needing to feel him even if it was just his hair. 

“I should not have liked that.” 

He laughed and gave your cunt another lick, smirking as he watched you shudder. 

“But you did,” he said, getting up at last. “I knew you tasted divine, but having you directly from your cunt is something else, melilla.” 

“I have not washed in days because of you. I am sure I taste horrendous.” 

“Good girl, following orders well. But you are wrong. You taste and smell like a woman. Not a perfumed woman. This,” he said in a low voice as the tip of his nose traced up your neck. He inhaled your scent and moaned. “This is nothing you can find in a vial. This is your true scent,” he said, stopping at your ear and placing a kiss. 

“I would recognize it anywhere.” He reached under his pteruges and toga and retrieved his cock. Your cunt clenched at the mere sight of him. 

He was far too covered. As much as you loved to see your General in his armor, you loved more to see him bare. You needed to run your fingers over his bare chest and dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he wrung his pleasure out of you.  You found the ties that held his armor in place and began to undo them. 

“Impatient girl,” he chided as he aligned himself with your cunt. 

“Help me out then,” you snapped back as you struggled with the knots. He ignored your request and continued on his path of destroying you, plunging his length inside you much too quickly. You cried from the pain and pleasure of being stretched out by him once again. 

“Marcus!” 

He bent forward and whispered your name against your lips before claiming them. You moaned into the kiss as you rubbed yourself against him for friction. You were loath to pull away from his cock even the slightest as you ached for him too much to part from him. You wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels down on his back, pulling him deeper inside you. 

He wrapped a hand around your throat, tightening and loosening every now and then. “Day and night, I longed for you,” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. “Dreamt of the day I would be inside you again.” 

You echoed the sentiment, but he quickly silenced you with a hard thrust that you felt in the deepest part of your core. He wasn’t the gentle Marcus who treated you like you did your fine silks but the General who conquered every land he set foot on. He rammed in and out of you, reclaiming you as his. Your cunt opened up to take its master, molded itself around him like it did each time since your wedding night. He had taken you, his young bride, and shown you a world only he could. He’d taken and taken, made you a woman by showing you what your body could do for you. 

He licked up your neck, growling like he was tasting the finest delicacies from the emperors’ table after being starved for months. “You smell sweet, Carisimma.” 

“You lived in tents with men for a year. I’m sure a pig would smell sweet to you now,” you said, making him laugh even as he wrecked you. He reached down to your breasts and grabbed one in his hand. He pinched your nipple between his fingers and tugged, making you cry out in pain. 

“Marcus!” Drops of milk trickled from your breasts and he swiped it with him thumb before licking it. 

“I only regret that I could not see you grow bigger with my seed.” 

“You ha- you have seen it before.” 

“Yet I am not satisfied. I need more, I need to fill you up with my seed, keep you full with my children in perpetuity.” 

“Marcus! Please…” 

“What do you beg for, girl?” 

“Give me sons, Marcus. Let me give you heirs,” you cried, overcome by the need to become his in that primal way. It was more than just your duty as his wife. It was an innate desire. As frightening as pregnancy was, you wanted it again and again at the hands of your husband. To give him sons carry his name and daughters who would control the great General with their laughter. 

“Give me sons,” he repeated, the hand around your neck squeezing tight. This time, he did not relax, holding your air hostage as he used your cunt for his carnal desires. You gasped for breath. Your cunt squeezed around him, keeping him in so he would give you his seed and refusing to let go even for a moment. 

Every thrust after sent delicious ripples of pain. You knew that you would wake the next morning unable to walk as usual. You would hear your servant girls giggle when they thought you couldn’t hear. He would wreck you day and night, make you scream for all the house to hear. He would take you to high places in the city, an arrogant smile on his lips as he showed you off, rounded again with his child. 

As though he could read your thoughts, he spilled inside you with a cry of your name. You held him close, afraid he would part from your body and rob you of his warmth. 

He showered you with kisses, beginning as a downpour and ending with a drizzle. You melted into his arms, the tension in your muscles leaving now that you had your Marcus home. You were no longer alone, he was here and he would take care of everything. 

“Am I forgiven now?” 

You smiled, burrowing into his chest as draped your discarded silk over you and picked you up in his arms. “I will consider it if you make sure I don’t bleed this cycle.” 

You felt his chest rumble as he laughed. A kiss on the top of your head.

“As you say, melilla.”

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[ancientcharm]

Roman House of Celio. Underground archaeological site. Case Romane del Celio. Photos : © Archaeology Travel

The buildings that make up the Case Romane del Celio are located on top of Caelian Hill, one of the famous seven hills of Rome, long known as the home for some of Rome’s wealthiest elites. The earliest structures that make up the Case Romane del Celio date from the second century AD when the buildings at this site were part of an early roman domus or residential building for Rome’s upper class. At the beginning of the third century AD, the site was transformed into an insula or middle-class apartment block. Artisan shops took up the bottom floors with apartments above them, going along a small alley which still cuts through the site today.

Text © Archaeology Travel. Travel Guides Crafted by Experienced Archaeologists & Historians (archaeology-travel.com)

Photo: © Your History Guide

[blueiscoool]

Rome’s 'Lost' Imperial Palace 'Domus Tiberiana' Reopens

Until recently a crumbling and off-limits ruin near the famous Colosseum, the Domus Tiberiana palace — built in the first century AD and beloved by Nero — hopes to once again take its place as one of the city’s top tourist attractions.

The ancient palace sits on Palatine Hill — the city’s oldest hill, overhanging Rome —from where imperial dynasties ruled for centuries. But over the years, the site fell into disrepair and in the 1970s, the Domus Tiberiana site was shut due to the structural instability of some of the ruins. The closure left behind what many Romans described as a “black hole” in the capital’s archaeological heart.

Now, after a six-year makeover, the palace has reopened its doors as a “diffuse museum,” with findings and frescoes scattered across the site to provide visitors with an insight into the palace’s ancient grandeur.

And it was grand. The Domus Tiberiana was Rome’s first imperial palace, built by the emperor Tiberius who combined and incorporated the pre-existing noble mansions built on the hill. Occupying over four hectares, the palace featured residences alongside large gardens, places of worship and rooms for the emperor’s Praetorian guard.

As the seat of Rome’s power and politics, Domus Tiberiana held a prime location, high above the Palatine and Roman Forums, offering its occupants a “balcony view of the city.” Over time, the Domus was embellished and enlarged by other emperors including Nero, who was crowned on its steps aged just 16, in 54 AD.

Alfonsina Russo, director of the Colosseum’s archaeological park (in which Domus Tiberiana falls) and lead archaeologist on the renovation, said that ancient antiquities, many exceptionally well-preserved, were unearthed during the project.

The artifacts — bright stuccos, frescoes, amphorae, potteries, looms, terracotta, and divinity statues related to the cults of Isis, Dionysius and Mithras — offer visitors a trip through time, said Russo.

“They make this place — formerly (inhabited) by aristocratic families, then Roman emperors — feel alive again,” she said. “There are seven exhibition rooms full of extraordinary finds, starting with those preceding the original construction of the palace when aristocrats lived in mansions before Tiberius subsumed them into the Domus.”

Among the newly-exposed and frescoes are some of the earliest paintings of lemons (considered an exotic fruit in Ancient Rome, as they hailed from the Far East) and a depiction of a gladiator, proving that the era’s gladiatoral games were appreciated by rich families, explained Russo.

The imperial palace remained in use until the 7th century, when it became the papal residence of John VII. In the mid-16th century, the aristocratic Farnese family — who were powerful local landowners — built the lavish Orti Farnesiani gardens on the site, adorning it with ornaments and sculptures of nymphs, satyrs and fauns.

“This monument speaks of history,” Russo added. “We have restored (Domus Tiberiana) to its past splendor, but more work lies ahead.”

Indeed, painstaking efforts have been made to blend old and new. A series of majestic, reddish-brown vaulted arches that greet visitors having been carefully reconstructed with the same materials as ancient Romans used in the past.

“What makes this revamped Domus unique is the architectural style,” said Russo. “We managed to use original materials to reinforce and strengthen the handmade 15-meter (50ft) tall front arches (which run alongside the palace’s) ancient paving.”

It has certainly caught the public’s attention. Since reopening at the end of September, Domus Tiberiana has attracted some 400,000 visitors, a “huge success,” said Russo, adding that she believes that this incarnation of the Domus Tiberiana offers visitors the most “evocative” visit in generations.

Archaeologist and scholar of ancient Rome Giorgio Franchetti saidN that, in the reopening of the Domus Tiberiana complex, Rome has “recovered a lost jewel.”

“The Palatine Hill has always been the stage of Rome’s power politics,” he said in an interview. “Tiberius likely chose this spot to build the palace as it was where his family residence stood. There aren’t many places like the Domus Tiberiana where you can really breathe the past.”

By Silvia Marchetti.

[transgenderer]

The insulae could be built up to nine storeys, before  Augustus  introduced a height limit of about 70 Roman feet (20.7 m). Later, this was reduced further, to about 60 Roman feet (17.75 m).[10][11] The notably large Insula Felicles or Felicula was located near the Circus Flaminius in Regio IX; the early Christian writer  Tertullian condemns the hubris of multiple-story buildings by comparing the Felicles to the towering homes of the gods.[12] It is posited that a typical insula would accommodate over 40 people in only 3,600 sq ft (330 m2); however, an entire structure could comprise about six to seven apartments, each covering about 1,000 sq ft (93 m2) in floor area.[citation needed] The only surviving insula in Rome is the five storey Insula dell'Ara Coeli  dating from the 2nd century AD, which is found at the foot of the Capitoline Hill.[13][14]

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The Rift - Chapter Two

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Marcus Acacius x Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: Chapter is T, overall fic is E (18+ only, explicit smut)

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of guns (that are not used), language barriers, himbo!Marcus Pike, ridiculous misunderstandings

Summary: Marcus Acacius was just out for a walk in the woods at night. Now he's running for his life in a strange, terrifying world. When Marcus Pike encounters a man dressed in Roman armor, he thinks it's the break in the artifact smuggling case he was looking for. When he takes the man in for questioning, however, he quickly discovers that the truth is far more complicated than he realized...

A/N: He's here!!! The Marcus we've been waiting for!! My apologies (not really) that this story at times verges into crack territory. This entire story scenario is sometimes so insane that the silly dialogue writes itself. Also, let me know what you think of Marcus Acacius's character!! Obviously, we don't have much to go on yet, so I took all the liberties and decided what I wanted him to be like :)

Masterlist | Chapter One | Next chapter>>

(Acacius)

The General was scared. 

He didn’t like to admit this, not even to himself. 

Very little about the world scared Marcus Acacius.

The one thing he could agree on is that he is not in the same place he had been five minutes ago. Five minutes ago, he had been strolling through the small copse of trees just north of the great road. It had been dark, almost pitch-black, the nearest torchlight at least fifty paces away and obscured by dense foliage. 

Another man might have brought a torch along for a walk in the woods, but other men have also said that General Marcus Acacius was a man of many foibles. He liked the consuming darkness, the way the shadows felt like a physical presence, hiding the activity of the small nocturnal animals he could hear shuffling through the undergrowth beside him. It was a game, of sorts–to step as silently as the doe does through even the tallest grass. 

Palace life had softened him. 

He longed for the hunt. 

No, not just that. It was something else he craved: something that felt like the smell of the air he could remember as a little boy, when he used to stalk barefoot through a forest a long distance away from where he was now, setting little snares and pitfalls to trap game. No, not simply the hunt. 

An adventure. 

Five minutes later, he wonders if he had set some strange magic spell in motion with his thoughts. His footfalls no longer fall upon the dead leaves and bracken of the wood, but on what feels like unusually smooth cobblestone. It is still pitch black, but there is a hazy glow to the sky around him, as though a great army had made camp several leagues away and he is seeing the light of their many campfires. 

Just as he cocks his head to the side, pondering the source of the otherworldly glow, the world around him erupts with light as if daylight had suddenly arrived all at once, without preamble. His knees bent and ready to flee from this great and terrible magic, the General frantically casts his eyes around the odd scene. Only then does he realize that the sudden burst of light is not emanating from the sun, but from the top of many large columns. They illuminate a strange road, perfectly smooth and black as tar. There are other lights, too: emanating from countless windows in buildings that must reach higher than the seven hills of Rome combined. 

A sharp, loud voice barks from his right, and Marcus frantically spins to determine the source, and he quickly spots a man dressed in strange, black garb, striding toward him with purpose and determination. The man shouts again, words that the General does not recognize or understand, but the intent behind them is clear, as is the way the man brandishes what he thinks must be a weapon. It's black and imposing, but it’s unlike any other that he has seen, and he prides himself on being a scholar in the ways of war.

General Marcus Acacius does what any reasonable man would do in this situation.

He flees. 

The general has always prided himself on being quick on his feet.

He uses it to advantage now, and runs as though the Gods themselves were brandishing their whips behind him. 

In and out of the narrow alleyways, in-between these monstrous buildings, and across the strange, black roads, Marcus Acacius runs for his life.

He pays little attention to his surroundings, only focusing on what obstacles lie immediately in front, so when the large, shiny black chariot that seems to run entirely on some unseen source of power abruptly turns a corner, he isn’t prepared to dodge the blow. 

A terrible squealing sound emanates from the chariot, and it swerves to one side, only delivering the General a glancing blow to his upper leg before crashing into a group of large silver urns with a loud bang. 

Marcus is too shocked to continue to run, and his thigh aches keenly from the collision in any rate, leaving him uncertain of his ability to flee from whatever new evil this horseless chariot represents. 

He stares, open-mouthed, as a door opens and a man stumbles out, looking just as shocked as he feels.

This man puts the General at ease in a way he can't quite explain. He supposes it's the way his eyes are wide with concern as they rake over him, assessing the extent of his injuries. As the man studies him, however, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

The man addresses him in a tongue he doesn't recognize from any of his studies. 

Marcus says slowly, “My injuries are superficial,” but the man doesn't seem to understand him any more than he does this entire magical world he's found himself in.

The man holds up something small, white, and rectangular that seems to be attached to his odd clothing, and speaks again.

The General frowns and shakes his head. The man repeats himself, louder this time. He opens another door in the horseless chariot and gestures at it, and says it again.

Marcus tries to mimic the strange sounds. “Geddin decar,” he repeats carefully. 

The man's frown deepens. He says more words, sounding frustrated, and jabs harder at the opening in the chariot.

Seeing no other good options and feeling woefully out of his element, the General cautiously steps toward the chariot, peers inside with great suspicion, and, finding no immediate threat, sits down on the soft seat within.

(Pike)

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Marcus asks, placing a dixie cup full of water in front of the man he’d nearly flattened with his car. “Not gonna sue us, are you?” he jokes.

The man inspects the cup as though he’d been asked to diffuse a bomb, but doesn’t drink. 

“Do you understand why you’re being brought in for questioning?” Marcus asks, forging ahead and trying his best to be a good Agent despite the unbelievable circumstances.

The man continues to say nothing, as he had for the entire car ride back to HQ and for the duration of their time in the examination room so far. 

“I mean, let’s be real here–a host of Roman artifacts are being smuggled through the Rift, and here you are, wandering the streets in the dead of night dressed like some kind of Centurion. You’ve gotta see how that looks to us on the Art Crimes team.”

Still nothing.

“So let’s not feed each other any bullshit, okay?” Marcus continues. “I want to know how you entered the Rift.”

When, predictably, no response comes, he sighs, sitting down in the hard metal chair opposite the man. “We both know you got in there somehow, stole someone’s armor and some more coins to boot. I can help you, alright? I know this isn’t a one-man organization, the security around the Rift is too high for you to just waltz in there on your own. If you provide information on the other members in your organization, we can probably cut you a deal, reduce your jail time by a lot. What do you say? Gonna tell me how you managed to get past the Heroics to go frollicking around in Ancient Rome?”

The other man suddenly perks up. Cocking his head to one side, he frowns and says, “Roma?” 

“...Rome,” Marcus repeats slowly. “Did you… did you hit your head?”

The man begins speaking rapidly, in a language that sounds suspiciously like what he’d imagine Latin to sound like when spoken out loud. Marcus swallows thickly, taking in the man’s impressive armor, his broad chest, aquiline nose, and furrowed brow. 

“You’re really committed to the bit, huh?” he says, but his earlier conviction is nowhere to be seen. It fled the building, along with any goddamn sense left in the world after the appearance of the Rift. “You’re really gonna try and convince me you speak Ancient Latin?”

The man mutters something under his breath. Marcus might not understand, but the petulant tone is crystal clear.

“Or modern Latin, I guess, because we live in Bizarro World,” the tired Agent sighs. He stands, fishing in his pocket for his phone. Fuck, it’s late. Oh, you’re going to hate him, but if anything were to be considered an emergency, this would be it. 

Marcus lets the phone ring until the voicemail picks up. He listens to your perfunctory voice, instructing him to leave a message, or just send a damn text if you want a quicker response. 

Beep.

“Heyyyy, it’s uh. It’s Marcus. I know it’s late, you’re probably asleep. But I’ve… kind of got a situation here. Something you might be uniquely equipped to handle as an expert in the uh… field. So. Anyway. Call me back when you get this. ‘Kay. Bye.”

The otherworldly man is staring at him with an intensity that makes him slightly uncomfortable. His eyes narrowed, he leans forward, seemingly interested in the credentials clipped to the lapel of his suit. Marcus huffs a soft, amused laugh at the entire, fucked up situation. He unclips the badge and hands it to the man. 

“Here,” he says absentmindedly, willing to do just about anything to avoid further scrutiny. The man might not understand a thing Marcus has said from the beginning, but his eyes are intense and calculating. He gets the impression that nothing escapes this man. “I’m gonna try her again,” he explains uselessly.

The Roman–for that’s the only explanation for who this man is–continues to stare at Marcus’s badge. 

The call goes to voicemail again, and Marcus doesn’t bother leaving a second message. 

“I’m not really sure what to do, here,” he admits out loud to the room. “I’m sure the proper thing would be to notify the Heroics, but I’ll be honest, I worry about their response. You’re the first… person… to come through the Rift, and there’s a gazillion Heroics scientists ready to study anything and anyone who does. You’d be a science experiment at best, and a target at worst.”

The Roman is still staring at the badge.

“This is gonna sound crazy, but maybe I should just–”

“Marcus.” 

The Agent’s head whips upward at the sound of the other man’s voice. “Yeah?” he says automatically.

“Marcus,” he repeats. It’s spoken with a thick accent, and Marcus finds that he likes the sound of it.

“Yeah, that’s me. Can you… did you read that? From my badge?”

The man holds up the badge. “Marcus.”

“Yeah, exactly. Marcus. That’s me.” He points at his chest.

The Roman frowns. “Marcus,” he says, more insistently, tapping his own chest.

“No, me.” He slaps his chest harder. “I’m saying that’s me. Marcus.”

The man shakes his head in frustration. “Marcus!” His fist raps roughly against the material of his cuirass.

“...Marcus?” Marcus points at the man.

He grunts in the affirmative. “Marcus.”

The Agent can’t help but begin to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Chuckling, he points at the Roman again. “Marcus,” he says, then points to himself. “Marcus.”

The other man stares back, expressionless. Then, his lips begin to curve into a small, amused smile. 

(Moreno)

The ringing of his work phone brings the leader of the Heroics out of a fitful sleep. He squints at the time. It’s nearly two in the morning.

“Hullo?” he rasps, trying and failing to force the sleep from out of his voice.

“Sorry, Sir, I know it’s late, but you said to call you at any time of day with urgent news about the Rift.”

Marcus Moreno sits up in bed, the sheet slipping down his chest and pooling in his lap. He flicks on the bedside lamp, squinting in the sudden light as he replies. “What is it?”

“We found a way to close it.” 

“Thank God,” he mutters under his breath. Keeping a rift in space and time secure and maintaining the safety of the surrounding inhabitants of DC had been a logistical nightmare from start to finish. “I’ll be right there, we’ll want to have all hands on deck to make sure nothing else goes wrong.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Marcus hangs up and places the phone back on his nightstand. Just for a moment, he collapses back on the pillows with a tired groan. On the count of one… two… three…

He sighs and pulls himself upright and out of bed in one fluid motion. Stumbling to the closet and pulling on his uniform, he wonders at what age he should consider retirement as leader of the Heroics. His mother-in-law had always told him the work that was killing him, but she was wrong.

It was the hours. 

[adventure-showdown]

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

TOURNAMENT MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

The War Games

Synopsis

The Doctor, Jamie and Zoe arrive on an unnamed planet. At first believing themselves to be in the midst of World War I, they realise it is one of many War Zones overseen by the War Lords, who have kidnapped large numbers of human soldiers in order to create an army to conquer the galaxy. Infiltrating the control base, the Doctor discovers that the War Chief is also a member of his own race. The creeping realisation sets in that the Doctor cannot solve this problem alone, and that his days of wandering may be at an end...

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Fires of Pompeii

Synopsis

The Tenth Doctor tries taking Donna Noble to ancient Rome for her first trip in the TARDIS, but seems to have miscalculated. Instead of seven hills, they find a single mountain billowing smoke — Vesuvius. They're in Pompeii, 23 August 79 AD: the day before "Volcano Day". However, something else is horribly wrong. The Soothsayers' predictions seem to always be correct... so why can't they see tomorrow's disastrous events, the eruption of Vesuvius, the death of their city? What is blocking their perception, and will the TARDIS team be able to walk away from a fixed point in time, saving no one from certain doom? Well, Donna has something to say about that!

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

[the-gay-rat]

Riordan-verse Prophecies

Percy Jackson and the Olympians

You shall go west, and face the god who has turned, You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned, You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend, And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.

You shall sail the iron ship with warriors of bone, You shall find what you seek and make it your own, But despair for your life entombed within stone, And fail without friends, to fly home alone

  Five shall go west to the goddess in chains, One shall be lost in the land without rain, The bane of Olympus shows the trail, Campers and Hunters combined prevail, The Titan’s curse must one withstand, And one shall perish by parent’s hand. 

You shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze, The dead, the traitor, and the lost one raise. You shall rise or fall by the ghost king's hand, The child of Athena's final stand. Destroy with a hero's final breath, And lose a love to worse than death.

A half-blood of the eldest gods shall reach sixteen against all odds and see the world in endless sleep, The hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap, a single choice will end his days, Olympus to preserve or raise.

The heroes of Olympus 

seven heroes shall answer the call to storm or fire the world must fall an oath to keep with final breath as foes bear arms to the doors of death

Child of lightning beware the earth the giants revenge the seven shall birth forge and dove shall break the cage and death unleashed through Heras rage 

 to the north beyond the gods lies the legions crown falling from the ice the son of Neptune shall drown

wisdoms daughter walks alone the mark of Athena burns through Rome twins snuff out the angels breath who holds the key to endless death the giants bane stands gold and pale won through the pain from a woven jail 

Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard 

Wrongly chosen, Wrongly slain, A hero Valhalla cannot contain. Nine days hence the sun must go east, Ere sword of summer unbinds the beast. 

The Trials of Apollo

Caves of blue. 

…Westward, burning.

Pages turning.

…Indiana.

Happiness approaches.

There was once a god named Apollo, Who plunged in a cave blue and hollow, Upon a three seater, the bronze fire-eater, Was forced death and madness to swallow 

The words that memory wrought are set to fire, Ere new moon rises o’er the devils mount, Till bodies fill the Tibet beyond count.

Yet southward must the sun now trace its course, Through the mazes dark to land of scorching death, to find the master of the swift white horse and wrest from the crossword speaker’s breath.

To westward must the lester go; Demeter’s daughter finds her ancient roots. The Cloven guide alone the way does he know, To walk the path in Thine own enemies boots

When three are known and Tiber reached alive, tis only then Apollo starts to jive 

Bronze upon gold

East meets west

Legions are redeemed 

Light the depths 

One against many

Never spirit defeat 

Ancient words spoken 

Shaking old foundations 

Destroy the tyrant 

Aid the winged 

Under golden hills

Great stallion’s foal 

Turn red tides 

Harken the trumpets

Enter strangers home 

Regain lost glory

Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by (Bellona’s Daughter)

A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. 

To open doors two-fifty-four 

O son of Zeus the final challenge face, The tow’r of Nero two alone ascend, dislodge the beast that hast usurped thy place, The son of Hades, cavern runner’s friend, Must show the secret way unto the throne. On Nero’s own your lives now depend. A dare reveals the path that was unknown, And bears destruction; Lion, snake-entwined or else the princeps never be o’erthrown 

Apollos flesh and blood shall soon be mine, Alone he must descend into the dark, The sibyl never again to see his sign, Lest wrestle with me till se his final spark, The god dissolves, leaving not a mark 

Apollo must fall, but Apollo must rise again 

The Sun and the Star

Go forth and find the one who calls out your name, who suffers and despairs for refusing to remain; there leave some of equal value behind, or your body and soul no one will ever find.

(correct me if i got any wrong)

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — One

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none for this chapter, just Tom being grumpy and hating the world

— WORDCOUNT: 3k

— A/N: This is a fic that was commissioned by @localravenclaw as a gift for @esolean 💕 It's going to be a bit of a rollercoaster, with angst and fluff and smut galore. I plan to post twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you will have fun reading it, my dears! 💚

I

Tom was twenty-five. It had been seven years since he graduated from Hogwarts, and just as many since he started working at Borgin and Burkes. Now, he found himself in a sweltering place with the world passing him by. Trapped, for his sins, in a moving metal coffin. If this was hell, it looked like rolling hills, houses nestled in the fog, narrow rows of poplars and puffs of grazing sheep, all set to the tune of clinking chains and carriage shuffles. He hated this assignment.

After taking the train from London to Dover, he caught the ferry that sailed to Calais, and from there took a series of coaches and trains meant to take him on to Italy. To Rome. They had just stopped in Lyon to pick up more passengers, and now they were on their way again.

He had fought with Burke regarding the logistics of the whole thing. Why couldn’t he just use Floo like a normal wizard? But the miserable old stoat said he’d sooner trust muggle transportation than Tom’s pronunciation of Italian or French — and besides, was Floo even networked all the way down there? It didn’t matter anymore.

Tom was convinced it was all done to save costs, and perhaps for Burke to not have to call in any favours. So off he went with one measly suitcase and two billfolds of franks and lira — all of which were merely enchanted oak leaves. They would inevitably transfigure back to their original form in a couple of weeks or so, but by then Tom should be long gone. Who said money didn’t grow on trees?

He tried to distract himself from all this misery by checking his notes again. His little book cracked open, snapping at the spine, and its insides were revealed to him like a cadaver cut through with a black spidery scrawl. It was a list of books and authors, with observations added vertically on the side to save space.

“The Secrets of Wisdom, N. Tamisso 1650 — high priority, any edition. The Lost Word, B. Trevisan 1661 — low priority, optional. Delomelanicon (or The Invocation of Darkness), A. Torchia 1666 — first edition, mandatory.” The latter word was underlined three times. His notes continued with the instructions Burke had given. “Check the rare book dealers, antiquaries, private collectors if necessary. If you can not find it, find out who can. If they will not sell it, take it anyway.”

Tom’s lip curled. Whatever joy there was in being away from the squalor of Knockturn Alley was soiled by what he had to do in Rome. It wasn’t the books he minded, and in fact, he quite admired Burke’s taste in this matter. But to be flung so far away from home on such short notice, and for such a length of time, was pitiful to him. The heir of Slytherin turned errand boy…

“Excuse-moi, est-ce que — Oh, bonjour.”

Tom turned his frown toward the sliding doors of the compartment, between which stood a young man in his twenties. Lanky brown locks fell into his eyes veiling the crinkles of a smile.

“Yes?” sighed Tom.

“I was wondering if this was free,” said the boy. And without waiting for an answer, he dragged his luggage inside — three suitcases, all leather with copper fittings looking ready to burst — and closed the doors behind him.

“I suppose it is,” mumbled Tom. He subtly closed his notebook and tucked it back into the messenger bag at his feet while he kept track of the stranger from the corner of his eyes.

The fine quality of the newcomer’s clothes was somewhat disguised by how carelessly they hung around him. His white and starched shirt was loosened at the top, revealing a hint of tanned skin sprinkled with sparse curls. A golden pin kept a red and blue striped tie affixed to it, and around his pinky finger was a silver ring thickly laid with marcasites and crowned with a malachite stone. His lips were full and purple-stained from wine. His eyes were a bright blue. Judging by his pressed trousers and clean leather shoes, he was a gentleman who had arrived at the station by car — or, at least, he was the spoilt brat of one.

“Clement,” the boy grinned, extending his hand.

“Tom,” he replied, giving him a firm, brief shake.

“I’m on my way to Rome!” Clement sighed, plopping down onto the seat opposite him. Almost immediately, he cracked open a cigarette case and started fishing for a lighter in his trouser pocket. His luggage lay strewn all around the floor, suitcases filled with junk, no doubt. “You?”

“The same,” Tom said and instantly regretted sharing anything at all. With people like these — the overly friendly types — it was best to not encourage conversation.

“Oh, magnificent. Vacation?”

“Work.”

“How sad,” tutted Clement as he popped a cigarette between his lips. He offered one to Tom as well.

“Don’t smoke.”

“Ah.”

He closed the case with a loud click and set it on the table between them. With a smooth, almost theatrical motion, he lit up his pocket lighter — silver, older than him, probably an heirloom, engraved with an elaborate floral motif featuring a fleur-de-lis — and let the flame dance on the tip of his cigarette until he was satisfied.

“Don’t talk much, either,” the boy chuckled. He kept his eyes on Tom as he took a drag, then started puffing away without a care. He attempted to blow rings of smoke but failed. “What do you use your mouth for, then?”

“Cursing, mostly.”

Clement laughed. “The same!”

Tom doubted it.

The compartment soon filled with smoke, and the narrow window open at the top only made it dance around inside. The muggy summer fumes were driving Tom to madness already, and he could only hope the train moved fast enough to clear the air. But as they went further into the rural parts of France, the scent of sheep took over. Maybe it’s not too late to try to Apparate directly at the station, he thought.

“So, what do you do?” asked the French boy, vowels gliding altogether in one breath between his lips. His arm extended elegantly to tap the ash into a cheap tray by the window.

It took Tom a moment to look at him and answer. “I’m in, er, publishing.”

“Truly?” he said, excited enough to lean over the table. “That’s magnificent. I intend to be published too.”

“Oh? What do you write?”

“Poesies.”

“Poetry? Ah, not my area, I’m afraid.”

“But you must know some people…”

Tom wanted to tell him that if he were any good he’d have found a publisher already, but intuition told him to temper himself.

“I might,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m full up at the moment.”

The boy puffed away nervously as he tapped the round gemstone of his ring against the window, and kept his eyes on him. Tom turned to watch the view rolling past them, seeing without seeing. The sensation of being watched was as familiar as it was discomforting. It crawled down his thin cheeks, his narrow neck, and from there sank into his clothes like sweat. He gazed briefly at the tapping ring from the corner of his eyes in irritation, before focusing away again. For a few moments, he thought he’d successfully ended their conversation.

“Well, I’m in show business,” Clement said instead, grinning brilliantly. There was a gap between his first incisors that made him look boyish and pure. “Theatre.”

“Your parents must be very happy.”

“No,” he laughed. “Miserable. But,” he shrugged, “it is not their decision.”

Tom hummed and said nothing else.

“Your parents are happy with your job, no? You go on important business trips to France, to Rome, and… erm. Well, it is a good job, for sure. Makes them proud, yes?”

Whatever sunshine beamed through the window was chilled and clouded by the glare in Tom’s dark eyes. Why did this bothersome Frenchman have to talk to him? He wasn’t going to keep doing it the whole way to Rome, surely…

“I wouldn’t know,” he finally said. “They’re dead.”

“Oh… Oh, I am so sorry...”

“I’m not,” he mumbled. He didn’t think Clement had heard him, but he wouldn’t care even if he did.

The boy pulled the ashtray closer and put out his cigarette, then leaned his head against the glass. Fidgeting, he held the silver case in his hands and clicked it open and closed, open and closed… He did that for quite a while.

Tom could feel him staring. Could even sense to some extent the messy thoughts inside that head: curiosity, intrigue, and joy.

What could be joyful about that moment?

Well, if Tom was being honest, this wasn’t the first time he’d had such an effect on people. Memories of Burke’s clients came back to him accompanied by the customary shiver down his spine. Clement had the same flippant merriment about him that all the others did, those careless old witches and wizards. That unguarded look of innocence surrounded by the fog of greed. An airy absence of thought and feeling. Must’ve been the side effect of all that money.

Tom had once envied such people. Had even flattered himself with the knowledge that he, however distantly, was one of them. What greater destiny than to be born to glorious old blood? What greater tragedy than to be fallen from it…? He could even remember, with much clarity and shame, how he’d spent several months during his third year obsessing over the Gaunts and Riddles, chasing up on genealogies, and smattering the back pages of his diary with heraldic designs.

But the more he understood the upper classes — their uselessness, their inborn idiocy, their paradoxical sense of superiority which stood impervious to anything reality threw at them — the more he grew to hate them.

“I am sorry if I offended…” said Clement rather softly. “Sometimes, I talk too much.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice.”

“No, but I do, I do…”

Tom had overshot his subtleties, apparently.

“So you are not happy with your job? Forgive me for asking…”

“No, it’s quite alright.”

“A pity, you know…”

“Why?”

“To not like it.”

“Oh, it’s not too much trouble most of the time. Why? Do you like your job?”

“But of course!” he said, blue eyes twinkling.

Tom cast a scathing look his way. How strange… He couldn’t imagine enjoying any form of employment — other than the coveted post of DADA professor at Hogwarts.

“Why are you in Rome, then?” Tom asked.

“On vacation. I am, erm, meeting a friend,” he whispered with a grin.

“A girlfriend?” asked Tom with a smirk.

Clement shook his head and giggled. “A boy friend.”

Tom’s brows nearly reached his hairline. He’d never heard of such things being bandied about quite that openly before, at least not in England. Clement seemed not to care. Must’ve been a habit of his, as he seemed to not care about much at all other than enjoying life.

“You have a fun vacation ahead of you, then.”

“More than you know,” he winked.

Tom curled his nose at that and sat back, away from the whole conversation. But Clement leaned closer, arms braced over the table lazily, eyes flashing excitedly.

“We will rob this old fool, and run with his money.”

That captured Tom’s attention again. The boy was waiting eagerly for his reaction, and not a thought ran through his head that Tom might’ve been untrustworthy. Of course, far be it from him to ruin someone else’s fun, but the scenario Clement proposed was too absurd to be believed.

So what else could Tom do but laugh? The sound of it filled the cabin, and so out of use were those muscles that his cheeks began to ache. The sight of it seemed to delight young Clement. He leaned back and gave another one of his brilliant smiles.

“You can join us, if you like,” he offered smoothly.

“Sorry,” said Tom, his cheeks still flushed. “My schedule is full.”

“Oh, pity, pity… You would like my friend, I think. His name is Donatien. He is more serious, like you.”

“Is that so,” said Tom distractedly.

“By the way, what is your hotel?”

II

They entered Rome on a train that ran six hours late, and wobbled on its tracks, and stank of mouldy cheese and wine rust.

Clement talked most of the way there, and seemed to be satisfied with Tom mostly reacting with brief hums and tilted smiles. They even exchanged gifts. The French boy was enchanted by what was, in Tom’s estimation, a fairly average switchblade. He’d only taken it out to peel an orange. It was something he’d bought in London right before his seventh year, and although it was quite plain, it did have some delicate embellishments on its ivory handle of two writhing snakes. That seemed to appeal to Clement, who offered his own blade in exchange — a Swiss army knife that also had a screwdriver and bottle opener tucked in its red body. Considering it a more efficient deal, Tom shrugged and accepted the trade.

Faint details came up now and then about his plans with this Donatien, but most of it was lost in smoke and loud metallic rattles. As much as Tom hated flying on brooms, even he could agree it would’ve been preferable to this…

But at least he didn’t have to fear any Ministry or Aurors in these parts. Not any that were familiar with him, anyway. The Italians had their own Ministry of Magic, of course, but it was all the way down in Mirto, Sicily, and foreigners were a low priority for them. There were so many people from all over the world in Italy those days that it wasn’t worth keeping track of them all, or at least so Burke had told him.

The train slowed and pulled into the station, and pulled, and pulled… It groaned as if in pain. Clement took the jolt of inertia as it all came to a stop with cheerful clapping, and promptly got up to collect his bags.

“So, we are agreed?”

“Absolutely not agreed. Besides, I doubt my lodgings would be to your taste.”

“Ah Tom, you do not know my taste!”

“Very well, but best keep your complaints to a minimum once we get there.”

They struggled to get everything off the train with four suitcases between them. Tom was travelling light with just the one, about which Clement made some snide comment that he soon forgot, but he helped him anyway. His own belongings consisted of plain muggle clothes and some books that Burke wished him to barter with, if it came to that. Between the lines, and between Burke’s sparse and slimy brows, Tom understood he was expected to use his charms to get a bargain price — as per usual — but he did not intend to let some fat old antiquary put his grimy hands on him. Not this time. Besides, conversing with Clement had stained his dignity enough.

Being away on the continent had one advantage, at least: he was no longer under the vulturous watch of his employer.

Tom stepped out onto the platform, muscles sore from days of sitting down, and looked ahead as if he knew where he was going. People were chatting all around him, filling the cool hall with murmurs all the way up to its dome — some in German, some in French, others in variously accented English. Tom wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and picked up his suitcase to follow Clement, who was hunting for a trolley to load his luggage onto.

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, the heat of Rome in August hit Tom in the face like an oven door and he, frail and pallid thing, was not prepared for it. He squinted in displeasure, to Clement’s great amusement.

“This way, Tom!” he said as he popped on a pair of sunglasses. “I see a taxi!”

Tom had spent most of the journey brushing up on his Italian with the help of a conversation guide he picked up at the Gare du Nord. His extensive knowledge of Latin came in pretty handy. But now that he saw Clement handle things, perhaps he needn’t have bothered. His companion could easily direct the driver to the dingy old hotel Tom was staying at, the Gallienus on Via Domenichino, and chatted a bit more besides.

“Vacation in Rome often, then?” he asked.

“I just know some phrases,” Clement smiled. “You don’t need much with these people.”

The driver pretended not to understand the slight.

“Where do you want to have lunch, then?” Clement asked.

“Lunch? I’m certainly not in the mood, not now.”

“Oh come ooon…”

“You can eat on your own.”

“We can leave our stuff and take the taxi to this place I know on Via della Mercede. They make the best seafood, the best!”

It had not been until now, with this journey to somewhere far away, that Tom realised how limited his world had been at Hogwarts. He’d once felt equal parts ashamed and at a strange advantage next to the other Slytherins, his peers, all purebloods, for knowing both the magical and muggle worlds. Now, exiled for this assignment among strangers, it seemed to Tom as if he were starting life all over again. He looked out the window and everything was new, everything was strange. The buildings, the street, the people, even the clothes were different. The city, like London, was massive, but the streets were broader, blazing white. Some disappeared into little alleyways that slithered like dark serpents. Tom could easily see himself getting lost in such a place.

It was… humbling. He didn’t like it.

[mariacallous]

For many spared the direct impacts of the war in Ukraine, the conflict has become a distant concern — distressing and unsettling, yet no longer disruptive to daily life. To bring awareness back to the war’s human cost, Russian visual artist Danila Tkachenko installed enlarged photographs documenting the destruction next to famous landmarks in eight European cities, and then photographed Ukrainian refugees against the backdrop of these images. Meduza shares the project, titled “Inversion.”

Olena, a 92-year-old former teacher, against the backdrop of a photograph showing a destroyed apartment building in Borodyanka, Kyiv region. The photograph, taken by Maxim Dondyuk, was placed in front of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, Germany.

Twenty-five-year-old model Viktoriia stands in front of a photograph showing another destroyed apartment building in Borodyanka. Captured by photojournalist Yuliа Ovsyannikova, the image was displayed by the Louvre Pyramid in Paris, France.

Two-year-old Alina is held by her mother in front of an image of a destroyed bridge in Irpin, Kyiv region. The photograph, taken by Mexican photojournalist Narciso Contreras, was placed on the Charles Bridge in Prague, Czechia.

Fedir, a 32-year-old lawyer, stands before a photograph showing a bombed school in Zhytomyr, Ukraine. The image, captured by Portuguese photojournalist Miguel A. Lopes, was displayed in front of the Colosseum in Rome, Italy.

Seven-year-old Khrystyna in front of a photograph of the bombed-out city of Mariupol, taken by Evgeniy Maloletka. The photograph was displayed on Montmartre hill in Paris, France.

Ivan, a 23-year-old designer, stands in front of a photograph taken by Mykhaylo Palinchak. The image shows a church in the liberated village of Bohorodychne in Ukraine’s Donetsk region. Pisa, Italy.

Anna, a 30-year-old real estate manager, stands in front of a photograph of ruins in Chernihiv, taken by Mykhaylo Palinchak. Paris, France.

Forty-year-old makeup artist Yuliia stands in front of a photograph of the destroyed Donetsk Airport, taken by Vasily Maximov. Versailles, France.

Nataliia, a 39-year-old editor, stands in front of a photograph taken by Maxim Dondyuk, showing a bombed apartment building in a settlement in Ukraine’s Luhansk region. Milan, Italy.

Vladlena, a 25-year-old beautician, stands in front of a photograph of the world’s largest aircraft, Mriya (“dream” in Ukrainian), which was destroyed at the beginning of the full-scale invasion. The photograph, taken by Oleksii Furman, was displayed near the Rialto Bridge in Venice, Italy.

Eleven-year-old Oleksandr against the backdrop of a photograph showing destroyed apartment buildings in Izyum, Kharkiv region, taken by Evgeniy Maloletka. The photograph was placed next to the European Parliament building in Strasbourg, France.

Anna, a 60-year-old dentist, stands in Vatican City in front of a photograph by French photojournalist Laurence Geai, taken in the village of Yatskivka, Donetsk region. Yatskivka was liberated by the Ukrainian Armed Forces in September 2022.

[raya-rhaenyra-ahsoka]

The Mark of Athena except, instead of it being a coin given to Annabeth by Athena/Minerva, it’s a tattoo burned onto her forearm. Hear me out.

The tattoo has a tribal design of an owl, an olive branch, and the Greek letters A.Θ.E on it. And it's carved and burnt onto her skin. It glows red when Annabeth’s alone on her quest, and it would slightly hurt as the red glow would also be burning on her skin. It would look like a regular tattoo on her arm when it’s not glowing.

Their encounter would’ve been like:

Athena grabbed Annabeth’s right arm and dugged her nails onto them causing a burning sensation surging through her arm. “Follow the Mark of Athena,” She said. “Avenge me.”

“Mom…” Annabeth winced in pain as Athena’s nails dugged deeper into her skin. “What are you talking about? What mark?”

Then she saw the mark Athena meant. Her mother was placing the mark on her. On her skin, she saw a drawing of an owl, an olive branch and the greek letters, A.Θ.E. It looked like it was carved and burnt onto her skin.

“Avenge me or leave me.” Athena had said.

Annabeth had to pull herself from her mother’s grasp and ran without looking back.

She had tried scrubbing and washing it off, but to no avail. And ever since that day with Athena/Minerva at Grand Central, she only wore long-sleeved shirts to hide the mark on her forearm, as it would only remind her of her last encounter with her mother.

She didn’t tell anyone about it. Not the Head Counselors, or her siblings, not Jason, Piper, and Leo－her crewmates in the Argo II before sailing for New Rome, and not even Chiron.

Annabeth tugged her shirt's sleeve when Ella the harpy recited the prophecy concerning the Mark of Athena fearing anyone will know about it. Wisdom’s daughter walks alone, the Mark of Athena burns through Rome…

She discovered that the mark on her arm glowed a fiery red while she was at Fort Sumter in Charleston. There was also a mark of Athena that glowed on the walls when she became trap inside a dark room with the mark burning spiders away.

No one else knew about it until Piper asked her what the Mark of Athena was while the seven of them were in a meeting in the Argo II's mess hall. She pulls out her sleeve and shows it to the rest of the seven. Some of them were fascinated by it to the point where Leo says it’s dope and I want one! Others, particularly Hazel and Percy recognizes that it looked like it was burnt on her skin.

After the 2nd Giant War, the tattoo faded and now permanently looked like a wine-stain birthmark after the Athena Parthenos was returned to the Greeks and placed on Half-Blood Hill.

Her Dad, Frederick freaked out when he saw the birthmark-esque tattoo, and her cousin, Magnus basically snorted and said, Your mom placed a mark on you? Oh, my gods, Couz, what did you do?

So, yeah, just a thought. 😊

[evillesbianvillain]

At 28, for the first time in my life, I looked for a map of the seven hills of Rome.