#harvesthope

[helenaus]

It was the first time the princess rode outside the city alone. She wasn’t supposed to, of course. Her maids had said so, as had her guards, her tutor, the stableboy and even her brothers–in summon, all of those who would have to answer for it before the queen if she did, but Helen did as she wanted. Her new mare was so fast that people hardly had time to recognize her. It made her almost anonymous as she rode down the streets, if it wasn’t for the twin princes chasing after her, but it was as close to freedom as she’d ever tasted.

Helen was laughing as though she’d won a silent bet against them when she stopped in front of the temple of Artemis, near the riverbanks of the Eurotas. They did love to make a competition out of everything. Still, realizing where she’d stopped, her brothers halted too, keeping a friendly guard from a distance.

A servant promptly stepped out. “Princess”, said the girl, bowing in deep reverence. “I will tell her you are here.”

Helen saw the reluctance in her eyes after seeing her cast a curious glance towards the temple, as though she feared that the princess might demand entrance, but she never did. Her time had not yet come. Soon enough she would be ready to go through the rites herself–and curiosity was no excuse for offending the goddess by disobeying the principles of her worship. So instead, she stayed on her mount and waited.

“Agido!”, she called, seeing her step out. “Look what Kastor’s given me!”, Helen added, guiding the mare to shift as if to give the other girl a proper look, as its black mane and haircoat gleamed with sunlight. “Come up”, she invited. “I named her Artemisia.”

[ @harvestshope ; a plotted starter ]

[priscus]

asterion and polyxena making flower crowns and having a picnic while the greeks and trojans duke it out in the background.

[rekant-a]

@harvestshope

          ‘ hey b--oss, digging the look, very vintage. what is that, versace? what’s the haps. the 4-1-1. the down low. ’

[priscus]

@harvestshope said it's really good to hear your voice. where are you?

" here, princess. "

here by the well, trying to scrub the blood and filth from his head and shoulders in the wee hours of the morning, before the fighting starts again. he hates this war. he lived so many years of blood and death; he has no wish to see more of it. especially not on this scale. but he is here at the walls of troy nonetheless. just as an ox might be put before a plow, the bull has been put before crete's soldiers in the war machine of greece.

asterion emerges from the brush that grows near the well when he hears polyxena. they should not be meeting here. they should not be meeting at all. but she is a child, and he is a bull, and both of them loathe the violence they find themselves trapped in. two unlikely friends in a world not meant for them.

he kneels down as she approaches, bovine features softening into a smile. they have little time before the greeks once again try to best the walls of troy, but he cherishes these quiet moments while he can. there's half his ration clenched in his large fist, dried meat and figs, which he offers out to her.

" it's good to see you too. "

i could live here forever --- accepting

[eyeshone]

@harvestshope for the argo.

“Oooh.” The Doctor plucks his reading glasses from his coat pocket. One-handed, he flicks the temples open like the lid of a metal lighter—that subliminally suave, too: reading is cool!—and slots them onto his face. Just below, his sideburns descend like funny little entryway rugs. Or backup, peel-able eyebrows if a Zygon scorches the front-facing ones off.

The Doctor leans in, that origami hip-crimp-fold patrons employ when admiring a museum painting and craftily craning their bodies around the invisible alarm beam to get a more intimate look. “What are you?” His eyes whizz about her like two russet-rusty golden snitches. “I am old.” Pardon, that’s not an introduction (he can pre-postscript one later—time machine), it’s an accusation. In this day and age—poor turn of phrase—as of late—can’t be—this blankity and wankity, carrying his title—The Doctor—feels one and the same. At least one in Ten. “Older than clocks. Older than dinner bells. Older than dinner. Older than breakfast.” He’s a fount of knowledge. Facts, proofs, limericks, jokes. Teeming with it. Oversized enthusiasm displaces all that wealth and out some spills:

“Earlier in the day, much, much later in ages.”

Where was he? “So old. I’m so old.” He says—chin checkmarking the air—with a weighty weariness that squeaks in his tone; it’s quickly squashed.

“And I have never seen anything like you. I know what you are.” He does. But, oh: “You. Are. Gorgeous!”

[apeachymama]

🌻🍁Sow your seeds in prayer and harvest your hope this season🍁🌻 #harvesthope https://www.instagram.com/p/BqkPSLzgFm_/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=2gcy9hq0v84o

[fredhandbag]

At the Harvest Hope fundraiser with Meredith In the silent auction won a painting 🎨 date night and a Fireflies game package (our minor league baseball team) that includes an inning with the radio 📻 broadcast team #harvesthope #harvesthopefoodbank #havefunwithyourbestfriend #columbiafireflies (at Columbia , South Carolina)

[fredhandbag]

Hamilton tickets at the Harvest Hope fundraiser #harvesthope #hamilton (at Columbia , South Carolina)