Grimm @sonofthestorytellers - Tumblr Blog

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Callie would encourage a sun somewhere where he could see it, not only to remind him of her when he looked at it, but because he needs HAPPY in his life.

Somewhere he can see it? Well then, how about on Callie? He does enjoy seeing her, after all.

A moon and stars (Nyx)

Only in henna - can't have something so utterly sentimental in ink, of course.

curtishelps

Our muses go out for a night on the town;

When the fun starts to die down, your muse suggests that mine should get a tattoo (to which my muse drunkenly agrees). Send me what you’re muse would coax mine into getting.

notthekindofgirl

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Poet - Bastille

I have written you down Now you will live forever And all the world will read you And you will live forever In eyes not yet created On tongues that are not born I have written you down Now you will live forever

#wow hi so THIS is rather relevant isn't it?

The Last Story

I should tell you. I should tell you because you should know this story.

Or is it a myth? It ought to be a myth. Part of it is, I suppose. I don't know that part. I've forgotten; I can’t remember. But I can see it, and I should tell you.

It always begins a generation before. Do you see? It always does. It must. So before them, then.

Before them, there was the sun, who held dominion of the sky and gave it light, and his consort, who stretched from him to the Earth, and gave it color in seven bands and together they gave to the Earth two daughters. It’s always daughters, isn't it? Sons are such trouble... I suppose they had sons too, but they loved their daughters, as did the Earth, so they gave their each of daughters a gift. To the eldest daughter, the sun gave his sky, but removed himself from it such that it would be hers, and so she became the Night, and she wrapped her arms around the Earth and nestled it close to her breast like a mother, and let it sleep under her silent watch. To the youngest daughter, the rainbow gave her seven colors, and the youngest loved them all so and wrapped them together, curling herself around and around them until they became purest white, and so she became the Moon, and danced with her sister the Night, who loved her dearly and shared her sky.

Below the Night and below the Moon there lived a king and queen. They did not hold dominion over Earth but believed they did, and they craved the sky too, and they taught their children to crave as well by letting them suckle from greed and wealth that did not nourish them. And so their children starved, and as they starved, they consumed, and devoured all that they could touch, grabbing and swallowing before they could taste until their hands raked across all the Earth in their search for satiety. They were a terribly wicked lot. You know that, don’t you? You saw them. You watched them by the glow of the Moon when they thought sky was asleep. But the youngest son—it is always the youngest. I told you sons were trouble, didn't I? Youngest sons in particular, as this one was—the youngest was born a man but did not stay that way. He forgot.

First, he met the Moon – no, he met the Night first, but he did not know her and she did not reveal herself, perhaps because she was cautious, or merely wise, or the son did not yet interest her – but he met the Moon, and she smiled in delight and stretched her glowing hands down to him and brought him to their sky. She may have met Man before, but she was eternal and had danced a long time, and so they did not interest her terribly or for long. But the son, who had never seen a dance, or color, was entranced, and he craved their taste and so reached for her, but she had forgotten, or perhaps she had meant for him to dance and he did not know how, so when she darted through the sky she was again out of his reach, and if he were a man, he would have fallen back to the Earth and his story might have ended, but he was not a man, and so he reached again.

I don't know why the Night took his hand. Perhaps he tricked her. Perhaps she had grown tired of watching the world sleep. Perhaps she only meant to toss him back to Earth and away from her domain. But when he reached, it was her hand that he found and once it was in his grasp a change came over him, for the Night is too great for any man to hold onto, even those who are not men, and he could not let go, even as her force shook him apart and scattered him to every corner of her sky, and he came together again as something he did not recognize. I think he believed he hated her. You can believe that, can’t you? He was not a man and could not love. But at her touch, his heart broke, and he knew loneliness (which he had never known or even forgotten) and he remembered that he might have been a man, and how small and sad a thing a man is next to the Night, and he became desperate, and that was a mistake, for it was great, and greatness brought the eyes of the king and queen and all of their children who were not men and women, who craved all greatness for themselves, and they encircled them, hands outstretched to reach and consume, and he knew then what hatred was and that what he felt for the Night was far greater and far more terrible, and that she did not know that the hand she held did not belong to a man.

There are details here, you know. I won't tell you because they are not important, not to the story. But they were important to the son - her smile, her song, her eyes. But they are details, and not important to the story.

The son wanted the Night to himself, for he craved her now as he had been taught, and did not know but to consume, and he was clever—I can say that, you know, because he was. It was not a virtue, but he was very clever—and he taught himself the steps of the dance, or told himself he did while in fact she led him and let him stay, but the sky reminded him he was not great, for it was vast and truer than he, and he was greatly diminished and so did not belong there. He knew—you won’t think he did, but he knew—that he might have been allowed to stay there and in time come to belong, for the Night was as clever as he and perhaps as wicked, and she had reached her slender hand into his chest and her fingers brushed the edges of what was broken there and clutched them tight, but he would die, as the Night would not, for she was eternal and he was simply a son, and he feared if he died with her hand upon his heart that she would be too mortal to escape the hands that grabbed for them, and they would tear her from her sister and the sun and sky, and she would be lost. But he could not give her up, and so he tricked her, and when he tricked her he did so three times, and on the third time she became his wife, and he seized her hand with both of his and dragged her from the sky and to his side, and the Earth turned thrice before she returned.

You know this part, don’t you?

You see, this is the part where he dies, though he has not yet.

I won’t tell you the story of the three years. It’s enough that they were three, as all things in stories should be. Three times they danced around her father and the son learned the steps in truth and became a man again because a man is able to love and he wanted desperately to love the Night. And the sons and daughters and king and queen could not catch them, though they tried, for as long as he had her hand they were cleverer by far and she lent him eternity though he did not know if she meant to or not. But as the third dance ended, he looked at her hands and knew she had become a woman and was eternal no longer, because she reached her hand out to lay upon his heart and found flesh instead, for women cannot reach inside a man in the way that the Night does, but a woman can love, and she may have stayed for that love – she did love him, I know that part; you may think I don’t but I do. It was in her hands – but he could not bear that she be lost, so he seized her with all the might he possessed, which was not such an insignificant amount as you may think, and flung her back to the sky, but in doing so he hurt her, and when she held the Earth in her arms again you could see the holes where she had been torn apart, and those holes became the stars and light poured through them and down onto the Earth and kept it awake when it should have slept, and the youngest son, who was a son no longer because he was a man, and with her he had been eternal and had not yet forgotten, lay awake and wept, for he could not bear what he had done, and he cannot sleep without the Night.

That’s the story.

Or is it a myth?

Part of it is, I suppose. I don't know. I've forgotten.

#snippet #the last story

Ow || AU Flash

He could pretend to misunderstand her. But that’s unfair to them both, because she just might clarify, draw it out, and they’d have to face what she means. He could make a joke, but she knows him too well now. He wouldn’t joke about this. He could remind her of their deal, he could wait in silence, he could lie. He could do any of those things, but he meets her gaze, his pleasant, not-a-smile tugging his lips hard over hidden teeth, and knows that he can't--not with her--do any of those things. Not now. Their story is written and he knows the ending and she can't be there. He doesn't waste time wondering if, some day, she'll understand. What does it matter?

He smiles. And tells her the truth.

“Sorry Sardelis." His voice wraps around her old surname like a swear, low and easy and empty of even the cold, and it echoes with the rare sincerity he sometimes gives her simply because she is who she is, "I don’t want you around any more.”

#because he doesn't want her around when he goes downhill obviously #but she can't know that yet #bah #ow #fuck #snippet #drabble

mysongof-theday

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You want a revelation. You wanna get it right. But it’s a conversation I just can’t have tonight… You can’t choose what stays and what fades away. And I’d do anything to make you stay… Tell me what you want me to say.

#no idea what to tag this #random ass places Grimm owns #or at least has invested ownership in whatever #I feel like this is one of his hotels #and yes he'd kick out all the customers so it would be private just for fun lol #such a terrible owner #not that he pulls that shit often honestly #only for Sardelis-es

ran-li-shang

Morning training

#the storyteller

#grimm things #I will never not adore the Hades/Persephone myth as terrible as it is #also this picture is forever gorgeous #ART

sonofthestorytellers

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente

theriver-nyx-blog

I make no promises but I’ll try my best. I’m a damn good bed buddy, you’ll see.

sonofthestorytellers

I'm not.

But we'll see.

#He sleeps like the dead #*cackle*#even despite his dreams

sonofthestorytellers

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente

theriver-nyx-blog

How do you know I don’t? You vanish on one of your trips and I move right in. Your bed’s comfier than mine.

sonofthestorytellers

Can't say I can make a comparison, having only experienced the latter, but if you do, just don't hog the blankets.

#he says that #but if she really was sleeping in his bed he'd take the couch so as not to wake her up #though he'd THINK about just going to bed because when he gets back from his trips he's usually ridiculously tired

sonofthestorytellers

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente

theriver-nyx-blog

You are seriously underestimating my ability at Charades.

And that’s really cool and you’re right, its important with your life. You might be a multilingual show off but you’re one for good reason. You need it in your life. For me, learning what I got to know for short trips, some Albanian and Turkish and that’s all I need to connect with the people I’m more than likely to encounter.

Its cool but I spent the time you spent learning the languages learning things that are beneficial to my life. I bet I could go in your room and spend a week implementing ways to make it more environmentally friendly solely off of knowledge I hold in my head.

sonofthestorytellers

Oh no, while it's not a skill I had considered you possessing, I'm sure you're most adept.

Ms Sardelis you are always welcome to come and stay in my room for a week.

#he's more amused than he should be

sonofthestorytellers

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente

theriver-nyx-blog

You seem really worried about my Portuguese…

How’s it odd?

I’m a nursing student so I’m guessing nursing. Probably an RN, that way I can hold appointments for myself too.

sonofthestorytellers

Oh,it's not just your Portuguese I worry about.

We live in a society where with a single click of a mouse you can be instantaneously connected with the farthest possible point on Earth from your location. Where intercontinental travel is a matter of hours. New York to Singapore in less than a day. 9,521 miles. Quite literally, the only thing that separates you from any other person in this world is language.

And in business, separation is what sinks mergers.

#of course the storyteller is interested in communication #He's not responding to her major #because he needs to think about it