without guilt  ââ  which is also an art.  /  independent claire hale underwood, written by scallop. triggering themes present.
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@tsarsmertis
       without guilt  ââ  which is also an art.  /  independent claire hale underwood, written by scallop. triggering themes present.
â i have survived, but i have not been spared. â
       â no one ever is, little wolf. youâll learn that soon enough.  â the tsar of death is not bereft of softness, nor of empathy, when the moment strikes him. yet still, the kindness which crinkles about his eyes lies unmatched in the hard line of his mouth, which twitches not toward a smile, but a grimace, the source of it unknown.  â and then, perhaps youâll use the pain of it to your whim. and woe to the next person that thinks to cross you --- hmm ?   â
â secrets are jealous things, permitting no fraternization. â
       â ultimately, there are none that can be kept forever.  â  silver hair catches in errant wind, white feather & bone twisting upon the chill of the breeze. death does not shiver, nor does the ancient wisdom of his smile falter. â but such is the appeal of a secret. one cannot help but be thrilled at the notion of its telling.  â
starters from the 1910s novel, THE CHILDREN OF HĂRIN, by j. r. r. tolkien
âthat oath is still on us.â
âbut you live, and so does the enemy who has done this to us.â
âthat was a great battle, they say.â
âwhat is fate?â
âit may be that we fled from the fear of the dark, only to find it here before us, and nowhere else to fly but the sea.â
âwe are not afraid any longer.â
âgrief is a hone to a hard mind.â
âwhat lies under your words?â
âwhere else is hope?â
âi shall be far away and all alone.â
âi would rather look on my foes with my true face.â
âwhat do you desire?â
âi see that i am mistaken.â
âwe take their lives as forfeit, unless they can ransom them.â
âa strange way to gain entry to a fellowship ⊠â
âoutlaws know no law but their needs.â
âthen choose a new captain!â
ânow tell your tale, and be brief.â
âis it farewell, then?â
âit is growing dark.â
âthere is blood on the hill - top.â
âdo you fear that you have followed a spider to the heart of his web?â
âwhy do you look upon me so?â
âi offer you freedom.â
âmaybe the tale is too sad yet to tell.â
âi will flee no more.â
âwe are hemmed in this land.â
âwhere all lies on chance, to chance we must trust.â
âyou come at last; i have waited to long!â
âit was a dark road. i have come as i could.â
RED DEATH.
THIS IS NOTHING SHE DID NOT EXPECT.  she turns,  half - way,  still avoidant of meeting his gaze.  â  it matters not from whom iâve heard such a thing.  it matters not what whispers i have heard.  you canât think that i wouldnât notice,  viy.   â  she almost falters with her words,  then,  half - caught between anger & sorrow,  neither of which she admits to in her tone.  SHE BETRAYS NOTHING, YET.   â   you see,  donât you ?  âkatushka,  katyusha,â  your affections have grown just as the length of my absences on the front.  WILL YOU DENY THIS, TOO ?  â
            all is silent but for the singing of wind in ancient halls, empty as the cavernous chest of its master, which echoes too with burial song.  he sees in her, in the space of a moment, the unhappy creature annatar had described, her own sins, he imagined, painted upon him to relieve her of the weight of them. he is indignant enough to double the depth of her apathy, and he forsakes the patience that is known of him.  â  will i deny the âaffectionsâ you so begged me to develop ?  no, natalia, i think not. am i now to pay for heeding your demands that i treat your ward as my own blood ? will you punish her, too, for warming to me, as you had so hoped she would ? what terrible fates befall the objects of your affections, when they dare to do as you say. i pity my poor brother for all you might ask of him, and all he might lose for the sake of it.  â
onesringâ.
the  advisor  bows  his  head,  faux-reverence  for  the  mighty  tsar  to  whom  death  and  all  things  grey  belonged.    his  words  were  lined  in   silver,   delivered  to  the  tsar  on  a  platter  of  the  finest  twists  of  tongue.        â   she  has  confided  it  to  me,  my  lord.  she  grows  evermore   desperate  to  abandon  you  and  your  country.    her  cruel  heart  belongs  to  your  brother.   â     sauron  traipsed  about  the  grand  table  at  the  hallâs  centre,  considering  its  details  with  his  fingers.      â   she  intends  to  act  soon.  she  has  told  me  so.  and  your  brother  intends  to  welcome  her  with  open  arms.   â     his  flowing,  white  robes  dragged  along  the  hard  stone  beneath  his  feet,  moving  to  stand  behind  the  tsar  on  his  great  throne.  his  eyes  burned  a  fiery  orange.      â   there  is  little  time  left  for  us  to  act.   â
          the hand not gripping cold marble raises itself, index & middle finger pressed against frowning lips as he considers the weight of such transgressions, doubt never once occurring to him as he does. how many times has she run to Lifeâs comforts ? how many times had he gladly received her ?  viy casts his silver gaze down upon the supposed soothsayer, & considers for the first time their relative likeness.  â what would be your act, advisor ? what might you do in my place ?  â  his speech is hushed, kingly even in the fact of its quietus --- perhaps especially so.   â what would become of the covetous brother, and the inconstant wife ?  â
by the way not to be dramatic but i live on the east coast in va so lol. weâre fine and are now up in the part of nc thatâs by tennessee but ya my job is in an evacuation zone for florence and my dadâs house is almost directly on the water and in zone a. bring on the waterworks i guess
so anyways i was told by the doc that i have sciatica đđ»
hehe i was at work from like 11:50am to 9:30pm hehe
whatâs it like to be a well rested youngster with no responsibilities, i canât fucking remember not being an old lady with millions of bills and a ugly fuck of a car and a cat that steals my fucking fruit off my goddamn plate
âSwan-white of heart; I smile not ever neither do I weep. I am as lovely as a dream in stone.â
â Charles Baudelaire, Beauty (via aynger)
iâm getting real fucking sick of my workâs bullshit
Hate is a very exciting emotion. Havenât you noticed? Very exciting. I hate you, too, Johnny.
Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford in Gilda (1946)
iâm viy turning into a fuckin albatross and cawing a doleful cry as he literally flies away from crashing maryaâs âweddingâ
anyways i started a diet today in solidarity w/ my dad so the moral of the story is iâm hungrier than fuck and tired
TSARS,  TSARITSAS  /  DEMONS,  DEVILS.  mutuals can reblog.
âI ask the impossible: love me forever. Love me as you relish your loneliness, the anticipation of your death, mysteries of the flesh, as it tears and mends. Love me as your most treasured childhood memoryâ and if there is none to recallâ imagine one, place me there with you. Love me withered as you loved me new. Love me as if I were foreverâ and I, will make the impossible a simple act, by loving you, loving you as I doââ
â Ana Castillo, I Ask the Impossible: Poems.