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i remember the gleams and glooms that dart / across the school-boy’s brain; / the song and the silence in the heart, / that in part are prophecies, and in part / are longings wild and vain. / and the voice of that fitful song / sings on, and is never still:
“A BOY’S WILL IS THE WIND’S WILL, / AND THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH ARE LONG, LONG THOUGHTS.” / PRIVATE & EXCLUSIVE CREDENCE BAREBONE. BY GABRIEL.
OBSCURIAL. i’m currently in class, but as soon as i get home i’m going to do some writing. so, here’s my official STARTER CALL that i’ll probably be capping at about five. and you are more than welcome to send me some of these, since i love them and they are actually good for ice breakers.
as someone who used to write credence it's a joy to see credence blogs popping up, especially when they're run by talented writers who do a great job at portraying him! keep up the good work and I wish you the best of luck 💜💜
OBSCURIAL. Squeaks thank you so much! It’s so nice to come back to tumblr RP and encounter lovely people. I love writing Credence and I haven’t had this much fun writing in a long time, so thank you a lot. This is so validating.
❝ if i see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, i shall need no other happiness. ❞
FRANKENSTEIN BY MARY SHELLEY SENTENCE STARTERS - ACCEPTING.
it felt oddly like the sharp sting of a slap. the lingering, sharp ache of skin snapping against skin. something he was not altogether unfamiliar with, but accompanied with the heady formation of his words and the weighted presence of his body, it left him reeling. grasping at empty air when his own limbs stay so still he feared he’d been turned into a statue. perhaps by him, perhaps by the ugly core credence knew he had inside him. which now stayed so silent as it coiled in the pit of his stomach like an ache from spoiled milk. how he’d learned to hide so well! the terrible sway behind his eyes! as if swimming, swimming until he knew not which way was up or down. and each time he spun he’d found his face among the the pallid color of the world he swam through. a face he found among the faceless, a face that he feared he often forgot but could never fail to remember.
his brows are pinched in pain, as though he will always feel each strike she had given him. the pain from every wound a memory he carries in his palms. isn’t it too heavy, the knowledge of what he had been through? once he’d almost dared to ask, but thought better of it.
how could anybody ever be happy to see him smile? the question poised on his tongue, ready to leap. until he remembers he doesn’t want an answer. poor credence, so terrified of gentle words he dared not to ask for them. for fear they hid silver buckles behind them.
❛ you can’t possibly mean that. ❜ he says, head bowed. even his lips fear to speak, closing over his teeth to keep the core from escaping. it was silent, but it was ever moving. reacting to the presence of a man who stole quietly inside him and left behind something unimaginable. did it love him? he wonders. or did it bind and loop around his ribs to protect his heart?
❛ HAPPINESS CAN’T BE THAT EASY. ❜ but god! he had wanted to smile!
OBSCURIAL. i’m currently in class, but as soon as i get home i’m going to do some writing. so, here’s my official STARTER CALL that i’ll probably be capping at about five. and you are more than welcome to send me some of these, since i love them and they are actually good for ice breakers.
HI Tumblr just rec'd me your blog and I just want to say that I am already thoroughly enamored with your portrayal of Credence just from what you've written already!
OBSCURIAL. I have zero idea how to respond to this, I am a melted mess of a person right now. Thank you! So much! This means the absolute world to me! Especially for you to go out of your way to send me this lovely message. ;__; I hope you have an amazing day, lil ‘non.
❝ frankenstein ❞ by mary shelley; starter sentences.
❝ nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. ❞ ❝ beware; for i am fearless, and therefore powerful. ❞ ❝ life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and i will defend it. ❞ ❝ if i cannot inspire love, i will cause fear! ❞ ❝ there is something at work in my soul, which i do not understand. ❞ ❝ satan has his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but i am solitary and detested. ❞ ❝ when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? ❞ ❝ how mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery! ❞ ❝ if our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us. ❞ ❝ thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin. ❞ ❝ i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous. ❞ ❝ the world was to me a secret which i desired to devine. ❞ ❝ i am alone and miserable. only someone as ugly as i am could love me. ❞ ❝ it is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. ❞ ❝ if i see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, i shall need no other happiness. ❞
brushes his cheek with the barest of kisses before apparating in a whirl, out of sight.
ah, there he goes. taking with him the scent of gin and something else that he could never quite put a name to. the only proof of his existence had been the still warm spot where his lips just barely touched. just barely made the acquaintance of his skin, just barely left him with but what seems like a vague memory. HOW COULD HE EVER ASK FOR MORE? more of the same stuff his mouth was made of. more of the tender way his palm seems to find ways to soothe the angry, disjointed way his nerves like to fire underneath his skin.
credence is left alone between the high, vaulted walls of two buildings. each one seemingly taunting him for the hopeful yearning he feels somewhere in the pit of his stomach. thinking only of the way he smelled before disappearing the way he does. he’d memorized the smell of his aftershave, he’d recognized the scent of the lemon he puts in his drink. a million different things he picks apart when he’s alone. as if he were afraid one day he’d have to pick him from a crowd while blind.
GRINDELWAR.
he expects LITTLE from credence —- only his cooperation, his help in turn for his own. and perhaps the snake acknowledges somewhere deep beneath the wolfish guise of PERCIVAL GRAVES that the expectancy alone might be too much for the individual standing just beside him. perhaps the feat may prove too unattainable, given the circumstances plaguing the two of them. and while failure would come announced from the very beginning, there’s a voice in the wind that whispers otherwise. his goal is there somewhere, cowering under the trauma and abuse it needs to thrive, to twist and writhe, build with power, hatred, anger before it finally bursts forth from the chest and, and, and —–
however, THANKING HIM when little conversation passes between them in the first place amidst the presence that a dark, damp alleyway presents, does stun him some.
it’s answered with what little COMFORT in a smile he can conjure, half-upturning the corner of the mouth usually rendered in a tight, pressed line of determination and concentration. goes through the motions, brushes his fingertips across the expanse of skin that makes up the latticework of striking blue veins and tendons along the inside of credence’s wrist in what he hopes conveys his trust, his admiration. ❛ PLEASE, credence. you know better than to thank me. ❜
were he to hiss and reveal that touch had always walked hand in hand with pain? the presence of another brought only an unbearable weight that he found always left him aching. the bones attempting to adjust to being with and with out. compressing and snapping back when the ugly bite of a leather strap slides over skin already beginning to pucker and welt. credence never knew whether to flinch or stiffen when mr. graves laid a hand on him. and yet, what followed never made his bones ache. even now, with his fingertips touching the inside of his wrist, it felt as an intimacy he’d never experienced. strong enough so that credence was left without air. thoughts of fingers dipping into cool water then pressed against feverish skin. he’d thought of percival graves as that cool water.
a flicker of his gaze and he catches the upturned corner of his mouth. it took a moment for his clouded mind to realize it’d been a smile. one he returned only when he’d finally looked away, towards the joined tangle of their hands. to pull away would’ve severed them and he remembers the first time he’d shown him this kindness. when their palms had dropped and the warmth was suddenly gone with a silent wind. it’d been a thing he never wanted to experience again but must whenever he’d disappear.
❛ ━━━ I WANT TO. ❜ genuine, spoken with soft lips and a softer tongue. ❛ isn’t it what i’m supposed to do? ❜
THE OBSCURUS
a black, fluid-like cloud, or a violent torrent of darkness. (x)
Created from suppressed magic, an Obscurus is often misinterpreted as a separate, parasitic entity working in opposition of its host. In fact, it is more closely related to the fractured mental health of an abused child. J.K. Rowling has stated: “An Obscurus is developed under very specific conditions: trauma associated with the use of magic, internalised hatred of one’s own magic and a conscious attempt to suppress it.” For an Obscurus to form, a child must undergo specific traumatic events. In Credence’s case, his adoptive mother had groomed him into believing magic was “wicked, unnatural” by using physical abuse. This sparked a self-hatred that affected a young Credence’s self-esteem, confidence, and independence. His shattered mental health, because of the physical and emotional abuse he suffered at the hands of Mary Lou Barebone, started the growth of an Obscurus.
The Wizarding World considers an Obscurus to be created of dark magic. This is because of the circumstances of its birth. Abuse, neglect, and hatred all stem from something dark. They are living proof of what opposes the side of “good.” When Credence’s magic was left unused and purposefully suppressed, it looked for different ways to manifest. Magic is a living, breathing force and in an attempt to survive, it betrays its wizard and lashes out in an attempt to garner the attention it needs. Since dark magic is “light” magic’s ( magic generally taught to wizards ) opposite, it was only appropriate for an Obscurus to use dark magic as one cannot live without the other. The Obscurus became an inherent part of Credence. Instead of a separate entity, it is a manifestation of his magic. It is all the things that Credence feels. Terror, self-loathing, grief, and pain in all its forms. The Obscurus is a fifth limb, a physical form of his mental state.
There are no documented cases of an Obscurial living past ten years old. At that age, a child cannot manage the amount of dark magic associated with an Obscurus. Wizards pass this off as being parasitic in nature, but it is more similar to a terminal disease. Weakening the young wizard until, at some point, a child gives up and cannot continue fighting any longer. Credence surpassed this threshold, living well past the maximum age. The reasoning: his latent, powerful magic. His magical body learned to adapt to and control the Obscurus. Credence, on multiple occasions, was seen in complete control of his Obscurus. Being able to focus its attention on a specific person or target.
Since an Obscurus is heavily connected to its host’s mental health, the only time Credence had been out of control was when betrayed by Percival Graves. Believing Graves to be his one and only friend, it shattered what was left of his hope and the Obscurus responded to that grief.
It is confirmed that Credence survives this event, but it what capacity no one knows.
WE WIZARDS, TRIUMPHANT. ———- WRITTEN BY KREMISIUS.
✖. @troublefollows.
❛ i can’t answer your questions, miss. but my ma can. ❜ loathed to speak and content to settle among a throng of people who pay him no mind, his gaze does not meet hers. even when the soft smell of her tells him she is good, credence keeps his head bowed as if perpetually praying. praying, hoping, wishing always for a moment of calm among the busy city streets. the same rhythmic movement of his limbs continues as they spread their false prophecies. their manifesto freshly printed on yellowed parchment travels through the air as it slips from his fingers where it lands in a fresh puddle. the ink ruined and bleeding from the parchment.
❛ YOU SHOULD HEAR IT FROM HER INSTEAD. ❜ the pamphlet is lost, but another soon replaces it and is just as ignored as the first. still clutched in his hand in offering.
i remember the gleams and glooms that dart / across the school-boy's brain; / the song and the silence in the heart, / that in part are prophecies, and in part / are longings wild and vain. / and the voice of that fitful song / sings on, and is never still:
"A BOY’S WILL IS THE WIND’S WILL, / AND THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH ARE LONG, LONG THOUGHTS." / PRIVATE & EXCLUSIVE CREDENCE BAREBONE. BY GABRIEL.
it’s become increasingly more difficult to see past the ugly, dull film that separates himself from the rest of the world. when he is neither here nor there, shifting between worlds. one where pain had become a mandate, latticed across his skin and, hidden underneath, old wounds he remembers nursing with the flat of his tongue. the other world, one of charred whisperings. this world existed only at the brow of his forehead. where he now stood ready to lean forward too far and find that this world had become all too real. except the latticework of his pain began to untangle itself. the eerie whisper of himself quieted. it begins with the careful travel of his fingertips over the palms of his hands. and ends when what was left of his mother’s affection had been sewn together nearly perfectly.
❛ THANK YOU. . . ❜ it’s spoken so quietly, perhaps it wasn’t said at all. credence does not remember having once thanked him. when the muscles in his fingers stretch, act as antagonists to his bones, the skin doesn’t scream in protest. what sort of mere thank you would’ve sufficed for such a kindness. none, he thought.
Credence + those little moments