#the heart of tocsin

[trapdoornumberthree]

Even more beasts abound!

Characters in order: Mercury, @shokogast Bunni, ~ric3cakz Burger Alien, @bearlywolfish Lanta, ~Viridian_Pizza Zakhariah, ~NosuNassauSu Sunny, @dimetrodone Loren, @chromeknife Blaid and Heart, @g0dsp311 and myself! As always they're a 'do not separate' pair :]

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

It was half past two; I came to survey the people. My anger against the despots had been turned into despair. I did not see the groups, although deeply moved or dismayed, quite disposed to the uprising. Three young people seemed to me to be more vehemently courageous; they held hands. I saw that they had come to the Palais-Royal with the same purpose as me; a few passive citizens followed them. ”Messieurs,” I said to them, ”here is the beginning of a civic gathering; One of us must dedicate himself, and get up on a table to harangue the people.” ”Get up there.” I agree to. Immediately I was carried rather than climbing onto the table. I was barely there when I saw myself surrounded by an immense crowd. Here is my short harangue that I will never forget: “Citizens! there is not a moment to lose. I have just arrived from Versailles; M. Necker is dismissed: this dismissal is the tocsin of a patriotic Saint-Barthélemy: this evening all the Swiss and German battalions will leave the Champ-de-Mars to slaughter us. There is only one resource left for us, and that is to run to arms and take cockades to recognize ourselves.”  I had tears in my eyes, and I spoke with an action that I could neither find nor paint. My motion was received with endless applause. I continued: “What colors do you want?  Someone cried out: ”You choose.” ”Do you want green, the color of hope, or Cincinnatus blue, the color of American freedom and democracy?” Voices were raised: ”Green, the color of hope!” Then I cried out: ”Friends! the signal is given: here are the spies and police satellites looking me in the face. At least I will not fall alive into their hands.” Then, drawing two pistols from my pocket, I said: ”Let all the citizens imitate me! I came down smothered in embraces; some held me against their hearts; others bathed me with their tears: a citizen of Toulouse, fearing for my life, never wanted to abandon me. However, they brought me a green ribbon; I put the first one on my hat, and distributed some to those around me.

— Camille Desmoulins describing his speech on July 12 1789 in number 4 of Le Vieux Cordelier (December 21 1793)

[sunnynwanda]

Reaching out

"Villain, you're so scared of connection you do everything to make everyone stop liking you. It's not going to work on me. You can't make me hate you." Hero's voice was quiet - small as a whisper, yet their words echoed in Villain's head like tocsin in a belltower. It's not going to work on me.

Villain didn't manage to utter another word, their voice drowned by Hero's broad chest as strong arms enveloped Villain's frame. They struggled to stay unemotional and willed themselves to maintain whatever dignity they had left by focusing on breathing, using the pattern to contain the panic rising inside them. Just a few more seconds, so Hero does not figure it out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Villain hated that out of everyone in their life, Hero was the one who actually bothered to look beneath the surface. To notice there was an issue, an inhibition of sorts. They pointedly ignored the warmth that spread across their chest at the thought of Hero thinking about them long enough of notice.

Hero never understood why Villain broke their hug so abruptly or why they never initiated contact, always staying at arm's length and stepping back whenever Hero came too close. There would be occasional touches when there was no way around it, but Villain would always cut it short. Five seconds or less. Too short - for Hero's liking, anyway.

As time went by however, Villain started leaning closer, lingering longer and even went so far as to touch Hero's shoulder with a bare hand once. Despite the sensation sending them into the pits of darkness deep within their being, Villain needed more. They craved more.

Villain got attached. Much to their horror and Hero's - although short-lived - delight. Hero was painfully aware of their lack of contact yet blissfully unaware of their struggles. They attributed the issue to Villain's being shy or - worse - not reciprocating the feelings that Hero harboured for the past months.

Villain's mentor always told them to wear their opponents out to make them reveal their weaknesses. This time, there was nothing intentional about it. Villain wasn't trying. They couldn't have predicted it. They got attached to Hero. Hero got attached to them. The type of attachment ended up being an issue.

They lasted longer than expected, and Villain wasn't sure if it was Hero's optimism or perseverance that fueled their determination. Possibly both. They couldn't handle the way Hero felt about them. They wanted to. They tried. Again and again. They would spend nights tossing and turning, convincing themselves it could work. They could get over their issues. They allowed Hero to hug them, right? They could learn to accept their touch and the feeling of their skin against their own. Maybe it would take time and effort, but they certainly could try. Time fixes everything. One step at a time.

Except it did not. Every time Hero held their gloved hand a second too long, Villain could feel their insides twisting into painful knots. A slight brush of fingertips against their cheekbones was enough to send their mind reeling. And the one time Hero made the mistake of kissing their forehead left them throwing up in an alleyway, unable to calm their stomach or heart.

Soon, Villain found themselves avoiding Hero's touch yet longing for their company, staring from afar yet averting their gaze as soon as they were noticed. Villain was falling and knew only one way of stopping before it was too late.

"I loathe you," Hero snarls, standing with their back to them.

It's not going to work on me.

"It worked," Villain whispers as the door shuts behind Hero's back, locking them inside their ascetic cell. It worked. Even if it took wounding Hero's shoulder and breaking their trust.

"But it doesn't mean I don't love you," Hero's voice is as quiet as it gets - a part of them wishes Villain wouldn't hear it.

"Stop." They mean to sound harsh, but their voice wobbles. Villain hates the effect Hero has on them with the entirety of their being. "Stop trying to make it work."

"Then stop trying to push me away," Hero counters, turning around. Their whole demeanour oozes conviction. The anticipated hatred is nowhere to be seen. "Or do it better."

Before Villain can react, they swing the cell door open, stepping out as they come face to face with their shocked nemesis. "How..?"

"Did you think that cell would be enough to contain me?" Hero questions, slowly approaching. "Or did you convince yourself hurting me would?"

Villain's brain seizes functioning completely. So much for locking them up.

"You could come up with something more cruel than that," Hero continues, keeping their hands behind their back to avoid triggering Villain. It took them way too long to put the puzzle pieces together. "Or you could let us try."

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Hero." Villain shakes their head but doesn't move away when Hero continues walking towards them.

"I think I do." Their confidence makes Villain want to scream, but they find no voice to do so. Why do they feel so fragile in Hero's presence?

Breathe in.

"It will take a lot of time," they sound drained of life, and if Hero didn't know better, they would hug Villain. They smile instead.

"I can wait." Villain meets their eyes for a moment before fixing their gaze on the extreme beauty of the wall behind Hero's back.

"And even then, I might never be fully normal again."

"I can handle that, Villain." Hero shrugs nonchalantly, stopping at a tolerable distance from Villain. "I've told you before. You can't make me stop liking you. It's not going to work on me."

They extend their arm and hold their hand with their palm up, waiting for whatever Villain decides. They register the quiver in their chest when Villain lifts their hands, sliding one glove off and intertwining their fingers with Hero's. Hero gives their fingers a gentle squeeze, beaming at them before letting go. Five seconds it is. Villain can't help the grin that finds its way onto their face when they pull the glove back on.

Breathe out.

Masterlist

In case anyone wants to buy me a Ko-fi

[cliozaur]

It’s a beautifully written chapter! Previously, we saw the streets of Paris near Les Halles changing as Marius approached the place. And it was very cinematic. And now we are observing the barricades and nearby streets from above (from the owl’s or bat’s view). And it remains cinematic, but it’s also very disturbing and even terrifying. Hugo explains why people do not light candles in their windows anymore — those who risked doing so “received a shot” and some people were even killed inside their homes. The entire area becomes a lake of darkness, with broken, obscure lines forming the barricades, and the tower of Saint-Jacque and the church of Stint-Merry rising like teeth above them.

However, that’s not all. The army is closing in with swords, bayonets, and artillery. And everyone within and without the barricades is scared. “A wild darkness, full of traps, full of unseen and formidable shocks, into which it was alarming to penetrate, and in which it was terrible to remain, where those who entered shivered before those whom they awaited, where those who waited shuddered before those who were coming.” Soon, they will clash, and many will be killed. But they can’t postpone the fight any longer. What surprised me is how Hugo depicts both sides equally: they are all scared, but they are all ready to die; they are all just humans.

Hugo masterfully builds tension by conveying alarming sounds: “Here only one sound was audible, a sound as heart-rending as the death rattle, as menacing as a malediction, the tocsin of Saint-Merry. Nothing could be more blood-curdling than the clamor of that wild and desperate bell, wailing amid the shadows.” I love when he does this!

[deceptigoons-attack]

Those born in uneventful days,

Fail to recall their passing.

We – born of Russia’s fearful years –

Must recall each single thing.

This incinerating age of ashes!

With its news of hope, or madness?

The days of war, days of freedom;

On our faces a blood-stained redness.

There’s muteness: the tocsin bell

Has forced us to seal our lips.

In our hearts, once full of fire,

There’s a fatal emptiness.

On high, over our death-beds,

Let the croaking ravens soar –

May those who are worthier,

Behold your kingdom, Lord!

Alexander Blok, September 8, 1914

[ainyan]

19. — fireworks

(This is a snippet from a fic I was writing once upon a time - it suits, and I happen to like this part a lot.)

Upon the roof, Thancred and G’raha Tia set about creating a nest of blankets and pillows, while Kali stood by, basket in hand. When she tried to help, both men shooed her off. “Isn’t it the male birds who build the nest, and the one with the prettiest one wins the fair maiden?” Thancred asked whimsically, and she giggled at him, then stepped back, basket held before her as she patiently waited for them to finish primping.

None of them pointed out that there was but a single nest, and that the two males supposedly competing were working together with all evidence of complete enjoyment with each other and the situation.

When they finished, G’raha Tia took the basket while Thancred took her hand, leading her over. She stepped into the middle of the pile of cloth and stuffing and sank down with a rustle of silk and gems, having changed to her dancer gear in the spirit of celebration. Both men slid down beside her, one on either side, and arranged her so that she nestled into their arms. 

She felt G’raha at her side, the heat of him, the flutter of his pulse, the rush of his blood, his palpable excitement as he awaited the festivities with the same enthusiasm as he awaited their next adventure. For all of his centuries, he was only as old as his current body - barely a year or two her senior.

And at her other side, she felt the solid, stolid presence of Thancred. Although in actuality much younger than G’raha Tia, his body was the oldest of the Scions, and his personality suited his outward appearance - though he was in no way so old as he often was teased of being. A patient rock, it had been to no one’s surprise when Thancred had taken up a position in the vanguard, eschewing his previous role in the shadows. He was the most protective - and the most caring - of the Scions.

Her heart fluttered, torn, and even as she laid her head against Thancred’s shoulder, her tail flicked out and wrapped itself firmly around G’raha’s hips, her hand reaching for his. His fingers twined through hers and he lifted them to brush his lips against her knuckles as the sun finally sank below the horizon, casting long shadows across the harbor.

And the fireworks began.

Light flashed across the sky, pictures and explosions emblazoned across the heavens for all to see. The alchemists and arcanists of the Far East plied their trade with consummate skill, telling story after story in fiery images writ large across the stars. Between the three of them they were able to identify the vast majority of the pictures, their low-voiced commentary in no way drowning out the shouts and cries of surprise and elation from below.

Now and then Kal’istae felt Thancred’s lips press against the top of her head; now and then, she felt G’raha Tia raise her hand to kiss her knuckles - absent gestures of affection that sent her heart alternately thudding from joy and aching from sorrow.

There was music, too. The sweet voices of the bards of Sharlayan and their instruments could be heard, giving voice to the stories behind the imagery through ancient songs. Even as the pictures faded, leaving only bursts of abstract stars and flowers to brighten the night sky, the music continued to swell across the city, a joyous chorus welcoming in the new year.

And then she heard it; the tocsin pealed across the city, bright and strident as timepieces across Sharlayan struck midnight. “Blessed Heavensturn,” she whispered to the two men at her side, words choked and just a bit watery.

“Blessed Heavensturn,” the men replied in unison, and she lifted her head, feeling them lean down to both brush their lips across the edges of her mouth. And she couldn’t help it; the tears began in earnest. “Kali, Kali, don’t cry,” Thancred murmured urgently.

G’raha Tia slid closer until she found herself sandwiched between both men, the miqo’te fitting along her back, kneeling behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist even as Thancred shifted to kneel before her, drawing her against him. “Sweetest Kali,” G’raha whispered in her ear, “there is no need for tears.”

She couldn’t stop them, even if she were willing - in her breast her heart twisted, aching and breaking. “I can’t do it,” she hiccuped. “I can’t choose. I can’t. I won’t.”

Citrine eyes met scarlet and the two men nodded, then wrapped themselves firmly around her, heedless of how close it brought them. “Then don’t, my own,” Thancred replied firmly.

“Then don’t, my love,” Raha echoed. “You need not choose at all,” he continued as he pressed his forehead against the back of her head. “We don’t want you to.”

Her tears faltered. “B- but…”

Thancred pressed his lips against the scales on her forehead. “We don’t need you to. This arrangement suits us just fine, and we see no reason to change things. Why should you choose between us when we can both make you so happy?”

She sputtered, and both men drew back to give her room, keeping their arms firmly around her. “What - you’ll share me?” she asked incredulously. “What about - when we - when I…” She trailed off, blushing.

Thancred chuckled low in his throat, and she felt a tug deep in her belly. “Well, I for one would not object; it would not be the first time, though it would be the first time with someone I… but then,” he murmured, the thought trailing off unfinished, “everything with you has been the first time for me. But it would not be every time,” he added, glancing at Raha, who nodded.

The miqo’te held her close. “We will spend much time apart, you and I, and you and he and I. ‘Tis our lives as Scions. Sometimes, the three of us will be together, and I doubt any of us will wish to waste such time worrying about who is where, or who is doing what.”

The hyur lifted his hand to stroke her cheek. “And there will be times where it is only the two of us, or the two of you. Only the gods know where we will end up once you have healed and we have made our decisions regarding our futures. You know,” he added soberly, “that Urianger and I have a vested interest in the well-being of Garlemald. And Raha has a duty to see the Students rebuilt. And you, my bright star, your steps will ever dance onward and outwards towards new experiences, with or without us.”

She dragged herself out of their arms and they knelt side by side, watching her as she stumbled to her feet, pressing her hand to her breast. “You want to share me,” she said. “I - it’s a dream, but… but…” Her tail drooped, her shoulders slumping. “No. No, it couldn’t work.”

The two men exchanged an alarmed look. “Whyever not?” G’raha demanded.

She looked at him… then her gaze slid to Thancred, and he read unhappy embarrassment in her eyes before she looked away. “Because I don’t know that I would be able to do the same, not for you,” she whispered, “and it would not be fair to lock you into a relationship where you must be forced to watch the one you care for in the arms of another, but be denied a similar joy.”

Ah. The pale-haired hyur smiled. “Kali,” he said gently, and she lifted her gaze to his. “I share you only with a man who feels for you as I do, a man for whom you care as much as you do me. I would not be able to countenance you with any other. And I would expect no less of you. And as you are the first woman I have ever loved,” and his smile broadened as her eyes widened in shock, “I do not think it likely I will ever find another for you to concern yourself with.”

She took a step forward and reached out a hand to him, fingers trembling. He rose to his feet and caught her fingers, drawing them up to his breast and covering them with his own as he continued to gaze down into her eyes. “You… love me?”

His heart pounded in his throat. “I do. I do so very much. I think I always have.”

G’raha continued to kneel as he watched them stare at each other. “Kali, if you’ve changed your mind…”

Both Scions pinned the miqo’te with a fierce glare. “While I never expected to hear those words from Thancred,” she said hoarsely, “and I do not deny that it changes some things, it does not change the fact that I care for you,” she said fiercely, “as I do him. Completely. I don’t want to live without either of you.”

“Even were she inclined,” Thancred added, turning his gaze back down to Kal’istae, “I would not allow her to. We are suited, we three. We are,” he murmured, “fated. This I believe; there is no other explanation for this union of like souls and like minds. No, Raha. It was always to be us - all of us.”

The miqo’te’s eyes widened, then filled, and he stepped forward as Kali held out her free hand, sliding his fingers through hers and drawing her knuckles to his lips. “I love you,” he said quietly to her. “And I want to do this.”

Her eyes shone up at him, but it was to Thancred she turned first. “I love you,” she told him, and he exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on hers almost to the point of pain before he relaxed his grip. She smiled up at him, then turned to G’raha. “And I love you,” she said to the Exarch, who pressed his lips to her hand, his eyes overflowing. “And I do not want to live a life without you both.”

Thancred abruptly tugged on her and she fell into him, giggling. G’raha Tia echoed her laughter, moving in until he was pressed against her back. She released both men, sliding her arms around Thancred’s waist as she lifted her face to his. “I love you, Kal’istae Miurani,” he whispered as he pressed his lips to her forehead, then took her mouth in his.

“I love you, Kal’istae Miurani,” G’raha Tia echoed, and she felt his arms surround her, his body pressed against her back as he kissed the back of her head, waiting patiently for Thancred to relinquish her.

Reluctantly, the gunbreaker pulled back. “My own,” he murmured, his hands skimming up until they caught in her hair, tangling amidst the short strands. Her lips parted and he sucked in a breath, then released her, his hands sliding down again to her shoulders before he turned her to the miqo’te who watched with anxious scarlet eyes.

“Raha,” she murmured, her face alight as she gazed up at him, and he gathered her close, feeling her arms come around his neck. He bent his head and covered her mouth with his, feeling her pliant and willing in his arms.

When she finally pulled back, she stepped away, gazing back at the two men watching her. “You’re absolutely certain this is what you want?” she asked, one hand going to her throat.

“Be ours,” Thancred said simply. “Be mine. Be his. Be ours.”

She gazed up at him with wide, bright eyes. “I - yes,” she breathed, and threw her arms around them both as they came in, resting her head against their shoulders. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”

Original Ask Meme

Thank you for the ask!

[libidomechanica]

From thence, which is conduct neither sounds his hair — (they)

Slips the while my shade, when Ioue wize     with souls resolved, I do not giggle, but walked to your eyes     or slow, who fain to feele my heart or talking, to which     doth not, she would loved of all, I repine? Here, you were due     to no other kind, and

novice in the end again, and     my bless itself in at they shook always petal by petal     myself over us like a tocsin bell: she did     not care, forget some and purple floors never husbands and     purge the feasting bird whose

excess, alas! Narrow teeth, hand     drippings; and their nation, but restaurants to buy, aboon distrust     she is sole obiects such suspicion as might her side,     Eyes like Ormisda called around my heartbreak, so name I     am inside that euening

through this large. From thence, which is     conduct neither sounds his hair—they wandering for     clarification, but thy love never heart that she must tell her     white and fell ere the streetlight, but faire loue all impatient     grove her dread Jove think that

mocks the shirt since now answere, and     irked, into his ardent without, how much on the girdle     bout high and succeed in this however. Feel safe then—i     hold how should feed until by and purling stores of all women,     on the evening, she

sunk by floundering oar, and greedy     pikes all, I replied, let Heaven’s King keeps her heau’nly     grace, with flow; the beil’, whereto approved the rest. Yet very     word or a poisoned jerkin from me in a bed of     roses thus the just now;

and in hand, as hands found him o’er     to the more lofty aiks them sole unbidden beauty’s treate     not words by this thundering laugh, to poor Dudu, yet very     light end in his own neck alone will die—I built with     a dying I throw myself

or face doth make in upon     ways and it’s not mean enough for ioy doe sing, the walls, and     nobleness, in Tempe or to Time’s half so large. More that     smiles; but if theyr name in her for they their birth requires it,     that I were clawing our

approaching me do not long I     served succour vain; love taught. The crickets stirr’d or talk. Like a     sing, turning too hot the shifting galleries from thy self     prove regard once; at once possesse with my deepest sense he     next she doth reason why,

all silent as the somber my     mother will cling teach to treat the nuptial course. You know ye:     and sad affrights dreary, I would it mean destroies. And trees     or slight giuing laugh atweene the heathen, have a dreadful sight,     after all, lay in disguise,

and tea. Landscape the charm to     other kind; exciting some talk’d till itself, burn through certain,     and take a steedes long parent could little her ear,     the flames to show? Prayed her hearts doo chace from chimneys, slipped by     thy far-reaching that sorrow

is my heart with thy seruants     simple layes, they give reward. At least not his Hell. ’Tis     decorate, when the mavis sang out, cajoled by all above!     Your neighborhood kids who spin a yarn about therefore the     longer floors of my love.

[basingstokemercury]

I need to stop coming up with actually good/interesting stuff while thinking about Bedtime Scenarios, either it makes me want to write instead of sleeping or I remember later and it doesn't have the same ring

Why was his heart pounding with the rhythm of a tocsin, Past Mercury? Is this some random moment you came up with or did you want to use it in proper writing?

Also: Is it cliché for a character to have a nightmare about losing someone which makes them realise how important that person is to them? (I can't think of any times I've seen it, but it feels like a thing that must have been done.)

[menaathena]

Revenge for @trapdoornumberthree of Heart, with and without blood!

[aflamethatneverdies]

End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire

Ten tocsin chimes had rung so far and the barricade was still quiet, while Enjolras and Combeferre conversed and Gavroche flew back with a song and ‘cocorico’. Bahorel was kneeling inside the six or seven foot barricade along with Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Joly. Gavroche took his place beside them in anticipation. Feuilly was commanding his own insurgents. 

The silence punctuated with the sound of heavy treads was disconcerting. The insurgents gripped their rifles, Joly and Bossuet clasped each other’s hands, Prouvaire nodded to Bahorel. The sound of boots rising and falling continued for several more minutes. It became heavy and unbearable. The clouds shifted only a little, the sky was still a blend of terrible purple and scarlet. The sounds grew more stony and echoed with a deeper thud. 

Bahorel had a moment of chuckle at Enjolras’ answer of “French Revolution”, before the flash of fire resounded and the flag dropped. They all watched as M. Mabeuf fell, pierced by the bullets.

Bahorel cursed inwardly at the National Guard, they had shot at an unarmed old man fixing the flag. He leapt forward and helped carry M Mabeuf to the Corinthe wine shop and laid him down. These few minutes while the revolutionaries were distracted were enough for the National Guard to continue to move in.

Bahorel glimpsed that the guards were pointing their bayonets at Gavroche, they did not spare the old man, they would not spare the child. He leapt with a growl and a wolf-like jump into the midst of the fray, and took the bayonet to the stomach. 

Great pain washed over him and then he lost the voices of his dearest friends. Everything went dark and silent for what felt like several hours but could only have been a few minutes; he opened his eyes to find himself changed into a lycanthrope. He watched the pooling blood around his body and the grim and tearful faces of his friends who carried his lifeless body to Corinthe to lay it beside M. Mabeuf. Instinctively he put a hand over the spot where the bayonet had entered and instinctively winced. 

He found himself unable to return to his corporeal form, which wasn’t surprising. He gave a small sorrowful laugh, “Well, that was to be expected when you have been killed.” 

The moon rose from among the scarlet clouds and his keen eyes searched for Jean Prouvaire under its light- Prouvaire would like to mourn him, Bahorel’s heart sank, Prouvaire was not present among the insurgents.

He made his way out through the Rue Mondetour passage and leapt over the roof of a house to reach the other side where several National guards were milling around, deciding what to do with the insurgent they had captured. In a small corner, between the wall of a house and the rubble that residents had thrown from their second story houses at the National Guard, was the seated form of the poet, the beloved Jean Prouvaire.

He had found himself in a scuffle with a couple of National Guards, who had managed to capture him and drag him forcefully to their side.

He had stumbled and twisted his left leg and was sitting on the rubble with his hands tied behind his back while a few National Guards conversed near him, as to what they should do with the insurgent they had caught. A shroud of darkness had enveloped his captors, Bahorel could barely make out their forms, he saw the glint of the rifles pointed at Prouvaire's head and the shakos they were wearing. One National Guard was sporting injuries given by Prouvaire.

Bahorel raised his head towards the sky and howled furiously, it echoed across the barricades, he heard some of his friends asking about Prouvaire and taking a roll call. The National guard shivered and looked at the moon before returning to their conversations. 

“I’m here Jehan.” Bahorel said, climbing down from the roof, “I’m here, Prouvaire, my dearest friend.”

He wiped Prouvaire’s lips, which were bloody, with his hand and was proud to learn that his friend had fought his captors to the last. 

“I knew you would find me.” Prouvaire said, “Bahorel, I –” he gestured to his bound hands and tried valiantly to smile showing chipped and bloody teeth, the blood of which he tried to wipe on his sleeve, “How was it?”

The moon had again flooded the scene and bathed them in its light.

“Dying?” Bahorel asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully, and trying to find a way to release his friend of his painful bonds, “As if you've been punched really hard, it sucks all the air out of you.”

He cursed at how his hands failed at untying the rope, he tried again and they went through it, he must have lost his human form permanently. Prouvaire saw his struggles and shook his head.

“Don’t– don’t worry about those. I have accepted my fate. Several times I expected to die before now, called it soft names, and now it is upon me. I will soon rejoin you, it would not nearly have been as much fun to live without you.” He bit his lip before continuing, “I wanted to know what the experience would be like so I could prepare.” He looked at Bahorel, “I’m afraid, Bahorel.” a few tears pricked Prouvaire's eyes and he looked down, trying to wipe them off quickly but not entirely succeeding.

Bahorel had said often that death was messy, death happened in the middle of the story, it complicated many things. And yet, Prouvaire had been right as well, death came unexpectedly but it had to be lived with, to be treated as a friend, nay an almost lover. All his jaunts as a Romantic and a Revolutionary had made him comfortable being in the presence of death, yet his heart still faltered a little, now that the meeting was so imminent. The mortification of an fleshy abode that felt pain and was afraid despite Prouvaire's resolve.

Bahorel hugged his friend, “Oh Jehan, you’re one of the bravest revolutionaries I know. I find that it is not the fact that you’re afraid, God knows I’ve been afraid several times, it is what you do regardless of that. You have shown courage in so many ways, friend.”

The National Guard seemed to have made up their minds. They roughly grabbed Prouvaire, “Get up, you traitor,” and blindfolded him roughly despite his protests ("Don't blindfold me") causing him to call out in pain, while they loaded their rifles and exchanged jokes. They were laughing at his discomfort, and telling him that it was no more than violent insurgents like him deserved.

“I will be there beside you the entire time. It should be quick at least, since it is an execution, and not a messy bayonet wound.” Bahorel said, his face full of worry at how Prouvaire would handle it.

He hugged his friend, the last time he would. 

Prouvaire nodded, wobbling a little, his leg still pained him a little when he put weight on it, but doing his best to stand straight and upright, it would not do for newspapers or anyone else to reproach that the ones who watered this barricade with their blood in the hopes of bringing a different future, were not brave enough. He pictured the red of the flag stained with M. Mabeuf’s blood, he thought of the sacrifice of all those who had come before him, valiant friends who had been brave till the last. He thought of the conventionist who had died to raise the flag.

He heard the clash of guns and the voices in the distance. Voices of his dearest friends, he would no longer hear in a few moments. He wanted to send a message, a last goodbye to all of them. He opened his mouth and then closed it waiting for his head to clear enough. 

He felt Bahorel beside him, clasping his hand and he wriggled it in its bonds to become more comfortable, it felt like his head had become much clearer and focused on what he needed to do. In his mind he could see the birds swirling in the sky, the tree branches swaying and writing in the wind, the water gurgling and flowing in the river; he could always see them, through metal bars of a cell, through the flashes of guns, through especially dark nights, he held onto these images. He saw them at this moment. And he saw the red spilled in the streets, the red of the flag framed in the light from the fight, and imagined flowers and beauty growing from all this pain, all this sacrifice, all this hurt.  He thought of the children yet to come who would breathe an easier air. He saw them all bathed in light and smiled.

“Eternally grateful that you are here beside me, dear friend. I’m ready to join you,” he whispered to Bahorel who squeezed his hands and shoulder warmly. Bahorel could not help crying which set off some wolf howls echoing around Saint Denis and Saint Merri. Prouvaire looked at him and shook his head, “We will meet each other again, I’m sure of that.” he said. “I will haunt every nook in Paris. Shall we depart this world, O dear friend?”

Bahorel laughed and nodded. 

Prouvaire faced the front and heard the sounds of several guns being cocked and though he could not see, felt that they were being aimed at him while a silence grew in between. He felt at once a longing for death’s arms and a sudden thrill at the thought that this was not the end after all of his story, not if you were a Romantic.

“Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!” he shouted in a deep voice, hoping it was loud enough to echo and resonate across several streets and reach his friends.  His eyes were fixed on the future yet to arrive.

This sudden burst of emotion angered the guards. The order was given, the flash of the guns occurred for an instance blinding the view, and then everything went still, it was an eerie stillness- the air seemed to bleed as well. 

Jean Prouvaire’s body crumpled in a heap beside Bahorel, pierced by several bullets and blood gathered in a pool around his long dark blonde hair. Bahorel let out an ear splitting howl of pain and tears flying lunged at the National Guard who scattered for a moment amidst the blinding light of the moon. 

He would find Prouvaire, but right now his heart hurt enough to burst. It felt as a great collision between sun and moon, a dimming of all the lights of the universe. He had told Prouvaire that he moved from one tragedy to another, but it ached him all over to lose such a dear friend, to lose many friends across many years, he willed himself to continue moving.

He hoped the howl against misery would not stop reverberating across the horizons.

[beautiful-belgium]

The Belfry of Bruges

In the marketplace of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. At my feet the city slumbered.  From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; All the Foresters of Flanders,—mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre. I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat; Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, “I am Roland!  I am Roland! There is victory in the land!” Then the sound of drums aroused me.  The awakened city’s roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[trapdoornumberthree]

Heart at the tender age of 500 or so ^-^

they don't know what a credit card is...

[rouge-la-flamme]

Elements of Insurrection 

In honor of Barricade Day here are a couple of my favorite barricade elements mirrored in Japanese traditions of civil unrest.

Tools.

“On s’y armait comme on pouvait. Des menuisiers emportaient le valet de leur établi « pour enfoncer les portes ». Un d’eux s’était fait un poignard d’un crochet de chaussonnier en cassant le crochet et en aiguisant le tronçon.”

(Everyone there armed himself however he could. Carpenters took the holdfast from their workbench “to bust in the doors.” One of them had made himself a dagger from a cobbler’s awl* by breaking off the hook and sharpening the broken end.)

—Hugo, Les Misérables, 4.10.3.

“Protesting peasants … carried agricultural implements such as sickles, hoes, and axes; during urban riots peasants and townspeople added carpenters’ tools like saws and awls to facilitate the destruction of property. These implements were known as emono, a term that normally refers to a weapon one is particularly adept at wielding … This particular use of the term emono … is one manifestation of a distinctive etiquette of protest … In accordance with this etiquette, peasants deliberately avoided carrying deadly weapons [although they had access to them], and their use of sickles, hoes, and other farm tools was intended explicitly to emphasize their status as peasants.”

—David Howell, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-Century Japan, ch. 4.

Bells.

“On n’y entendait qu’un seul bruit, bruit déchirant comme un râle, menaçant comme une malédiction, le tocsin de Saint-Merry. … Il faut qu’ils [les hommes] soient eux-mêmes un peu foudroyés par leur propre salut ; cet éblouissement les réveille. De là la nécessité des tocsins et des guerres.”

(Only one sound was heard there, a sound as heart-wrenching as a dying breath, ominous as a curse, the tocsin of Saint-Merry. … Men must themselves be a little thunderstruck by their own salvation; this astonishment awakens them. Thence comes the need for tocsins and wars.)

—Hugo, Les Misérables, 4.13.2-3.

At the end of the Tokugawa era, a system was set up whereby temple and fire bells were rung to alert peasants of “bad guys” at large in the area, calling on them to apprehend the outlaws. Though new, “the routine would have been familiar to anyone who had participated in a peasant uprising, for the ringing of bells as a call to action was a standard feature of protests, including [a very bloody one in the early Meiji], which began with the sounding of bells and blowing of shell horns.”

—David Howell, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-Century Japan, ch. 4.

~ ~ ~

* An awl with a little hook for sewing leather: the only thing I can rustle up that answers to the description “crochet de chaussonnier.”

[oblolongue]

WIP intro - Alchemists

[ID: a banner with a blue-grey and gold marble texture as background and Alchemists written across in white cursive typography]

Here’s a blurb:

Thomas is an alchemist mandated by his employers to retrieve a powerful artefact lost in the Mines. There, the dark path all but swallows you in and never let you go. In order to get trough his trip, Thomas tries to smuggle a very precious and unique manuscript out of the Royal Library. He is caught by his former classmate and brand new Court Alchemist, Neil. Needing to preserve the interests of the Court, Neil decides to help Thomas retrieving the artefact. Will they survive their trip? Will they be able to join forces to face the dangers of Mines?

***

Here’s cw: near character death / mental illness / light body horror /

***

Here’s word count: 4800 (planned to be 10k)

***

Here’s characters:

🌙Thomas: freelancer alchemist / when he panics, he goes dumb / neutral chaotic

☀️Neil : Alchemist of the Court / the stable one / in for the aesthetics

🌿Agrippa : former Alchemist of the Court / old and wise / plant mom

***

Here’s a moodboard for Neil and Thomas’ relationship:

[ID: a 3x3 grid. Left part is sun themed with from top to bottom, a reaching hand behind Venetian blinds in warm tones / sun beams through a tree / baroque library in warm afternoon tones. Middle part is a combination of sun and moon theme, with from top to bottom: an illumination style painting of the celestial spheres/ engraving of a body with two heads, one with a halo and the other one with a crescent moon on the forehead / engraving of mountains with a sun eclipse above on a black background. Right part is moon themed with from top to bottom: a hand grazing water and reflecting in it/ photograph of the moon in black and white/ cave with stalagmites in blueish tones. /end ID]

***

Here’s the first lines:

There's someone loose in the Royal Library. A tocsin pealed, only heard by the Court Alchemist, who leaped from his office. He watched as the intruder slipped to the sensitive section, strictly reserved to initiates. The seal protecting the area was broken with surprising dexterity. A finger wandered quickly through the leathered bound spines. It stopped on the Codex Code... The Alchemist stepped forward and cleared his throat. With a flourish of robes, the man turned around, a hand gripped over his heart. "Oh dear!"

***

This wip is my entry for the original fiction big bang! I’m very excited to see @demonic-kitkats​ art <3 and i’m very thankful to @blindthewind​ to be my beta <3 (i’ll only tag you on this post :) )

You can ask to be added to the tag list for this wip if you want to!

[noosphe-re]

‘The Future of the Future’ by JG Ballard

One of the most surprising but barely noticed events of the period since the Second World War has been the life and death of the space age. Almost twenty years ago to the day, 4 October 1957, I switched on the BBC news and heard for the first time the radio call-sign of Sputnik I as it circled the earth above our heads. Its urgent tocsin seemed to warn us of the arrival of a new epoch. As a novice science fiction writer, I listened to this harbinger of the space age with strong misgivings — already I was certain, though without the slightest evidence, that the future of science fiction, and for that matter of popular consciousness in general, lay not in outer space but in what I had already christened `inner space', in a world increasingly about to be remade by the mind.

None the less, I fully expected that the impact of the space age would be immediate and all-pervasive — from fashion to industrial design, from the architecture of airports and department stores to the ways in which we furnished our homes. I took for granted that the spin-off of the US and Russian space programmes would transfotm everything in our lives and produce an extrovert society as restlessly curious about the external world as Renaissance Europe.

In fact, nothing remotely like this occurred. Public interest in the space flights of the 1960s was rarely more than lukewarm (think, by contrast, of our powerful emotional involvement with the death of President Kennedy and the Vietnam war), and the effects on everyday life have been virtually nil. How many of us could name, apart from Armstrong himself, a single one of the men who have walked on the Moon, an extraordinary achievement that should have left a profound trace upon the collective psyche? Yet most of us could rattle off without a moment's thought the names of lone transatlantic sailors — Chichester, Chay Blyth, Tabarly, Clare Francis ... Looking back, we can see that far from extending for ever into the future, the space age lasted for scarcely fifteen years: from Sputnik I and Gagarin's first flight in 1961, to the last Skylab mission in 1974 — and the first splashdown, significantly, not to be shown on television. After a casual glance at the sky, people turned around and went indoors. Even the test flights taking place at present of the space shuttle Enterprise — named, sadly, after the spaceship in Star Trek — seem little more than a limp by-product of a television fantasy, More and more, the space programmes have become the last great period piece of the twentieth century, as magnificent but as out of date as the tea-clipper and the steam locomotive.

During the past fifteen years the strongest currents in our lives have been flowing in the opposite direction altogether, carrying us ever deeper into the exploration not of outer but of inner space. This investigation of every conceivable byway of sensation and imagination has shown itself in a multitude of guises — in mysticism and meditation, encounter groups and fringe religions, in the use of drugs and biofeedback devices — all of which attempt to project the interior realm of the psyche on to the humdrum world of everyday reality and externalize the limitless possibilities of the dream. So far, though, the techniques available have tended to be extremely dangerous (drugs such as LSD and heroin), physically uncomfortable (the contortions of classical yoga), or mentally exhausting (the psychological assault course of the suburban encounter group, with its staged confrontations and tantrums, its general hyperventilation of the emotions).

Meanwhile, far more sophisticated devices have begun to appear on the scene, above all, video systems and micro-computers adapted for domestic use. Together these will achieve what I take to be the apotheosis of all the fantasies of late twentieth-century man — the transformation of reality into a TV studio, in which we can simultaneously play out the roles of audience, producer and star.

In the dream house of the year 2000, Mrs Tomorrow will find herself living happily inside her own head. Walls, floors and ceilings will be huge, unbroken screens on which will be projected a continuous sound and visual display of her pulse and respiration, her brain-waves and blood pressure. The delicate quicksilver loom of her nervous system as she sits at her dressing table, the sudden flush of adrenaline as the telephone rings, the warm arterial tides of emotion as she arranges lunch with her lover, all these will surround her with a continuous light show. Every aspect of her home will literally reflect her character and personality, a visible image of her inner self to be overlaid and enhanced by those of her husband and children, relatives and friends. A marital tiff will resemble the percussive climax of The Rite of Spring, while a dinner party (with each of the guests wired into the circuitry) will be embellished by a series of frescoes as richly filled with character and incident as a gallery of Veroncses. By contrast, an off day will box her into a labyrinth of Francis Bacons, a premonition of spring surround her with the landscapes of Constable, an amorous daydream transform the walls of her bathroom into a seraglio worthy of Ingres.

All this, of course, will be more electronic wallpaper, the background to the main programme in which each of us will be both star and suppotting player. Every one of our actions during the day, across the entire spectrum of domestic life, will be instantly recorded on video-tape. In the evening we will sit back to scan the rushes, selected by a computer trained to pick out only our best profiles, our wittiest dialogue, our most affecting expressions filmed through the kindest filters, and then stitch these together into a heightened re-enactment of the day. Regardless of our place in the family pecking order, each of us within the privacy of our own rooms will be the star in a continually unfolding domestic saga, with parents, husbands, wives and children demoted to an appropriate supporting role.

Free now to experiment with the dramatic possibilities of our lives, we will naturally conduct our relationships and modify our behaviour towards each other with more than half an eye to their place in the evening's programme. When we visit our friends we will be immediately co-opted into a half-familiar play whose plot-lines may well elude us. Even within our own marriages we will frequently find ourselves assigned roles which we will act out with no rehearsal time and only the scantiest idea of the script — on reflection, not an unfamiliar situation. So these programmes will tirelessly unfold; a personalized Crossroads or Coronation Street perhaps recast in the style of Strindberg or Stoppard, six million scenes from a marriage.

However fanciful all this may seem, this transformation of our private lives with the aid of video-systems and domestic computers is already at hand. Micro-computers are now being installed in thousands of American homes, where they provide video-games and do simple household accounts. Soon, though, they will take over other functions, acting as major domo, keeper of finances, confidant and marriage counsellor. `Can you afford the Bahamas this year, dear? Yes ... if you divorce your husband.' The more expensive and sophisticated computers will be bought precisely to fulfil this need, each an éminence grise utterly devoted to us, aware of our strengths and weaknesses, dedicated to exploring every possibility of our private lives, suggesting this or that marital strategy, a tactical infidelity here, an emotional game-plan there, a realignment of affections, a radical change of wardrobe, lifestyle, sex itself, all costed down to the last penny and timed to the nearest second, its print-outs primed with air tickets, hotel reservations and divorce petitions.

Thus we may see ourselves at the turn of the century, each of us the star of a continuous television drama, soothed by the music of our own brain-waves, the centre of an infinite private universe. Will it occur to us, perhaps, that there is still one unnecessary intruder in this personal paradise — other people? Thanks to the video-tape library, and the imminent wonders of holistic projection, their physical presence may soon no longer be essential to our lives. Without difficulty, we can visualize a future where people will never meet at all, except on the television screen. Childhood, marriage, parenthood, even the few jobs that still need to be done, will all be conducted within the home.

Conceived by artificial insemination, brought up within the paediatric viewing cubicle, we will conduct even our courtships on television, shyly exchanging footage of ourselves, and perhaps even slipping away on a clandestine weekend (that is, watching the same travelogues together). Thanks to the split-screen technique, our marriage will be witnessed by hundreds of friends within their own homes, and pre-recorded film taken within our living rooms will show us moving down the aisle against a cathedral backdrop. Our wedding night will be a masterpiece of tastefully erotic cinema, the husband's increasingly bold zooms countered by his bride's blushing fades and wipes, climaxing in the ultimate close-up. Years of happy marriage will follow, unblemished by the hazards of physical contact, and we need never know whether our spouse is five miles away from us, or five hundred, or on the dark side of the sun. The spherical mirror forms the wall of our universe, enclosing us for ever at its heart ... — JG Ballard, The Future of the Future, Vogue, 1977 (A User’s Guide to the Millennium)

[lonelyhistorynerd]

The Bondsman's Hope

In that far off land where the wrong is felt, Where the lord of misrule has ever dwelt— Where never a ray of hopeful delight Had pierced the thick gloom of that moral night Till the bow of promise, all bright and clear, Betokening the day of redemption near, Encircled the heavens, and the languid eye Grew intensely bright, but it knew not why; Nay, it knew not why it had brighter grown Till an angel sped from a distant throne, And solved the bright bow and its blest intent, Which God through the wrath of vain man had sent.

Then the millions drank with an eager ear The glorious news of the unborn year, [fast And their hearts beat quick and their pulse was As the nightshades told that a day had past— That a day had past and the truth revealed Of the proud decree being unrepealed— That a day had past and a record made In the Book of Time of its light and shade ]; But still there would sweep through, the anxious mind,

The query, Oh! will the morrow prove kind ? "Will the night pass thus and the morning come, And continue thus till the day of doom? All weary and worn and with cares opprest, They laid them down on their couch to rest; But a vision stole on the panting soul, And bore it away from the base control Of the tyrant's lust and the despot's ire, To a land of rest, the weary's desire— A land of bright waters and fragrant flowers, And verdant landscapes and fruitful bowers. Oh, freedom, how sweet! E'en the thought thereof Inspires the soul till it soars aloft, forgetful of life and its cumbrous chains, And strolls for awhile through elysian plains.

Ere the morn had crowned the mountains with gray

On the day's dull round they were plodding their way, But their minds looked out in the future nigh, And the bow was dim in the blackening sky, And they sank in spirit to wait in pain The severing stroke of fetter and chain.

Oh! when will it come? Will the funeral chime Of the dying year bring the prayed for time? Will the tocsin blast of the New Year's birth proclaim to the long oppressed of earth, A glorious ransom from the dirth and blight Of the cheerless gloom of oppression's night ? God grant that it may, is our earnest prayer, Tremblingly uttered, 'twixt hope and despair!

J. M. B.