via holyaches on twitter / “dinosaur” - richard siken / “i’m your man” - mitski / “let dead dogs lie” - silas denver melvin / “it’s impossible to keep white moths” - emily skaja / wikipedia page for leash / “like a dog” - by lacywhitebunny on tiktok
The stigma of self-inserts is so harmful to the creative process. Relax. Admit it. Everything you make is derivative of yourself, always, no exceptions. You can turn the mirror into tinier and tinier shards or you can make it as big as you want to reflect as much as you want. At the end of the day it's always going to show you inside of it. Pretending otherwise is stupid.
It's about doing it in a way so that the reader doesn't know.
If I read the book and come to a moment where "oh, this is the author writing about themselves" my interest in the story drops by about 300%. Don't make it obvious and you'll be fine.
Nope. You're missing the point still. Stop acting like it's acceptable behavior for you to call the earnest creation of art "lame". Power fantasy characters are rad as fuck. Everybody loves seeing John Wick do that shit. You're not just being needlessly rude and harmful to others, you're also just flat out fuckin wrong.
A letter inked on tear-stained parchment, lacking both signature and addressee. The handwriting is elegant and dignified, but closer inspection reveals broken lines and blotting that suggests the author was forced to stop and start in several places, as if incapacitated by sudden pain.
There remains something utterly inimitable about the quality of the night in this oppressive place. ‘Night’, I name it, all too aware that the hour may be nothing of the sort. Perhaps, at this very moment, the merry sun beats down upon the hills and dales above. Perhaps birds sing in the trees. It has begun to seem almost alien, this concept of a world in which the light comes from overhead. No longer do I fret that one careless misstep might see me stumble to a sudden and magmatic end; rather, the glow of the well-warmed lithic mantle now appears as friendly and as comforting to this weary wizard as a crackling hearth.
Last night, I dreamed that you and I were stood upon the bluff above the druids’ grove, the sea breeze swiftly wicking any evidence of our struggle in attaining such a vantage point. The quiet patter of my ordinarily infrequent dreams has become a deluge, I’m afraid, with the orb poorly contained. In this dream, you smiled at me, before touching your hand to my cheek. Your eyes appeared to me as crystal waters, lent unearthly lustre by the low-draping stars, and I confess somewhat regretfully that I could not hold your gaze. I am not yet certain whether my difficulty was born of shame or fear, or simply because I could not bear to look at you, as brightly illuminated as you were; every scar inlaid with shadows and every fine hair on your skin embossed. Perhaps I realised, even mired in the fluid illogic of dreaming, that one cannot depict in loving detail what one has only experienced as fleeting impressions.
It is for this reason that I yearn, now, to see the sky again - not to cry out for deliverance before the end, nor even to remind myself of what it is to live beneath the glow of the star-strewn heavens. No; if I was to stake my claim upon a dying wish, to enjoy that dubious privilege of the imminently condemned, I would ask only that you sit with me, and allow me to look upon your face thereby. Although I dare not provoke pernicious fortune with a laundry list of hopes, it would gladden this wizard’s frail heart if you might smile, then, and impress upon the last of my imaginings the ring of truth. The radiance of the real.
imagine your pompous self-important ass of a colleague finally fumbles it with the goddess of magic, he goes into isolation for two years, is stripped of most his magic, and youre revelling in the schadenfreude, only for him to show up with a baddie hanging off his arm, skin glowing, a stable job, a hero of baldur's gate, a new, humble(r), #blessed 🙏 attitude, and a wedding invite. id chew off my arm.
[ IF NO ONE HAS EVER TOLD YOU ABOUT YOUR FATE, I WILL BE THE FIRST | pathologic ]
This is my entry in the Seraphiism '23 event! By of course, the lovely @seraphiism . I'm trying out a new format/writing style, so lemme know what you think <3
WARNINGS: A little blood, nothing graphic WORD COUNT: 3.2K (This got away from me)
{ I.THE BOUGH KEEPER IS SACRIFICE FIRST, SOLDIER SECOND, AND LAST OF ALL MAN}
And least of all, yours. The weight of eternity weighs heavily on his shoulders, but he presses on, and you mourn him for it. He pays the price of honor enacted by a far lesser man of his past, takes up arms and spills blood in the scorn of the divine. Because of Destiny’s decree.
You try to imagine it–eternal penance for a crime you could hardly remember. You imagine bearing a sword and a curse, one and the same, for hundreds of years, and your heart recoils at the misery that wraps around it. You can hardly believe that that is to be his fate-you refuse to. It cannot truly be his choice, not one made in any good faith at least. Or perhaps any faith at all.
You suspect he lost it ages ago.
“Do you ever think…” You begin hesitantly. “That you could leave it behind? All of it?”
Dainsleif, your lover, sets down his book. It's one of the ones you’ve kept around, and it seems he finally has time to peruse them, however borrowed that time it is.
“All of it?”
“...Yeah.”
“No. No.” He reiterates. And he smiles for you, because he knows how much it makes your heart warm.
“I can't abandon my duty, neither can I abandon you. They are one and the same. You are…woven into me. Cutting you off from my life would be cutting away the fabric of my soul. I could never.”
“...Why do you feel they’re one and the same?” A weight on his heart. Perhaps.
He fingers the worn pages of the book, his eyes dark in thought.
“I have a responsibility to the world, and you are a part of the world.”
“Those two sound so very far removed. I'm just one person, but if I could decide, my sole desire would be just to rest with you.”
He chuckles, good naturedly, like always. “If the world was ruled by our desires, I'd have been forever and solely yours already. And there would be no gods, but you.” For a man who rages and detests the divine, you’re not sure how to feel about that.
“But alas, the world often ignores our most fervent desires, unless we force it to acknowledge us that is.” A weight tugs his brow down, and his features buckle under it. Something like grief. “And that…is a very hard thing to do.”
“Alas.”
You nod, and return to your wayward gaze out the window. You imagine a life where he lives for you, and nothing else. You try to deny in your mind that he would want anything else. What could he find out in the world that he cannot find in your arms? A cursed man, believing himself content in penance and self flagellation, of service to the world at large.
But he is yours. You deny the world in his place.
{II.THERE IS A ROT THAT REPLACES THE MARROW OF HIS BONES}
It is woven into him, and he cannot escape it. He has long stopped trying.
It wears and tears at his soul, and marks his skin in scars, and he continues on. Fate has decreed that he will do so forevermore, until the day the abyss drags him down into its depths, its spindly fingers already grasping at him in twisting, molted blues. But he tries, because when you kiss the expanse of cursed flesh, a blissful smile on your face, a sudden rush of heat makes his skin prickle. It’s not love, though he loves you. It's rage.
Its disgust, and sick vitriol. You deserve better, you deserve more. You don't need this broken tapestry of pieces clinging onto some semblance of humanity. You don't need your nights interrupted by his nightmares, or his form clinging to your doorway, bloodied and offering the only tribute he knows to your altar.
He does not worship the Gods, but he knows something more divine, having long since slipped into the pews of your chapel.
“...I’m sorry.” You rush towards him, and he leans into the shoulder you offer him, letting you pull him into your bathroom where he stains the white porcelain.
“If you were sorry–” you huff as you set him down. “You wouldn’t get hurt so often.”
You pull out the first aid kit, and set to patching him up, removing layers of clothing to see the hurt beneath. He hardly winces, but his heart tugs.
“...You know I can't help myself.”
“You’re just one man, Dainsleif, there's too much for you to do on your own. And we both know this is about more than just your honor, or duty.”
“...Yet I am beginning to wonder,” he mumbles as you wipe away the blood. “Whether it has always been my fate to deny Fate.”
“What do you mean.”
You sound too upset for it to sound anything like a question. A demand, perhaps. He sighs. He is tired. So tired. He’s always been.
“Whether Fate is truly something we can overcome, or whether my rage is just a by-product of providence. If it was all preordained.” He shuts his eyes.
“The Gods that cursed us, the people and the nation I failed, my curse, my duty and obligation; I wonder if you too are foredoomed, just another predilection.”
“Is that why you do all this? To prove, what? Fate wrong?”
He doesn't answer, but he does open his eyes to see your mouth flatten. You continue patching him up, taking care of him, but he sees the way your eyes tremble.
“...Or perhaps just self-actualization?”
“...I have an obligation to the world, and to you–”
“Don’t say that, don’t pretend that this is for me, this is not for me. You’ve been doing this long before I was a thought on the breeze.” Centuries wear down his memory, but the tug of your mouth and brow pulls at him like a drawn bow, piercing through the fog of his fatigue.
Your shoulders shake next. “So if I asked you to stop, would you?”
He doesn't answer, even when the tears spill from your eyes.
“I don't care for fate, destiny or whatever. I care about you. Keep your honor, keep your anger, but stay with me. Is that not enough?”
“....It’s for you, too.”
“...I don't appreciate being your excuse, Bough Keeper.”
Celestia always watches, but even he cannot help but utter a prayer to some unknown god, that their eyes do not fall on this wayward moment.
He is fine with cursing the stars, his fate, with breaking body; he is fine with letting the heavens bear witness to his rage.
But not his grief.
It settles, thick and cloying on his tongue. The sour tang drowns out everything else.
{III.HE WILL NOT CHOOSE YOU. WHEN DESTINY TUGS AT HIS CLOAK AND BIDS HIM LOOK, HE WILL TURN FROM YOU}
You know he wishes he never met you. That he never fell in love with you. You try to take it as a compliment.
You would give anything to remove the burden on his shoulders, if only he were not so adamant on carrying it. You do not see the reason why–you would rather love a coward than mourn a legend. You would rather he stays home with you, in your arms, than leave and come back, over and over and over and over again.
You know he wishes he never knew you.
Dainsleif, he holds you, works in the garden with you, bathes with you, loves you–but his hands are tense, and his eyes stray to the world outside your window. You at least know that when he is gone, that he leaves because he is thinking of you, that he cannot handle being perceived by you for too long; It renders him asunder.
“Like a predator, staring at the open carcass of my soul,” he once said. “You just make me feel so…”
‘So what?’ You had wanted to ask, but you had known better, didn't he just tell you? So you acquiesce, but on the inside you ache. You plead and you beg, and you don't let the words spill past your lips; You hold them in your chest and your eyes and watch him leave.
You trade chaste kisses for letters in your mailbox, blissful sighs for dandelion fluff on the wind. Your love is like a hot air balloon, you cannot keep him close but you can keep him tethered even as the rope frays and tears at your hands.
Welcome him back with them open, and settle for apologetic kisses on your knuckles, from your knight, for a ring on your finger. No god would hold your marriage sacred, anyways, despite your tears.
“And what knowledge have you gleaned from your travels this time, my love?” You smile. Please don’t leave me again.
“Nothing that I don’t already know dearest.” I’ll do anything. Just give me the word. Just give me the knife.
“Which is?” Why don't you ever ask me? You know I'll do it.
His eyes, so deep and somber. They know, but they don't answer. “Fate has foretold that I will return here, as always.”
“Of course.” And he will always leave.
{IV. WHAT IS IT LIKE TO LOVE SOMEONE WHO IS ALWAYS RUNNING, ONE FOOT OUT THE DOOR? TIME DOES NOT SIT STILL, FOR NO ONE.}
Celestia is always watching.
Even here in this quiet moment, where the night holds vigil to the stars' homily, as they drag their forms past that pale corpse of a moon.
It's a still moment. He has removed you from his arms and you continue to sleep peacefully, your chest rising and falling, your heart the drum that starts off all his nights and days.
He is going to lose you, but before that he will lose himself.
Even now, he could feel the curse, like an ever burrowing parasIte, slowly consuming him. It replaces him. Eats away at him, fills him with rot, and he has the audacity to find solace in your garden. You dig out the rot and replace it with something far kinder, but that doesn't stop the curse from growing.
He is like an inteyvat flower. Hardened and unable to wilt unless placed back in the soil of his home. You’ve decided to love a dying man, and stand vigil, always, at his never ending wake.
Sunshine from a past life. Peers who trusted him and stood at his side and back, carrying the weight of honor. He doesn't remember them, but he remembers the sunshine. He remembers how he failed them. He remembers only what he can and only knows what he should. And he knows this tale like the back of his hand, the curve of your cheek.
This was fated to end in tragedy.
You move in your sleep and he startles. You roll over, and Dainsleif waits until you settle, to breathe easy again.
He can not reconcile who he is with the man he was before he met you. He doesn’t wish to go back, but he muses on how much easier it would be. He could deny the Gods, defy Celestia, the Archons, even Heavenly principles, even Destiny. But he cannot choose to remain alongside you as well.
He mourns this indecisive fool you turned him into. He will not survive without you, but that is alright because it has to be. Not every story has a happy ending, but every story needs a narrator. He'll re-read your scripture and memorize your chapters for as long as you remain, and even after.
And he will remain long after you are gone.
{V. IF NO ONE HAS EVER TOLD YOU ABOUT YOUR FATE, I WILL BE THE FIRST}
The sunlight paints the fields honey and gold, and soon it will be time to return to your little cottage. There will be cherry wine waiting on the table, and some mending you still need to finish, but beyond that you take in this moment, drink it down greedily; an open bud unfurling like a fist to an open palm, demanding the world its due.
Your lover on the other hand does not share the same attitude. His head rests in your lap, but you feel the restless energy in him, and stay still in the hopes of encouraging him to do the same. It doesn’t work.
“Settle down, Dain.”
“I am calm.”
“No you’re not. You’re fidgeting.”
“...I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave soon.” Ah. As always.
“Then all the more reason to relax now, while we have the time.” He scoffs at that word, time. He rises to meet your eyes, and you smile at his mussed hair.
“I might be away longer than I usually am. I’m not sure how long I'll be away for.”
You crack a knuckle in anxiety. “But you’ll be back, of course?”
He only pauses for the slightest of breaths. “Of course. Will you still want me back?” Your face takes on an exasperated look, but he waves it away.
“Do you not get tired of waiting, always? Are you not tired of constantly grieving, of having to love this broken piece of tapestry?” You are shaking your head before he's finished.
“No. If you are torn I will mend you. If you’re just a piece of tapestry then I’ll stitch you onto something better.”
“Leave behind these metaphors and poetry. I would rather believe you pity me rather than actually love me.”
The words hit a chord deep inside you. It carves a gorge, and anger rushes in to fill it.
“So what? You would rather me love a stranger? Someone who would understand me less than you do?“ You stare him down.
“..If I must–”
“‘Must’? Well you don’t. And by whose order? Whose words? Is that truly something you would allow, or what you tell yourself you should let happen?” His face doesnt twist, but you know the tint of misery that spreads under his skin. It's blue-black, like a bruise, like the stretch of his right arm.
“No. You will truly be damned thrice over if you allow that. You are so content to let the world, to let fate, decide how things are and should be–I don't believe in that. My fate will be what I say it is, and I say you will be with me forevermore. If you must leave, then leave, but come back to me, don’t let go of me!”
“I am ruined,” A wave rustles the grass, like a crowd gone silent. “I am ruined, cursed, damned as you say. You do not want this. You should not want this.”
“I don't believe that, and you shouldn’t either. Who has told you this, has Celestia personally decreed your fate? Or do you continue to let tragedy be the narrator of your life?” You grasp his face, pull him closer to your eyes.
“I have you. I want you. And it is reciprocated, As long as that is, things will not change. I refuse anything else.”
His eyes go back and forth between yours, and he sighs.
“As long as I breathe, I will return to you. But that does not change the fact that this was never supposed to be. If not by destiny’s nature than my own; It is only a matter of time before this too, ends.”
“Then forget what fate or destiny has told you. I am your fate, I am both your penance and redemption. If no one has ever told you about your fate then I shall be the first.”
Ans he is drawn, he listens like your words are rapture, like the first believer in the front pew of a sermon. So you smooth back his hair, and speak a prophecy.
“We will go home, and pick the tomatoes in the garden. They’re ripe now, and we’ll use them in our dinner. We’ll wash the dishes, unwind. Bathe. I’ll wash your hair and you’ll scrub my back. The sun should have set by then, so we can go to bed. As it gets darker I could read to you by candlelight, or, we could make love.”
“We’d need another bath, and to change the sheets then,” he mumbles, the slight pink hue high over his cheekbones.
“So would you rather we make love earlier? Or in the bath to save time?” You grin, and it draws soft breaths of laughter from your lover. You go on with your spiel.
“We’ll go to sleep together as always, and in the morning you’ll be baptised by the morning dew and the fresh brewed coffee. Much like today, you’ll laze in the fields with me, and when the time comes for you to leave, I'll give you my blessing, and my hopes as always, for you to come back to me.”
“So forget duty, when you are with me. If you are cursed I will be your balm. If there is rot in you I will scrape it out, and use it as fertilizer for my garden.“ He scoffs under his breath.
“You think this is a burden easy to unlade.”
“Yes, if you would only just let it. For by my decree, the Twilight sword shall be laid to rest in my presence, for I will be it's sheathe.” You only half jest and he looks at you quizzically.
“Did you just make an innuendo–”
“--And your words shall always be sweet, for my kisses shall honey your breath.” You kiss him to emphasize, or to quiet him, and he leans into you with a shudder, like a cat seeking affection, only something more desperate.
“If you care not for starlight, I will fasten you a crown of dandelions,” you continue. “And garb you in silks and sighs.”
“Fanciful daydreams,” He mutters, eyes closed. You trace the faint veins on his eyelids , violet blue in the dappled sunlight. 'Like crocuses.'
“Not when I’m with you,” you shake your head. “I’ll make them a reality, I swear. On all the love I have for you.”
He shakes his head in answer, a denial ready on his lips.
“The Twilight sword––”
“As I said– Shall be laid to rest in my presence.” You look at him as if to dare him to refute. He doesn’t.
You turn tender. You scot closer, practically in his lap now, if only to see his lashes flutter, pupils dilating.
“If you do not worship a god you may worship me, as I do you. That is your fate.”
“...Alright.” He sighs then, shakes his head, as to rid himself of the trance you put him under. He stands, and offers a hand to you.
“Alright then. Let your words be what I live by–I am yours, if you so say.”
i want to go home. i will always want to go home. even when i am at home i want to go home. but i’m not really thinking of a place, it’s more that feeling of everything finally being over, of seeing the light in the windows of your house on a cold night, of being safe, the relief of leaving a party you’re not enjoying, like when you felt sick at school and they sent you home, or when you got upset at a sleepover and they called your parents. i want my mam to come get me. i want to go home.
i like to fork myself by daul kim // road music by richard siken // art by beth fuller // sarah addison allen // why be happy when you could be normal? by jeanette winterson // poetry by @jonismitchell
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
romaincrisis
stormborns
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