Nighttime Flower

Petal'd platinum dressed in slants of light, he becomes a blossom beneath his darling moon.

[halfjudas]

oof. I apologize for being dead on this blog; suffice to say that my writing muse went kaput for a while, but I’m slowly in the process of gaining it back so if you want to plot out a thread then feel free to like this post and I’ll send a message over im ;;v;;

[halfjudas]

i drank gogurt for breakfast and in hindsight it is not my healthiest life choice

loveiwis burns in these bones, yet the limits of enablement can onlyreach so far before snapping in twain—before a nerve snaps withinLancelot du Lac and the confines of self-control, the pillar uponwhich his chivalry and clarity remain steadfast, crumbles bottom totop; vexed in manners surpassing the countless duels againstcountless evil and good knights in his king and queen’s names; wearyin besting many a foe and fell beast to prove his worthiness amongthe Knights of the Round; jaded in risking life and limb whilstspearheading a quest for a glorified chalice; facing humiliation,defeat, drenched in Camelot’s crumbling shadow to birth another sideof himself representative of not simply his shame but all theresentment a man can wield against his most beloved.

Lancelot doesnot reflect moonlight to hear cursed things from his king, yet all he canfeel is age greying his hairs and deepening already-set wrinkles (theknight is youngerthan Arthur, yet he feels infinitely older ).

❝Ithought you knew how to cook. why must you do such things toyourself?❞

[halfjudas]

my excalibur currently has no powers to it so i'm trying to find ways to repurpose it. my current thoughts are: pizza cutter, letter opener, paperweight, and shelf

❝would that not be considered sacrilege? I fear that you might be struck by the heavens for insolence.❞ he laughs but it fails to reach his eyes. Lancelot dares not consider the ramifications of sullying the sanctity of a divine blade (Arondight never leaves his side, ever at arm’s width )—the very concept of repurposing Excalibur to naught more than a mere paperweight singing heresy to any godfearing, any logical, individual. as if fearing the concept of god loosing fell wrath he peers over his shoulder, apprehension remaining upon the stern visage as he turns back ( sinner’s course made him wise, mindfulness tempered to his steel ).

❝I ask only that you exercise caution if you are to commit to such… shenanigans.❞

[halfjudas]

oof. I apologize for being dead on this blog; suffice to say that my writing muse went kaput for a while, but I’m slowly in the process of gaining it back so if you want to plot out a thread then feel free to like this post and I’ll send a message over im ;;v;;

[halfjudas]

examine! Arthur Pendragon

that one meme from like a month ago whoops || not accepting

youhold the moon in your hands, tides swallowed by his affection glowingbrightest in your darker nights.

heis as most saviors go: born of humble beginnings, anointed upon acrown of thorns to save the world. but even when his human shapemelts away ( when the world betrays him and leaves him fordead ) to reveal unknown divinity locked within the confinesof a burdened skeleton, you know the man who came from the lion, andyou worship that man as if he wereGod himself.

somewherein the machinations of greatness your knees felt weak afore the verypicture of all that you aspired, and he would inspire you tenfold toassume the blade. be his shield, his flower, hold steadfast to thegentle winds that tempest when you gaze upon him lovestruck. and soyou gave your heart to a love that wouldn’t turn you into an idleknight: you ventured and became noble—touched by wanderlust, avessel from which you espoused every ideal he engraved upon yourbroad back, just below the carvings of violet and nightshade.

beforehim you were a blank slate. a tablula rasaoutlined in faerie’s dust and all the false makings of the perfectgentleman in your joints (give your heart to alove that will turn you not into an idle knight ),knowing not the curse that came embedded upon those very teachings.they forged you for greatness, but failed to read between the lines.none of that was your fault. yourfault laid in that you loved too much—sometimes not enough—andfailed in supplanting your humanity with something holy, holier thanthe man you fell in love with on the eve of knighthood. your faultcame in the indecisiveness that silenced the guilty tongue when hehad the chance to confess all his wrongdoings then and there. (youwanted to tell him what he already knew, and the guilt made you to asorrowful beast )

youventured and became noble—but not even your god could rectify thatthe king forgave as God did.

youwere afraid, then, believing yourself satiated with just his presenceeven if it was unrequited (youwere both young fools, hands just centimeters away from brushing oneanother ).you convinced yourself that he could never return a love reserved forideals and for God, and you thought it fine. glory and adventuresoccupied the thoughts of his hand in yours, the scant memories ofsneaking away from kingly duties all you require to fell thecountless beasts that stand in your way.

youthought it fine for you were never idle.

hecalls you his flower and your head hangs low half parts humbled andashamed.

youreflect the best and worst parts of his ideals. a mirror crackedalong the edges from when Elaine robbed it (robbedeverything )from you, the times when Guinevere stifled your voice, when youyourself tossed it aside because there lived a dark day where youdespised Him with every inch of your being (youlook back on it now and regret the rosebuds stepped along the way ).maybe you couldn’t bear his light any longer: retinas were scarred bya perfection too impossible to endure amid all of your own cratersand imperfections scarring the words tattooed upon your back, thehone of your blade tarnished to obsidian.

stillhe reached out his hand to your sullen corse and goodness where youthought it nonexistent (thoughit took death’s pale hand to unveil your arrogance ).

hebelieved in the good man you pretended to be for so long, and in themoments where you embrace his warmth even you begin to believe thelies as truth. hislaughter sings like that of an angels’ choir: dandelions floating ina vast green sea, lemondrops—the infectious joy felt in a babe’ssmile. you take him in your hands and whisper oaths upon his wrist.you broke them once and still he forgave you for each and everysingle one. he calls you many things, emeralds crinkled to warmcrescents overflowing with a love you devour readily.

thirteenstars halo his golden fleece of hair. oneshines as the sun. oneis the mourning dove waiting in the forest next to a puddle of blood. one,regrettably, is the blade that struck his head.

andone is a dimmed light, wayward in his wanderings—made mad andmelancholic in search of the moon from his childhood, searching for asomething that never once existed to begin with.

suchzealotry might pin you a fool, but you alone know the truth. you knowas lips press upon that gentle brow and kiss invisible wounds hescarcely bothers to mention (toosad for these happier moments, palms nestled over one another inutter devotion )that even the worst ofmen might find salvation if he yearns to try.

[nempopo-post]

twitterのリクエストから…

[halfjudas]

halfchrist‌:

❝ My current record is four but I am always looking to improve. ❞

@halfjudas cont from you know what

❝I have only one question for you: why??❞

[halfjudas]

hey lance how many funnel cakes do you think i can fit into my mouth at once

❝…............................My King, for your safety—for my sanity—don’t.❞

[halfjudas]

sanctummilitis:

by the Water Styx, his reflection rode on the surface - at first, she believed it to be ghost. But not so; as her eyes arose to the article himself standing. Once, she would have been overwhelmed with remorse; that hellish war had enlightened her to just how much damage she had caused such a dear friend. The guilt would never cease; she owed it to him not to overlook it, as she had his actions; the very source of his madness. Her time in Chaldea, between the journey back to Camelot and Gudao’s successful summon of all Servants since had offered opportunity to do her duty as king. Though no guarantee was there the lake knight before her was of the same memory; she’d treat lightly, so that rippled be gentle and fade back into stillness.

“Sir Lancelot, it is good to see you. How thankful I am that the environment could be so peaceful for us to meet again”. an ache on her tongue, when thinking back to the anarchy of their reunions past, in desperation not to sour their chance where finally they could be without conflict hanging over their heads.

@halfjudas

a weary soul, his smile reflective of whatever anguish clings to him still like a phantom. certainly, this is the form of his king: the king he crossed blades with in numerous past lives, the king he forsook because she failed to understand, the king who saved him from his own madness—a king he scarcely deserves in all her kindness and mercy. he breathes in deep nerves of steel and prays to a God he steadily forgot for the will to address the voice. yet nothing surfaces when lips part to speak, naught save for a gnawing guilt whispering inconvenient truths ( far from worthy, far from guiltless, the last person ever permitted to address a victim of his humanity ) in his ear and fraying every last inch of resolve he had saved for this very moment. he dares to look away.

❝y-yes; so it is.❞

formalities keep him from faceplanting to concrete, bending the knee and pouring every last ounce of humility like sinner in a confessional, mourning his weakness in hopes of attaining some semblance of redemption behind a false king’s banner ( goddess wearing the flesh of a dear friend ), even if it meant renouncing his honor as a Knight of the Round Table. eyes narrow elsewhere, straining to make conversation where it shouldn’t exist.

❝…you seem well, My King. how are you faring with adapting to this environment?❞

[halfjudas]

halfchrist‌:

❝ No, it’s alright only… I should thank you for visiting. How are you settling into your own job? Better, I hope? ❞ A bleary gaze studied documents as to the recent cases in Isola. One would think its more lifelike inhabitants would be the only ones committing transgressions, yet even those who seemed more artificial than organic committed crimes. It was like clockwork, so Arthur thought. Eerie clockwork, as if the crimes committed were some manner of preordained occurrence which would continue to repeat itself so long as they remained in the city. Perhaps it was an odd notion, yet the crime seemed almost routine, as if someone were simulating human behavior. Uncanny, perhaps. No, it was best not to discuss it with Lancelot. He need not hear of Arthur’s current occupational stress (that and an office comprising only of himself and some interns was another matter entirely; caffeine might as well have become a good portion of Arthur’s bloodstream).

❝ Officer Du Lac is most certainly a title! Or, is it Officer Saber? Also an interesting title. ❞ Arthur placed his papers down atop his desk, fumbling for his next cup of coffee. The nature of his own existence did not require sleep, yet the sight of so much work lulled some muscle memory of his into desiring sleep, and the caffeine combated it to the best of its abilities. Perhaps not the healthiest thing, yet it helped. God above knew Arthur needed it. ❝ We should get dinner tonight if you’re not working a late shift. ❞

@halfjudas

tenderness seldom greets daylight the way it does whenever Arthur is present: effervescent countenance / a breath of summer field’s air, even within a room as desolate as this. he chuckles, fingers balled against mahogany and supporting his head while kneeling on the floor—pitying the poor king shouldering yet another world of burdens. ❝considering the… sparseness, it seems I made the right choice in coming.❞

a lighthearted jest, certes, smile manifest in a crooked smirk. ‘tis the wry notion of expecting crime amid the disarray of a city struggling to rebuild itself—re-establish itself—since its ruinous disposition upon their arrival approximately a month ago ( he ought to be optimistic, but Lancelot is all-too jaded by man’s folly, too entrenched within his own quagmire of transgressions to expect utopia—even with Arthur at the helm ). somewhere in God’s script He might deem it irony that Lancelot be made a police officer, but the uniform fits him as perfectly as his armor of white and gold, his hat discarded to a corner of the table once finding his perch at the right hand of Christ. he steals a glance to the king, flickering to how debonair he makes himself a dark palette, concern an all-encompassing thought when he witnesses exhaustion make a caffeine demon out of man.

❝…officially it would be Officer du Lac, but I would prefer to keep my True Name a relative secret—you of all people should understand why.❞ a pointed look; it doesn’t last. ❝as for the work itself… well, it’s not so different from my knighthood. the lack of fae witches chasing after my hand in marriage is a welcome change, however.❞ he recounts the times when Morgan le Fay trapped him in a tower ( a perilous instance then, humorous now ), as if that would persuade one so resolute in his loyalties to concede in the face of eternal confinement. and if not the oaths inscribed to his skeleton then certainly Guinevere’s ire, perchance even Arthur’s.

❝regardless,❞ his hand splays over the papers afore the other, the officer now leaning against the table in his full height, ❝if we were to get dinner, then perhaps we should consider one of those restaurants in Pearl Street. I recall there being a most peculiar café during one of my patrols…❞ aubergine meets aquamarine, smile growing clever, ❝there are these places called dog cafés, where you may eat whilst petting every manner of dog breed. what do you think, My King?❞

[halfjudas]

pelagaios‌:

@halfjudas  ╱  ♡. 

The past two years felt like a blur  —  three times over, taken  (  not returned  ).  Percy never thought that he’d feel homesick for camp; gods tucked away on Olympus sorely missed.  Strange, that in hindsight he would kill to be on another quest.  But hindsight was 20 / 20 they say, and it was not as if the demigod had any control over the situation.  Trying to cultivate some control over the outcome.  

Resting on the ruins of some long-forgotten building, staring out past the broken walls to the coastline far ahead  (  closing his eyes, he could almost pretend he was home  ).  The smell of summer strawberries, the rustle of dryads  —  none of that was present here.  There were no pegasi just up the hill, no naiads watching from the water.  The ring of celestial bronze from the area nothing but a slowly disappearing memory.  

It wasn’t like this was the first time.

Percy could distinctly remember the first  —  funny, when that was the time of his life where he had no memories at all  —  racing against the monsters on his tail.  Dropped into Lupa’s clutches, sent off to face down Rome.  Mere months later yet again snatched from the known and left  (  powerless  )  in a city beyond the gods.

Third time.  This was the third time.

Angrily chucking a bit of debris as far as it could go, annoyance written all over his face.  Even here he could tell home was so utterly far away.  At first had been a bit of hope  !!  this was an island, of course, and that meant water.  Lots of water.  Lots of ocean.  If nothing else this should have been what he knew  !!  instead it felt like another dimension, the crash of waves all but a foreign language.  The mists farther out proving that all too readily  (  again and again it sent him back  )  as the water almost laughed.  Beyond the gods again  —  what did he expect.  Flash of green in the dying light  (  behind him, somewhere, was the pit  ).  Part of him understood it was desperation; mind slowly forgetting what home even looked like.  He didn’t want to be fighting to recall Annabeth’s face, he didn’t want to remember that he hadn’t spoken to his mom is what felt like forever  (  bitter tears a threat at the memory of a voicemail  ).  Percy just wanted to sulk.

Footsteps behind him were very much unwelcome, tone tinged with a snarl.  Keeping his back firmly faced towards the stranger  —  eyes locked on the shoreline while hands gripped the edge of his perch.  ❝  Find somewhere else, this place is taken.  ❞  Go away written in his posture.

amid a crowd of faceless phantoms he finds kinship: a lacking within himself from long ago, a companion he dares not acknowledge for fear of learning some hideous truth about his wretched being.

there’s grace to his mourning: a watery corse laden with camellias; the cosmos weaving misfortune deep within the core of his being, nestled between his 4th and 5th ribs spinning a sad, sad quilt billowing like an ocean’s waves behind him. yet nothing can be done about those sorrowful eyes of his, robbed of parentage and his self long ago—wandering whilst led to a path of bloody glory, as if somewhere in the sanguine pool he might find a piece of purpose to call his own. and perhaps he did, at one point, learning that any man can make a murder virtuous if he believes in a cause enough, teetering over the line that demarcates passion and zealotry. but few will know of his talent for bloodshed as he maintains elegance as naturally as he does breathing, manners making man the perfect masque for a thousand faces whilst surrounded by many an unfamiliar figure alike. none may know of him and the anonymity is satisfying. it’s better that way, he surmises; better on his conscience to cease lingering on the irrefutable past.

he’s made his peace with the gaunt figure in black.

a hand finds purchase upon cracked concrete, recalling a similar instance where he oversaw an army of knights—men he once called his brothers-in-arms—marching from the red horizon, the sun out for his blood.

lips draw to a courteous smile as he bows to an irreverent youth, sympathy a common sentiment in Saber’s repertoire ( a cursed talent, this bleeding heart of man ) when he hears solitude in the boy’s voice. he understands—perhaps too well—the charm of being left alone, sinking to the depths of one’s woes where no voice might reach. ‘tis a familiar sentiment and he shan’t pity the lad even as he extends an olive branch cultivated from a wizened soul, equally jaded and made an enemy of fortune’s unfair game. ❝my apologies; I did not expect to see another soul frequent here too.❞ he speaks slowly, calmly, eloquence a habit rather than innate. with naught a trace of fear of altercation he steps forward, standing side-by-side and staring out into the misty sea ( he misses the lake: contained, controlled, a clearer reflection of his self ), curious to whether there might be an end or beginning to this curious land—if escape is even something worth considering.

❝a calming sight, is it not? although I suppose Briton has it beat in terms of gloom.❞

[halfjudas]

halfchrist‌:

❝ Perhaps the same reason your gaze was fixated on my chest? ❞

@halfjudas continued from you know fucking what

❝ahem! well it is not often that one sees his king in swimwear. I was simply caught off guard.❞

[halfjudas]

ah, your shorts are very....

❝oh? and why, pray, were you looking down there in the first place?❞

[halfjudas]

I am ready for Summer !

❝hello, I would like to apply to be a homosexual.❞

[halfjudas]

halfchrist·:

The ritual might have been curious to the beasts, their having been stilled into silence whilst it transpired. It was as if the world spun once more when man and monster became aware of one another. Arthur, ever the fool, dared to kiss Lancelot only once before setting him back down. What happened next might have been likened to poetry in motion. What stood before Lancelot du Lac and the beasts was not the despondent man, unnerved by his circumstances and worried as to how he would survive in such an odd world, but instead the man that bards wrote their songs about. What stood was a moving tapestry, the twisting of wind-blown fabric as he spun upon his heel to observe his monstrous audience. Glittering gold, the manifestation of divinity and a king’s right came the Excalibur (radiant; a hero’s hope; that blade which should save the Earth should it e’er be rendered in twain).

❝ I suppose you’re right, ❞ said Arthur conversationally. His blood was liquid fire, searing his veins and bringing life to him. He felt as if he’d drank himself into a silly, dizzying joy, life setting his heart aflame as he smiled brightly. Most men would have ran from the strife, surely, yet Arthur was the sort to greet it, and he knew his beloved to be of a similar cloth. ‘Twas only fitting, for Arthur could have never loved a lily-livered fool who knew not the tip of a blade from its hilt (he had done it once, yet never again).  ❝ But after this–no… perhaps focusing on the now we might make a competition of this? We could find a way to store the heads to mount later. I should like to see if you are still in practice! ❞ Arthur knew very well Lancelot was still in practice, yet he thought there to be an exquisite joy in riling the knight up (he oft fought at his best while in a mood, anyhow). Lancelot was his favorite after all! Favorite knight, favorite combatant, favorite lover (a love to transcend whatever sorrow had befallen them when they had both drawn the breaths of their first life).

In sooth, Arthur wished to slaughter the beasts with a quickness, despite the proposition of a contest. Perhaps he would have reveled in the combat more had he not just been reunited with the other half of his heart and soul. Inconvenient, really. So, he did what any rational man ought to have done while laughing jubilantly: he lunged forward into the fray.

It was all very much Arthur’s element, the killing of monsters. What with the cleansing of his lands, ‘twas only natural he be rather adept at the practice. Lo and behold, his blade was driven cleanly through one of the behemoths, the filthy thing groaning like strained iron as it collapsed onto its side. Crimson splattered silver and blue, yet Arthur seemed unconcerned with it. His smile was not wicked, though it was most certainly enthused. Arthur braced himself, tensing to swing his sword at another beast, the Excalibur connecting with flesh as it glowed gold, as if pleased to have met its purpose and master once more.

familiarity falls upon his gesture, lips manifest in a twisting smile. his soul bounces in its featherweight carriage as heels touch the earth, tingling with the satisfaction of two halves becoming one.

Lancelot be damned for believing faith can be found in the idea of a man—in a distant king forged within a cauldron of tarnished iron, blackened and then rebirthed to the purest form of saintliness God dared to create with His all-loving hands. and in those hands he finds comfort, in that straightened back he sees hope, the warmth of heroism bleeding in the joints and hallowed blade of the Sword of Promised Victory; in those hands he sees his heart, fast-beating and stitched messily together, bleeding like the Holy Spear for his beloved king. is it any surprise for man to be so immensely captivated by legend come alive? by the manifestation of what it means to be a savior ( deliverer of souls, redeemer of the sinful )? ‘tis with pride that he turns upon the heel, brandishing Arondight like an extension of his very self, stalwart as the very man who wields it with unparalleled discipline.

in this moment he is the Knight of the Lake: chivalry’s flower, a melancholic elegance bathed in moonlight—every inch a reflection as he is his own breathing myth, adumbral when beside virtue incarnate but gallant all the same. ❝if it is competition you seek, then you will find none better than I as your competitor,❞ he chuckles yet means every word ( Lancelot, the hero who fells wyrms as if it were an afternoon pasttime; Lancelot, triumphant over many a knight, patron saint of errants! ), readily seizing the bait and all-too eager to demonstrate his craft in Arthur’s presence. confidence makes itself abundant in the face of danger and his presence grows menacing. a certain spark dazzles aubergine eyne to a brilliant luster—shimmering with renewed purpose in remaining beside Arthur, lest he dare lose his king to unfortunate happenstance once more.

❝ever at your side, My King!❞

without warning a head rolls to concrete, Arondight a golden blur and its wielder a whirlwind of argent and azure as he fights, stabbing his blade and letting it drink deep of its fill of gore. the knight considers his blade a ravenous soul in its constant demand of perfection and glory, chugging remains of bard’s tales like drunkard to whiskey; perhaps it is a string of madness, an excuse for the carnage Lancelot oft left in his wake. an unassuming passerby might presume the knight more a monster than the creatures overrunning the ruined city and they would not be wrong, his movements attributed as much to instinct as it is to deliberation. yet part of him maintains an ever-watchful eye on Arthur, chuckling to himself with full knowledge of his king’s jubilee in vanquishing monsters as knights are wont to do in their youth ( questing: the calling of every knight, heart yearning for glory and gold ). 'tis the adrenaline immolating their flesh, renewing dead desire with something triumphant and long-forgotten, the emergence of a white dragon—fork-tongued and immane—leaving pause upon a focused visage.

❝My King!❞ head turns to call for Arthur’s attention, unsheathing his blade from the carcass of an ogre-like beast, rushing to lover’s side posthaste. ❝what should we do about that one?❞

[halfjudas]

❝Officer du Lac... hm, I quite like it.❞

[onlyartists]

Visit Original Link

Paganini's Caprice No. 24 is widely considered one of the most difficult pieces ever written for the solo violin. [Violin: Itzhak Perlman]