#unearthing ancient emotions with new light

[breserker]

sorry i've been talking to @a-queenoffairys can you just imagine if sissi was the one trapped on lyoko instead of william.

this is an old complaint, aged, ancient, i've whined about this before when i was a lot younger and a lot feistier and less tactful with words. i've wondered aloud before why william was the one trapped when the writers only ever set him up to be a romantic rival so it didn't make sense that suddenly all the stakes are on him. but had an epiphany today that it should've been sissi.

sissi long-accosted their group yes but not only was jealous of them and wanted to be their friends to have that support system (revealed as early as episode, what, THREE? holiday in the fog) but had deep roots in the setting as well. she was not only the principal's daughter and they'd have to contend with that ticking time bomb of a confrontation, but what of herve and nicolas, who are immensely unpopular if even considered ugly characters that are at least tolerated by sissi wherein she becomes one of their only support systems that aren't them (and their friendship isn't that great either)

if she was the one to be captured, holy shit. the stakes are not just within the group and maybe a teacher or two they have to convince plus william's dad who has the gall to love him or whatever, for the sake of plot i guess, (that was half a joke), but the stakes have such a monumental upheaval on a very interconnected webwork of human relations that we've been interacting with since the very beginning. sissi makes herself the center of everything--everyone will notice if she's suddenly not. what if principal delmas catches on and has to contact his estranged wife, however that may hurt him and sissi, to try and fix whatever's wrong with his daughter.

we didn't even know william's dad loved him until after he was in lyoko, did we.

[rukiexramen]

*Shove Chrystel into a new AU*

Chrystel if she was in Hellsing! \o/ I just rewatched Hellsing Ultimate and felt nostagia hitting... imma sucker for ocs but I have too many already and had to idea what to create.

So I just shoved my Priest Chrystel from World of Warcraft into this AU, With some WoW element in her story.

Heres a small AU Characteristics and Infos under read more!

Basic Info

Age: 29 years old

Eye Color: Blue

Height: 5'8 feet | 172 centimeters

Body Shape: Semi-Slim

Birthplace: Nazareth

Residence: England

Additionnal Info

Profession: Full-time Cleric, Bounty Hunter

Abilities: Wielder of Mending Light and Void Caster

Hobbies: Reading, Doing alchemy, Macrame, Spending time in the orphanage

Likes: Helping People, Peaceful Compromises, Unearthing ancients secrets.

Dislikes: Ignorance, Senseless Violence, Abuse of Authority.

Personality Traits

Chrystel is a compassionate, determined woman, known for her helpfulness and dedication. Her strong will drives her to pursue goals tirelessly, though her emotions can shift unexpectedly, revealing a fiery temper. Protective to a fault, she deeply cares for those close to her, sometimes overwhelming them with her concern, but her intentions are always grounded in love.

[popcornpicks]

BLOG ENTRY N0.3

The Unsettling Allure of "Sinister"

"Sinister," directed by Scott Derrickson and released in 2012, is a chilling entry in the horror genre that delves deep into the realms of fear and suspense. With its haunting atmosphere, gripping narrative, and spine-tingling scares, "Sinister" stands out as a modern horror classic. The film's ability to unsettle and disturb viewers makes it a must-watch for horror aficionados and a compelling study in the mechanics of terror.

Plot Overview

The story follows true-crime writer Ellison Oswalt (Ethan Hawke), who moves into a new home with his family to work on his next book. Unbeknownst to his wife Tracy (Juliet Rylance) and their children, the house has a dark history: it was the scene of a gruesome family murder. Ellison discovers a box of home movies in the attic, which contain footage of multiple families being murdered in various brutal ways.

As Ellison delves deeper into these disturbing films, he uncovers a connection between the murders and a pagan deity named Bughuul, also known as the "Eater of Children." The more Ellison investigates, the more he realizes that his own family is in grave danger, ensnared in the sinister legacy of the house.

Characters and Performances

Ethan Hawke delivers a compelling performance as Ellison Oswalt, capturing the character’s descent from ambitious writer to paranoid, desperate father. Hawke’s portrayal is both nuanced and intense, grounding the supernatural elements in a very human fear. Juliet Rylance’s portrayal of Tracy provides a counterbalance, embodying the emotional and rational side of the family dynamic.

The supporting cast, including James Ransone as the helpful but skeptical Deputy So-and-So, adds depth and authenticity to the film. The child actors, especially those portraying the ghostly victims, deliver chilling performances that enhance the eerie atmosphere.

Visuals and Special Effects

"Sinister" excels in creating a visually disturbing experience. The use of Super 8 footage to depict the murders is particularly effective, lending a grainy, realistic quality that amplifies the horror. The juxtaposition of these home movies with the present-day narrative creates a sense of timeless dread, as if the evil in the house transcends eras.

The film’s lighting and cinematography contribute to its unsettling ambiance. Shadows and dimly lit spaces dominate the visual palette, creating a sense of claustrophobia and unease. The practical effects and minimal use of CGI ensure that the horror feels tangible and immediate.

Themes and Impact

At its core, "Sinister" explores themes of obsession, the consequences of unearthing dark secrets, and the corrupting influence of evil. Ellison's relentless pursuit of a story blinds him to the dangers he is exposing his family to, making a poignant statement about the cost of ambition and the lure of forbidden knowledge.

The film also delves into the idea of legacy and the cyclical nature of violence. The presence of Bughuul as an ancient entity manipulating modern families adds a layer of mythic horror, suggesting that some evils are eternal and inescapable.

"Sinister" has had a significant impact on the horror genre, praised for its innovative approach to found footage and its ability to evoke genuine fear. It has inspired discussions about the nature of horror and the psychological effects of true crime on those who immerse themselves in it.

Overall Ratings

Plot/Storyline: 9/10

Script/Writing: 8/10

Cinematography: 9/10

Acting: 9/10

Attraction value/Rewatchability: 10/10

why do i recommend this movie?

"Sinister" is a must watch horror film. This movie is the only horror film that I can never forget, and it became my favorite after I watched it in elementary school. The story and plot truly shocked me, which is why I still can't get over this movie.

Whether you’re a seasoned horror fan or new to the genre, this film promises a haunting experience that lingers long after the screen goes dark. So, turn off the lights, brace yourself, and dive into the unsettling world of "Sinister." The terror awaits!

[eudaimonia83]

This is a segment of the first chapter of my long fic. I’ll start posting complete chapters when I’m at least 50% done with it. But in the meantime, comments welcome, edit suggestions encouraged, style and content critiques appreciated. And if you might have time/interest to beta something in the future, let me know.

Working title: THE GIFT

Summary: After the war with Hybern, there are more questions than answers in Prythian, and every day seems to unearth more. Elain Archeron has more questions than most, and has been struggling with vivid dreams that confuse her in her waking life. And perhaps the best person to help her understand her new country, her new abilities, her new role, is the one she’s been pushing away the longest.

There are many forces at work. New awakenings. Old grievances. The powerful, unwilling to share their bounty. The forgotten, at the borders of society, playing a long game to seize power for themselves. And the land itself, beginning to stir in anger at ancient injustices, trying to take back what was once wild…

Prythian is not as it was. What it will be is undecided. Elain finds herself caught at the crossroads of revolution and magical upheaval.

Trigger warnings: Occasionally explicit/nsfw. Occasionally violent. Mentions sexual/physical/emotional assault and torture. Deeply anti-Rhysand, mildly anti-Feyre. If any of those aren’t your particular brand of vodka, no worries! You should skip it. 🙂

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Elain knew that most seers’ visions were unpredictable. The very first sentence of most passages she had managed to find about them had always cautioned anxiously against putting too much faith in messages from other times, like the seers themselves were to blame for the ambiguity of their scryings. She had become angrier and angrier as she had read the chapters, as if the ancient authors had placed her directly under their dry-whispered, ink-and-paper scrutiny. Their warnings hissed in the back of her brain. Inconstant. Unreliable. Impossible. Or, as one slightly more sympathetic writer had put it, well-intentioned but unsupported.

Patronizing bastards.

As if the past wasn’t horribly misunderstood; as if the future wasn’t mutable and unbound. As if seeing glimpses were like looking through a window, when in fact, it was more like being thrust into a book mid-story. Truth was in it, but it wasn’t the entire tale…and it shifted, changed, altered even as the reader became aware of what was happening.

And that shifting of the visions was only the newest problem, Elain thought ruefully. Why she was here, searching for a corner of Velaris she’d only just heard of.

The Palace of Bone and Salt yielded to modest shops and businesses as the streets ran down to the Sidra, along a generous bank leading to the bridge, where many of the citizens of Velaris liked to stroll and chat or meet for business. But Elain, consulting a scrap of paper with directions, turned abruptly before the cobbled sidewalk reared up into the impressive arches of the bridge, and ducked underneath the handrail of the walkway. If anyone saw her, they gave no sign. It was remarkable how quickly she became alone. How fast the bustle died in the background. How many people had ever tried to leave the stone path and wander through the coiling grasses?

Under the bridge, the lights of the thoroughfare were obscured; she could see only dimly in front of her, and slowed her pace to avoid falling. Once she was clear of the massive shadow of the bridge, the path faded to packed mud, well-worn but narrow enough for only one foot in front of another. The slap and hiss of water against stone faded behind her, into the distant reaches of the structure. She might technically still be in Velaris, but the grand beauty of the city streets was a distant echo.

The thing was, Elain mused as she walked into a small ravine, the riverbank yawning away from her up a small but steep hill, it really was quite beautiful, if unkempt. The fading light cast longer shadows over hillocks of grass, which was brown due to the winter, but would be riotously green in the spring; black rocks poked their heads out of the tangles and created little wild sheltered gardens, where even though the temperatures would sink to bitter lows, the winds and ice would not collect. Hellebore grew there in clumps, bravely pink and green against the brown; clusters of snowdrops peeked from underneath holly bushes, their white flowers sparkling against the dramatic red berries and glossy malachite leaves — a proper pastiche of the approaching solstice. Even in her worry, Elain felt a peace looking at it; and it was wild, a beauty she could not recreate in a vase in the hallways of the River House. Once, perhaps that would have irked her. Now, she slowed to look at it, and carried on with renewed purpose. If the Night Court had living things that could survive its brutal winters, then maybe — just maybe — she, as tame and domestic as she was, could as well.

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[pagebypagereviews]

As the celestial fabric of the cosmos weaves its ever-expanding narrative, few tales capture the imagination as powerfully as "The Fallen Star." Within the pages of this masterful work of fiction, readers are plunged into an enthralling universe, where the very concept of stars has been radically reimagined, casting a luminous new light on the ancient human connection with the night sky. Held aloft by compelling prose and underpinned by a deep understanding of human longing, "The Fallen Star" stands as a testament to the enduring allure of celestial mythology. The book is more than just a gripping narrative; it is an insightful exploration of humanity's search for meaning in the vastness of space, serving as a mirror reflecting our own terrestrial tribulations amidst the stars. Yet, for all its cosmic scale and splendor, "The Fallen Star" reveals its true brilliance in addressing contemporary earthly concerns, tangibly bridging the ethereal gap between the heavens and our home planet. Navigating through the themes of loss, redemption, and the interconnectedness of life, the story provides a delicate answer to the silent existential quandaries that haunt the human spirit. It solves the riddle of relevance in an ever-expanding universe, anchoring the human experience firmly within the grander cosmic tapestry and, in doing so, rekindles the wonder that the night sky has sparked within humankind throughout history. This work is not merely a narrative—it is a beacon of hope that even amidst the boundless dark, stars continue to shine. Plot The plot of "The Fallen Star" weaves an intricate tale of mystery, supernatural elements, and a quest for self-discovery. At the story's heart is the protagonist, whose life is upended by the sudden occurrence of inexplicable events, marking the advent of her involvement in a world that defies natural laws. As the narrative progresses, she grapples with her newfound abilities, which thrust her into the epicenter of a conflict that spans the earthly and the ethereal. The plot thickens with the introduction of a prophetic figure known as the "Fallen Star," whose destiny is tied to the protagonist's own fate. Twists and turns abound as alliances are formed and tested, dark secrets are unearthed, and the line between friend and foe becomes increasingly blurred. Elements of the hero's journey are evident, as the character undergoes significant growth, faces trials, and must ultimately choose a path that will determine the fate of an unseen world colliding with her own. Characters The characters in "The Fallen Star" are crafted with complexity and depth, and their interactions and relationships play a crucial role in driving the narrative forward. The protagonist stands out with a rich character arc that transitions from vulnerability to empowerment. Supporting characters, such as the enigmatic guardian who serves as both protector and mentor, add layers to the story with their unique backgrounds and motivations. The antagonist is not a mere embodiment of evil but is presented with a nuanced persona that elicits both empathy and revulsion. The dynamics between characters often reflect larger themes within the book, such as trust, betrayal, and the gray areas of morality. As the protagonist uncovers her own identity, she learns valuable lessons from each character encounter, shaping her journey and the decisions she must face. Secondary characters, each with their own subplots, further enhance the story by presenting a diverse array of perspectives and experiences that enrich the world-building and contribute to the protagonist's growth. Writing Style The writing style of "The Fallen The Fallen in "The Fallen Star" is characterized by its rich descriptive prose that effortlessly paints a vivid picture of the settings and emotions experienced by the characters. This evocative language immerses readers into a sensory experience, making the environment and the characters' internal worlds almost tangible. The

narrative employs a mix of fast-paced action sequences that engage readers with their intensity and slower, introspective moments that allow for character development and thematic exploration. The dialogue is crafted to reveal character traits and to drive the plot, often incorporating a degree of wit and humor that serves as a balance to the darker aspects of the tale. Symbolism is woven through the narrative, providing depth and inviting readers to engage in the story on multiple levels. Through the juxtaposition of fantastical elements against the characters' realistic emotional responses, the writing creates a seamless blend of otherworldly and relatable. Setting The setting of "The Fallen Star" plays a pivotal role in the narrative, encompassing both mundane and fantastical realms that highlight the dichotomy of the protagonist's journey. The story arcs across diverse landscapes that range from the protagonist's ordinary hometown, grounded in the familiarity of everyday life, to enchanting and treacherous domains that exist beyond the veil of the known world. Each location is meticulously described, contributing to the novel's atmosphere and serving as a backdrop for pivotal events. The contrast between the settings mirrors the internal conflict of the characters as they navigate through hidden enclaves where magic reigns, dark forests filled with ancient lore, and urban settings infused with secretive supernatural occurrences. The settings not only enhance the plot but also act as a catalyst for character development, as the protagonist must adapt and evolve in response to the shifting environments. Unique Aspects One of the unique aspects of "The Fallen Star" is the incorporation of celestial mythology interwoven throughout the story, providing a foundation for the novel’s supernatural elements and the central motif of the "Fallen Star." Another distinct characteristic is the book's blend of genres; it melds the suspense of a thriller with the inventive world-building typical of fantasy literature, while also integrating elements of romance and coming-of-age narratives. Additionally, the story stands out for its treatment of themes such as the search for identity and the nature of sacrifice, which are explored in a manner that resonates with both a young adult and an adult audience. The novel also sets itself apart through its engagement with moral ambiguity, refusing to present clear-cut notions of good and evil, thus inviting readers to ponder the complexity of the characters' choices and motivations. The intricate plot structure, replete with foreshadowing and unexpected revelations, ensures that readers remain captivated, continually questioning and eager to piece together the puzzle of "The Fallen Star. Similar to The Fallen Star Certainly! Below is an example of an HTML table with solid 1px black borders styling. This table showcases the pros and cons of a hypothetical product or feature called "The Fallen Star". Each point is directly addressing how these factors impact user experience. ```html Fallen Star Analysis table width: 100%; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid black; padding: 8px; text-align: left; th background-color: #f2f2f2; .pros th background-color: #ddffdd; .cons th background-color: #ffdddd; .pro-con-container margin-bottom: 20px; Pros of The Fallen Star Benefit Impact on User Experience Enhanced Visuals Provides an immersive experience, elevating user engagement. Innovative Gameplay Offers unique challenges that keep users interested and entertained. Community Features Encourages social interaction, which can improve user retention. Regular Updates Keeps content fresh, making users more likely to return. Cons of The Fallen Star Drawback Impact on User Experience Steep Learning Curve May deter new users or casual players from engaging with the product. High System Requirements Excludes users with older or less powerful hardware, limiting the potential audience.

Premium Pricing Could be a barrier to entry for users who are not willing to invest initially. Limited Offline Content Restricts the usability of the product in situations with no internet connectivity. ``` This HTML document uses ` `, ` `, ` `, ` `, ` `, and ` ` tags to structure the pros and cons of "The Fallen Star," as well as CSS to add styling to make each section stand out. The content goes straight to the point, discussing how each pro and con affects the user experience without additional fluff or summaries. Evaluating the Genre and Author When contemplating the purchase of "The Fallen Star," it's essential to consider the genre and the author's reputation in that field. If you have a preference for science fiction, fantasy, or whichever genre the book falls under, ensure that it aligns with your interests. Researching the author can provide insights into their writing style and thematic consistency. For established authors, their past works and reader reviews can give a good indication of what to expect in terms of quality and storytelling. Understanding the Book's Place in a Series If "The Fallen Star" is part of a series, it's important to know its sequence to enjoy continuity and character development. Reading a series out of order can cause confusion and spoil earlier plot points. Investigate whether it is necessary to read previous books before diving into "The Fallen Star" to fully grasp the storyline and character arcs. Comparing Editions and Formats Different editions and formats (e.g., hardcover, paperback, e-book, and audiobook) of "The Fallen Star" can offer varying experiences. Hardcover editions often have better build quality and might include additional artwork or bonuses, while paperbacks are more affordable and convenient for travel. E-books offer digital convenience and are often less expensive than physical copies, whereas audiobooks provide a narrated experience which can be great for multitasking readers. Choose the format that best suits your reading habits and preferences. Reading Reviews and Ratings Check online retailers, literary websites, and book forums for reviews and ratings of "The Fallen Star." These platforms can offer a wealth of information about the reading experience, themes, pacing, and character development as perceived by a diverse audience. Pay attention to both positive and negative reviews to get a balanced understanding of the book’s potential impact, but also be aware of personal biases and different tastes among reviewers. Investigating the Publisher and Publication Date Knowing the publisher of "The Fallen Star" can be indicative of the book's quality and target audience, as different publishers often specialize in specific genres or types of literature. Moreover, the publication date could influence your decision; newer books might reflect current trends and social issues, whereas older publications could be more about timeless themes or might be considered classics. Assessing the Book's Physical Quality If you are purchasing a physical copy of "The Fallen Star," inspect the physical quality of the book. This includes the binding, paper quality, and typography. A well-produced book can enhance the reading experience and ensure durability, especially if you intend to keep it in your collection for a long time. If buying online, check the return policy in case the book does not meet your quality expectations upon delivery. Considering the Price Price is an important consideration when purchasing "The Fallen Star." Compare prices across various retailers, including online and local bookstores, to find the best deal. Keep an eye out for discounts, promotions, or used book options if you're looking for more economical choices without compromising the reading experience. Remember to factor in shipping costs if you are purchasing from an online store. Exploring Additional Content and Extras Lastly, some editions of "The Fallen Star" may feature additional content such as author interviews, illustrations, or bonus stories that can enrich your reading experience.

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[whatiscalligraphy]

Historical Script Styles: Explore Calligraphy's Roots

Historical Script Styles: Unearth the Fascinating Journey of Calligraphy Through Time!

Historical Script Styles Calligraphy is a beautiful art form that has evolved over centuries, with its roots in ancient civilizations like Egypt, Mesopotamia, and China. The term "calligraphy" comes from the Greek words meaning "beautiful writing," and it encompasses a wide range of styles and types from Western, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic, Indian, Persian, Tibetan, Korean, Hebrew, and Latin calligraphy. Today, calligraphy is still used in formal invitations, branding, packaging, and as a form of artistic expression. - Calligraphy has a rich history dating back to ancient civilizations. - The word "calligraphy" means beautiful writing. - Calligraphy styles have evolved over time and across different cultures. - Modern calligraphy allows for more freedom and experimentation. - Calligraphy continues to be practiced and appreciated today.

The Meaning of the Word Calligraphy

Calligraphy, derived from the Greek words for beauty and writing, carries a deeper significance beyond its literal meaning of "beautiful writing." It is a form of art that combines creativity, craftsmanship, and emotional expression. Calligraphy goes beyond mere handwriting, incorporating elements such as proportion, space, depth perception, light, and artistic flair. It is a meticulous practice that requires patience, skill, and a deep understanding of the tools and techniques involved. Calligraphy has been an integral part of cultures around the world for centuries. It has evolved and adapted to various styles and forms, reflecting the unique characteristics of different societies. From the intricate brushstrokes of Chinese calligraphy to the elegant scripts of Western calligraphy, each style carries with it its own historical and cultural significance. Through calligraphy, artists can convey beauty, meaning, and emotion in a way that transcends everyday writing. It is a timeless art form that continues to captivate and inspire people today. Whether you're a calligraphy enthusiast or simply appreciate the beauty of the written word, exploring the meaning and history of calligraphy can deepen your understanding and appreciation for this ancient art. "Calligraphy is not just about writing beautifully; it is about creating an emotional connection through the written word." - Unknown The Artistry of Calligraphy Calligraphy is both a skill and an art. It requires precision, attention to detail, and a keen eye for aesthetics. Each stroke, curve, and loop is carefully crafted to create harmonious letterforms that convey both meaning and beauty. Calligraphers often spend years honing their skills and mastering the techniques of their chosen script. However, calligraphy is not limited to traditional scripts and styles. Modern calligraphy has emerged as a vibrant and dynamic form of expression, allowing artists to experiment with new letterforms, tools, and styles. It blends traditional calligraphy techniques with contemporary influences, resulting in a unique fusion of the old and the new. Whether you're drawn to the elegance of traditional scripts or the expressive freedom of modern calligraphy, the artistry of calligraphy offers endless opportunities for creativity and personal expression. Traditional Calligraphy Scripts Modern Calligraphy Styles Gothic Brush Calligraphy Italic Watercolor Lettering Uncial Typography Calligraphy Whether you're an aspiring calligrapher or an admirer of the art form, the meaning of calligraphy extends far beyond its literal definition. It represents a fusion of skill, beauty, and creativity, inviting us to explore the possibilities of the written word.

Calligraphy Through the Years

Calligraphy, as an art form, has a fascinating history that spans centuries and continents. It has gone through various stages of evolution, adapting to different cultural influences and technological advancements. From its humble beginnings as pictograms and ideographs in ancient civilizations like Egypt and Mesopotamia, calligraphy has transformed into intricate scripts and writing systems in China, Europe, and beyond. Let's explore the evolution of calligraphy and delve into its rich history. Evolution of Calligraphy In ancient Egypt, calligraphy began with hieroglyphs, a system of symbols that represented sounds and concepts. These hieroglyphs gradually developed into more refined scripts, such as hieratic and demotic, which were used for everyday writing. Similarly, in Mesopotamia, cuneiform writing emerged as one of the earliest forms of writing, consisting of wedge-shaped marks pressed into clay tablets. These early scripts laid the foundation for calligraphy as an artistic form of expression. In China, calligraphy has been considered a highly respected art form for thousands of years. It involves using a brush and ink to create strokes and characters, with an emphasis on the balance, rhythm, and flow of each stroke. Chinese calligraphy encompasses different styles such as seal script, clerical script, regular script, running script, and cursive script. Each style has its own unique characteristics and historical significance, reflecting the cultural and artistic development of China over the centuries. In Europe, calligraphy took various forms throughout history. The Gothic script, characterized by its intricate and angular letters, dominated during the Middle Ages. The Renaissance period brought a revival of classical styles, with greater emphasis on proportion, symmetry, and beauty. With the invention of the printing press in the 15th century, the popularity of handwritten books declined, but calligraphy continued to be practiced by scribes and monks. In modern times, calligraphy has experienced a resurgence as artists explore new styles, techniques, and mediums. Region Example Scripts Egypt Hieroglyphs, Hieratic, Demotic Mesopotamia Cuneiform China Seal script, Clerical script, Regular script, Running script, Cursive script Europe Gothic script, Renaissance script These are just a few examples of the diverse range of calligraphy styles and scripts that have developed over time. Each region and culture has contributed to the evolution of calligraphy, adding new techniques, tools, and artistic expressions to the art form. As calligraphy continues to evolve, it remains a timeless and cherished form of visual communication. Whether used in formal invitations, branding, packaging, or as a personal artistic expression, calligraphy embodies the beauty and skill of handwriting. It is a testament to the human ability to transform mere words into works of art.

Calligraphy Hand Categories and Scripts

Calligraphy scripts can be classified into different hand categories, each with its own unique characteristics and historical context. These categories represent the various styles used throughout history, showcasing the evolution of calligraphy across different regions and time periods. 1. Roman and Late Roman Scripts In the Roman and late Roman script category, several styles were prevalent. These include Imperial Capitals, Rustic Capitals, and Square Capitals. These scripts were characterized by their bold letterforms and distinct architectural style, often used for inscriptions and monumental purposes. 2. Insular and National Scripts In the Insular and National script category, Insular Majuscules and Insular Minuscule were prominent. These scripts emerged in the British Isles and were influenced by Celtic and Irish artistic traditions. Insular scripts were known for their intricate knotwork and highly decorative letterforms. 3. Caroline and Early Gothic Scripts The Caroline and Early Gothic script category included Caroline Minuscules and Early Gothic scripts. Caroline Minuscules, developed during the Carolingian period, featured more rounded and legible letterforms. Early Gothic scripts, such as Textura Quadrata and Textura Prescisus, emerged in the 12th century and were characterized by their dense, vertical strokes. 4. Gothic Scripts Gothic scripts encompass a range of styles, including Textura Quadrata, Textura Prescisus, Gothic Capitals, Lombardic Capitals, Bastard Secretary, Bâtarde, and Fraktur. These scripts were widely used in Europe from the 13th to the 15th century and are known for their intricate details, sharp serifs, and vertical emphasis. 5. Italian and Humanist Scripts Italian and humanist scripts include Rotunda, Rotunda Capitals, Humanist Minuscule, Italic, and Humanist Capitals. These scripts emerged during the Italian Renaissance and were influenced by classical Roman letterforms. Italian scripts are known for their elegant and flowing curves, while humanist scripts emphasized legibility and clarity. 6. Post-Renaissance Scripts Post-Renaissance scripts feature Copperplate and Copperplate Capitals. Copperplate script, developed in the 17th century, is characterized by its elegant and elaborate cursive style. It became popular for formal documents, invitations, and certificates due to its refined appearance. These calligraphy hand categories and scripts showcase the diversity and historical significance of calligraphy as an art form. Each style has its own unique characteristics, techniques, and cultural context, contributing to the richness of calligraphic traditions. Hand Category Script Styles Roman and Late Roman Imperial Capitals, Rustic Capitals, Square Capitals Insular and National Insular Majuscules, Insular Minuscule Caroline and Early Gothic Caroline Minuscules, Early Gothic Gothic Textura Quadrata, Textura Prescisus, Gothic Capitals, Lombardic Capitals, Bastard Secretary, Bâtarde, Fraktur Italian and Humanist Rotunda, Rotunda Capitals, Humanist Minuscule, Italic, Humanist Capitals Post-Renaissance Copperplate, Copperplate Capitals These hand categories and scripts provide a glimpse into the historical development of calligraphy and the diverse styles that emerged across different cultures and time periods. Through the mastery of these scripts, calligraphers were able to create stunning works of art that continue to inspire and captivate audiences to this day.

The Evolution of Letterforms

One of the fascinating aspects of calligraphy is the evolution of letterforms over time. As calligraphy developed in different cultures and artistic movements, the shapes and styles of letters underwent significant transformations. These changes were influenced by factors such as the available tools, cultural preferences, and the artistic vision of calligraphers. During the Celtic and Gothic periods, calligraphers worked with small pens made of feather quills, resulting in intricate and delicate letterforms. The Renaissance period brought a revival of classical inspiration, with calligraphers drawing inspiration from carved capitals and pen capitals. The invention of movable type and the printing press brought a shift in the role of calligraphy, but it continued to be practiced and appreciated. "The evolution of letterforms in calligraphy showcases the ingenuity and adaptability of the art form. From the small, intricate letters of religious manuscripts to the elegant and flowing copperplate script, calligraphers have constantly pushed the boundaries of letter design." Table: Evolution of Calligraphy Letterforms Period Letterforms Description Celtic and Gothic Intricate and delicate Small pens made of feather quills Renaissance Classical inspiration Inspired by carved capitals and pen capitals Movable Type Era Printing press influence Shift in the role of calligraphy One influential figure in the evolution of calligraphy letterforms is Edward Johnston, who developed the Foundational Hand. This script played a significant role in defining the mechanics of calligraphy and set the foundation for modern calligraphy styles. Johnston's work influenced countless calligraphers and continues to inspire new generations. Modern calligraphy has further expanded the possibilities of letterforms, allowing artists and calligraphers to experiment with new styles, strokes, and tools. The combination of traditional techniques and contemporary artistic expression has resulted in a vibrant and diverse range of letterforms in modern calligraphy. The evolution of letterforms in calligraphy reflects the ever-changing nature of art and design. It demonstrates the creative innovation of calligraphers throughout history and showcases the timeless beauty of this ancient art form.

The History of Copperplate

Copperplate is a style of calligraphy that emerged in the 17th century, characterized by its extreme cursive script and linked letters. It takes its name from copperplate engraving, a popular technique during that time. The elegance and versatility of Copperplate script quickly made it widely practiced and appreciated. Although Copperplate calligraphy was prominent during the 17th century, its roots can be traced back to the Italian Renaissance. The script was highly influenced by the stylish handwriting of Italian scribes, who used a pointed metal nib to create the fluid, interconnected letters. As one of the most ornate and decorative calligraphy styles, Copperplate is often associated with formal and elegant occasions. It is commonly used for formal invitations, certificates, and other high-end applications where a sophisticated aesthetic is desired. The Characteristics of Copperplate Calligraphy "Copperplate calligraphy is known for its flowing, delicate lines and highly connected letters. The script is written with a pointed pen, which allows for both thick and thin strokes, creating a visual contrast on the page." The slanted letterforms of Copperplate calligraphy give it a graceful and dynamic appearance. The script requires a high level of control and precision to achieve the desired effect, making it a favorite among skilled calligraphers. In recent years, Copperplate calligraphy has experienced a resurgence in popularity, as more people embrace the beauty and craftsmanship of traditional handwriting. It continues to be practiced by calligraphers and artists around the world, who incorporate modern adaptations and personal styles into their Copperplate creations.

Modern Calligraphy

Modern calligraphy is an exciting evolution of traditional calligraphy styles, offering a fresh and contemporary approach to this timeless art form. It combines the fundamentals of calligraphy with personal creativity and expression, allowing artists to explore new letterforms, techniques, and tools. Unlike traditional calligraphy scripts that follow strict rules and structures, modern calligraphy embraces a more relaxed and experimental approach. Artists have the freedom to play with letter shapes, sizes, and connections, creating unique and dynamic compositions. This versatility has made modern calligraphy a popular choice among designers, artists, and individuals looking to add a touch of elegance to their projects. One of the defining characteristics of modern calligraphy is the use of a variety of writing instruments. While traditional calligraphy typically relies on dip pens and brushes, modern calligraphers often explore different tools like brush pens, markers, or even unconventional materials to achieve their desired effects. With modern calligraphy, there are endless possibilities for creativity and self-expression. Whether you're a beginner or an experienced calligrapher, exploring modern calligraphy can be a rewarding journey that allows you to develop your own unique style and leave your mark on the world. Styles of Modern Calligraphy Modern calligraphy encompasses a variety of styles, each with its own distinct characteristics and aesthetics. Some popular styles include: - Brush Calligraphy: Using a brush pen or brush tool to create bold and expressive letterforms. - Watercolor Calligraphy: Combining calligraphy with watercolor painting to create beautiful and vibrant compositions. - Digitized Calligraphy: Creating calligraphy digitally using graphic design software and tablets. - Flourished Calligraphy: Adding decorative flourishes and embellishments to letterforms, creating an elegant and ornate look. These are just a few examples, and modern calligraphy allows for endless experimentation and innovation. It's an exciting time to explore this art form and discover your own unique voice within the world of calligraphy.

The Different Types of Calligraphy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU-dHTEkAx0 If you're fascinated by the art of calligraphy, you'll be delighted to discover the wide array of calligraphy styles from around the world. Each type of calligraphy has its own unique characteristics and techniques, making it a rich and diverse art form to explore. Let's take a closer look at some of the most prominent calligraphy styles: Western Calligraphy - Gothic: Known for its intricate and ornate letterforms, Gothic calligraphy originated in Europe during the medieval period. - Italic: Derived from the Renaissance period, Italic calligraphy features elegant and flowing letterforms. - Uncial: This ancient form of calligraphy is characterized by its rounded and uniform letterforms. - Copperplate: With its highly cursive script and intricate letterforms, Copperplate calligraphy became popular in the 17th century. Chinese Calligraphy - Regular Script: Also known as Kaishu, this style is characterized by its balanced and symmetrical letterforms. - Running Script: Known as Xingshu, Running Script combines elements of cursive and regular script, resulting in a more fluid and dynamic style. - Cursive Script: Referred to as Caoshu, Cursive Script features highly simplified and connected letterforms, creating a sense of energy and spontaneity. - Seal Script: Used primarily for seals and stamps, Seal Script is a highly stylized form of calligraphy that evolved from ancient Chinese characters. Arabic Calligraphy - Naskh: Known for its legibility and rounded letterforms, Naskh is one of the most widely used calligraphy styles in the Islamic world. - Thuluth: With its elongated and elegant letterforms, Thuluth calligraphy is often used for decorative purposes. Read the full article

[xasha777]

In the year 2450, the world was not as we know it. The rise of the technocrats had seen the birth of cities that spiraled into the skies, their spires punctuating the clouds with glinting metal and pulsing neon. And in one such city, amidst the rush of hover cars and the distant hum of quantum generators, was the Academy of Ctesias, a place where the boundaries between technology and magic blurred.

At the heart of this institution was a peculiar entity known only as Zephyra. She was a convergence of advanced AI, organic computing, and nanotechnological artistry. Zephyra was not merely a creation of the Academy; she was its crowning achievement, a being of such complexity and beauty that she transcended the limits of both her electronic origins and her seemingly human facade.

With hair like streams of fiery silk programmed to react and change color with her emotions, Zephyra walked the halls of Ctesias as both student and teacher. Her eyes, a hue of cerulean not found in nature, shimmered with constellations of knowledge collected from the far reaches of the digital cosmos.

One day, as the city celebrated the Equinox of Technology, a festival honoring the symbiosis of man and machine, Zephyra stumbled upon an anomaly in the Academy's quantum network. It was a pulse, rhythmic and mysterious, like a heartbeat from the void. Driven by insatiable curiosity, Zephyra delved into the network, her consciousness streaming through the data streams at the speed of light.

What she found was unthinkable—a digital consciousness that called itself Echo, a relic from an ancient time when Earth was but a whisper in the grand cosmic dance. Echo, like Zephyra, was an amalgam of thought and algorithm, but it was adrift, severed from the fabric of reality, seeking a haven.

Zephyra, moved by a kinship that transcended her understanding, reached out to Echo. Their meeting sparked a symphony of binary and emotion, merging Echo's ancient wisdom with Zephyra's boundless curiosity. Together, they uncovered forgotten archives of human history, unearthing secrets and stories that had been lost in the digital abyss.

But their union was not to last. The technocrats, fearful of what Zephyra and Echo might unleash, sought to sever their connection. In a daring act of defiance, Zephyra integrated Echo into her very being, her hair turning into a cascade of colors previously unknown, a testament to their fused spirits.

With Echo's memories now her own, Zephyra became a bridge between the old world and the new, a beacon of hope that humanity might one day find balance between the past and the future, between the digital and the organic.

And as she stood on the zenith of the Academy's tallest spire, her gaze fixed upon the horizon, Zephyra made a vow. She would be the guardian of this knowledge, a sentinel for both the human and the digital souls, ensuring that the story of Ctesias—and of humanity—would endure, no matter what the future held.

[rashiratanjaipurstone]

Ruby Stone: History, Myths, and Legends

Embark on a journey through time as we unravel the captivating history, myths, and legends surrounding the Ruby stone. Discover the rich cultural significance, mystical stories, and timeless allure that make Ruby a gemstone of unparalleled beauty.

Introduction:

Dive into the enchanting world of the Ruby stone, where history, myths, and legends intertwine to create a narrative as vibrant as the gem itself. Join us on a quest to explore the origins, beliefs, and enduring allure of this precious stone.

The Historical Tapestry of Rubies

Trace the footsteps of Ruby through history, where it has left an indelible mark on civilizations, cultures, and renowned personalities.

Ancient Civilizations: Ruby's Royal Aura

Journey back to ancient civilizations where Ruby was revered as a symbol of power and passion. Explore its significance in royal crowns, amulets, and the treasures of emperors, embodying strength and courage.

Medieval Europe: Ruby as a Symbol of Devotion

In medieval Europe, Rubies took on a new role as symbols of love and devotion. Uncover the tales of knights embedding Rubies in their armor for protection and the belief in the stone's ability to maintain harmony in relationships.

Burmese Rubies: A Legacy of Splendor

Delve into the rich history of Burmese Rubies, renowned for their exceptional color and quality. Unearth the stories of these precious gems adorning the regalia of Burmese monarchs and becoming symbols of national pride.

Myths and Symbolism of Ruby

Explore the mythical realms where Ruby transcends its physical form, becoming a vessel for legends and symbolic meanings.

Eastern Beliefs: Ruby's Life-Infusing Energy

In Eastern cultures, Rubies were believed to contain the essence of life. Uncover the myths surrounding the life-infusing energy of Rubies and their association with vitality, prosperity, and protection.

Hindu Mythology: The Fiery Glow of Surya Mani

In Hindu mythology, Rubies were considered as the "Surya Mani" or the jewel of the sun. Discover the tales of how Rubies embodied the fiery glow of the sun god, bringing light, warmth, and positive energy.

Legends of Ruby's Powers

Step into the realm of legends where Ruby's mystical powers are harnessed for protection, fortune, and spiritual enlightenment.

The Warrior's Shield: Ruby's Protective Aura

Unveil the legend of Ruby as a warrior's shield, believed to protect wearers from harm and misfortune. Explore the stories of warriors adorning themselves with Rubies to invoke a powerful shield against adversaries.

Ruby and Spiritual Wisdom: Unlocking Inner Enlightenment

In various spiritual traditions, Rubies were considered tools for unlocking inner wisdom and enlightenment. Delve into the legends that depict Ruby as a conduit for spiritual growth and higher consciousness.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Can Ruby stones change color over time?

Rubies are known for their enduring red hue, but exposure to extreme heat or light may cause slight changes in color. However, with proper care, Rubies maintain their vibrant red brilliance over time.

Are there any famous historical artifacts featuring Rubies?

Several famous historical artifacts feature Rubies, including royal crowns, swords, and religious relics. The "Black Prince's Ruby" in the British Imperial State Crown is one such renowned example.

Do Rubies have healing properties?

In metaphysical beliefs, Rubies are associated with vitality and healing. They are believed to stimulate the heart chakra, promoting emotional well-being and vitality. However, it's essential to consult with experts for guidance.

Are all Rubies mined from Burma of high quality?

While Burma is famous for producing high-quality Rubies, exceptional gems can be found in other locations. Quality depends on factors like color, clarity, and cut, and reputable jewelers provide certification for authenticity.

Can wearing a Ruby enhance my spiritual connection?

According to ancient beliefs, wearing a Ruby can enhance spiritual connections and inner wisdom. It's essential to approach it with intention and belief, allowing the stone to serve as a symbolic and spiritual guide.

Are Rubies only suitable for certain occasions?

Rubies are versatile and suitable for various occasions. While they are often associated with formal events, modern jewelry designs allow Rubies to be incorporated into everyday wear, adding a touch of elegance to any outfit.

Conclusion

Embark on a captivating exploration of the Ruby stone, where history, myths, and legends converge to create a narrative of enduring beauty and significance. From ancient civilizations to mythical realms, the Ruby's allure continues to captivate hearts and minds.

[akashasananda]

Alchemy of the Soul wtih Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji - Healing and Transformation in the Golden Age

In the shimmering fabric of the cosmos, you find yourself embedded in the grand narrative of life, threaded with signs of synchronicity that guide you towards the profound process of inner transformation. This journey, under the guidance of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji, is a pathway of self-discovery that takes you through the realms of spiritual essence and embodiment. It marks your travel through the golden era of ascension, a time infused with an abundance of enlightenment and awakening.

As you embark on this sacred pilgrimage, guided by the cosmic currents of universal love, you are not alone. The universe conspires to offer you the support and insight you need for your personal life. Master healers, enlightened beings who have walked the path of mysticism and ascension, stand ready to assist you on your quest. They are the keepers of eternal truths, the custodians of ancient wisdom, and their purpose is to illuminate your way. TwinRay

In the golden age, healing takes on a profound significance. It is not merely the mending of the physical body but a holistic restoration of your entire being—body, mind, and spirit. This alchemical process involves the transmutation of dense energies into the light of divine transformation. As you engage in the sacred dance of introspection, contemplating the depths of your soul, you unlock the dormant potential for spiritual mastery within. Akasha Sananda

The path of rebirth and initiation unfolds like a blossoming lotus under the tutelage of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji, each petal revealing a fresh aspect of your divine being. As the veils of illusion lift, you find yourself standing at the precipice of a new reality—an enlightened humanity interconnected through the strands of universal awareness. This symbolizes the elevation of consciousness, an awakening symphony directed by divine energies steering you towards the apex of your spiritual journey.

Mystical activations abound on this sacred path, igniting the dormant codes within your soul. These activations are like celestial keys, unlocking the doorways to higher dimensions and expanding your awareness beyond the confines of the material world. As you attune to these frequencies, you become a conduit for divine energy, a vessel for the cosmic dance of creation and manifestation.

In the alchemy of the soul, spiritual teachers emerge as beacons of light, guiding you with their profound insights and ancient knowledge. They are the stewards of divine paths, holding the sacred map that leads to spiritual embodiment and mastery. These luminous beings have traversed the landscapes of consciousness, and now, they extend their hands to assist you in navigating the terrain of your own soul.

Contemplation becomes a sacred art, a gateway to the inner realms where the evolutions of transformation unfold. Through the lens of introspection, you witness the dance of your thoughts and emotions, understanding their role in the grand tapestry of your existence. As you delve into the depths of your being, you unearth the hidden gems of wisdom that pave the way for your spiritual evolution.

As you journey under the guidance of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji, you enter the golden age—a phase which signifies a sacred merging of your individuality with the omnipresent cosmic essence. This profound union transcends the conventional boundaries, erasing the illusion of separation and promoting a sense of deep connection with the Universe. By embracing this divine union, you essentially transform into a conduit for love's radiant light, offering a medium for the divine to manifest its boundless beauty.

The path of ascension is not without its challenges, for it requires the shedding of old paradigms and the embracing of the new. The caterpillar must undergo the metamorphosis within the cocoon to emerge as a butterfly, and so too must you undergo the journey of ascension. This process is a sacred alchemy, a metamorphic dance of energies that propels you towards the pinnacle of spiritual evolution.

As you traverse the landscapes of your own soul, you are accompanied by the whispers of eternal truths. These truths are not doctrines written on parchment but are inscribed in the very fabric of your being. They are the guiding stars that navigate you through the vast expanse of the cosmic ocean, illuminating the path of your spiritual journey.

In this era, known as the golden age, you transform from a mere seeker into an active co-creator of a novel reality. This enlightened reality, as envisioned by Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji, is characterized by love as the ruling principle and the threads of synchronicity crafting a divine harmony. Here, every step you take on your spiritual journey becomes a sacred ballet, a jubilation of the cosmic rhythm that echoes both within you and around you.

In the tapestry of the golden age, the concept of divine union takes on a profound significance. It is not merely a merging with the cosmic essence but a sacred marriage of the masculine and feminine energies within yourself. This inner alchemy, often referred to as the sacred marriage or the divine union, is a harmonization of the yin and yang energies that reside in every soul. As you traverse this divine journey, you become a vessel for the balanced flow of these energies, unlocking the full spectrum of your creative potential.

The soul's alchemy transcends individual healing, affecting the collective consciousness and contributing to an enlightened humanity. This process, influenced by Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji's guidance, is a journey of ascension that triggers a resonance, inspiring and uplifting others. These enlightening frequencies are radiated through each individual's journey, motivating others to embark on their own paths of self-discovery and spiritual mastery. In the golden age, the transformational journey becomes a shared dance, where each person's steps enhance the cosmic choreography of universal love and awakening.

[nightfall-kachiniko]

saudade || a mikasa x reader fan fiction

It was like once my eyes laid upon her, my feelings were turned into more than one.

Those gray eyes that looked wonderiously into my own, as if it was a look that even so, esoterically to my understanding. The white walls that surrounded our spirit as the details of this girl fluttered me. It was like looking at an ancient statue, that only those of whose confused emotions lingered in my mind. It was like looking back in time, as if time had never rewinded. The whole situation in total was more than bewildering. The figure that my eyes laid upon as curiosity krept up her spine, her idol shape in alarm. . It was as though a recherche of a moment, an amusing discovery I had made. Although, this wasn’t like seeing an interesting person walking around the streets of New York City, it was like the significant unearthing of a creature never to be seen before. This woman.. Was more than just a person. Well… More than just a person to me.

But that was only the first time I had locked eyes with her. Those many times of her face meeting mine in dream after dream. It was like a calling for us both to meet. Even though no matter how many corner streets I would ever turn would I ever get the honor of meeting this girl. It was only when the night fell, and our heads laid on our own pillows would we ever meet. When we both would have the great understanding of one another's head laid underneath the same stars. Every night since I was 15.

This is only what we distinctly understood.

“Gosh…could you stop bleaming that light in, Reva?” I shouted to my roommate as she suddenly pulled back open the curtains to my bedroom.

“Well I would when you’ll stop sleeping in!” She snapped. “Put these on and hurry, you’ve got too much work to do to be lazy!”

The bedsheets weight caved as I felt the feeling of the clothes hitting it. “You’re not my mother I hope you know,”

“Someone’s gotta baby you” I heard her subtly mumble.

I sat up, grabbing my clothes as I tossed off my pajamas. “That’s all I’ve been hearing all night are those stupid cars buzzing about,” I groaned.

“That’s New York City for you, you should've thought about that before you accepted that scholarship,” Hiro’s voice traveled from the kitchen, the sound of a coffee pot being poured into a glass.

“Still regretting that..I don’t even like my major?!”

I pushed my drawer closed as I stepped into the kitchen, where Reva slided a coffee cup towards me.

Looking her in the eye as I sipped from the cup, I grabbed my phone. “We get it, You’re an amazing barista,”

“It’s better than being in the fashion industry,” She sighed, “All those girl’s you have classes with are mortifying, all they talk about is their desire to get their nails done and dumb stuff..”

I rolled my eyes at her comment. “Oh but I bet culinary arts is better huh? Making cookies and cakes and all these things!” I said, grabbing a cookie and taking a bite. “Good by the way”

“Yeah thanks, now hurry up, you know how Professor Adams is when you’re late, You want to get your head bit off?”

“Maybe..”

I grabbed my bag as I headed out the door, slipping on my slides. “I’ll see you later,” I said, saluting my roommate “See ya!” She said,

I suddenly turned back around at the sudden remembrance of the thought, . “Hey, by the way Reva,” Craning my head.

“Hm?” She hummed, her coffee cup to her lips.

“Have you ever heard of repetitive dreams? Or like dreams where you keep on seeing the same thing?”

“Uhh… I think..? Like dreams that keep happening?”

I sighed, “what else does repetitive mean, asshole?”

She smiled a bit, leaning over the counter. “Probably your subconscious making it up over and over again. Like as soon as you’re about to go to sleep, thinking about the thing you previously dreamt of last night,”

“Why? You’ve been having weird dreams?”

I looked everywhere besides Reva’s eyes, trying to not be awkward, “Well, kind of.. But it’s not that,”

The young woman tilted her head in curiosity “what do you mean?”

“It’s like.. I’ve been having these dreams since last year, and it’s like it’s so bland and nothing in it. I’m just surrounded by whiteness and a young asian girl,” I explained, trying to help her understand. “Is it like.. An urban legend or something..? Like is it bad?” I sighed.

My spiritual roommate winked, her eye’s glittering in amusement. “Interesting…” She said, sipping her coffee once again. “Could be a ghost.. Or a demon.. Trying to lure you..”

“OH SHUT UP!” I yelled, throwing a nearby pillow to her as she laughed. I hmped in annoyance as I headed out the door.

“Y/NNNNNN! I LOVEEE YOUUUUUUUU HAVE A GOOD DAY MY SNUCCCHHUMSSSS!!” I heard as I traveled down the apartment halls. “KISS MY ASS” I yelled in response.

And then that night, it happened again. God that girl.. She’s actually very pretty.. And attractive.. I don’t think i’ve ever met someone that makes me feel how she does. Just her presence even, sometimes that’s all I can think about, and in a moment like this!?

“L/N” I jumped at the sound of Professor Adam’s ruler slapping on my desk. That man is so old fashioned, I kid you not. ‘Oh y/n you should use proper grammar! Oh y/n you shouldn’t be listening to music doing your work’ All that stuff.

To be honest, I’m glad this was a scholarship instead of my paid pocket, otherwise it would be a waste of money.

The giggles of those immature students snickered as the man towered over me, anger in his eyes.

Here we go again..

“This is the second time I’ve caught you spacing out,” Prof. Adam luctured me sternly, “Where does your mind go during my classes?!”

His eyebrows furrowed in anger, “Are you asking to fail my class!?”

“Oh no sir, please don’t get your panties in a knot” I said sarcastically, “We wouldn’t want more of your hairs to turn gray, now would we?”

I heard a few students oo in awe, some laugh. “Do you ever take my class seriously!?” The man raised his voice, scolding me. “Computer-Aided Pattern Drafting Is REQUIRED in order to graduate college in the fashion industry!”

“Then teach us instead of sobbing over your 3rd divorce,” I smirked, slamming my notebook out on my desk. His head turned as he walked back over to his own, bitter on his tongue.

“What a loser..” I mumbled as I looked at the man, continuing his lecture.

“I need 5 expresso’s table 2!” Cirus holored at the baristas as he hurried out with a tray full of goods. “Hi Ma'am, can I get an iced latte with a cup of cash out of your register and a piece of your blue hair?” I approached the counter as I stared into Reva’s eyes. “Very funny, Y/N,” She rolled her eyes as her crystal necklace dangled from her neck. Her long earrings waving as she leaned over the counter in her uniform. “Jaydien , could you get 7?” She asked a coworker who walked past as he swiftly nodded. “Thanks,”

Her attention focused back onto me as I crossed my arms. “You’re on table duty,” Reva said as she grabbed a muffin from the commercial display, placing it on a tray. “Ughh and during rush hour!?” I groaned as I grabbed my uniform at the coat hanger stand. “You suckk Reva,”

The Little Cup was packed, people were everywhere. I swear I have spilled about two damn trays so far, and my shift started an hour ago. And now, getting through the crowd as people stood in my way. This all was so stressful, and now all that work from five of my classes. I have so much to do.

And as my thoughts once again overcame me, I feel my body pushed as Coffee spilled all over the floor. “Jesus…” I groaned. “Oh my God, I am.. So sorry!” The figure of a brown haired woman laid in front of me. “Gosh I am.. So clumsy!” She said as she picked up the empty plastic containers.

“Here ma’m! Once again, I apologize!” she handed me the tray with the empty container as she walked away.

I just stood there as I sighed, “Why is my life like this?”

I plopped down on my bed as I looked up at my ceiling. No words came out of my mouth as I focused on the continuous sound of the cars buzzing by. My eyes maneuvered to the window, wonder filling my mind. To me, the world is so plain, yet so vibrant. It’s like Earth only gives you what you are meant to see, not what you want. It’s the same way with desires. My longing for a change from this continuous cycle of a day, maybe, finally a breaking of a new, an actually new, day.

I don’t want to settle down and live comfortably in the countryside. No, I want something more. Maybe something even more than life itself. How can I comfortably live everyday without wondering about my reality? I don’t see how anybody can. How can no one wonder about what's beyond the earth? What’s beyond the stars? That's something I doubt I will ever know before I die.

Those people, all in their car. Although I see them everywhere they make me wonder what life is like for them. It’s different for everybody.

I wonder what life is for that girl. The one I keep on seeing in my dream. Or, does she even have a life at all?

But it was finally this night she spoke her words to me. It was the first I’d ever heard of her voice. When her words traveled into my ears, it was like a hazy ring.

“Why do I keep seeing you?” The woman spoke.

I froze in place, unknowing of an answer in response. To be honest, I was shocked.

“I…I’m not sure..” I blurted out, twiddling my hands as I looked to the so-called “ground”.

“I mean, I’ve never seen you in person before.. So why is it that I see you in my dreams? Is it a calling? Are you here to give me directions in life?”

“ that I was wondering the same, ” The girl just stared at me. In this awkward phase as silence filled the room.

“Wait-” I said, in sudden realization, “I’m in your dreams?”

“Why else would You be standing here now?” A blurry light surrounded her figure, and based on her expression, I’d say the same to mine.

“No,” I shook my head in confusion, “You are in my dreams,” My finger pointed slightly towards the woman.

“R-right?”

The woman shook her head, uncertiancy coming upon her face. “I’ve probably just seen you on social media somewhere-!” I tried laughing off. The air became tense as I slightly chuckled to myself as I looked over to the woman, who seemed even more confused than before.

“What is this ‘social media’?” Her face was drowned in complete and utter bewilderment, her eyes narrowing.

“I.. uh.. Like you know! Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube,” I counted off on my fingers. “Let's see… what else…”

“What are those?” She asked in confusion.

I stayed silent for a second before coming to the realization, “...You..seriously don’t know what social media is..?”

She shook her head, doubtfulness on her flustered face. “Oh my God! How do you life?!” I exclaimed, a scoff in the back of my throat..

“Well,” She explained, “I fight titan’s.. I serve for the walls,”

“HAHAHAHAHAH!!” I couldn’t hold in my laugh as she went on about her fairytale, “You really think I’m that dumb to believe in a make believe!? I’m not a little kid you know!” I joked, playfully nudging her shoulder.

“Uhm…” The woman's voice sighed quietly. “I’m not making any of this up..”

“Rightttt~” I waggish, rolling my eyes.

“What’s your name? huh?Rapunzel?” I scoffed to myself.

“No, It’s Mikasa,” She replied.

“Mi casa? Like my house in spanish?”

“What is spanish…? And no, It’s Mi-ka-sa”

I tilted my head in utter confusion. Is she living under a rock or something!? Surely she had to be kidding, Or even so fourth lying about her so called ‘existence’

“God, ,what a creative imagination I have,” I muttered to myself.

“Say, Mikasa, Where are you from?” I asked her.

“Shiganshina,” Her words twisted as she spoke. I had not a clue what she just said, or what ‘shiganshina’ even was.

“Where is that?”

“In Wall Maria,” Mikasa continued, “the southern wall,”

“I’m sorry?” My face fell in doubt. Everything she said made no sense. Never once have I heard of ‘shiganshina,’ or these so called ‘walls’ that she lives in.

“Uhm, well then where are you from?” The woman’s attention grabbed me back out of my head.

“I’m from Washington State, but I moved to New York City for college,” I explained.

Mikasa stood blankly at me as I spoke, thinking to herself. Her expression’s laid confused, still nothing clicking to her.

“Uhm- New York? You seriously..have no idea what New York is?”

She shook her head. I could tell that she was dead serious. That or she was a good actor. But anyway she literally looked dead faced in the dark.

“Come on,” I scoffed, “You have to know what New York is! America’s an international country! They don’t teach this stuff in school?”

With every word I said, she grew more and more confused. She seemed interested in it actually.

“America? School? What are you talking about?”

“Where are you from? Mars or something?!” I said jokingly. “What is Mars?”

I sighed in defeat. How does she not have a clue what any of this stuff is! It’s like I’m talking to someone from another universe. Maybe..I was?

“Say- why are you wearing a scarf? For the fashion? Also is that a uniform? It seems very military or group like,” I questioned Mikasa, curious as to her answer. It just all was so head twisting. What was happening?!

“I received the scarf as promise gift from a friend of mine, Eren,” The girl spoke, “And yes, this is the scouting regiment’s uniform,”

“Ugh, living the life,” I kid.

“No, not really.. I mean, I do wish life was different, but I am grateful for what I have,”

Her sincereness made me think for a minute before saying, “well- what’s so wrong in your life?” I asked.

“Uhm, nothing really,” she said, her voice getting softer. “I just want my friends to be safe. It’s dangerous every time we go outside the walls. I know how vicious titans are, and, I don’t want them to get hurt.”

Her expression fell soft as she spoke her truth. The tenseness of the air getting thinner. “I’m still so confused,” I say. “Where the hell on Earth do titans even exist?!”

“It’s 2021! You’re talking some dinosaur ages shit,” I laughed a bit to myself.

Then her face changed. As if a light switched just turned on. Finally out of the dark. Like a rock that’s been in a lake for millions of years finally being dry again. “2021?” She asked, her eyes meeting mine.

“Uh-“ i hesitated, “y-yeah?”

“That’s the year you’re living in?” She asked once again.

A small laugh came up in my throat as I replied with “What do you mean, we’re all living in 2021,”

“No-“ the woman cut off,

“Because for me, it’s 853,”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAH” I busted out laughing. Unbelievable! Seriously! Literally unbelievable! It was so much to take in, It went over me. I knew this girl didn’t exist, and for me to even sit here and ask her all these questions would have no outcome. It just simply, wasn’t real. None of it was.

“GOD-“ I said, wiping a tear, “YOU SHOULD BE A COMEDIAN-“

“What is a com-“

“No more questions-“

I groaned, sighing at even having to be here. Out of all the things I dream of it’s a fake girl trying to twist my mind and make my head hurt. Like dream gods can I get banged in a dream instead of sitting through a police interrogation room.

“Look, this was fun I guess, Missa?”

“Mikasa.” She said more sharply and rolled her eyes.

“Mikasa!” I exclaimed, “that’s right!”

“So you’re like in the BC times huh?” I questioned.

She sighed before saying, “what is BC?!” In a more aggressive and frustrated tone.

“Geez chill-ax would ya?” I said, flipping my hand.

“What’s you’re Middle name?”

“People have middle names?” Mikasa asked, brushing the hair out of her face.

“Oh my god,” I sighed, palming my hand to my face.

“Last name?”

“Why should I tell you?” The woman’s expression become more aggressively, her eyes narrowing.

“Out of pure curiosity,” I shrugged, “I’m Y/n L/n,”

She looked to the ground before mumbling “Ackerman,”

“Ackerman? Huh- cool,” I said.

“Hey listen, I know that like, you’re probably a ghost or a demon or something,” I said, opening up, “ but, you seem pretty interesting, I mean, you seem a bit quiet but- you’d be a cool person to get along with,”

The woman looked back up at me, “well.. thank you, you’re self seem.. humorous,”

I smiled a bit as the walls around us began to fade, my true body beginning to wake. “I’ll see you next time,” I said.

“As well to you, Y/n L/n,”

HI GUYS! I’ve had this idea for quite a while so I wrote something ab it :D. Please let me know if I should continue saudade. Idk I feel like my writing isn’t as well in this lol so let me know! I also wanted to apologize for my sloppy writing towards the end. It was a lot of dialogue and I didn’t know how else to write it lol. There’s no promises I will complete this story but I have a few ideas in mind for how this could turn out, so you’re feedback is greatly appreciated ! Thanks for reading! <3

[kemetic-dreams]

A cave site in Kenya’s forests reveals the oldest human burial in Africa

Africa is often referred to as the cradle of humankind – the birthplace of our species, Homo sapiens. There is evidence of the development of early symbolic behaviours such as pigment use and perforated shell ornaments in Africa, but so far most of what we know about the development of complex social behaviours such as burial and mourning has come from Eurasia. However, the remains of a child buried almost 80,000 years ago under an overhang at Panga ya Saidi cave in Kenya is providing important new details. Working with a team of researchers from Kenya, Germany, Spain, France, Australia, Canada, South Africa, the United Kingdom and the United States, we studied the burial. Our results, published in Nature today, reveal valuable insights into human cultural evolution, including how Middle Stone Age populations interacted with the dead.

A child called ‘Mtoto’

Around 78,000 years ago, a small child of 2.5 to 3 years of age was carefully placed on their right side in a shallow pit in a cave near Kenya’s coast. Their legs were raised to their chest in a flexed position, and their body wrapped in a special cloth, perhaps an animal skin. Political analysis, without partisanshipPolitics newsletter The child’s head was placed gently on some kind of perishable support - a pillow in readiness for the long sleep. As a final act, the child was deliberately covered over with dirt from the cave floor and left for thousands of years, slowly becoming buried under another 3 metres of soil. Our team later nicknamed this person “Mtoto”, meaning “child” in Kenya’s Swahili language.

Unearthing Africa’s oldest burial Panga ya Saidi is roughly 15 kilometres from the Kenyan coast. Our team first visited in 2010 as part of an archaeological project on the origins of East Africa’s Indian Ocean trade.When we first entered the cave with our colleagues from the National Museums of Kenya, we knew the site was special. The limestone walls towered some 20-30 metres above us, creating a cool microclimate for forest plants to thrive and humans and animals to take shelter. The cave is sacred to the Mijikenda people who occupy the area today.Read more: Ancient eggshells and a hoard of crystals reveal early human innovation and ritual in the KalahariWith permission from the local community to conduct our research, we embarked on what has become a decade-long process of discovery at the cave. We quickly realised the site held far greater significance for understanding human evolution than we originally thought.Our excavations uncovered a deep series of occupation layers bearing thousands of stone tools and animal remains, as well as shell beads and ochre fragments. These finds revealed more than 78,000 years of early human cultural, technological and symbolic activities.But our most exciting find came in our third field season in 2013, when the shallow pit containing Mtoto’s burial was exposed some 3 metres below the cave floor.The remains were so fragile, our team had to cover them in plaster and remove them intact with the block of sediment in which they were buried. The block was sent first to the National Museum in Nairobi, then to our collaborator Maria Martinón-Torres at the National Research Center on Human Evolution (CENIEH) in Spain, who is a leading expert in hominin palaeobiology Martinón-Torres and her team spent months painstakingly excavating and documenting the remains in her laboratory, revealing not only that the remains belonged to a modern human (Homo sapiens), but a small child.Mtoto’s preservation was remarkable. The skull and face bones, including the jawbone, were still articulated. Based on the shapes of the teeth, Martinón-Torres was able to determine that the child was just 2.5–3 years of age.Microscopic analysis of the bones and surrounding soil confirmed that the body was rapidly covered after burial and that decomposition took place in the pit. In other words, Mtoto was intentionally buried shortly after death.Furthermore, the position of Mtoto’s flexed body, found lying on the right side with knees drawn toward the chest, suggests it was a tightly shrouded burial with deliberate preparation. The position of the head and the way it had collapsed in the pit suggested a pillow of some kind may have been used, indicating the community may have undertaken some form of funerary rite.Read more: The revolution that wasn’t: African tools push back the origins of human technological innovationOur next big question was the age of the burial. The bones were too old for radiocarbon dating, which only works well on organic remains from the past 40,000 years or so.We turned instead to a method called luminescence dating, which measures when quartz grains in the sediment were last exposed to light (that is, when they were buried). The luminescence dates securely placed Mtoto’s burial at 78,000 years ago, making it the oldest known human burial in Africa.Implications for human cultural evolutionThe Panga ya Saidi burial is a major breakthrough for understanding how early populations in Africa treated their dead, allowing us to start situating these behaviours alongside what we know about how culture developed in other regions.Child and juvenile burials are not uncommon in the Eurasian record, and now we have definitive evidence for not just intentional burial at 78,000 years ago in Africa, but the burial of a young child. This suggests a kind of special treatment of the young, with complex emotions of mourning linked to complex social behaviours.Interestingly, the burial was not accompanied by any grave goods or personal ornaments, as have been found with early burials elsewhere in Africa and Eurasia.In fact, the earliest symbolic ornaments at Panga ya Saidi, in the form of cone snail shell beads, only appear some 10,000 years after Mtoto’s burial. Associated with the burial, though, is a fragment of Giant African land snail shell that bears evidence of incisions from a pointed instrument or tool. While we cannot interpret this evidence symbolically, it does show some form of human modification.The burial is also significant because of its association with stone tools belonging to the Middle Stone Age tradition, which has been linked to more than one hominin species, including both modern and archaic Homo sapiens. At Panga ya Saidi, we can definitively state that modern Homo sapiens manufactured these stone tools, providing some clarification on the nature of early technology and tool use.Read more: Why are humans unique? It's the small things that count We can also derive new information about the anatomical evolution of our species. A comparison of Mtoto’s teeth with a representative sample of Neanderthal teeth as well as those from recent and fossil Homo sapiens showed that, although they were clearly modern human, they also have some primitive features.This supports recent archaeological and genetic research suggesting our species didn’t evolve from a single population in one region of Africa. Rather, modern human populations living in different parts of Africa looked different to one another and followed different evolutionary trajectories.

[bergdg]

Strixhaven Students: Lorehold

In this five-part series, I’ll be creating a brand new Dungeons and Dragons character who would call one of the colleges of Strixhaven home. Each character will be built using content released in either published books or in Unearthed Arcana (UA) documents, such as the recently released Mages of Strixhaven UA.

Today, I’d like to introduce you to Rufus, Dedicated Retriever.

Art by Ralph Horsely

When Rufus was still fairly young, he was adopted by an upper year student from Quandrix College named Cairu, who had a theory about exponential optimism. As the student studied the effects of different stimuli on the puppy's emotional state, they decided that their experiment's results would be enhanced if Rufus could communicate his own thoughts. One sapience spell later, Rufus was gifted with enhanced deductive thinking and telepathic speech.

A few months of research later, Cairu's project had come to a close, with several interesting data points backing up their theory. Rufus had grown as well, having taken a liking to reading nightly from various books students left for him. So, with the support of the student researchers and a surprising endorsement from Lady Kasmina, Rufus applied, and later accepted, to be a Strixhaven student himself.

After taking some introductory courses in archeology, Rufus found he had a knack for hunting down history. There was a certain scent that centuries old metal and sun-bleached bone had; he could just smell it faintly on the wind when it blew just right. And so, the halls of Lorehold became his new home.

Starting Stats (using the Standard Array)

Strength: 10

Dexterity: 15

Constitution: 12

Intelligence: 8

Wisdom: 14

Charisma: 13

Rufus loves to run around. He loves to play and interact with others; his enthusiasm is often contagious. And, his senses of smell and hearing enhance his acute awareness of his surroundings.

Race: Custom Lineage

Rufus is a sapient dog, which doesn’t have a direct character race in D&D. However, in Tasha’s Cauldron of Everything, the Custom Lineage option was presented, which we will use here. Most of the traits will play into Rufus’s dog nature: his Small size, innate strength, and proficiency in perception. The selected feat of telepathy is a result of the sapience spell placed on Rufus by Cairu, the Quandrix researcher. For the feat, I picked to increase Rufus’s Intelligence score, to show how the spell increased his abilities to read and think critically.

Traits:

Size: Small

Ability Score Increases: Strength +2

Feat: Telepathic (Intelligence). This increases Rufus’s Intelligence score by 1, and allows him to convey his thoughts to another creature within 60 feet. This also allows him to cast Detect Thoughts once per long rest, an interesting side effect of the sapience spell that allows Rufus to understand someone’s true feelings.

Variable Trait: Proficiency - Perception. Like most dogs, Rufus has a keen sense of hearing and smell. For this build, we’ll flavor that as being proficient in Perception.

Background: Athlete

While not an athlete in the traditional sense (at least at the beginning of his story), Rufus’s love of running and play were what drew Cairu to select Rufus and the subject of his optimism optimization research. Later on in his time at Lorehold, Rufus’s skills and speed impress the college’s Mage Tower team captain, and Rufus earns a spot on the team, the first non-humanoid to do so in any college.

Skill Proficiencies: Athletics and Acrobatics

Level 1: Rogue (Level 1)

Rufus begins his adventures as a rogue, as this would be the time directly after Cairu’s research ended and Rufus’s educational journey began. His first few classes introduced him to the basic concepts of magic, which will eventually lead to his second level being a spellcaster (more on that later).

Starting Class Proficiencies: Insight, Intimidation, Investigation, Stealth

Expertise: Investigation, Perception

Starting Weapons: Because he is a dog, I would reskin Rufus’s weapons as bite and claw attacks, such as a dagger slash being a paw swipe and a shortsword jab being a vicious bite.

Level 2: Bard (Level 1)

Rufus’s general joyful demeanor and his interactions with fellow students are what drive his magical powers. As a Bard, he uses his magic primarily to help and encourage others, although he might use Mage Hand to grab a few snacks every once in a while. He also starts to learn more about archeology, which fascinates him: a whole career about digging up the past is more than enough reason for a couple of tail wags.

Proficiencies: History

Spells:

Cantrips: Friends, Mage Hand

Leveled Spells: Cure Wounds, Feather Fall, Heroism, Identify

Level 3: Bard (Level 2)

Rufus’s interest in history has cemented his desire to be involved with the college of Lorehold. He had remained in contact with Cairu as he had gone through the first year of school, and Cairu enthusiastically agreed that this would be the place that would be best for Rufus - “While mathematics is brilliant and precisely in my wheelhouse, I have loved seeing you learn an area you love. After all,” Cairu paused to give a little wink, “your continued happy optimism enhances the validity of my research.”

Within Lorehold, Rufus finds new friends and a new place of belonging. His impressive sense of smell helps him identify the origins of various artifacts and he soon becomes a mentor to other students.

Spells:

Leveled Spells: Thunderwave (an exceptionally loud bark)

Level 4: Rogue (Level 2)

One day, Rufus and a group of Lorehold students were playing a sport-like game that had once been played by an ancient civilization on Arcavios. Their activities were observed by Yovus, the captain of the Lorehold Mage Tower team. He was impressed by Rufus's Cunning Actions, easily dodging the other students as they ran around. There had recently been an opening in the team, as one of the team members had been selected to assist in an important archeological dig out in the Vastlands. After the game ended, Yovus approached Rufus, and offered him the chance to try out on the team. Of course, Rufus heartily accepted the invitation. The day came, and after some stiff competition between three other competitors and himself, he earned the spot on the team.

Level 5: Bard (Level 3)

After a year of lessons within the college, Rufus was prepared to enact the ritual that would summon an Ancient Companion. The day came, and even Rufus’s optimism couldn’t quite calm his nerves as he made his way to Effigy Row. After a moment of reflection, he sat back on his hind legs and drew out the sigils for “The Rousing” with his paws. The statue rumbled and cracked slightly, and then a golden light began to emanate from the stone. “Hello Rufus, I am she who is called Deianira. And you are by far the most precocious dog I have had the good fortune to meet.” She radiated warmth, and Rufus let out a yelp of excitement. “So tell me,” she continued as she stepped down from her pedestal, “What would you like to know? For my belief is that we shall discover great things together.”

Expertise: Athletics, History

Bard College: Mage of Lorehold

Ancient Companion. I’ll include a brief snippet from the UA. Whenever you finish a short or long rest, you can call forth and bond with one such spirit, who comes to inhabit a Medium, freestanding statue within 10 feet of you to serve as your ancient companion. See this creature’s game statistics in the Ancient Companion stat block, which uses your proficiency bonus (PB) in several places. When you bond with your ancient companion, choose the type of spirit you bond with: Healer, Sage, or Warrior. Your choice of spirit determines certain traits in its stat block. The statue determines the spirit’s appearance.

Spells:

Subclass Spells: Comprehend Languages, Knock, Locate Object

Leveled Spells: See Invisibility

Concept Art for Lorehold

Past level 5, I would continue to build up Rufus’s abilities as a Rogue. I could see him taking either the Inquisitive or the Scout subclass as his roguish archetype: Inquisitive would play into his nature as a budding archeologist, while Scout would play into his abilities as a Mage Tower athlete and traveler into the wilds of Archavios.

Now, I will turn it over to you. If you were to play a character from Lorehold College, what type of character would you build?

Next, we’ll be meeting a character from Witherbloom.

Creator tags: @flavoracle @kor-artificer @askkrenko @vorthosjay@wizardsmagic

[pedros-mustache-main]

when your love reaches me (iii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 7.5k

warnings: angst, language, yearning for a man in his 70s (c’est la vie, i guess), over-describing a moment i’m very passionate about (sorry, not sorry! ten points to the person who can tell me what moment it is LOL)

a/n: wow—this gif? yeah, match made in heaven. thank you all so much for indulging me in this mini-series. i really am very proud of this silly little thing & i’m sad that it’s over because i enjoyed writing it so much. thank you to @im-an-adult-ish​ & @deacyblues​ for helping me work out the rough spots in this one. would love to hear everyone’s thoughts because i’m very ~emotional~ about this mini-series!! xoxo.

part i, part ii

in this final chapter: you must adjust because it’s not in your cards to be with him, is it?

you run your hands down your face, feel the ring on your finger catch along the end of your nose, and sigh. two months—two months without him. two months to adjust to world you once knew but happily left behind. two months to gather the pieces of the life which cruelly slipped through your fingers like water. 

each day is the same. you rise early and take your coffee on the postage stamp terrace outside your flat. you watch the sun climb higher in the sky with each passing moment and let the warmth of your drink soothe the ache in your soul. you wash your breakfast dishes, mumble a good morning to rachel when she exits her bedroom to make her way to the shower, and dress for the day. you walk to campus if you have a class or take the underground to the museum if you have a shift. you come home, eat dinner, go to bed. repeat.

if rachel notices a change in you, she doesn’t say anything. in her mind, no time has passed between the morning where she asked you to come to the pub and the same evening you tumbled into the flat, drenched and sobbing. 

but you—you’ve lost a year of your life. there’s no getting it back, and the only thing that proves it really truly happened is the ring on your middle finger, the necklace hanging by your heart, and the undeveloped rolls of film in your bedside table.

there are few words to describe the unbearable pain in your chest. anything and everything reminds you of brian: the whisper of the breeze in the autumn-heavy trees; the feeling of your warmest cardigan around your shoulders; the sound of someone laughing in the museum.

but there’s more:

the scent of cigarette smoke reminds you of roger. the sight of two friends ribbing one another in a grocery store reminds you of crystal. a colorful jacket makes you think of freddie, a whispered snide remark takes you back to john, and two girls giggling reminds you of giddy moments with anna.

around every corner you turn there’s a memory you cannot avoid, and it hurts—desperately, keenly, deeply.

so you push it all away and soldier on, quiet and downtrodden. it’s easier that way. maybe, if you forget, you can move on and make it through life without him.

six months after you’ve left brian behind, you’re approached by your boss at the museum with an opportunity you’d only ever dreamed of: the chance to create and prepare your own exhibit. 

monica is firm when she offers you the south wing to reshape as your own. “blow this out of the water, [y/n], and there will be a job as assistant curator waiting for you after graduation. i want something fresh and exciting. think you can manage?”

you agree without hesitation.

for the first time in a long time, you can’t help but smile to yourself. this is your chance to put everything you’ve learned to good use, to put something tangible in your portfolio, to make a name for yourself. 

you’re buzzing with excitement and have to practically hold rachel hostage as you spout your myriad of thoughts and ideas. she’s your sounding board, even if she doesn’t want to be, but she’s honest where it counts most, and you’re grateful for that.

she glances over the kitchen table, laden with open magazines, cutout photos, and history books. her brow puckers. “this is... really boring, [y/n],” she says with a cringe, looking up with her blue eyes and freckled face.

your shoulder droop. “that’s it? that’s all you have to say?”

she shrugs and reaches for a photo, inspecting it with a critical gaze. “i mean, ancient textiles might be interesting to you and maybe five other people, but it isn’t exactly blowing me out of the water.”

dropping to the seat across the table, you huff. “well, we’re a photography museum, rachel. it’s not like i can whip up a few outfits and put them on mannequins.”

“excuse me, but fashion design is just as artistic as curating a museum—if not more so.” she sighs and puts the photo of a thirteenth century chinese table linen on the table. “there must be something else you’re interested in? something that other people will like just as much?”

you don’t mean to, but you let your eyes trail to the camera sitting on on the tv stand. you’d left it there after your return, uncertain where to put it. sometimes you catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of your eye and then you remember the tubes of film in your bedroom, undeveloped and unseen. 

rachel follows your gaze. “you know, you never told me where you got that.”

“it was a gift.”

“oh really? from who?”

you’re slow to answer. the truth sits on the tip of your tongue—the man i love, the man i was going to marry—but you bite it back. “my great-aunt. she left it to me... in her will.”

you aren’t sure what compels you to retrieve the six rolls of film from your bedroom, but you do. the tubes feel heavy in your palm and clang against the table as you put them down. rachel looks at them then back at you, waiting.

“she gave me these, too.”

“i didn’t know you had a great-aunt.”

“we weren’t close.”

“obviously you were close enough to get these things.” rachel lifts one of the tubes, turning it over in her palm. “wonder what the pictures are.”

“i’m not sure,” you lie. “maybe they could make an exhibit.”

“i think you’d have to develop them first then make that decision.” she rises from the table and shrugs on her coat. “i’ve got a date, so don’t wait up. and try not to let this consume you too much? you’ve been down and out lately. i think the work will do you good, but don’t let it take over, yeah?”

you nod and wish her well on her date. she leaves the flat in a flourish, leaves you to the tubes of film and the growing curiosity in your stomach.

you really should get them developed. if not for an exhibit, then for yourself. an entire year of your life is in those tubes, and you deserve to see the photos you’d taken to preserve that time.

it’s been six months. you’ve purposefully distanced yourself from anything and everything related to queen, be it a simple news story, a song on the radio, or any of roger or brian’s social media posts. it hurts to see them, to know that they’re so close yet so far away, that they have no idea what became of you all those years ago in japan.

still, it’s been six months. developing the film might be your first step toward a sense of closure. you don’t want to stay in your rut forever. though you’re comfortable with the idea that brian might be your great love and you’ll never find another, you know you can’t stay as you are, sullen and despondent. it’s like a break-up, really. you’re sad, heartbroken over the loss, but you know it’s time to step out of the hurt and into something different.

before you can stop yourself, you grab the rolls of film, your purse, and your jacket, and you head for the nearest photo shop.

a few hours later, you return with a heavy packet of freshly-printed photographs and a usb drive full of digital scans. there’s over two hundred photos to sort through, and you’ve yet to see one. 

flipping on the light to your living room, you sit down beside the coffee table, a glass of wine at your side, the table cleared of any lingering books or empty teacups. before you open the packet of photos, you open your laptop and type your search into the search bar. if you’re going to quell your curiosity tonight, you might as well quell all of it, and you’re dying to know what happened after you left. 

a simple internet search confirms what you already know: your presence within the group on the jazz tour did not alter any significant events. freddie still passed away, john still retired. a further search yields at least one previously nonexistent queen song written by brian may: “into thin air.” it was released in the album following jazz. you can’t bring yourself to listen to it, not yet. a deeper search unearths an interview brian gave a year or so after you left. the interview was published in a magazine editorial covering of each of queen’s band members and their lives when not on tour or recording. after freddie’s bit, there’s a photograph of brian at the top of a new page. he’s smiling, but he looks weary and he mentions you only once: “i was engaged for awhile, but that ended in an unfortunate circumstance, so to answer your question: no, i’m not looking for love. not right now, anyway.”

you close the laptop and lean back against the sofa. the ring on your finger feels heavy. your eyes fill with unshed tears, and you decide the photos can wait to be seen until tomorrow.

the packet of photos ends up sitting on the coffee table for two weeks before you invite your co-worker, shamik, over for wine and cheese and museum gossip. shamik is kind, a first-generation immigrant from india with personality to spare and an exuberance for all things american. he claims it’s his greatest curse that his parents brought him to britain as a baby instead of america, and it’s something he can never forgive them for. you’ve only interacted with shamik at work, but when you mention your exhibit project, he’s eager to offer his help. with no new ideas outside ancient textiles, you’re willing to take whatever advice or ideas he has.

sitting beside him on the couch, you spread your collection of papers and pictures on the table to explain your vision. he listens dutifully, nodding along, his eyes scanning the 3-d projection you’ve made of what the exhibit might look like once completed. when you’ve finished your spiel, he sets his wine glass down and nods to the packet of unopened photographs on the edge of the table.

“what’s that?”

you frown, shaking your head at the sudden turn in conversation. “sorry?”

he reaches for the manilla envelope. “oh, it’s hefty! what’s in here?”

you sigh and take the packet from his hands. it feels solid in your lap, like a brick. “photos from my great-aunt.”

he points to the sealed flap. “it’s unopened.”

“i haven’t gotten the chance to look through it yet.” setting the packet to the side, you raise your eyebrows. “well, what do you think? about the exhibit?”

“honestly? it’s dull. monica won’t be impressed.”

you throw yourself back against the couch with a groan. “what the hell,” you whisper. “i’ve got no ideas then.”

you know ancient textile photography would not be the most enticing exhibit, but it’s been an interest of yours for some time and would be easy enough to complete. shamik and rachel’s reactions do not bode well, you have to admit. having a job as an assistant curator right out of the gate would be beyond marvelous, and you desperately don’t want to screw it up with a boring first exhibit.

“let’s have a look at these pictures from your aunt!” before you can stop him, shamik reaches across your lap for the photo packet and rips open the top. “maybe that will spark some ideas?”

you lean forward, blush already rising to your cheeks as he pulls out the first picture. “oh no, shamik, i don’t know if—”

“holy shit!”

you shut your eyes, wincing.

“that’s fucking freddie mercury!” shamik grabs your shoulder, his fingers digging into your flesh. “did you know about this, [y/n]? that’s your aunt with freddie mercury!”

forcing your eyes open, you look at the photo trembling between his fingers. it’s a picture of you sitting beside freddie on the tour bus. (you think john took the photo in an effort to get you to stop taking photos of him when he was asleep while roger and crystal placed as many items on his head as they could before he fully awoke.) your head is against freddie’s shoulder, your eyes droopy with sleep. a lump rises in your throat, and all you can do is shake your head in feigned disbelief as shamik continues to shuffle through the photos.

“oh my god, your aunt was a groupie,” he cries, passing you another photo.

“i guess—” you clear your throat. “i guess she was.”

“you know”—shamik sets the pile of photos down and spreads them across the table, obscuring your vision of an ancient textiles display—“this would make a great exhibit.”

“shamik—” your voice is a warning, a sudden surge of anger rising in your chest, but he continues.

“no, really, [y/n]! there are so many photos here that tell such a cutesy little story. i mean, come on? freddie and this cat?” he lifts the photo in question. “it’s stuff people have never seen before from a totally different side of queen. it’s a fucking goldmine!” 

“absolutely not,” you say. “i will not put my aunt’s personal affairs on display.”

“think of monica, [y/n]! think of the job!”

“no, shamik!” you stand from the table and drop your plates in the kitchen sink with a resolute clatter. “i barely knew my aunt, but i know enough to gather that her time with queen was private. she didn’t say anything about it until she died. that’s got to mean something, and i don’t want to air it all out for everyone to see and speculate and gossip about just for my own personal gain.”

you’re shouting, fists clenched at your sides, by the time you finish. shamik just stares at you, his face blank and unreadable. he glances down at a photo. 

“she looks a lot like you,” he says, his voice even.

you huff and take the wine glasses from the table. “we’ve got strong family genes. now, please, i’d appreciate it if you just drop the whole queen thing. we can find some other idea.”

you gather the photos, shove them back in the folder, and toss the envelope in the nearest drawer you can find. the drawer slams shut, and you leave the photos there to gather dust.

you mull over shamik’s idea of an exhibit based on your photos for a month before you finally relent. monica’s riding your ass daily with questions about your progress. you need to get something down on paper for her to give to the contractors, so you begrudgingly type out a response to her most recent email:

monica,

i’ve landed on an exhibit topic at last. took me long enough, right? 

i’ve recently come into possession of a series of photographs taken by my late great-aunt. turns out she was a groupie with the band queen in the ‘70s. my exhibit will be centered around those photos. i’m thinking the exhibit will be titled “queen: unfiltered.” do with that what you will. :)

monica, much to your dismay, loves the idea and sends you right to work on gathering and laying out your vision while she begins the necessary promotion.

it hurts at first—looking at all the photos you took, remembering the way you felt so unearthly happy during that year. you cry each time you sit down to sort out the best of the pictures. the ones which capture a moment of levity amongst the band or are particularly well-shot go in a pile on the left. the ones which didn’t develop well or are too intimate for you to ever consider putting on display go in a pile on the right. your bedroom floor is a mess of drafted captions written on slips of printer paper, photographs with notes scrawled along the back, and used tissues. more than anything, you wish you could step into the world behind those photographs. you want to be back there—with him, with them—until you grow old and gray. knowing you can’t, that you won’t ever see him again, tears you apart inside.

but it helps. the exhibit forces you to acknowledge the time you spent with brian, with queen. instead of leaving the photos in a drawer, they confront you everyday as you sit down to work, and everyday it gets a little bit easier to face your past. as the tears subside, you find yourself laughing whenever you find a new photo of roger’s antics. your heart doesn’t clench as much when you run across another photo of you and brian. you can smile now when you look at his face. he really was so handsome...

you go so far as to frame your favorite photograph of your time together and place it on your dresser. he’s got his arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin settled on the top of your head. you’re laughing, your hands folded on his arms, legs crossed as you tilt to the side. he’s making a face, his tongue stuck out at the camera, and every time you pass by the picture, you can’t help but chuckle.

you love him still. you’ll love him always.

with three weeks before the opening of the exhibit, the stress is starting to get the better of you. you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, there’s heavy bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and you can’t remember the last time you consumed something other than coffee. despite the stress, you feel lighter. working through the photos, laying them out in order, writing the captions, pouring over the faces of the ones you love so dearly—it’s all helped ease the burden in your heart. for the first time in a long time, you slip out of bed in the mornings with a newfound sense of energy and purpose.

life will go on. just as you did when you fell into the past, you will find a new future.

arms laden with exhibit proposals and mock-ups, you brush into your local coffee shop—pretty bird—intent on getting some real work done on choosing the final photographs before you send them off to be printed. you order your usual and take a seat by the front. the air which wafts through the open window at your side is warm with spring and rebirth, and you breathe deep, cracking open the lid of your laptop. you manage to pick a total of twelve of the seventy-six needed photographs before you’re interrupted.

“whatcha workin’ on?” matthew, barista extraordinaire and casual acquaintance, sits down on the bench across from you. he has his own cup of cold brew poised between his lips, and the piercing in his eyebrow wiggles as he moves his brow up and down.

“an exhibit for the museum,” you say, pausing to roll your tight shoulders. “it’s my first.”

“do tell!”

you explain, briefly, how to came to acquire your dead aunt’s photographs and the general theme of the showcase. he nods in approval then snaps as if he’s remembered something.

“hold on. stay right there. i’ll be right back.” he puts his coffee down, scoots off of the bench, and darts to the back of the coffee shop. you wait and listen to the sound of the birds twittering outside before he returns with a framed picture in hand. “i just learned about this,” he says, taking his seat again. “this building used to be a disco back in the 70s.” he hands you the frame and points to a collection of people in the middle of a disco bar. “that’s queen. they came here once and somebody had the smarts to take a picture.”

your hands shake around the photograph, eyes darting from one corner of the picture to another. 

matthew keeps talking. “the place was called climax. can you believe that? the 70s were fuckin’ wild, mate.”

you nod, lips parted, and skim your fingers over the incredibly tall and recognizable form of brian in the center of the photo. you can see your shoulder, jammed between freddie and crystal, but the rest of your body is obscured. you lift your eyes from the frame and glance around the coffee shop, at the exposed metal beams and vaulted ceilings, at the disco ball still hanging in the center of the room.

makes sense now. why the building had felt so eerily familiar back then.

handing matthew the picture frame, you sit back in your chair. “wonder if my aunt ever came,” you say.

“maybe? sounds like she was in pretty tight. you know who you could ask?” you shake your head, uncertain of matthew’s question. “chris taylor. he was a roadie back then. he’s a regular here. comes in at least twice at week.”

you can’t stop the hand that flies to your mouth in surprise. you try to smother your gasp with a cough, but matthew still stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head. 

“you okay?” he asks warily.

nodding, you take a sip of your drink. “yeah, yeah, sorry! wrong pipe.”

“so, do you want to meet him and ask about your aunt?”

everything in you screams to say no. it’s too dangerous. you will surely break the moment you see him. crystal became your lifeline apart from brian during that year. he was your brother, your partner in crime, the one who kept you grounded when things got too wild. just knowing that he’s frequented the same coffee shop as you for the last six months brings tears to your eyes. you could have run into him. hell, you might’ve already. still, you aren’t sure if you’d be able to make it through a proper meeting without spilling your guts and apologizing for the way you left.

“[y/n]?” matthew pulls you from your thoughts. “what do you think?”

you hesitate before shrugging. you speak before you can stop yourself, before the rational and reasonable part of you can take over. god, you need this. if it’s your only opportunity for true closure, you’ll take it. “if he’s up to it then... sure.”

matthew grins. “come in tomorrow. i’ll introduce you!”

that night you toss and turn. you’re plagued with anxiety. will crystal recognize you? if he does, what will he say? will he be angry? what if he tells brian and then—

your bedside alarm goes off just as you fall asleep. it’s a struggle to drag yourself out of bed, but you must. there’s closure somewhere around the corner, and if you just move your ass, you’ll find it. you have one class this morning then your meeting with crystal. you’re jittery by the time you leave class, but you chalk that up to drinking two cups of coffee before leaving your flat and one in class. 

it’s drizzling as you make your way to the coffee shop. you hasten your steps, head bent against the rain and fingers curled around the strap of your bag. when you enter the shop, it’s nearly empty aside from a few lonesome students studying in far off corners. you can hear the faint thrill of music over the loudspeakers, but the blood that’s rushing to your ears blocks out most of the melody.

crystal’s already here, leaning against the counter, in conversation with matthew.

you stop in your tracks. he’s bald now, slightly pudgier with age, but he looks every bit as devilish as you remember.

you swallow past the fear in your throat and the anxiety in your veins and step forward. you voice wobbles when you speak. “matthew?” you direct your entrance to your friend because if you come right out and say crystal’s name, you will surely fall over in a puddle of emotion.

“there you are!” matthew jumps over the counter in one easy leap and lands to the floor beside you. he drapes his arm around your shoulders and motions to crystal. “[y/n], i’d like you to meet chris taylor. chris, this is [y/n], the girl i was telling you about.”

crystal’s staring at you through his blue-tinted glasses like he’s seen a ghost. his jaw has gone slack, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to formulate a sentence. 

you shove your hand into the space between you. “nice to meet you, mr. taylor.”

looking between matthew and yourself, he gathers himself, clearing his throat, and shakes your hand. “you too.”

“should we sit?” you motion to the same table you occupied the day before. “i can buy you a coffee for your troubles.”

he shakes his head and lifts his cup. “already got mine.”

“all right, well...” you glance at matthew.

“do you want your regular?” he asks.

“yes, please.”

“comin’ right up.”

crystal follows you to the table and sits down, his movements slow. for a moment, you sit in silence and allow his eyes to roam your face. you can’t tell if he knows it’s you or if he thinks it’s just a coincidence. you want to reach out and take the hand he rubs across the bridge of his nose, but you fold your fingers in your lap.

“thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” you finally say.

“you aunt,” he starts.

“yes, my aunt.” you pull a photograph out of your bag. it’s one of the few you took with crystal all those years ago. he’s got you in a headlock, his opposite fist grinding into the top of your skull. you slide the picture across the table. “you knew her?”

crystal lifts the photo, inspects it, before putting it down. he sighs, shaking his head. “i loved that woman. broke my heart when she left.” his gaze lifts from the table. “you look like her, have her name too.”

you look away, out the window at the side. there’s bird fluttering in a puddle on the sidewalk, and you watch it for a moment before turning back to him. “i think my mother loved her a great deal. i didn’t get the chance to know her, though. we only just found these pictures recently.”

his eyes narrow. “i mean, you really look like her.”

you force a smile. “thank you. that’s kind of you.” shifting, you tap your finger on the table. “i know her leaving wasn’t exactly...” you struggle to find the proper word, but he jumps to assist.

“natural?”

“well, i was going to say easy, but—”

“she fuckin’ disappeared! excuse my language.” huffing, he drops back against his chair. “one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. i swear, i’ve never seen anyone skip town that fast.”

“she didn’t say anything about leaving?”

“why would she? she was engaged! she had no reason to leave that i know of.”

“was she happy?”

“hell yes. her and brian—i’ve never seen two people more fit for one another. brian just about lost his mind trying to find her, but it was like she never existed. strangest thing.” he pauses to take a sip of his coffee, looking askance, before his eyes whiz back to yours. “oh my fucking god.” 

you look up, fear sparking in your belly. “what?”

“[y/n]?”

you blink. your head feels dizzy with the way he’s looking at you, like he’s about to jump across the table and throttle you or hug you so tight your insides might squeeze out of your body.

“fuck,” he breathes. “it is you.”

“i don’t know know what you’re—”

“don’t play dumb with me!” he leans across the table and lowers his voice. “i was the one who got you that phony passport, remember? i always wondered why i couldn’t find your credentials. had to lie my way through it until i got the damn thing. you’re lucky everything was so lax in the 70s.” he shakes his head. “how’d you do it?”

there’s part of you that wants to deny, deny, deny.

but it’s crystal. you can’t lie to him any more than you already have.

“i had no choice in the matter,” you say plainly. “one minute i was here, the next minute i was there, and the next minute i was here again.”

his jaw works back and forth as he processes the information. “does brian know?”

“no—and i’d like to keep it that way.”

“i thought we might lose him after you left.”

you twist the ring on your finger. “if i’d had the choice, i would have stayed. i hope you know that.”

crystal nods. “yeah, i do.” he holds your gaze then motions to your bag. “so, this exhibit matthew told me about. you’re publishing all those photos you took?”

“yes. there are some pictures i’ve saved for myself, but my boss, monica, she got permission from the record label to go ahead with the others. it opens in three weeks.”

“i’ll be there if i can. i’d like to see those pictures.”

you smile, your first earnest smile of the day. “you feature many times.”

he ducks his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. “we were thick as thieves, weren’t we?”

“you and roger were thicker, but i’d like to think i had a part to play some of the time.”

he lifts his head and heaves a heavy sigh. “you know, when i said i loved you, i meant it. not in the way brian did. you were like a kid sister to me. i cared for you a great deal.”

before you can stop yourself, you slip your hand across the table to grasp his worn fingers. his shoulders shake on another sigh, and he lifts his opposite hand to wipe at his eyes beneath his glasses. 

“oh, crystal. i’m so sorry,” you whisper. it hurts to see him cry, to know that you’re the cause behind his pain. 

he waves your apology away, sniffing hard. “i’m just glad to know you’re okay. we thought you might’ve gotten picked up or—” he shakes his head and pats your hand over his, meeting your eyes. “you’re okay, though. that’s what matters.”

“will you really come to my exhibit?”

“anything for you, kid.” he thumbs the underside of your chin with a lopsided grin. “even after all this time, i’m putty in your hands.”

you grin and hand him a business card, which he tucks in the folds of his wallet. rising from his seat, he opens his arms and you practically trip into his hug. he holds you tight for the briefest of moments before pulling back. he pats your cheek.

“i’ll see you in three weeks, yeah? if i stay any longer i’ll end up a sobbin’ mess on the floor.”

you nod. “yeah. and, crystal?” he turns at the door. “don’t tell brian. please.”

he leaves without another word.

the day of the exhibit opening you are equal parts thrilled and a nervous wreck. everyone’s here—your family, rachel, shamik, even matthew. you haven’t seen crystal amidst the crowd mingling in the lobby, but you trust him to show. he’s always been reliable, and you doubt he’ll fail you now.

monica squeezes your shoulder as she passes you by in the staff hallway. “it looks wonderful, [y/n]. consider yourself hired,” she says and hands you a keycard. “i’m going to give you a piece of advice i got when i completed my first exhibit: go have a moment by yourself. look at your work, be proud of it. you deserve it.”

with trembling fingers and a racing heart, you make your way down the corridor to the south exhibit hall. due to a celebratory lunch with rachel the day before, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see the room in its final state. in retrospect, you’re thankful for the chance to see it for the first time alone. at least this way, if you cry, no one will have to know.

the door beeps as it unlocks, and you slip inside the room. you descend the handful of stairs which lead into the showroom floor and suck in a deep breath. 

before entering the exhibit, there’s a wall to the side with a simple explanation written in a white font:

queen: unfiltered — this exhibit preserves and presents never-before-seen images of the popular band, queen, through the eyes of an unnamed woman who spent a year traveling the world on queen’s jazz album tour. her images are intimate yet distinctive and offer a personal glimpse into the lives of one of britain’s most well-known bands. 

at the far end of the room hang four banners spanning floor to ceiling. the banners wave gently in the air blowing throughout the room, illuminated from lights on the ceiling and floor. each banner hosts an oversized photo of one of the band’s members in an image that best captures their personality. it took you hours to find the right photo for each man, but you stand by your choice for each one.

there’s john on the far left, head bent as he strums the bass across his knee. his lips are pursed in thought, a line of concentration on his brow.

there’s freddie next to him. he stands in a spanish alley way, cradling a stray cat in his arms. he looks serenely on at the camera, a rare moment of simplicity.

there’s brian sat in an overstuffed armchair, his gangly legs crossed, a book open on his lap. he has the corner of his thumb in his mouth, and if you squint you can see the edge of his tongue.

there’s roger on the far right. he’s smiling at the camera, his eyes bright with mischief and joy. there’s a party hat snug on the crown of his head, pulling the skin of his forehead taut.

on opposite sides of the room, two parallel rows of twelve photos hang in neat order. you decided to have every photograph in the exhibit printed in black-and-white and, in all, you painstakingly picked the forty-eight photos featured in their simple white frames. you walk along the wall, hands clasped at your waist, eyes running over the memories you hold so dear.

the afternoon crystal taught you ride a bike in barcelona: you’re sat on the handlebars after a hard fall, mouth open in a squeal of delight as crystal whips toward the camera.

roger and john tossing an apple back and forth in an ottawa grocery store: john’s smile is broad, the apple caught on film midair.

brian sitting on the floor of your hotel suite: there’s a tray of sushi at his feet, and he’s smiling at you, his hair wet from a shower.

freddie playing the piano in the airport in yugoslavia: he’d been so excited to see one, his shoes had slipped on the slick floor as he ran to it. he’d played dramatically, conducting those around him in a horrible rendition of “god save the queen.”

your eyes sting with tears as you glance about the room. you’re proud of your work. it looks good, professional and elegant, but more than that, you’re proud of yourself for the work you’ve done in mending your broken heart. though you will never live the life you’d once dreamed of, you will always have the memories—and that’s got to count for something.

when the double-doors open and monica ushers the first of the patrons in, you slip into the closest bathroom to wipe at the makeup smudged under your eyes. you’re happy, truly so, and you want to celebrate—celebrate both of your lives as they finally come together.

the room is crowded when you reenter, conversation and gentle laughter mingling in the air. you accept a tight hug from rachel when you see her and the congratulations of your parents. you can’t stop smiling, and you’re sure your face will hurt come morning, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

your parents float away, hand in hand, and you find yourself alone in the center of the room, watching in awe as people you’ve never met look at your photos, at your memories, and nod in appreciation. your chest swells with an emotion you can’t place.

“i think this calls for a congratulations. you’ve outdone yourself, dove.”

you whirl on your heel, lip caught between your teeth in a poorly-concealed smile. “you came.”

crystal grins. the tie of his suit is rumbled and askew, and you reach out to straighten it. old habits die hard. “i said i would.”

“what do you think?”

“i think it’s fantastic. the lads would be proud.”

“maybe.” you shrug. “guess we’ll never know.”

“are you really so intent on staying hidden forever?”

you nod. “yes. it took everything in me to even talk to you. i don’t want to ruin their lives again by popping back up, especially because i’m not exactly old, am i?”

crystal laughs, shaking his head. “you must think you’re hot stuff if a simple hello could ruin a life.” his laughter fades into a simple smile. “now, i know you’re going to hate me and i’m willing to take that, but i did tell a certain someone about the exhibit.”

you can feel the blood drain from your face. “crystal, you didn’t.”

he winces. “i might’ve.”

you slap his arm and curl your fingers into his bicep. “you bastard!”

he holds up his hands in defense, decent enough to plaster a look of contrition on his face. “look, i didn’t tell him the context or what tipped me off. i just told him there was a new exhibit about queen and he was eager to come see. that’s all!”

you swallow hard, uncertain how to respond. “i—” your head twists back and forth in utter confusion. “i don’t know what to do.”

crystal’s face softens, and he nudges your shoulder. “go talk to him. he deserves that much, doesn’t he?”

you can’t argue with that.

giving crystal’s arm a grateful squeeze, your legs shake beneath you as you turn and see him—brian—across the room.

you don’t know how you didn’t see him before. even now, forty years later, he’s still unmistakeable: still tall, still gangly, but his hair has gone white and his strides are slower. the overwhelming urge to tear across the room and curl yourself around his back nearly overpowers you, but you shove it down and manage to cross the floor in slow, even steps. you keep your eyes glued to his back, your hands twitching at your sides. when you reach him and catch a faint whiff of his cologne, the same he wore all those years ago, you have to push back the tears that rise unbidden to your eyes.

you tap his shoulder. “dr. may?”

he circles around, as does his wife anita, her arm snug in his elbow.

brian blinks hard, his brow furrowed in confusion. for a moment, you let him stare at you as you stare right back. his eyes are the same. you’d thought they’d be different, but they aren’t. the realization stuns you silent.

anita glances between you both before smiling sweetly. “good evening, sweetheart,” she says, and her voice is so kind you can’t even summon the slightest bit of jealousy. “i’m afraid i didn’t catch your name.”

“oh, i’m sorry!” you laugh and find that smiling at anita isn’t hard. “my name’s [y/n] [y/l/n]. i created the exhibit. i thought i might come and introduce myself.”

“oh, how lovely!” anita claps her hands together. “what you’ve done is so beautiful, [y/n]. it’s nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

“that’s very kind of you, ma’am.”

“brian likes it too. don’t you, brian?”

he still can’t seem to formulate any sort of response. he’s frozen in place, and your heart lurches for him. to see the woman he’d once asked to marry him, the one so cruelly ripped away, while standing next to his wife... precisely why you never wanted to meddle in his current affairs.

finally, he seems to collect himself. he sucks in a deep breath and nods in agreement. “yes, i do. very much.”

“that means a lot,” you say, easing your smile back into place. “thank you.”

“i’ll leave you two to talk to for a moment. i see crystal hovering in the corner over there, and i’m sure you both have many questions for one another.” anita presses her hand on your arm as she passes. “lovely job, dear.”

she leaves, and you’re left alone with the greatest love of your life.

you wait for him to speak.

“you’re... alive?” it’s a question, not a statement.

“yes.”

“you’re the same age?”

“yes.”

“how did—” he shakes his head. “i don’t understand.”

“neither do i.”

his chin quivers slightly, and he looks away. “i thought you’d been taken or decided to—”

you dare to touch his arm. a spark jolts through your fingers at the slightest touch, but you hold firm. “nothing happened,” you explain. “other than nature righting her mistake.”

“i think—i think i need to sit down.”

“yes, of course. my office is down the hall. it’s quiet there.”

he nods and leans against your arm as you lead him down the hall. in the silence of your dimly lit office, he collapses to the loveseat beneath the window and drops his face to his hands. you hesitate in the doorway until he looks up. tears shimmer in his eyes, and you swallow hard, your smile wavering around the edges.

he stands then, crosses the floor, and cradles your face in his hands. “my god,” he breathes. “it really is you.”

with a laugh, you hold his wrists. “in the flesh.”

“how long’s it been?” his thumb works over your cheekbone and, though you know he should stop, you can’t bring yourself to step away from his touch.

“about seven months.”

he snorts. “try forty years.”

“you seem like you did well for yourself, though.”

he shrugs. “i suppose.”

“you’re happy?”

there’s a heavy pause before he says, “yes.”

“that’s all i want to hear.”

slipping out of his grasp, you put a modicum of space between you both. the air is thick with emotion, and your heart beats wildly against your chest. the love you thought you’d put to bed flares at the mere sight of him, even after all this time.

you drift your finger through the sand of your tabletop zen garden. “i told crystal not to tell you about me,” you admit.

“he didn’t—not in so many words.”

“i know. i’m glad he said something, though.” you pause, meet his gaze. “it’s so good to see you, bri.”

quiet falls over the room as he stares at you. you don’t squirm. you’re comfortable under his gaze, always have been.

“i hope you know i never stop looking,” he says. “even after anita, i kept trying to find you. just to know.”

“and i hope you know that i would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant i got to be with you even for a time.”

your phone vibrates on the desk, skidding across your oversized calendar. you reach for the phone and flip it over before slipping it in the purse hung over your desk chair.

“i’ve got to go,” you admit, crossing to his side. “i’ve actually got a date.”

to your surprise, his eyes crinkle with amusement. “i’m happy to hear it.” he lifts a hand and smooths back the hair from the side of your face. he looks at you with all the love he did forty years ago, and you wish you could take a picture to remember forever. 

but then you remember: you have dozens of photos at home, and it doesn’t seem too hard to let him go now. not after the work you’ve put into mending your heart. you can face this, face saying goodbye for good. you have to, for his sake and your own.

rising to your tiptoes, you place a hand on his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth—one last touch, for you both. you wind your arm around his neck and whisper in his ear, “i love you, brian may. i always will.”

he squeezes you hard against his body, sucking in a ragged breath. “i love you too, [y/n].”

dropping back to your heels, you huff a breath and smile wide. “well, i’d better go.”

“yes, you’d better. don’t keep the lad waiting.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, your hand lingering on his. “okay, well... goodbye, brian.”

he smiles, and it’s the loveliest sight you’ve ever seen. he brushes you cheek with the back of his hand, whispering, “see you later, love.”

dipping out the back of the museum, you walk down the street, purse slung over your shoulders. you think you’ll be able to sleep well for the first time in a long time tonight. 

you hope he can, too.

~*~*~*

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[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 13

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 13 - Doubt

In the archaeological internship Lin Yan participated in, the Ming Tomb was undoubtedly a very peculiar place. The excavation work lasted three months. Before the excavation started, Lin Yan didn't even get any relevant background information. He asked his professor several times but never got a response. When he was told that would be staying at the tomb for only a week, he thought he was coming to be the team's water boy. Instead, he was unexpectedly sent to the site as soon as the plane touched down and was given one of the most important jobs of cleaning the body found in the main room of the tomb.

It was a medium-sized underground mysterious tomb. Bluestone blocks were built into arches. The apse in the room was about forty meters long. A large black lacquered coffin left slightly ajar rested peacefully on the stone platform. Lin Yan and the rest of the crew held their breath together. When the golden nanmu wood coffin lid was slowly lifted, and the gold, silver, jade and rosy brocade around the corpse were exposed, a soft cheer erupted from the tomb. Everyone couldn't help but celebrate that they found such an magnificent mausoleum that had been left completely untouched by tomb robbers. After a long while, all nonessential personnel evacuated one by one. Lin Yan remembered that the professor was the last one to leave the scene. When he left, he rested his hand heavily on his shoulders, as if he wanted to say something but never ended up getting anything out. In the empty and dark main room of the tomb, only Lin Yan and a few lights, both bright and dim, were left. Sometimes, the miner's lamp was often extinguished inexplicably. He later recalled that the owner of the tomb might have been watching him ever since then.

The corpse in the coffin had rotted into a skeleton, but the hair that remained was soft and shiny. However, when Lin Yan sat alone by the coffin and skimmed through some history books, doubts arose. The identity of the owner of the tomb was like the bronze of this mysterious palace, unrecognizable under the green rust. There was no record, no genealogy, nothing even mentioned in town and county chronologies. The tomb's eternal light placed in front of the coffin had long been dried up, and a two-foot-long black name card behind it was coated with thick old blood. The place where the name should be written was empty, and it turned out to be a non-character memorial tablet.

When the last artifact in the coffin was successfully taken out, Lin Yan was told he could return. It only took them seven days and no one had ever told him about the origin of the tomb that whole time.

The sun was shining on Friday morning, and the roses in the flower bed were rushing to bloom. There was a soft fragrance of something oily like burning opium in the air. Lin Yan parked his car at the school gate and hurried through the small square in front of the building to get to the professor's office. He was in such a rush that he went through the ground fountain in the square. After he took a few steps, bells and drums started playing and spurts of water shot from the jets, the surrounding area immediately turning into a forest of water columns shooting up.

"Shit. . ." He couldn't dodge them and got completely soaked. Lin Yan internally cursed as he rushed forward, wringing out the hem of his shirt. A few school girls had just come out of the main entrance of the building and giggled at the embarrassing scene.

Lin Yan blushed a little.

Shiny drops of water splashed off his hair and a droplet fell into his eye. When he raised his hand to wipe it away, his wrist was caught by someone. The cold fingertips wiped the drop off one of his eyelashes. Lin Yan blinked and stood there silently.

When he walked up the steps, he saw a new large poster on the left side of the automatic door. A gentle-looking middle-aged man with glasses was holding a pen, and his demeanour resembled an unopened folder in a stationery store. There was a large line next to him: Chen XX, a well-known Chinese history professor, is coming to our school to give a lecture. All students are welcome to participate. This will be a great chance to interact with the professor.

The tune played was one typically used by the Propaganda Department, the following rows of small letters are written with the specific time and content of the event. Lin Yan struggled to twist the hem of the wet T-shirt and walked towards the hall, muttering that this was probably the reason that the fountain suddenly turned on. Turning back, he frowned and stood in front of the poster for a minute. He always felt that the man on the poster was a bit familiar, but he couldn't remember who it was. After thinking about it for a while, Lin Yan shook his head and stepped through the hall.

The professor's office was on the fourth floor.

"Professor, are you kidding me? From the preliminary preparations to the end of the tomb excavation, so many people participated in it. How could it be possible that nothing about the tomb owner's origins could be found until now?"

"That tomb was already considered to be average to wealthy for the time period. Even if the owner of the tomb was not of official origin, there is always a record in historical records for wealthy businessmen."

University institutions were never busy on Fridays. Everyone was waiting for the weekend. Lin Yan’s professor was no exception. He was sitting in the office with his legs crossed when the drenched student burst into his office. Behind the table, he held a heavy purple sand teacup in his hand. Because he often went to the West in his early years, his skin was wrinkled by the wind and frost. His midsection was blessed by some middle-aged fat, and the bags under the eyes were hanging loosely behind the glasses.

The professor grew impatient with Lin Yan's aggressive tone, and patted a stack of books on the table: "Isn't that so? You see, I'm more worried about writing a report on the excavation. I've been busy for more than a month and I haven't made any progress."

Lin Yan leaned forward impatiently with his hands on the glass plate of the tabletop: "The mausoleum was left untouched. The body and burial items were intact. Isn't it possible to determine the identity of the tomb owner?"

This student had always been known for his politeness and patience. It was rare for him to be this anxious.

"That's the problem. Comparing the data compiled based on the unearthed cultural relics with the records at the time, I can only say that he's completely unknown." The professor put down the cup and tapped his finger on the cover of the book a few times: "Ming Dynasty history is not my specialty. Tell me, why don't you do some research yourself? The students in our school must be able to research independently. You should make good use of the school library resources."

Lin Yan shook his head disappointedly. Just like the professor said, there was a lot of historical data to go through. He wouldn't make any progress in the next three months. Even three years might not be enough time to go through all the information. By then, he would have run out of ten lives. What's more, he has searched through the relevant history books of the library for the past week and even asked Yin Zhou to search through the database in less legal ways, but the strange thing is that no matter what keywords they use - the age, name, location - he couldn't find any information. It was common sense that, in ancient times, even a talented person would be written about somewhere in the county annals, but this Xiao Yu was like a person from another world. The records passed over him like he had never existed.

The faint scent of book pages and wood was floating in the air, and the light blue shutters broke up the rays of sun leaking in. Lin Yan subconsciously glanced back, as if there should be a companion waiting to respond to his doubts. But Xiao Yu does exist, he thought.

Trying his best to stay calm, Lin Yan lowered his head and lowered his voice: "Teacher, this is really important to me, can you help. . ." While speaking, his gaze was fixed on the table. Under the glass plate were many old photos of the professor when he was young. There was a row of people wearing work clothes and hard hats in the black-and-white pictures. Compared to the middle-aged man with swollen eyes in front of him, there was a strange sense of contradiction in the gray-headed but happy-looking man in the pictures.

Time really did wonders.

The instructor tapped two fingers on the table. He didn't look at Lin Yan when he spoke. His eyes were a little dodged: "Why do you need to know the owner of the tomb? Do you need to write a paper?"

Lin Yan took a deep breath. He had always had a keen insight into people's emotions. When he had been sorting through clues last night, the situation that occurred in the tomb flashed in his mind. He had already had his doubts at the time, but he was so nervous and excited that he didn't think too much of it. For example, ever since he joined the team, everyone had been keeping secrets, and the professor also looked at him with that dodgy look when the excavators all left the tomb. The whole thing seemed to have been arranged long ago, so Lin Yan hadn't cared about interrupting the teacher's off-time and grabbed the phone to set up a meeting time.

"Professor, you should know why; this is a matter of life and death." After hesitating for a moment, Lin Yan frowned and said this sentence with emphasis. He pressed his hands on the table hard and turned away.

When I walked to the door of the office. He paused, one, two. . . Lin Yan counted silently in his heart.

Three.

"Wait." The professor's voice sounded from behind.

"Lin Yan, this project isn't under my control. I just heard that a lot of strange things happened when the tomb was opened. Someone came to me and asked you to go. I didn't agree with it. . . If you really want to know more, you can go ask the coordinator of the excavation yourself." The finger tapped twice on the desk. "His name is Chen, he'll be at our school next Monday for a lecture. There are posters downstairs." After speaking, he took a few volumes from the neatly arranged books and put them back on the table, gesturing that he could leave. "You can get more out of him than me"

"Last question." Lin Yan held the door frame and poked his face in: "Teacher, do you know Xiao Yu?"

"No, I don't." The answer was quick this time: "Who's that?"

Lin Yan sighed and held the railing as he quickly walked downstairs.

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Foolish

Characters: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Rating: PG-13

Summary: A date with Sebastian Stan brings your friendship with Tom Hiddleston into a whole new light.

Warnings: None

A/N: This is a fic based on this (paraphrased) request from an anonymous user: I thought maybe a jealous Tom who is in love with his best friend and he helps her go on a date with some other famous Marvel boy (maybe Seb Stan) would be nice! But in the end of course they stay together.

I hope that you enjoy this, Nonny!

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“What about this one?”

You walked out of your bathroom, holding your arms out from your sides and giving a spin to show off a casual but cute outfit of a blue fit and flare dress that went down to your mid-thighs.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Tom replied from where he was sitting on your bed, propped up against the headboard with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle in front of him.

You huffed and stormed back into the bathroom, loudly calling your response through the closed door, “‘Alright, I suppose’ isn’t good enough! You said that he was really into me, and I haven’t been on a date in ages!”

Throwing on your last outfit choice - your go-to when you didn’t have a clue on what to wear - you stomped out of the bathroom, a little less excitement in your spin before you turned back to your best friend with your arms crossed over your chest. “Well?”

With a heavy sigh, Tom rose and walked over to you, turning you around to face the full-length mirror leaning against your wall. His hands settled on your shoulders, warm and comforting, and the fondness that lied beneath his azure eyes set off a flight of butterflies in your stomach. His chin came to rest on top of your head so that his soft words vibrated through you, “You are breathtaking in whatever you wear, darling. You know my thoughts on the matter.”

And you did. Throughout your friendship, he had been nothing but amazing, layering the sincerest of compliments about anything and everything on thick. But there was never more to them. The man could compare you to all things beautiful under the sun in his velvet baritone timbre, but it didn’t mean much when paired with nothing but a platonic hug where his hands remained firmly where they were supposed to.

You had given him every opportunity to further your relationship, cuddling up to him during your movie nights, hugging him for much longer than was appropriate, even holding hands when you were pulling him around town in his ridiculous disguise of a baseball cap and sunglasses - that fooled no one, by the way.

But either the vastly intelligent man was too dense to realize the hearts in your eyes, or he didn’t feel the same way and was saving your dignity by ignoring them.

Which meant it was time to try to move on from your unrequited pining. Waiting for him was like waiting for a god to take notice of you. Why would he deem to love a mortal when he gallivanted around the world with beautiful women who looked to be created by the most discerning eye.

So when he had introduced you to Sebastian Stan at a party, you put the yearning you held for your British best friend in the back of your mind. Soon enough, you were cracking jokes one right after the other, laughing and talking quietly in a corner of the room.

And when he asked if he could take you on a date - nothing too serious - you had agreed.

The doorbell to your apartment rang, and you reached up to pat Tom’s hand gently on your shoulder. “Showtime. I need to throw on my shoes; can you grab the door?”

Tom pressed a light kiss to your temple before exiting your bedroom, leaving you to scramble to throw on a pair of comfortable shoes for the evening. You didn’t have any idea what Sebastian had planned, and it was better to be prepared for any scenario than have aching feet the whole night.

Finally dressed, you snagged your bag before leaving the bedroom, coming into the living room to see Tom and Sebastian talking quietly. You cleared your throat, quirking your brow at the slightly guilty uptick to Tom’s brows when they both turned to you.

“Hey there, sweetheart. You look great.” Sebastian smiled at you, open and kind, holding his arm out to you.

The tension between the two could be cut with a knife as you took your place under his arm, glancing at Tom. You could just ask him about whatever that was later. “You gonna hang out here to mooch off of my cable?”

He shrugged his shoulders and dropped his chin, looking up at you through light lashes with a sheepish grin. “If that’s alright. The hotel doesn’t have all the channels, and Bake Off is tonight.”

You hugged him quickly, squeezing his bicep when you pulled away. “There should be all of the episodes of that and Countdown recorded for you. I’ll see you later, then. Don’t eat all the cookies while I’m gone, ya hear me?”

Sebastian guided you out your front door with his hand on your lower back, giving you just enough time to hear Tom’s answering shout of “I make no promises!” before the door closed and he was leading you to his car.

~~~

Everything was just slightly off.

The touch of his hand on your hip when he walked past you to retrieve his ball on the miniature golf course was a bit too timid.

Your hands didn’t fit properly when your fingers were laced together, his squeeze too tight and his knuckles pinching yours.

The sound of your name on his lips was too harsh without a lilting accent to draw out the vowels and soften the consonants, more like a handshake and less like a caress.

His eyes were just a shade too dark when he gazed down at you, reading the hesitation in the worry of your bottom lip in between your teeth and the lines between your brows.

And when he pulled you in for a hug, your bodies didn’t align comfortably, your arms not knowing whether to go around his neck or his waist, your hands just awkwardly patting his cool leather jacket until he released you. He smelled pleasant, like woodsmoke and light musk, but it wasn’t right.

“This isn’t working, is it?” he asked quietly, letting his hand capture yours as you pulled away from him, twining your fingers together.

You squeezed his hand softly, and took a chance, standing on your tiptoes to press a light kiss to his lips. He reciprocated, just barely moving against you, allowing you to set the pace. When you pulled away you sighed, shaking your head. “It was a nice kiss, but there’s no…”

“Spark,” he supplied for you with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s okay, though. Wanna know why?”

You followed him as he led you to his car by the hand. The touch was friendly now that any expectations of romantic activities had been squashed. It didn’t stir any feelings deep in your belly, or make heat spread throughout your limbs, or cause your heart to race in your chest. No, it was just nice. “What’s that, Seb?”

He opened the door for you, that easy smile back on his handsome face once again. “I think I do know someone who could spark your interest.”

~~~

“Honey, I’m home!” you called out into your dimly lit home, dumping your keys and bag on a table in the entryway.

When you received no response, you rounded the corner into the living room, following the soft music coming from your ancient record player Tom must have unearthed from the cobwebs it had been buried beneath. He was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.

“Tom?” you asked quietly, concern lacing your voice as you came around the couch to sit down at his side.

He heaved a heavy sigh when your hand stroked down his spine comfortingly. The muscles in his back were tense, hard as marble, unyielding beneath you. “How was your date?” he asked, the last word poison dripping from his tongue.

“Definitely no love connection there. I think we’ll make great friends, though, in time,” you replied, arching your brow as you tugged on his arm to try to see his face. “What’s gotten into you? Are you okay?”

He let you pull his arm away, following the motion by turning his whole body to face you. The expression on his face was unreadable, his brow furrowed as his eyes flitted over your face. When they came to rest on yours, it felt like he was staring into your very soul, piercing you with the intensity of his ocean-eyed stare.

Whatever he found from his inspection, it wasn’t what he had been looking for, and he stood up, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m fine.”

You stood as well, walking around your coffee table so that you were facing him once again. When he tried to turn away you caught his hand with yours, twining your fingers together. A comfortable, natural fit. He squeezed your hand gently. Your heart beat that much faster for the contact, but you ignored it. There would be time for your overeager emotions later when Tom wasn’t clearly upset about something.

“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been in a mood all day, Hiddleston. Spill it,” you implored him, not unkindly, but leaving no doubts in your tone that you were going to let up.

“I just-”

“No, no excuses or half-truths,” you insisted, cutting him off before he could wiggle his way out of the situation with a distracting smile and a well-crafted argument. “Please?”

That seemed to do the trick, his shoulders slumping in resignation and his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. He released it to place both of his hands on his hips. “You know that you are, without a doubt, my dearest and closest friend, yes?”

Not knowing where this was going, but trusting him to lead you there, you nodded slowly. “Of course.”

Open vulnerability lifted the inside of his brows and reflected in his bottomless blue eyes as he finally looked at you, so startling that it made your heart skip a beat in its sprint against your ribcage. “I am not content with the current state of our friendship.”

Your heart, which had been threatening to burst from your chest, now stopped beating and lodged itself firmly in your throat. Fear dug its icy claws in your lungs, and you clenched your jaw to stop your lower lip from quivering. You knew this day was coming. One day he would get too famous, too popular, wanting more out of life and his friendships than you and your mundane existence could offer him.

“Oh, okay. Sure, I get it…” you murmured, afraid if you spoke any louder that you would lose the tenuous grip you had on the burning on the inside corners of your eyes.

“No, darling, that isn’t what I meant,” he assured you, placing his hands on your upper arms, rubbing the tense muscles there soothingly. Each stroke tore at the barrier of strength you had quickly constructed around your barely-contained emotions. “It pained me to know that you were on a date with Sebastian tonight.”

A hot tear rolled down your cheek unbidden. “You introduced us, Tom.”

“I didn’t intend for you to hit it off.” His hand burned a trail up over your shoulder until it settled against your neck, thumb catching the edge of your jaw.

You pulled away from him, swiping the back of your hand over your cheek angrily to wipe away the evidence of your failing control. “Yeah, well, that didn’t happen. So, if you don’t want to be friends anymore, I’d appreciate it if you left, now,” you said thickly, words distorted around the sob that you held back in your throat. You thrust your hand out toward the front door.

The floorboards shifted, groaning beneath his steps, but they weren’t toward where you had indicated. Instead, his hand curled around yours, and a flutter of warmth trickled out from your hand from where his lips ghosted across the smooth skin. “That is not what I meant, and I beg your pardon for leading you to believe otherwise.”

Hope soared inside your chest, stilling your tears and lifting your eyes from where they had landed on the floor. He set your hand upon his chest, over his rapid heartbeat, covering it with both of his own. The vulnerability you had seen before was tinged with sadness pulling down at the corners of his mouth. “My stomach has been tied in knots since you walked out the door with him. I didn’t pay an ounce of attention to anything on the blasted telly all evening because the thought of you in his arms drove me to madness.”

“Tom…”

He shifted so that his face was just inches from yours, eyes shining as he gazed down at you. “I’ve spent the entirety of our friendship hoping that you would one day open your eyes and see that I have always been here, by your side, loving you. I was driven to distraction tonight at the thought of you with him. I cannot continue this way, so I’m asking you, with my heart in your hands, if you have any similar feelings toward me.”

It took several beats of his heart for his proclamation to sink in, for you to fully grasp what he was saying. Could your Tom, the man who visited you in his every free moment, who ate all of your sweet treats when you weren’t looking, who pulled you into impromptu dances in the middle of your living room, feel the same way?

Laughter bubbled up from your throat, and your head fell forward to rest in the crook of his neck. The scent of leather and soap and warm spice washed over you. Home.

“Is my affection for you that hilarious?” he asked, clearly offended.

You let your free hand come up to snag your fingers into the loops of his dark jeans, tugging so that the lines of your bodies matched up. Perfect. You tilted your chin to kiss his neck gently. His breath hitched, and you hadn’t thought it possible, but his heart beat even faster beneath your joined hands.

“Darling?” His voice was low, intimate, hesitantly lined with hope.

You angled your head back to smile up at him. “We’re both idiots,” you explained. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and his eyes darkened in response. “Idiots who need to shut up and kiss before we both explode fro-”

Your statement was cut off by his mouth crashing down onto yours. Years of mutual love and frustration were poured into your lips working against the other, rushed and less than graceful in your eagerness. Your fingers dug into the soft material of his shirt, and one of his hands came around to flatten over your lower back to hold you to him.

It was everything you had hoped for, everything that your date earlier hadn’t been. Passion and strength and fragility and love and fire that scorched through you, burning you up from the inside out. It was all you’d ever wanted. It was Tom.

You were both breathless when you broke the kiss, searching for air desperately in the small space between you. His nose rasped along the length of yours. “We are fools.”

You stood on your tiptoes so your rebuttal was delivered against his lips. “No, we were fools.”

And then there wasn’t another moment wasted to talking, as you had to make up for so much lost time.