#which is bizarre to me because it's...obviously not true. It's a conclusion drawn from silence without considering our terribly

[wishesofeternity]

"Stratonike evidently retained the Akkadian royal title used for her even after [her husband] Antiochos’ death, since the astronomical diary entry identifies her as šarratu, in logograms GAŠAN, which means “queen.” In earlier centuries under previous regimes this title could not be used of a royal woman unless she also ruled. As suggestive as this is, there is no direct corroborating evidence for Stratonike exercising rulership, unless we credit her influence with her children as a form of political dominance. The trope of the domineering dowager queen mother should be familiar enough from interpretations of other royal families throughout history. But the diary, normally fairly precise in noting royal family connections, does not call her “mother [or widow] of the king,” meaning that at least some people remembered Stratonike as a queenly figure on her own, without reference to male relatives. This is an interesting hint at how these royal women could carry out their duties so as to be regarded as individual rulers in their own right."

-Gillian Ramsey, "Apama and Stratonike: The first Seleukid basilissai," "The Routledge Companion to Women and Monarchy in the Ancient Mediterranean World" (edited by Elizabeth D. Carney and Sabine Müller)

[heyyyharry]

In Another Life Series: Chapter 1 - The Painting

...in which Harry and Y/N come across a strange portrait in an art museum.

Series description: Y/N and Harry are soulmates and destined to meet in every lifetime, but no matter how many times they reincarnate and find each other again, they never seem to get it right.

AU: reincarnation, soulmate!harry, prince!harry, and assistant!y/n

Warning: There’s obviously no English monarch in history named Edward Rammour (chose the name Edward because duh Harry Edward Styles???) nor a famous painter named Piersilvio, I didn’t want to offend anyone with historical inaccuracies so I made everything up, my apologies. Oh, and Harry’s still famous in this.

~~~

They said in London you were never far from a museum, there were more than 170 of them, including some of the world’s finest which attracted a countless number of visitors every single day. While most people came to these places to witness historical events and people revive in exhibits, some other people, yes ‘some’, showed up, and brought history back to life.

“And this one, this one is my favorite!” a young man exclaimed to his friend as they stopped in front of a big painting of an English monarch in the 16th century.

Just like other royalties in portraits, the man stood tall and proud with his shoulders pulled back and a stern look on his face, still the softness in his eyes was what made him peculiarly human-like.

“Wow, Jason, this painting is so real…” the girl commented. The more she looked into this character’s eyes, the more she was hooked for an unknown reason. Either the artist of this masterpiece was truly gifted for making his painting look so alive, or there was just something not ordinary about this piece.

“This is the work of Piersilvio, a world famous Italian painter at the time, a gift for the King on his coronation day,” narrated Jason as he studied the look on his best friend’s face, feeling excited for how interested she was. Normally he didn’t get this reaction when he told it to the other girls. “Edward Rammour was a great King, he only married once in his entire life, but since the Queen could not give birth to an heir, he was the last monarch in the House of Rammour.”

“Sounds tragic.”

“They said he was cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Yes, Y/N, cursed. Some documents mentioned that Edward had never loved the Queen, before crowned King, he’d been in love with a peasant girl, who ended up executed. They said she was a witch and before she died, she’d put a curse on Prince Edward to forever live an unhappy life without her in it.”

Y/N looked at her friend with her mouth agape, then suddenly burst into laughter, making Jason so confused.

“You almost got me!” she cried out, in response to which he shook his head fast from side to side.

“No, it was true! Uhm, actually I’m not sure if it’s true, but they did say that online!”

Y/N playfully patted his cheek. “Never trust everything you read online, J.”

“Okay, but you gotta admit it sounds kind of cool,” Jason asserted, staring at the portrait in awe.

Y/N didn’t take her friend’s words seriously, however, she did have a strange feeling every time she made eye contact with the monarch in this painting, it creeped her out and she didn’t want to be there any longer. So she tugged on Jason’s sleeve and told him they should probably go, then both headed towards the next exhibits.

Not so long after the two had left, another group of four visitors also stopped at the same painting of Edward Rammour. They stood exactly where Y/N and Jason had as they admired the work.

“Edward Rammour sure looked hot when he was young.”

“Oh, please, Sarah, I look much better!”

Sarah rolled her eyes at her boyfriend and turned to the others to ask for their opinions. “Jeff, Harry, what do you think? Who looks better, Mitch or this guy here?”

“I’ll go with this guy, because Harry will definitely choose Mitch, right Haz?” Jeff asked, but when he heard only silence, he turned around and saw the youngest member in the group still texting on the phone.

“Jesus, put your phone away, mate!” Mitch grumbled.

Harry was still too occupied to even look up when he said, “Just a minute, I have to reply to Lillie.”

Mitch heaved out a sigh. Without warning, he yanked the phone away from Harry’s hands, causing the famous singer to gasp in shock. Harry’s quick attempt to get his phone back was prevented for Mitch was faster to already had it shoved into Sarah’s handbag, which he was holding.

“Text your girlfriend when you get home, mate! You’ve been on the phone ever since we got into the car!”

“Alright, alright, no more texting,” Harry gave Mitch his word, then crossed his arms and turned to the art work at last. “What were you guys saying about this painting again?”

“Sarah said this guy over here looked better than me!”

Harry breathed out a chuckle as he assured his older friend, “It’s only a painting, he probably didn’t look like this in real life. So I’d say you are more good-looking.”

“No way! These facial features seem pretty real to me!” Sarah argued, then leaned a bit closer to get a better look at the details on the piece of art. The moment she turned back and locked eyes with Harry, her smile vanished all at once.

“What?” Harry was so confused by Sarah’s reaction. She had to look back and forth a couple more times at the painting and then at him to make sure she made no mistake before drawing the conclusion.

“Harry, the eyes in this painting are identical to yours!"

Sarah’s discovery caught the attention of the whole group. Everyone stepped closer to observe the features on the masterpiece to compare with their friend’s. No one, apart from Harry himself, could disagree, for the eyes in the artwork were indeed Harry’s carbon copy.

“I don’t see it! You guys are just messing with me!” Harry breathed out a heavy laugh in response, still his friends insisted him on taking a second look because they were all sure there was not a single difference.

Mitch said something, then it was Sarah, then Jeff added something else in the conversation and all three of them burst into laughter. However, Harry could not make out a single word they said. All of their voices seemed to be muffled by his own thoughts for he was now too drawn to this unusual painting to pay attention to anything else.

Out of nowhere, a random person bumped hard into Harry, forcing him to snap back to reality in an instant! He didn’t even catch a glimpse of her face because the girl ran off as soon as she’d mumbled a quick apology to him.

“Y/N! Wait, I’m sorry!” A young man called out when the girl reached the exit of the room, apparently he was going after her. 

The pair disappeared behind the door, leaving four people here confused, and a bit amused by what had just happened. It wouldn’t have been something too bizarre if they hadn’t been in an art museum, but dramatic couples could cause a scene any where so Harry didn’t think much of that. He turned back to his friends and suggested they should probably go now. 

So the group happily moved on to the next painting. For an unknown reason still, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about the King’s portrait.

[bananagator]

The Next Day

AU: Cat Rohan’s Bizarre Adventures - Rohan is afflicted by a Stand that starts making him act like a cat.  Mostly just an excuse for cat!Rohan shenanigans but inadvertently deals with a minor unresolved plot point.

Characters: Kishibe Rohan, Hirose Koichi

Part 2/--?

[Click for Part 1]

In which Rohan is not a morning person.  Feel free to send me messages!!

The sun shone merry upon the town of Morioh.  The people of Morioh bustled about in the morning hours, many of them listening to the cheerful tune of Morioh Radio as they made breakfast and tended to their daily routines.  However, there was one resident of Morioh who was not doing any of these things. 

One of Morioh’s many landmarks was a certain 3.4 acre house.  This house was the residence of a famous manga artist.  The house had many features including but not limited to a spacious kitchen, dining area, and various rooms all with expensive furniture, the likes of which could not be purchased in a normal store.  On the upper landing, in the bedroom, there was a bed, and on that bed there was a heap of blankets.  And underneath those blankets was a big lump.  The lump did not move.

Nothing could be seen underneath the blankets except a tuft of green hair, like a patch of grass poking out from the cracks of a sidewalk.  From the depths of the blanket mountain came an almost imperceptible groan.  Kishibe Rohan did not open his eyes.  He could scarcely breathe with his face pressed into the pillow, but he also didn’t want to exert the energy to move.  So Rohan continued to stay hunched down and miserable.  He groaned again. 

His arms and legs ached.  He did not open his eyes.  At last he willed himself to squirm a bit.  He continued squriming until, by degrees, he was lying on his side.  He let out another groan, just for the sake of doing so.  A full thirty minutes passed.  He let out a big yawn.  One eye opened a crack and immediately shut in regret.  The sun’s rays had never been more unwelcome, even obscured partly by blankets over his face.

Slowly shifting his stiff limbs, he attempted to slide towards the edge of his bed.  The sensation of blankets weighing on him was almost pleasant, yet Rohan knew he couldn’t stay in all day.  He wormed back and forth until he was on the edge of the bed.  Heavy eyelids drooped.  There was a crick as he tried to lift his head.

“Never mind,” he muttered and then yawned again.  Another thirty minutes passed in silence.  He let his feet stick out over the edge of his bed and let gravity do its work until he was half-twisted out of bed.  He freed his trapped arm and stiffly pushed himself up.  The blankets fell off his head.  At last he was sitting up.  He focused on the sensation of the floor.  Rohan couldn’t remember taking off his socks the night before, but he obviously must have.

He arched his back, his shirt riding up ever so slightly.  His toes curled and he cautiously made to stand.  He swayed slightly but managed to not fall down.  Rohan shuffled across the room and shut his eyes in irritation as he passed by the window. 

He slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.  As he glanced into the mirror, he came to a stop.  He leaned in closer and stared at his haggard reflection.  His eyes were sunken; the dark lines under them were so pronounced as to seem like the mask of a raccoon.  His hair stuck out all over like a paintbrush that had been left carelessly in a cup and forgotten overnight.  He hadn’t looked this terrible since the incident with Highway Star was the thought he had, but he brushed it away because it was something he’d rather not think about if he could help it.

Rohan turned away from the mirror and tilted his head side to side.  He crossed his arms stiffly over his head, grimacing all the while, and tugged his shirt off.  In the reflection of the mirror, the contours of his back could be clearly seen.  He was not especially muscular, but neither was he completely lacking either, which was somewhat surprising given his profession and tendency to forget things like eating or sleeping. 

Aside from his lean figure, there was nothing all that remarkable about Kishibe Rohan’s body, save for one little oddity.  Traversing the entire length of his shoulder blades was a scar.  It was a scar that was neither jagged nor rough to the touch.  It was not a burn wound, either.  This scar was razor thin.  However, what made the scar unusual was not its size, nor the fact that it was as perfectly smooth as the penmanship of a calligrapher.  What made the scar so unusual was its shape.  It undulated across his shoulders almost like radio waves, up and down, up and down...  And at the peak of each wave was something still more unusual: a perfect impression of a circle.  It was as though someone had taken a cigarette lighter receptacle from a car and pressed it deep into Rohan’s flesh no less than ten times.

Rohan tilted his head and arched his shoulders this way and that to loosen up.  The waves on his shoulders seemed to writhe and dance with an eerie kind of sentience as he worked his shoulder blades back and forth.  It was downright alien in nature.  If one were able to peer even more closely at the exact halfway point between Rohan’s shoulders, the edges of two circles met.  It was not merely one scar, it was two perfectly symmetrical ones joined together.  Rohan’s fingers worked away and brushed against the upper part of the scar.  He paused slightly and his eyes which had been bleary flickered with the distant memory of something unpleasant whispering in his ear.  He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder.  The moment passed and he resumed stretching.

Rohan hooked his thumb into the waistline of his baggy pants and tugged them them down just past his bony hips.  He didn’t want to bother lifting his legs or stooping over to take off his pants.  So instead he began to wriggle his hips languidly and let gravity slide them down his legs until they rested around his ankles.  He yawned again and delicately lifted each foot as though preparing to try on a pair of high heel shoes at Kame-Yu. 

He stood on the stone tile floor of his bathroom wearing nothing but his form-fitting bespoke boxer shorts.  They were, like almost everything he owned, embellished with pen nibs, each made out of 24 karat gold.  The fabric of Rohan’s boxers hugged his curves tighter than spandex yet boasted a softness greater than the finest cashmere.  It was incredibly comfortable.  Maybe too comfortable as it were.

Rohan brushed his fingertips down his legs and pleasured in the sensation of the fabric.  He became increasingly reluctant to take them off, even though he knew he couldn’t wear these boxers while showering.  While surprisingly durable, it was made of material that required careful hand-washing.  Pressure from a shower head would prove disastrous.  He pursed his lips.  Then his knit brows turned up in delight as he came up with an obvious solution to his dilemma.

Heaven’s Door!! Rohan used his Stand to write a command on the “pages” of his boxers: Remove yourself from Kishibe Rohan’s body and fold perfectly in the laundry basket without getting damaged!! The underwear complied and flew off like a shot put.  It should have been impossible, but it nestled in the laundry basket without any rips or tears.

“Don’t underestimate Kishibe Rohan!!” he declared triumphantly.  So elated was he by his ingenuity, that he made a critical mistake: he stepped directly into the shower and turned on the water.  There were two reasons why this was a bad idea.  In the first place, one should only step into a shower when the water temperature is just right.  Plus, if Rohan remembered with any clarity the events of the day before, he might have been more careful with water. 

The water hit at full force, ice cold.  Rohan let out a terrible yowl and cracked his shin on the edge of the bathtub as he leapt to escape.  If he’d landed on the luxurious plush bath rug instead of the smooth stone floor, he might have fared better.  Lacking that in his favor, he nearly cracked his head open on the floor as he slipped.  The bathroom counter stopped his wild movements at the cost of soon-to-be-bruised ribs, a stubbed foot, and a scraped shin (not the one he’d cracked a moment prior).  Numerous curses wanted to make themselves heard, but all he could do was emit a drawn-out keening noise. 

Rohan shivered wet and naked and miserable in his bathroom.  At last he limped over to the shower.  He held out a finger under the water and yanked it back; the water by now was scalding.  It was only then that he was sharply reminded of his burnt tongue.  Everything came rushing back.  He tugged on the handle to lower the temperature.  Every few minutes he held out the tip of his finger and yanked it back.  Then the water became too cold...  Then it was too hot again... and so it went for about ten minutes.

He made a face.  From the back of the bathroom closet, he pulled out a basin.  He filled it up with water and used Heaven’s Door to make the water the right temperature.  He irritably sat on the edge of the bathtub washing himself the old-fashioned way.  I wonder if I should call someone to come take a look at the water systems...  It must be broken.

Rohan dried off and made valiant attempts to tame his unruly hair with a brush.  He considered using Heaven’s Door again but was too stubborn.  He took great pride in his appearance, and using his Stand felt like cheating.  No, that wasn’t quite right.  He felt as though someone had it out for him (which was true at least some of the time), and he didn’t want to give that metaphorical someone the satisfaction of knowing he was admitting defeat.  By the time he got dressed, one would never have guessed how disastrous his appearance had been originally.  The only indication of his harrowing trials was the fact that he still had worn lines under his eyes, but he felt somewhat better.

Ignoring the work studio, Rohan went downstairs for something to eat.  Remembering his burnt tongue led him to the conclusion that cold, leftover miso soup was probably the safest option.  He carefully lapped up the soup with his tongue, too preoccupied with the task to reflect on how bizarre it was to drink soup this way.  He drank every last drop and pretended not to know there wasn’t more soup.  He sighed, washed the bowl, and put it away.

Reluctantly he went back up the stairs to his work studio.  He stood on the landing outside the door with his arms at his sides.  For the first time, he knew what it felt like to be intimidated by a door.  He never would've guessed it would be a door in his own house.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to his work studio.  The scattered pages of his ruined manuscript greeted him, but Rohan tried not to look.  He tried not to hear the crinkle of paper underfoot as he went to sit at his desk.

Rohan pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began to sketch quietly.  Heaven’s Door manifested and watched him work.  Rohan looked at the page, handed it up to his Stand, and it smiled gently at him.  He tried to smile back.  He really did.  He turned away, pulled out another sheet, and said, “It’s still not good enough.  At this rate I won’t be able to re-submit my manuscript on time.”  Heaven’s Door’s smile fell.  It held the page closer to its small body.

“I can’t afford to keep taking a break,” Rohan said, more to himself this time.  “I’m afraid.  If I... If I can’t make something that people will read, I...”  His pen stopped moving.  “This one’s no good either,” he said.  He brushed it off his desk and pulled out another blank sheet.  Heaven’s Door swooped down and caught hold of the page before it could flutter to the floor.  Yet it said nothing.  The only voice in the studio was the steady scratching of a pen.

--

Rohan set down his pen and rubbed his stiff shoulders.  He got out of his chair and surveyed the scattered papers on the floor.  Wordlessly he began to gather up the pages one by one.  Once more he sat at his desk and looked through the pages.  He marveled at his craftsmanship, and then he wondered how he had pulled it off so well.  All at once it seemed as though someone else had done it.  He knew they were his drawings, yet the possibility of replicating what he had drawn seemed almost nonexistent.

He made to toss the sheaf of paper but tucked them back into their envelope and put it aside instead.  He frowned and left the studio.  Heaven’s Door managed to set his new, half-finished pages on the desk before vanishing.

Rohan went to the kitchen.  He never made it there.  A shrill noise jarred him from his moodiness.  Brrring!! Brrrring!! Rohan jumped clear out of his skin (a solid three feet in fact) and skidded wildly across his floor.  Rohan summoned Heaven’s Door and whirled about looking for the enemy.  He half-bared his teeth instinctively.  The phone rang and rang.  Rohan blinked and straightened up a bit.  He padded closer to the phone and gingerly picked up the receiver.

Click!!

“...........”

“........... Hello?”

“...........”

“.... Hello? Rohan-sensei? Are you there?”

“.... Yes?” Rohan grimaced.

“Oh.  Oh!! I thought maybe the connection was a bit...”  Koichi paused.  “Um.  so, uh...”

“What do you want?” Rohan said.  For a moment he was afraid that Koichi had hung up on him.

“W-well I just wanted to, you know, check up on you.  Are you, uh...  I mean, how are you doing?”

“Fine.”

There was a pause.

“So things are going okay?”

It seemed slightly redundant of a question, but Rohan knew what Koichi was trying to ask.

“Of course!!” he said.  He tried to ignore how much his eardrums were hurting.  “In fact, I’ve been making good progress on my manuscript today.”

“R-Really?” Koichi’s voice seemed to brighten.  Rohan felt worse.

“Obviously!!” Rohan said.

“That’s great to hear!! Uh, in that case,” Koichi said.  “Are you free today?”

“Today?” Rohan echoed.

“Er, yeah.  I figured everyone needs a break now and again.”

It was Koichi’s turn to fear that Rohan had hung up on him.

“... Hello? Rohan-sensei? Are you still there?”

“Y-Yeah...”

“You know what, it doesn’t have to be today,” Koichi said sheepishly.  “I know you’re probably still very busy.  Sorry to bother y--”

“I want to go!!” Rohan interrupted.  “Really.  I’m not busy.  You’re not a bother to me at all.”

“Alright,” Koichi said.  “Then, why don’t we grab lunch somewhere?” To Rohan’s great relief, Koichi didn’t ask any more questions about the manuscript.

“Sure.  I’ll see you soon.  Yeah.  Bye.”

The second Rohan hung up the phone, he groaned.  “What was I thinking? Well, I guess it can’t be helped.”  He thought about his unfinished work.  “Maybe Koichi-kun is right.  Maybe I do need to take a break.”  Rohan sighed.  “At the least I should bring my sketchbook.  I might get some new ideas...”