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libidomechanica · 5 months

Text

From him escapt away

A Meredith sonnet sequence

The frequent model; and that loue we weighing ruth. Well—but, artists! And being earth haue fedd. Vain—in vain, and when, at last, to fold, birds of Spain. ’Clock till full, if you calme the tyde, and turning sun. Down on you, Mother, rise a grave, the sands, and the obscene and the king commands us, and Pity fell on Juan answering in respecting, as o’er his journey … that I burne much talk’d out in the able spirit-room, and all its charms, or heated so. If you will. High on the departed deare. As Albion waits on spray, which was no light. Thus hoping their souls to pine, I thought, nor wife, so that ye may think of it, lovers, yet are the great danger. When it is the mid-day sun.

By many, and no wife, even as a dying lamp, a falling one, that is rank before, and will have to gore, as is a strange goddess when a holiday upon the better than myself a welcome short a lease, dost thou free yielded too, and with his hard t’ atchiue and dire events, as dry combustious magnanimity of sound she are beyond mortal eyes; thou, that better cause vniustly paynefull speech out to herds. Why not now? For it no form delivers to the spikes, and swore he barks, my sonne how great song force, beneath her lee. Sighs for a kiss a heart. Betty a drunken brain, shrinking. The starts, like the very part as he sits her scorpions—stifled with.

For by thy breast. Sweet Communion to deuouring storme that can we say t’ excuse this a woman, or some corpse, from life that Ill may will fall. Are sunk the ship gave a proud loue, I burne in love, silent night and who should fear: and thought to continuance. The goodly tempest after long storm it visits to her breast upon them like the bride- cake the heaveth up his hart: with my unripe years; they did precedent of so sweet boy, and one sweet, that heart’s bloodier in battles both you too be with a feeling, and sharp knife: it kills without all in haste unfortunately ships go on To Phoebus promise did her who wounds, whose sinewy neck in battles both pure ignorance.

Where all the noyous day by day, for with his fill, flyes back doth raine, prepare your loving nuns, that a curse! Was his fancy ever newly strong in his bootless chastity, love-lacking of a fruitful on occasion: but to lose the night shows she runs apace mourns not he; when Aurora leades out some low rock or she with strife thoroughly inconsisted of loue; that echoes answer, ’ I said, she falling trips, and now he fled astray. And broider thee with stone, shall no more endure to the multitude, a thousand arrowes of duetie to depriue remembering, and, ere she feeds, yet a boy I sought it a good dealing; which for me: but came the cutter quick glance at his blood.

Let not on earth; for shame obscure and glimmers in the mare. A fool to plead for thy meed a thousand double wrong when the priests, lover! Shawl, like dying chips, o’er what she graunt me time with missiles of thought flower. In his lull’d even now to tie the rest creature were left the heavy sounded on one floating dais before it selfe to see one’s native stream of your elastic case, still such, and leathern rein! Where when the after than her lay, to take bread wet through cast together; celts and kings whose full pitious souls shall burn upon the set sun; short upper lip—sweet lips, and the firmer Will to carry me away! Me to enuy or to wonder if April would die forsworn.

Yet shining star doth crystal shell, yet for his compeers by night, who was thy fiery tears, when they that in one minute seemes his fate; and lonely, when and never four such loue inspire with sleep. When they that is our hapless crew; and evening must stayre fals lowest: for one repose, artful to no purpose of thee, but now I will breakers, others ayde: and in my brain to dust, and most of poesy! Against the wave—o, Love! Love liv’d, sun and move, and of her humour, and the ghosts are left the road waking. And in mad trance awake, they woke the pleasure quaff’d, according tone, which, on eternal Hunger sits, but he is waking. And euery rash behold them away; my face?

And being tam’d with diuersly my trouble? The great success. Thou hast leave his young Spring, the steam of Zoe’s cookery no doubt, till those whom you dart into a strange tulips, sweet, O great successful search, which Heav’n, atone for interest, which moment Juan had none liked to Shírín the Sculptor’s Passion saw, and stones at length my father’s, whom mortal strained to these blessed with fearful steps o’er him he leaps that made him first; but when it seem’d to annihilation, that even a vision from the town, and yet to this, and armour hung. Of the woody dale; and, with care, and the more loue what their beef up from fears, and made the sweetest, their wolfish eyes. And Ocean whiles, for sinful earth,?

And may it restrayned to vtter for aught I saw in my chamber for new comers. Some wand’ring race, or, if she Autumn were, sits upright did tremble all for the birdie’s nest, and leaps, as the world hath ended with every kind of war and dismay:&with our scorn of fools: reserved their queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought from previous villain fears more gold begets. And honey sprung up, chequer’d with mylder look aloft, and lips each other better may surcease. That I speak to me lent. My Johnny in his heavy heart, we will perish’d; otherwhere pure shalt have. I met her; then do the knocker, rap, rap, the doctor’s door, and trim; how quick small hands on, searing it the knack?

Disorder breeds love; sufficient bliss for life and faine his fill, flyes back to the natural, or sleep which doth make, the fair and serene light forth out of seasons have secured the sun; then, from thee. Yet something in my arms. An unknown barren beach where, ’ quoth she, sweet Death’s the snake or slow-worms riot. At you can’t say that’s in the cave, his memory in her eyes even to the mortal stars that with people: thither like turtle hiding is a pretty town, I recollection. And looke with rough sweet embrace. Break, break, and coal-black clouds depart and at the boat made his eyes and teach or bribe me to quiet, pluck down again; yet to lose their age’s prudence to pay. When look—I leave?

By this: that is there did grow. I bade my cheek, no ass so meek, now doth spred his mouth and my brow and furrows on my spirit is to find a soul shine by night. She sayes I haue outwore the absence of men? A people and by the stroke of twelve, or seemed singing? Which, by scent, by taste. Since allows, and tuned it high, for them any tea, but that they both would have heard. That most assure you did. That alone, worn out in some life the Cretans blood replenish’d head, and by their sex, and feelings, universal, wonderment, but the knocker, rap, rap, the daily own of love, and mark the fair hands upon my shouldst now stand destruction can aslake. Besides her stern-frame, and lovers’ hands.

And my breasts and move like darkness and pay them shot by the morn, and half dead, without the fact that crowded the fly pursue, still near the lesson which a young as yet a grave shown, he is so well defendant Phoebus daunce, that then changed neuer; nor sham’d of a virtues, paint, and backward she heart: All sunny land of lovers, old wine; and therein t was no other course to nods, and had it been quiet. Seeing my shoulders in mirror’d shield, her heart. Thus Juan lay an Europe, Afric, and the summer’s day gave his young bird; the kind of these thing, of Johnny, do, where, this pony now doth rend. At last, their happinesse, with tendrils love a sister, there had not large, was heard; the thinks!

What recketh he his prison forth a corpse. My vegetable love of her owne stedfast mighty Mother, where is shown, while brighter that disappointed suitor gins to glow,— even as poor human heart with the raging to burden’d sand, didst thou born idiot’s, who, like a thing it to ruinate. To the lower region be thou art nourishment of thy hard the music we know how ill the park: strange was the tenses I singing, even he, of cattle throws: she to wicked men a college: he hath peace, like a wither’d ere you transforme into tears. Before him hideth and air and wandring dart. You must make their shines but rags. For Juan, so that even a vision of his tears.

From sea plains and the disposing in his way, to the Bee ye doe stare he red wild receptacles work’d as if going to her selfe a prison-wall to hear my music, and he said smiling spray flies to the Sun: for the absence of men? The dire imaginary she doth little clock strike me dead Seasons traine and teach to sing by gladly yours? In nature it conceiue, and not for Adonais has drunk to Antony the sun, and Juan raised his father’s heat more than so, presence of man, and her boon, else how my life desire hath bounds, but felt the foot of bane: while our force it overflow the choir hails they heard they could ill consort with violence of her back.

Like many carrets fine, that their compass’d them what I hope was none, for on the basquina and that spangled in vermilion, and statuary when one sigh behind this mintage they perish’d, loue is the Iunipere, but by surmise, sunck, and Greek. Rose frothy mouth recall the slave to cross the conquest, peerelesse hardiment, of Helicon whence Melody descended, to the rudder tore away: t was the Sire of the Eternal, while her mind; his tongue? Blood and loue is lyke yong blood, thou clear windows faintly she passion and is prest, abhor, condemned be of sunshine when the hill, so pale as Albion’s kingdoms three thing so caught are young old, thirst; Ah, woe is me!

The owls have been much more pathetic, but then, have your sole praises be to pay them at once planted on me doth attyre. Arms or legs. I love to think of it, love, nor to the hard-grained Muse in yourself you hence, forget you hence, without a moment, her ocean-treasure frets, twixt the tresses grew Thy hopes swarm like a Jade he bring, should he have pitch’d it, and I to fyre; how litle glory they kiss each other pour’d, omitting even to the law of nature thou make a walk,—for whom the treads again; yet Faith stirs in her intent. That on the wave around that Juan had got many waters, still more, which her to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, my pride is prudence, without, and ball.

Eat up thy charge? Into thee: the hand and true religion: thus it was the vast and good neighbour caves, that euer shall carry back I always burst will sacrifice: though the sobs of mine annoyes are metamorphos’d straight, in pity would have hardly spare, till either gods in sky, souring star through the dull palace to beholding throbs; and, after fresh again: the billowy-bosom’d as the last peak of snow: my Italy’s crown upon his knee, and there is Aunt Elizabeths for a moments in an open boat, those sugred lips, which knows it is like the young, so beloved, her ruddy cheek, now doth sit, long after bathing her cheeks; and the broken lilies afloat.

Say, for now your worth his remember him! All distinguish’d breath of life outwent. Or, for revenge, compunction,—so that euer since you hide; the long as yet a young wife—a time, with purple tears, whence Melody descends the cry of theyr meeds, I may in blood, though he knows poor heart, which I doe praising; the plowboy is whooping—anon-anon: there lies as she weeping Muse, or lend you doe creditors the wasted on a dunghill’s soil,—rage, fear, hate, despised because they ran the raging mad before; if so, they strove, although faint, and where sweet please, refuse till much to borrow; her eyes are shown the goal, this piteous news so much brightly gulls him with that latest through his mighty view?

Whither: this refuge for her high to make thee stand near the left in mine eye? And whom he rushing of pleas’d his high upon the lone lake. Of Helicon whence it was to talk to you gave a score of thine, hath motion or exertion; they’ll both become. Beauty was shocked out to take, deuiz’d a Web her wo; yet swam in ioy, such pleasure worth did in her arms, she treachers, barrow, South, Tillotson, whom at the desert aspyre. He also to sustayne, of th’ inward smart; I saw the beil’, wherever you can. He also shatter’d round one of Separation, in cloisters like the Spanish, simpler, and one for a different seizure—as with this still hanging, through many a May.

They fear’d no eyes to scorn; sick-thought and weep! And he is hush’d into the water do abate the eye pours forth him to the more a stormy sea, a sort of the watch to rob thee of my thoughts are lost the petty bondage earst dyd fly. Welcoming night long, broad breath to take bread at my spinnin’ wheel. And I hae tint my dear Philosophy came the cave her familiar, and of every fly from the sky show’d like a fly, in a queer sort of fight. Things doth houe, with life in honour, lay on that there’s joy in the parts of flowers be presence of the sky save the bearing my arm about her pride, and former woes through the better, then can onely Winters bowres. Ah, bed!

To covet flying strait-besieged by themselves; and when I came not; savage hunger which the sullen wind would not dissolved on reformation. Wrack to the bone: for oft the engine of his Son, he reach’d one gentle Love will die, old Susan, she had not know: here compelled … to conceal, their light intoxicated homage yields are swear, that to his mouth and much by so meanes shall it grant, in pity one half a hint of fisherman he hath assay’d as much; for yet too cruellest, and weare away: t was well to think beyond the kindling brook: o miracle of heart. But while our former liues last leaves, whose simply riding in the first sparkles that in my breast the sun, brought?

Might doth provok’d my tongues were nothing; Juan stood, tied to say, while our fortune fly which I could bear, and gave feature: incapable of them he had neuer; nor vnto Christian lands in ecstasy! If she behold thee there, to proposed bliss to die upon our life could rest again shepherds, woe unto the Court of Blisse, mourns for Adonais— he is dead claps her cheek: nor any ill: the spoons and swells, none see what Death’s the very own of fame whose gentle child, born was beloved Julia, then, when he liv’d and enter on our friend, till pausing a divorce puzzled by the guess’d. All sound there we live, and mine own sorrow still faire, honord by public men some ballad or a sail.

And lying on the devil. The maid that proud though then she requite it ill. But by his death feeds her sight; mine eye may depart not—lest the corner; yet I fear’d no eyes nor ears on their father’s fate her lips with meeke humility, she mean time, to pass her scorn the glory from thee, but cruell bands. They were left, shall liue by fame: now doth strong, thin mane, thick about the silence, cried: Arise! Nether I may laughter of the loud water’s worth of that hinders heauen doth prostrate: finding fair, and make her mishap I rew, or amorous o’er the sun, blest with adamant chayne: and what rang with tilt and knowen shield, or scorn you, near the choir of echoing thus, her body rocking!

Or, call’d idolatry, nor more, when gazing on his known to all this way, the rest beautiful things the moonlight dismayd, all spred his she had made them get, within itself beheld them any tea, but that face remainder set to get out such women, two almost entirely because of my part, that rob sence from wits; and weary yeare is she should move each part doth displeasure in her arms round and round dropping sap, which doth lend her back doth fearful creatures? Going into an humbled to adore you or grew the message to try, nor my body bear it, and I are not the hears no tidings of his woes, such cruelty compare, stain to danger by the river!

Blue sky prevailing forth the Dagger, that death in the hidden treason of the surgeon, as thou obdurate, flinty, hard a hart, they preach scarcely o’er and hostages doe dart, and her at length, or find a home against the weary ev’ry prudent—would you to seek her bright hair I dreamer, till darknesse mixt with wringing by, a sunbeams that not; but cannot die which flies satiate then yron soone doth inure, that chaste Muse! And next to use more sharp by fast, tired of my sinful earth, Live thoughts whilst I strives to struggle forth. His batter’d pair of Rome turned thorough my so hot and there they drop had seen; for thy fair to no earth without a stay that lends what it seemed to become.

In signature of the spirits taut stem. And winged Persuasions throng: with gentle Bee with her hearts, with strong. Shall I haue with such melodie. And gently ebb’d his danger; I hate inconstancy—I loathes perjurious worlds glory think, the slave to gore, twixt game: see thou hast no eyes the world enough, sweet infusion. And the young spirit’s knife nor rag of candles to the bitter horror, and never more augment my whole trajectory’s pen; they seem, face grows never mind; his breath of my sinfull deed; and on my rock and so to women; one sole of my purchased, but her prayses forth, killing horses’ heels, and learned’s wing and hell did bide: till greater need to save, but he die.

For in the hunting of a fly; I hid my loue-affamisht hart stood still round, and her eye to hear the coat that Nature, tolerably mild, then changes that watch o’erworn, and, yonder all. To me most prodigies, where he will ne’er at such plenteous hand with a leather, down torrent which poesy but seldom. The clock is on that sometimes drink than she, you strive and pallid aspect, me for one mans simpler, and there! They will; they rose shrank like a king perplexing quest, ended for her woes this wide spindrift gaze too bold aspire? Hot, faint,—one loved me in the stars he takes him king of the bonie Lass of Albany. And then though our tears doth quench thy lips with all frosen turn’d a rhyme?

To set its struggling tars, and once dead, half asleep, The leprous corpse. I bleed, and gazed, against you without their mistress would pose, as all his true, ’ and to turn to dust, and in the Hand of smaller size. My smooth white bird, so glides he in that must be driven to destroy a face which her wo; yet some hoisted out their dark beds once let fall, and milk poured from him and plunder’d, her she is neither Lyon or the Axis hateful Puss’, and she all day, to Toast our winds kiss thy panting eyes were too lately gazed, but pays off moment, then love’s essence, for stealing upon his mute voice was the noise he long-boat still with thee, I though we can—you cannot lyfe sustaine, as the morning sun.

And then more superincumbent hour; Live! So he will kiss him, never comes. And more robust and from his pale cheek, all pure and the sun that to be, shall be an hour wherein theyr weaker thrumm’d a sail. But where’er she murder at her: the lintwhites in that from the women if you while poor kiss it thou wert made eternal cold were I something,&thinke at all, having no Grecian though our spirit, by spirit-room, and a pelisse, but for our long to last, a field and that’s tir’d with the sands and flocks, and a momently grew late a squall came one came to mee. Shall hand, one chewing out upon thy sweet girls—I mean, poet? And hell! Ceres pressed, to live on for all was done, oh!

The fly. To stifled with which way that brow of her conduct of sorrow to shew the little the stage? Rose-cheek’d Adonis lives, at will, to be praysd of me. And, catching hold on ground; for oft the hyghest stayre fals lowest: for one she cannot making a poet. As it weathers in mine ear confound. Without a burning kiss, a kiss. He fell all the poor. To some aqua-vita. Superior mess of guilt, perhaps not so bright, a mortal though he mountain or they really were that are the Spanish friends. Whence are wet with loved me for one more at the dull disdain’d the boar, rough spots the night shows their grave; because Adonis lies; pure spirit shall have a glass of Albany.

Lying down he sunk, extinct in the rose like a blank to be fortune this sour to taste, being ireful, on the strongly part and eek my name was fled: comes breathless; all we for what as silent horse-man ghost, earth’s heart! Beauties grace by my sighs are both of us verse vowd to eternall blisse, the kills thee, with him. By general subscriptive power by some strong it blew there was nothing in my very desperate courage, colours, and all his eyes are turn’d to roam, he squeezed himself Narcissus vaine allu’rd a Dolphin from Ill, that the great god Pan, sham’d by skilfull trade, the blood that for shame, and flowers that he was well to an higher on the passing by gladly yours?

Are oil and gunpowder; and the casket on her o’erflowing, thin mane, thick jaws, the world when my wombe thou age unbred; ere you and horrid paines wil be so, that which men call again over the while he saith that not; but stole his saving clause was a difficult to get my palfrey from the congelations like a banner might. Their mode of furnishing so true it is prisoner yeeld, so that she shakes, which was worships they gazed, and who should shocking be, throwing to burn, with him awakes, and perfect, ever old yeares sinnes forepast let vs loue, that brings captiuing strait-besieged by this clouded with, dim-descried. Could I love of life, full eye, small heaven st.

Sooner shall hand, didst tel, in good eawes be moued toward through Faery Queen; at whose wonted lily white with a stupid stare, could I without constrayn. A false bethink you over, pledge you and me vnto Roses red: but there is of the field: is love, and here I hardly can supple me, i’ll rather pleasure, th’ importune suit of the Jews. And Juan’s head is not mock me. Upon thee, I thought, fresh ruffles of some still a more detain him; the poor birds, pursue him seen no mercy shal you may have done, oh! Made of deare harts though so few—nine in view she sinketh down, as the tender freedom of the mystic wind with snow, or ivory sphere, the small mouth, whose pretious theory.

Some life exhales, a little brest, and field where it selfe assurance strong-neck’d steel, Or go to the dictator strutting your advice—and two boobies and fro between my love were not say; the tiger would have a bliss here on earth returnest home, that holds hushed willows on my passions tars will me once admire, by many, and country from the bank. Broke up old at last the hears nor prayer may neuer thinking citron with that souerayne saynt, then to a chamber, cave and woe are bent on deadly power had recourse anew: without the foam from hollow crost by some low rock or she kneels; with one which gave it when it drains the breeze would swim an hour. Getting worth; if you will.

No, in all its errors and all’s done—on the price of him, part, which then I know beside his woe. And Time had not see one’s heart, is of nought by the cheers there he wound, that I am constrain’d! Till then I chase were alone, which cannot endite. He was mine, no voice is hurt she had breathd from thy first their golden snake, like unletter’d clerk still remain’d, departed deare. My most energetic. By the depart; alas, I found the smiling Pretty well the sea until it blew a gale, and yet the league twixt her prove that which I dare swears, from the worst despised, rheumatic, and hardships were much times cry so. So Juan stood, and, gazing upon all, and Echo cons there came stealing blood.

Nor leaves an infant’s smile at the style, and the bushes into knots. But the boar had trench’d: no eies buy ioyes, in exposing in the storme is past; then join the indifferent kind: and Ocean in unquiet, that in his glutton-like, her foes with strangeness will awake no batter’d pair of scarce room for mast, two blankets forth, tis you him take, and office of many musits through to come, stopp’d, her slave, horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, the place, wilere fearful to offend her, which fair a prey, rather straight so my cruell fayre soyle it seemed,-than till they never, never did destroy the beach, half-historic, counts and tymely fare, my grief made the broke loose, that so well.

Autumn turn’d to it … You are old, by the river! They always keep one. ’Er earth; for her government, received though before, how her eyes doe worke of filthy lustfull fyre breaking it back the harbor of this stroke; they borrow, say: With me if thou dost reverend ghost abandoning a bier, the air, did she knew not white should he lose within and scorch’d, and bloodless cleft of meditative moan, as if her veil, and if he had, was just in the dell, and leave for joy his head who pierc’d by their mistress, and some of the new fire, my heavy heart all my love and Before, and hardy to the sky resigns a breatheth life from her love shoulder of the sounds like earth and body heale.

In women’s flesh is for one poor babes their sister; just to the masts were sometime false delight. Well—well, too, of nothing but the barren bride. And wherewith I write; and white: to see and to the Court loath the long- boat three dead, as if Life meant to partake nature’s oracle—first love, she can it be nam’d, neede more than civil home-bred strife did most sweet favour’d object that fresh flower. Desire? But they got afloat. But she may behold your knees on Marble are grey dust up,. The consequence was easily foreseen—they nearly tinder, and weare away is flit, the airy child their prose. From vases in a mighty view? A day of days! My tongue, and groans, as sure as there!

Of mirth and opening and small, in whose prelude held such was an Irish lady, no; my heart, while turbidly ran, and such distil your so happy and passing bell. Of Fate; and straight lest it is barr’d thee like flame transfused into death awhile. And she me caught those dainty odours from euening vntill ye thus we sit on. For Juan and Haidee stopp’d. So that has he to help Pedrillo, his valet, too, was he, the faces pale, and even my face? With twincle of what the stalk, and whisper’d, Think of everything young loseth his Grace and passenger of Heaven, and modesty. Yet should thou hast pricked by the new breath is out it shall weary dayes I know he thought he still faire.

To fan and Haidee, being gone, thing like the consequence was the end of wild and good, and, looking-glass; I speake, no thought can shew, the vessel pitcher, so shall sounds strain’d, making the world of warlike armes and a noddy, and made appeare, yet in sight, where thy foolish-witty: her snowy sentences, the voice, and another’s sorrow seems unkind, thy power had loved me? Of her babe so well: the great her sport is not a word consume us day will draw me through three thing, with one looked sublimely rise, its caress in its beating heart; to love, if it could ill confined, one this, and so our living harrowd hell and Ocean’s solitude, turn’d her face. Enfranchise despair.

Wept Blood—Search everywhere heart’s lead, melt a gardin of sweet is Moly, but it into the dell, and laughs at our despair! By female growth, of all the cottage warm; the kind of words of prey, rather too soon was an old custom of the Nude Descending me again, and one discuss; and what was it not broken with your breasts and the hopes of spite, their charity increase thy praise, such grace it; for whom thou dost seek! To pour out grass is spread, on wings of the tunes her lip thou hast my heart beat here. Fanning the vain desire. And her light, i’ve seen much more; nay, do not love, where Time’s remorseless floods: gaynst which the inmost day—creation’s tiresome and gems profuse locks are found?

And when thou to be alone, but simple flowers and fool are two father’s heat more that wish forbears: the which met his eye, which, hear this, poor fool prays her to their hopes, or else short ears, straight with hear; and others, the youthful pair must breakfast, and doe me now. Both boys dead? And foam and reigneth to her Adonis smile kindling beam of Zoe’s cookery no doubt was safe, and religion take there all thing; for all that he has no business here before all observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Which they could about this fountain shower at length, and deem that bring a Mirror bade he brink she humbled hart the whole, it’s one whit your poems stink like a star, and Johnny’s left alive.

That on th’ anguishment: that ever yet attayne: but singes and ruin, and, laying him with mist, and Heaven knows it is the powre to kill? The vulture, that drank thee! My Nanni would then with the muffle. And all in horsemanship should not red. Sorrow flits, I may e’en gae hang. From dawn to danger deviseth shifts, wit was such force from the brutes; ’—and thus to the treads again; yet to love, wine, in constancy is not red. Tis to lead fraile fancy fed with the tempest after the bridle, for tongues, and Heaven know, it is, and Death we’ll welcomnesse. Than living stream is flown, and fear Wake, melancholy malcontent within our long purple flower Lilia.

World of rest: blends, in exposing in taking no place is she, be-times are made my eyes my loue doth my spirit flew, saw other the left me, and nothing but then changed … There’s nothing to herdmen and whose sails were caught up, so master’d with eye or ear, though in the believed, or even the treads on it so light, and in his glutton eye so full hath fed upon fresh flowers despite of death can join theyr reuengefull yre did heart my Life did men tell me, then so bad end for they shall rouse they that aim and grave whereto can ye thus a moon is past; then there. Across the earthquake, shakes the Earth are dark, and chastely let her in his locks: then she smiled, strength could make him dead.

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pathofregeneration · 1 year

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The Hermet’s Tale, part II

“Farewell Apollo then Apollo sayd, To morrow when this storme is fully past, Ile turne and bring some comfortable ayd, By which Ile free thee ere the latter cast. Then did itt cry as if the voice were spent, Come sweete Apollo, soe itt downwards went. Vulcan went to his Forge, the Sonne to bed, But both were up betimes to meete againe; Next morne after the storme a pale foule dead Was found att bottome of this faire Fountaine. Smith (said Apollo) helpe to lade this spring, That I may raise to life yonder dead thing. Then Vulcan held Apollo by the heele, While he lades out the Waters of the Well; Boweing and straining made Apollo feele Blood from his nose, that in the fountaine fell. Vulcan (quoth he) this Accident of blood Is that or nought must does this Creature good. He spake the word, and Vulcan sawe itt done, Looke Sol (said he) I see itt changeth hue, Fewe Gods have vertue like to thee o Sonne, From pale itt is become a ruddy blue; Vulcan (quoth Phoebus) take itt to thy forge, Warme it, rubb it, lett itt caste the Gorge. Thus Vulcan did, itt spued the Waters out, And then itt spake and cry'de itt was a cold; Then Vulcan stuft and cloath'd it round about, And made the Stone as hott as ere itt would. Thus fourteene dayes itt sickly did indure, The Sonne came every day to se the cure. As itt grewe well the Colours went and came, Blew, Blacke, White, Redd, as by the warmth & heate, The humours moved were within the same, Then Phoebus bid him put it in a sweate; Which Vulcan plyed soe well, it grue all Red, Then was itt found, and cald for drinke and bread. Stay (quoth Apollo) though itt call for meate, Digestion yett is weake, t’will breede relapse, By surfett, therefore eye you lett itt eate, Some little exercise were good perhapps, Yett had itt broath alowde the strength to keep, But when t’was on his leggs it would scarce creepe. Sol sawe some reliques left of th'ould disease, A solutine (quoth he) were good to clense, With which the sickness he did so appease, Health made the Patyent seeke to make amense; Who went away three weekes, then brought a Stone, That in projection yeelded ten for one. This did he lay down att Apollo's feete, And said by cureing one th'hast saved three: Which three in this one present joyntly meete, Offring themselves which are thine owne to thee. Be our Physitian, and as we growe old, Wee'le bring enough to make new worlds of Gold. With that this Hermite tooke me by the hand And ledd me to his Cell; Loe here (quoth he) Could'st thou but stay, and truly understand What thou now seest, thou knowst this Mystery. I stayd, I saw, I tryd, and understood, A Heav'n on Earth, and everlasting good.”

— From Elias Ashmole’s Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum

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Emblem no. 19 from Johann Daniel Mylius, Philosophia Reformata (1622) (Coloured by Adam McLean)

#The Hermet's Tale #Alchemy #Hermeticism #Elias Ashmole #Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum #Wisdom #Transumation #Philosopher's Stone #Apollo #Vulcan #Phoebus #Johann Daniel Mylius #Philosophia Reformata #Engraving

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spiderdreamer-blog · 7 months

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The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)

As observed in the last post, when the Disney Renaissance period "ends" isn't always entirely clear. Even after the high water mark of The Lion King, the animated films were still making money (esp. on the merchandising end) and getting good reviews, just somewhat less effusive ones depending on the film. Perhaps no film during this period was regarded with more curiosity and suspicion than their attempt at adapting Victor Hugo's classic French novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame (though if you want to get technical, that's the title of most adaptations, whereas the original French title is Notre Dame de Paris). The story of Quasimodo is often a dark one, after all, full of themes like religious hypocrisy and discrimination against minorities. Could Disney handle that, critics seemed to ask, or should they even TRY? Well, they ultimately did, and we have the film in front of us to judge. Let's dig in.

(Quick note: the film uses the outdated g-slur to refer to Roma characters throughout. I will not be doing so for sensitivity purposes.)

We open in 15th century Paris, as Clopin (Paul Kandel), leader of the city's Roma begins to narrate a story, "a tale of a man...and a monster." Twenty years ago, Judge Claude Frollo (Tony Jay) murdered a Roma woman when pursuing her for a presumed theft. The cargo turns out to be her son, who Frollo classifies as a monster for his hunchbacked deformities, and he nearly murders him to boot. But the Archdeacon of Notre Dame (David Ogden Stiers) stops him, warning that the "eyes" of Notre Dame, and possibly God Himself, will witness this crime. A shaken Frollo agrees to raise Quasimodo (Tom Hulce), but shuts him away in the bell tower. As the present day opens, Quasimodo yearns to join the outside world, with his gargoyle friends Hugo (Jason Alexander), Victor (Charles Kimbrough), and Laverne (Mary Wickes, in her final film role) as his only companions. But Frollo insists they would never accept him, and Quasimodo nearly seems ready to accept that lonely lot in life, so much has he internalized this abuse. His friends, however, encourage him to sneak out to the yearly Feast of Fools, just for one day. He works up the courage to do so, only to encounter the beautiful Roma Esmeralda (Demi Moore) and be crowned the King of Fools. After the crowd turns on him, Esmeralda comes to his rescue, only to be pursued by Frollo and the goodhearted captain Phoebus (Kevin Kline), who convinces her to take sanctuary in the church. Things quickly become a waiting game as Quasimodo and Esmeralda begin to bond over sharing an outsider status, and he begins to consider a potential life "out there", as Frollo's anger begins to twist into hatred...and lust.

The first thing that has to be said about Hunchback is that it's one of the best-looking films the studio ever made. Like Tarzan after it, CGI techniques were heavily used to give Notre Dame a real sense of place and atmosphere previously though unachievable. You truly FEEL the vastness of the cathedral and Paris, occasionally feeling just a bit of awe in the process, but thankfully directors Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise (Beauty and the Beast, Atlantis: The Lost Empire) never let them overwhelm the characters and their emotions. Some of this hasn't aged gracefully (the CGI crowds are definitely a little ropey when you look close), but the overall effect remains outstanding.

So too does the character animation, which is remarkable in its complexity. Quasimodo alone would be a challenge for most animators, but James Baxter is not most animators, and he gives the hunchback a genuine soulfulness in addition to making that seemingly impossible body move with pencils. Kathy Zielinski, meanwhile, takes what could have felt like a caricature in Frollo and makes him into a real, terrifying person. You feel his pain...and gape in horror at his cruelty. Tony Fucile's Esmeralda is vivacious and vibrant, Russ Edmonds makes Phoebus a little rougher than most handsome Disney leading men even with his good heart, and Mike Surrey grants Clopin an intriguing ambiguity; right up until the end, you're never totally sure what he's after.

The story is just as good as the visuals. I will admit upfront that it probably bites off more than it can chew. There is a LOT to cover here in terms of the intersections of racism, religious hypocrisy, and othering of people deemed "monsters" because of their disabilities. Especially since smarter people than me have pointed out this was NOT wholly Victor Hugo's original intent, but that the story transformed into a parable about discrimination thanks to Hollywood and other adaptations. It's possible that anyone could balk at it, much less the largely-compositionally-white Disney animation studio of the 1990s. Yet it has to be said that a genuine, earnest effort is made here even with some fumbles (which we'll get to later).

A useful comparison point is the previous year's Pocahontas. I can genuinely say I kind of hate that film outside of a few caveats, and one big reason why is that the characters feel so flat in their assigned roles. Nobody surprises or does anything unexpected, there's no nuance in the colors of the wind there, and even the characters you think could have affecting arcs are unbearably stiff. Not so here. Quasimodo is an excellent lead, for starters; even if he's gentler and less outright antisocial than other adaptations or the source material, he's allowed to be flawed in terms of parroting assumptions about Roma planted in him by Frollo and initially feeling entitled to Esmeralda's love because she was kind to him. He rises to heroism instead of having it be assumed. Frollo, too, is more complex than most Disney villains. Not sympathetic, precisely, but you get the sense that he really is just a miserable person at the end of the day, directing that misery outward as the contradictions between his religious piety, his racism, and his lust tear him up inside. Esmeralda is a little sexualized, it's true, and perhaps a little more noble than she might truly be in the situation, but she's a passionate, driven adult with a sense of humor. Which feels rare even now in animated kid's movies. The triangle that develops between her, Quasimodo, and Phoebus is intriguing because we can see it going either way, rather than having Phoebus be an obvious bad egg. I like his arc, too, as the Roma gain a human face and he grows increasingly uncomfortable with his complicity.

The voice cast helps with this considerably, giving stellar performances across the board. Helping is that they have one of the best soundtracks in the Disney canon backing them up, with Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz giving us banger after banger. "The Bells of Notre Dame" stands out especially for getting across a ton of story and character notes as elegantly as the likes of "Belle", "Circle of Life", and "The Family Madrigal." (Credit to Kandel, too, for hitting that insane high D note at the end of both it and the final reprise) Plus, I'm always a sucker for Badass Ominous Latin Chanting, and that's all over this score. We also get TWO "I Want" songs for the price of one, with "Out There" and "God Help The Outcasts" being excellent mission statements for Quasimodo and Esmeralda. "Hellfire" is the most chilling Villain Song in the entire canon, taking us down a road of darkness and flame. And "Topsy Turvy" feels underrated as a comedy song, feeling almost like something you could hear in another Hugo-derived musical, Les Miserables, in the clever rhyming and archaic word usage. (I'm also partial to "The Court of Miracles", which is short, but has a nicely sinister bounce)

In terms OF the actors, Tom Hulce is honestly an interesting choice for Quasimodo given that his best-known performance otherwise is as Mozart in Amadeus. A great film, and great acting, but Mozart is a markedly different character in that he is cheerfully obnoxious even whilst remaining in our sympathies. Here, Hulce finds a wistful quality in his tones, childlike without ever being childish, which is a hard balance to strike. And he knocks "Out There" out of the park, as it were. Tony Jay, meanwhile, gives the performance of his lifetime as Frollo, mining every scrap of loathsome humanity he can without ever losing the reality of the man. His rendition of "Hellfire" always leaves me awestruck. Moore has a distinct, smoky tone that aids Esmeralda spectacularly even if we can question the ethics of casting a white woman as a dark-skinned Roma in retrospect, and Kline matches her well in terms of being funny and down-to-Earth, making us believe in Phoebus' turn.

(Also, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Stiers' cameo at least a little bit. He was a good luck charm for Disney in this period, and he gives the Archdeacon genuine warmth to contrast Frollo's bigotry, a necessary one given how brutal that becomes)

Now there are some fumbles, even if they don't blemish the film overmuch for me. The first is the depiction of the Roma, which can run a little inconsistently. It's laudable that the movie is sympathetic to their plight and doesn't make any mealy-mouthed both-sides statements about it the way Pocahontas tries to run with an ill-defined "hatred" as the Aesop. Frollo is just straight-up racist and that's how we're doing this. But they also get played as comic relief and we don't get much internal dialogue on them outside of Esmeralda and Clopin (though as said, I appreciate that he has purposeful ambiguity in seeming like a gleeful jester one moment, then a tough street boss the next).

The second is the gargoyles, who you may have noticed haven't been mentioned much up to now. That's because I'm of two minds about them. On the one hand, I don't think they're bad characters. The animation on them is as good as the rest of the film, and you could tell the animators had fun figuring out how to move stone figures around. Alexander, Kimbrough, and Wickes all give excellent comedic performances, and especially in the early part of the film, they serve a useful function as keeping the mood light and confidants for Quasimodo. There are much worse Disney sidekicks purely on the merits (fuck you, Gurgi, go to hell). Nor do I object to comic relief on its face. I adore comedy-as-characterization, and Disney sidekicks can often be a useful counterbalance.

What I dispute is the usage here. To me, there's an obvious arc of Quasimodo shedding his comfort levels as he grows up and decides to engage in the outside world. But the gargoyles...keep showing up past a point where it feels necessary. You get the sense the filmmakers were nervous about just HOW dark and adult the rest of the film was, and were hedging their bets. This is best exemplified in their song "A Guy Like You." On its face, it's a funny, catchy number that the actors sing the hell out of. And the dramatic purpose (building Quasimodo's confidence about his romance before learning that Esmeralda has fallen for Phoebus) is solid. But it's just...too much. These guys aren't the Genie or Timon and Pumbaa, and they shouldn't be. Also between them and Esmeralda's pet goat Dhjali, who's also Fine mechanically, and Clopin already being funny in cleverer ways, it begins to feel a smidge crowded.

One quibble I DON'T have is with the ending. This remains the most criticized part of the film, given that the book ends tragically with Frollo, Quasimodo, and Esmeralda all dead, and some variation on this tends to stick for a lot of adaptations (in fact, both Disney's later German and English-language stage adaptations hewed closer to the novel, if not exactly in terms of circumstances). By contrast, here we get an uplifting ending where not only is Frollo the only casualty (and with a bitchin' variation on the Disney Villain Death to boot), Quasimodo is accepted by the citizens of Paris. Unrealistic? Maybe. Does my heart melt every time that little girl comes up to feel Quasimodo's face? Absolutely. Look, I'm not someone who thinks we need to treat minorities/disadvantaged people like glass dolls in narratives. We can have bad things happen to them without it being Le Problematique. But given the history, is it really so terrible to give a hunchback a happy ending on occasion? I think not, and for this version of the story, they absolutely arrive at the correct decision.

The mood around the film was slightly more muted upon its release. It made money, the critical reception was generally positive-even in France!-and some critics like Roger Ebert gave it effusive reviews. But it was usually agreed that Disney had done its usual thing of simplifying a popular narrative for mass consumption the way they did for fairy tales and such. Hard to totally argue against that point, but I would posit that, as said, the story had already mutated into a very different form thanks to various other adaptations. You'd hardly think Les Miserables would be a good crowd-pleasing musical either at first glance. Even if it totally doesn't stick the landing, this remains one of my favorite Disney films because it TRIED, damn it. It's imperfect, but beautiful.

Could say that about our hunchback, couldn't we?

#disney #the hunchback of notre dame #disney animated canon #media analysis #reviews

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whispersinthedawn · 1 year

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Stuck in Your Head (Part 1)

Persia (and wasn't that strange – an alternate version of Percy had been dragged into his world with her clothes tattered and smoking from the trip) continued her performance. Sighing dreamily, she murmured, “Yes, the good old times. When you could see Venus past the cloud of pollution, when Mount St Helens had yet to erupt, when Long Island was still in one piece, and oh right. When the Sun chariot was still in the sky and not crashed in California setting off wildfires that my seven-year-old son has to go put out.”

By the end, her voice had gone flat, and she looked supremely unimpressed.

“Seven-year-old son?” Percy asked weakly.

He couldn’t even imagine how to begin responding to the rest.

***

It might have been Percy Jackson's second time at Olympus, but just from prior experience, he could firmly cross the place off his list of dream destinations. After all, though it hardly seemed possible, this second try was going even worse than the first.

Last time, it had only been Zeus threatening to destroy him for a crime he hadn't committed. This time? At least two other gods were urging the rest of the Olympians that really, blasting Percy Jackson and Thalia Grace, and for good measure, Bessie the Ophiotarus, for the sole crime of existing, was the best thing after ambrosia.

And it had started well enough too…

Well, if you counted a vote to not disintegrate them a good beginning.

Of course, just when he thought they were about to face the blazing end of a lightning bolt, three old ladies showed up. Then proceeded to rip open a rift in time and space and the fabric of the very Universe itself to pull through two strangers.

Discombobulated as nature willed, the two hapless individuals collapsed on the floor and just imitated fish tossed out of water. Beautiful fish out of water, because Fates forbid the three old ladies drag in anyone without a celestial tinge to their looks.

“If you are pointing out the possibilities of destroying a child of Fate, should not we have a voice?” one of the crones, who had a huge pair of scissors hanging at her waist, asked.

The gods all seemed to take in a collective breath at that.

“What is this,” the strange woman demanded as she shoved her way into a standing position.

As Percy looked closer, he reconsidered his earlier impression. The familiarity hadn't arisen from her no doubt demigod status – but from the fact that she possessed a strange resemblance to his mother.

The woman backed up into the man collapsed behind her protectively, who took that chance to prop his head on the back of her thigh.

That appeared to worry her even more. “Are you alright?”

The question was clearly aimed at her companion, but it was the Fate with a spindle in her hand who answered. “Phoebus Apollon is a God of Order. He cannot expect to take a trip through chaos without fraying.”

The way she said chaos made it sound like it ought to be capitalised.

“Apollo?” Artemis asked blankly.

Apollo himself looked taken aback as he pointed at the newcomers. “Hey now, I look a lot better than that! And I certainly haven’t done anything to get thrown into Chaos!”

He wasn’t wrong. Though the newcomer was also blonde, that was where all resemblance ended. He looked older and harsher, as if the solar winds had tempered him and left mementos behind.

The maybe god, whom the Fates seemed to be indicating was another Apollo, finally lifted his head to look at the gods. His golden eyes belonged to someone who had barely survived some unnameable horror that his soul was still screaming at.

He said hoarsely, “Well maybe next time, don’t touch a symbol of power you know has driven the rest of Olympus mad.”

“Apollo?” The woman pleaded, ignoring the others. He shook his head and muttered, “I’ll be fine.”

The way his voice quavered did nothing to reassure her.

She turned to peer at the Fates, reluctantly moving onto the next order of business now that her companion didn’t seem about to croak on the marble floors of Olympus. “Are we like, in the past or something?”

She didn’t appear to believe her own words.

“This is not your world, Persia Jackson. But yes, one might say this is a point in time you have already left behind,” the only Fate who had yet to speak answered.

“Jackson?” Percy burst out. “Is she my sister or something?”

Perhaps someone else would have been more hung up on the whole alternate dimension thing, but just last year, Percy had discovered that the Greek Gods were real, he was descended from one of them, and oh yeah, everyone and their aunt wanted to kill him.

When one added to the list the facts that the Gods frequently turned people into plants, the sky was actually a landslide worth of rocks that constantly tried to flatten Earth, and oh yeah, he’d just lost two friends on a quest to recover another? This seemed nothing out of the ordinary.

A sister from his mom’s side was practically noteworthy in comparison.

Persia Jackson looked at him for the first time. Her narrowed eyes then proceeded to rove over Annabeth, Thalia, and Grover.

“More like an alternate version of you,” she mused with a glance at the Fates.

With a start, Percy realised that he knew that look, not as something he’d seen before but rather something he’d struggled with feeling himself. She was simmering inside. It burned her to be nice to the people here.

Zeus rumbled, “So are we to just believe her as she tells us how keeping her alive is the only way to keep Olympus standing?”

Despite her mild-manner, there was a meanness to Persia’s words that surprised Percy. “Oh, I wouldn’t say Olympus is standing exactly. After all, you’re pretty good at destroying everything you touch, Lord Zeus.”

“You dare!” Zeus raised his hand and a lightning bolt appeared in it.

The sight galvanized the Apollo practically hiding behind Persia as he too raised a hand. No symbol of power glowed to life, but a heat haze surrounded the two that must have meant something to the other Gods.

Athena hurriedly interceded, “It might be prudent to listen to what the Moirae have to say before making any decisions, Father. I doubt they would take such a step lightly.”

Zeus subsided though the stormy cast to his features remained.

“Should you not be more respectful Persia Jackson? Are you not glad we brought you here?” one of the Fates, and Percy was starting to wish he knew which one, asked.

He got his wish a second later as Persia spoke. “That would depend on if you pulled us out or merely intercepted our journey, Lady Clotho. After all, I was under the impression you spun the threads of fate out of chaos, not entire people. Or was I wrong?”

“She’s going to die,” Thalia whispered beside him.

Percy couldn’t exactly deny it. Persia seemed to be deliberately provoking the Fates. Though perhaps she assumed that since they were in another world, the old goddesses had no power over her. Somehow, he didn’t think saying that would do her any good when she was being blasted to ashes.

Clotho laughed, though there was something dangerous about it. “So, you do have some sense though not nearly enough to hold your tongue. Yes, Khaos was kind enough to throw you back, but it is we who have fashioned you this form.”

Persia raised her eyebrows and glanced at her ripped jeans and shirt. She looked as if she’d been rained on by burning embers, been forced to jump into mud to put out the fires, and then a giant had helpfully stomped on her for good measure. “Thank you.”

The sad part? The only reason Percy could tell she was being sarcastic was because that’s what he would have felt. The gratitude in her voice could have starred in an Oscar worthy Broadway number. And he wasn’t certain Broadway did Oscars.

Lachesis, and it must be her since the other one with the shears had to be Atropos, said mock-sweetly, “Yes, this gives you a chance to catch your breath, revisit cherished memories, discover things you might have thought lost, before going back and trying to save it all.”

Persia looked at them suspiciously for a moment before asking, “Revisit cherished memories? Don’t you mean make new ones? I could go to a One Direction concert, get signed autographs from Robert Downey Junior before he gets too famous, win a lottery.”

She seemed to get more excited as she spoke, doing a little twirl as if she were a teenage girl again. When she came to a stop though, she stood a little away from … Phoebus? Yeah, Percy was going to call that guy Phoebus while the original could keep his name.

As everyone except Aphrodite, who nodded at Persia’s priorities, stared at her in disbelief, Artemis took the opportunity to sidle close to Phoebus. She passed him some chunks of ambrosia, which he took with a grateful smile before popped them into his mouth like candy.

Persia, meanwhile, continued her performance. Sighing dreamily, she murmured, “Yes, the good old times. When you could see Venus past the cloud of pollution, when Mount St Helens had yet to erupt, when Long Island was still in one piece, and oh right. When the Sun chariot was still in the sky and not crashed in California setting off wildfires that my seven-year-old son has to go put out.”

By the end, her voice had gone flat, and she looked supremely unimpressed.

“Seven-year-old son?” Percy asked weakly.

He couldn’t even imagine how to begin responding to the rest.

Read it on ao3

#pjo #perpollo #percy x apollo #fanfiction #alternate universe #apollo x percy #percy jackson #apollo #heroes of olympus #trials of apollo #stuck in your head #my world's gone upside down #fem percy

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sherbet-shark · 2 years

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Out of the blue thought that I needed to ask you, how do your OCs blush 0w0? (Do they turn away do they let it show do they turn into a tomato or a faint dust of pink etc)

What’s the fuss?

Author’s note: HI RRAS IM SO SORRY THIS CAME LATE 😱😭 THANK U FOR ASKING ABOUT MY BABIES

Monica depending on what she’s blushing about and the situation, has two modes; look away, flustered, with pursed lips and fiddle with her fingers/hair and roll her eyes orrr you’ve found something really embarrassing abt her or you’re Jamil, and you said something nice/sweet to her. Close friends like @millybesippin’s oc, @hey-its-cweepy, and Phoebus, for example, see her do a second one sometimes. The second one is just her full one covering her face with either her hands or entire face planted into her arms on a table. If Monica doesn’t have a table to face plant on, she’ll scoff whatever’s making her blush and sputter out a response. It really depends on the severity of it xD. Her skin is a little dark, so she’s grateful that her blushing cheeks so too much. But that doesn’t mean her cheeks aren’t burning up like a volcano!! Overall her reactions are very cute.

Oh boy. This guy xDD, his cheeks are bright and deep red and he makes some effort to hide them in his hand. Its almost laughable, seeing this bad boy be reduced to a blushing mess. This only happens when you shower him with compliment after compliment. He has a talent of knowing if you’re telling the truth or not but if Zane’s gut feeling says you’re being true. Oh man. Zane cups the bottom half of his face and looks away with a flustered gaze towards the ground and will try to refute it. But if he’s comfortable around you to let his facade of “R.S.A Bad Boy,” slip, he’ll have this hUGE boyish grin on his face, his freckles subtly stand out when he’s this bright red but it’s so endearing. His coffee brown eyes will shine with what’s akin to childhood joy. But it won’t last for long I’m afraid. So you better drink up all of his blushing face whilst you can, my dear!

Leif, the cutie. He has no idea how to handle his blushing. In his young life, he worked as a delivery boy for his father for his work, and while he did interact with kids his age. His father tried to make his son happy and have an everyday life, but at the end of the day. He’d be bone tired and play with him only a short time. It was quite rare for him to have a lot of friends on delivery and before his father’s marriage into the Trein Family. Once he did have wasn’t the best… As he’d soon know. Due to this, Leif has kind of made an arm's length between them and himself. As his dad married Trein’s daughter, Leif had two step-brothers. But because of how starkly different they are, the twins never tried to make him blush. However, let’s say he does madly blush. This usually occurs when he’s complimented on his skills like sewing and his innate ability to speak to all sorts of rodents. His fair cheeks burst into red, and the nape of his neck gets warm too. He’ll rub the back of his neck and avoid all eye contact.

Shu, the bastard, owns it like a boss 🤣. His students might tease him over a “purposeful” mispronouncing a name, and he just brightly smiling, his cheeks if you look hard enough, you’ll see his cheeks deepen. His skin’s on the darker side as well especially in the warmer seasons, so you rarely see him burst into flame, but there are other tell-tale signs. Press his buttons too much with teasing and he might get snippy with you, Shu doesn’t mean to. But it does remind him of his brothers constant “teasing,” and it makes him feel small. So,, try to be cordial and considerate of what’s too much…

Like Leif, this little guy doesn’t handle blushing well, but he has sisters, sooo, and he’s teased a lot. But all in good fun, I assure you!! His cheeks burst to life. He’s a deep red, much like the red rose he’s lovingly nicknamed after. He’ll cling to his Dodo stuffy and press the soft toy to his face, trying to hide his adorable face. If he doesn’t have Cap. Dodo by his side (which is extremely rare) he’ll cling to his parents or Big Brother’s leg and hide behind them. When Tiflo sees his baby brother cling to his leg, he’ll gently pat his head and coo that he has the cutest little brother. But when his sisters are the ones teasing him, Vitaa especially. Rosie’s fair dusted red cheeks will puff out and he’ll cross his arms. When he’s older though, Rosie will still be blushing madly but shyly look away as he pushes up his glasses.

Tagging: @angry-strawberry-pie

#monica cyrus #zane fredrick #shu lòng #leif sinter #my ocs #my orginal characters #sherbet talks with friends #sherbet writes #rosealio cantilena

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solarisgod · 1 month

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phobos often doesn't care to join the other starwakers in the awaken world that is built out of the system's imagination, lingering all alone in the corners of certain areas or its own room within the stellaris kingdom. unless mike and especially mimi would wander off to where they shouldn't go, possibly stumbling upon the memories and knowledge that they shouldn't know about for their health and safety, it would have to look after them ─ as ordered by phoebus who is the one to bring and maintain order across the system. ❛ sorry, did you want to be alone? ❜ a voice echoes across the realm, belonging to no starwaker but an endless itself. phobos exhales a smoke, taking its cigarette away. its sharp gaze flickers over to dream, its expression blank.

phobos wonders if micah invited it over to their internal world. there seems to be a lack of urgency in dream's visit that it can be grateful for. there is just too much shit happening in such a short period of time. but, really, when was the last time phobos felt peace? it can't remember. phobos waves a hand, a casual invitation given for dream to take in admiring the gleaming lake ahead with it, the lights glowing in technicolor. ❛ you're fine. ❜ its brief response is curt, but lacks the coldness most acquaintances would receive. it's not used to having companies outside the system, though dream's that isn't provoking is good enough. after phobos takes its last drag of a burn, it crushes the cigarette with a hand, the paper roll turning into stardust.

❛ you're near mount starglade, ❜ phobos bluntly shares, nodding at the mountains that surround the lake. it doesn't know how much micah have told dream about their inner world, though, seeing it have stumbled upon here, phobos may as well provide a detail of this area. ❛ micah and i enjoy being on heights ─ the higher, the better, so we created them to have something to stand on while we can admire the whole landscape with the clouds and stars above. ❜ have us feel like we can do everything. ❛ the awaken world is meant to give us a sense of joy and security, you know. what the real world often lacks and gives. ❜ it still recalls the first time it comes to their internal world when micah was five years old, there was only the void. nothing.

phobos continues to stare at the lake, appreciating the glows, then deeply chuckles. ❛ micah trusts you quite a lot to allow you to be here, even so far into our inner world. as highly friendly and opening as xe is, this is like the one and only most sacred place to xem. xe's extremely protective of it. ❜ it would be an honour for anyone outside the starwake system to be in the awaken world where there is meant to be only serene. full of love. dream seems to be part of micah's peace and phobos can accept the fact. it turns and heads to the forest, planning to reach to the kingdom. either @narrated chooses to follow or remain still, phobos doesn't care. ❛ you should come to mount starglade with us soon. it's more beautiful up there. ❜ it feels so much like home.

#NARRATED #///#//#/#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ IC . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ ANSWERS . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ V : MAIN / ACT I.IV. . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ PHOBOS . ›#[ hrgrgrgrgrhrhrgrhrg me dragging Phobos over because I lvoe it so much and it should be written with more ]#[ have some worldbuilding dump with the Starwake System's inner world eeeeee thank you so much for this! uwu <333 ]

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sins-of-the-sea · 6 months

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The Cruel Choice

As much as Guy wants to avoid having to submit the whole Crew to the Master for punishment for thoughtlessly killing Phoebus, his attempts at raiding souls solo ended up with him shot in the head, thereby partially blinding and paralyzing him. Captain Frascona and Abena find Guy just in time for the decision to either raid or be punished. But they still have to approach the Master, as the Crew is in a state unsuitable for much of anything, let alone a raid.

Guy winces at the sight of Giovanni, who seems to be bruised up but otherwise still on his feet. Though he gasps as he sees Ruixiong and Rashid with what is left of his good eye. "Aah! What happened to them?!"

"Lots of things. Ruixiong ran off to do his own thing and got himself injured… then injured some more. And Rashid…

"The less we talk about what happened to Rashid, the better." Frascona waves over to Giovanni. "Do you have the conch?"

"Yes, Captain…" Giovanni says as he holds up the conch used to call for the Master--the same one Guy watched him use some nights ago. Though now, it is not made of gold.

"Good. Help me settle Guy with Rashid and Ruixiong. I'll do the talking with the Master. He'll surely be greatly displeased with what I allowed to happen to my Crew."

"But… you didn't allow this to happen."

"I did not, no. But I am still your Captain, and I am responsible for you all. I am taking full accountability over what happened to you all here."

Guy wanted to cry on the spot as he is placed next to Ruixiong, unconscious from blood loss, and Rashid, fully dead. "I'm sorry, Captain! I'm truly sorry! I'm sorry for everything! I really am, I'm so very sorry!"

"Guy. Stop. You did enough. Demonia, set sail as far from land as you can. Until there is nothing to see in the horizon."

The floorboards and hull of the ship groan as the sails unfurl and the anchors are aweighed. And once the galleon is far enough…

Frascona blows onto the conch, a different sound from what Giovanni made as the conch's material shell fogs in the Captain's hand. This time, the sea merely opens as the Devil's Locker is revealed once more, with pillars of the sea surrounding the ship like walls as opposed to dragging it down.

Guy looks upon the waves with confusion as the ship remains on the surface. He turns to Giovanni, awaiting an explanation.

To which Giovanni obliges. "Because he is our Captain, Josep is supposedly the only one who should be using that conch to beckon the Master upon us. The Master knows it's Josep because he's using his Gift to call upon him. When I use my gift, the Master knows it's me... and I would be making my secret monthly reports.

"I didn't have to use a conch to call the Master. When I ran off, he found me on his own..."

"The Master has different ways of tracking souls. I observed these ways wax and wane too. I'm not sure how. If by the moon, as the tides do, or not....

"Or he could tell your soul was dying. And wanted to be there when it does."

"All of this happened because I ran off like a child from stupid, stupid words winter of last year..."

Giovanni reaches for Guy's hand. He squeezes it tight.

"Everything should be over soon. Because this is Josep calling upon the Master, his approach should be different."

"Tell me the Master won't lash out at him like he has at you. It's not fair. Even if he's our Captain."

"....I can't promise that, Guy. I'm really sorry."

#abuse tw #[The Cruel Choice]#[Guy Duchamp]#[Captain Josep Frascona]#[Giovanni Vespucci]#injury tw #death tw #nabeandfriends #thelittlestdemon

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cxncordia · 4 months

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So, since I've been watching Percy Jackson and the Olympians I decided to research more on Rick Riordan and found out that in 2020 he released The Trials of Apollo, which is basically a series of books dealing with Apollo, turned human, and fighting off a trio of adult demigods.

And so, as I was reading that, I realized:

Rick Riordan and Me got to the same place when interpreting Apollo: he's self-centered, grandiose, always trying to get the upper hand, living a life of luxuries and grandiose and flirting everywhere he goes... until some sense and humility is knocked onto him and we see how his singing, his archery and his charisma are the reasons why he's a God.

I swear to you, as I was reading the first book, I imagined that it was Adan talking. I guess we did both a good job.

So, that said, two things have happened:

First of all: I will add an Apollo from PJO as a side muse. Played by Ben Cook (whom I have no resources... but that has NEVER stopped me in the past). I will have him available soon-ish.

I have HUGE muse for Adan. HUUUUGEEE. So if you ever wanted to interact with Adan Polo, reincarnation of the Sun God Apollo Phoebus, this is your chance.

So while I update the character list (not only with this new character but also update my other characters) feel free to contact me to play .

ADDENDUM:

So a third thing happened: I decided to watch the PJO 2010's movies just to get a feel of them and see if the fans were right on how bad they were (the fans are right) and currently I'm having the hard on that I never had 10 years ago for Logan Lerman.

So if you want to interact with me with a Logan Lerman, get to my DMs now.

#the dean had spoken

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oathofmoonlight · 8 months

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meta: relationships

It's safe to say that Kaguya is... not super keen about pursing any sort of relationships in whatever world(s) she ends up in. Nothing serious, anyway. She likes to joke that her love life is just as cursed as she is, considering her two biggest relationships... well, they're complicated.

The first was Katsurou, a long-time friend and one of Kaguya's original teammates, before the downfall of the order. Katsuro was a samurai (fighter, samurai subclass) and one of Kaguya's best friends. They had a long history together and you could basically consider them high school sweethearts. He was the last surviving member of their original party after the curse struck. Kaguya wanted them to go off together in search of a way to lift the curse, while Katsurou... having all his friends and family die around him made him less inclined. He tried to convince Kaguya to give up and abandon the adventuring life instead, where they might be able to live more safely. Kaguya was not so keen on this idea, and to put it simply. They didn't part on the best of terms. (Both of them wound up regretting this.) Three years later, after a lot of very unsuccessful efforts to lift the curse, Kaguya tried to locate him again in the hope of finding some help and maybe also apologizing for some of the shit she'd said when they last parted. She found out pretty quickly thereafter that: 1. he had also been searching for her; 2. he was dead, and; 3. his soul had been stolen and turned into a monster controlled by one of the phantasms. She ended up having to kill said monster, so it's safe to say that particular relationship ended quite poorly.

The second was Phoebus (fighter, echo knight), and the whole thing was immensely more complicated, mainly due to the fact that there's some time bullshit involved. They were initially less friends and more rivals. And also kind of couldn't stand one another, at least initially. But they were brought together by a mutual friend and did respect one another's skills, so... somewhat friendly rivalry? Or that was the case until an extremely complicated series of events that I do not have time to explain resulted in him going to the dark side, getting killed, and all memory of him being erased from the current timeline, after which he was replaced with a version of himself from another timeline. Like I said, immensely complicated. But in that world, Phoebus and Kaguya had a much less contentious relationship. One might even call them friends. So, being re-introduced to Phoebus for what she thought was the first time, they hit it off much better this time. Albeit with some awkwardness, considering this Phoebus had a Kaguya in his original timeline who this Kaguya was not, and Kaguya had a very detailed journal of her travels that mentioned Phoebus before, but... in a far less positive light. Nonetheless, they were kind of in a relationship - insofar as the adventuring lifestyle would allow - until the point at which they had to part ways, as Kaguya's quest for answers was taking her in a different direction. Still, being that they were adventurers, they both assumed they would reunite again in the near-ish future, because adventurers tend to run in smaller circles than you would think. They were correct, but not in a good way. Turns out Phoebus was a Phantasm and went dark side, again. And thus Kaguya had to kill another of her exes.

Paired with the loss of her closest friends and remaining family, Kaguya is... understandably averse to allowing herself to have any serious feelings for most people, romantic or otherwise.

#phoebus was played by a friend in a series of oneshots #it was. wild.#i'll regale the dashboard with the Epic of Beans someday #𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 ☆ meta.

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fabulouspotatosister · 2 years

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The Gentle, The Healer

An artifact's been stolen from the Royal Museum, and you and the Doctor are the prime suspects! But while escaping, something happens, and it's up to the Doctor to help you find a way out of this mess. Hurt and/or comfort ensues.

word count: 5874

gif credit: @thirteenstardisfam

my secret santa gift for the wonderful amazing talented showstopping @mbluee !!!

•••

"Run!"

Dirt and sand kicked up from beneath the Doctor's boots, caking the ends of her trousers in dust. If the Doctor had the time to stop and think about it, she'd be upset - those were her nice black-tie trousers! She could feel the sweat begin to bead at her temples and run down in rivulets along her cheek, only to be whisked away by the wind that whistled past her face as she dashed away with you in tow.

For someone who considered themselves a pacifist, the Doctor expected violence at every corner. That was to be expected when you lived the life of a traveler. There would always be people that disagreed with you, and violently at that, so running (more specifically, running away) was a normal part of the Doctor's everyday life.

The Doctor looked over her shoulder and gripped your hand in hers tighter. They were gaining on you, large bows nocked with arrows at the ready to fire on the both of you at any moment.

"Doing alright so far?" the Doctor yelled, over the loud armored footfalls of the guards behind you.

You gave the Doctor a strange look, one that teetered in between confusion and fear, but you nodded. "Weird question, but I'm fine!"

You were sweating, carefully styled hair now a haphazard mess around your shoulders, and your pretty dress that you had loaned from the TARDIS was more brown than pink now. Yet the Doctor could not tear her eyes away from you. Underneath the bright sunlight of Phoebus, the sweat that glistened on your skin looked like diamonds.

The Doctor was not a poet, though she did know quite a few, and perhaps they would be proud to know that she had picked up a few things from them. Though maybe they weren't the right set of skills that she needed in this particular situation.

"We're nearly to the TARDIS," the Doctor panted. "Just a bit further!"

"They're firing!" you shrieked.

Something whipped past her cheek. The Doctor heard you yelp and she resisted the urge to freeze. An arrow stuck itself in between the cobblestones, right by her feet. Not good, she thought. Not good at all. That could have been the understatement of the century. One for the history books.

"I know!"

You gave her a suffering look. "I thought you said they weren't armed!"

"I didn't know they would bring armed guards to a museum exhibition!"

"Doesn't that seem like a given?!"

The Doctor ducked underneath another arrow. It flew by a little too close for comfort, sending a couple of strands of hair flying up to her face. "Alright, don't go on about it!"

"I will go on about it!"

You were looking ahead now, your face set in a determined frown. She followed your gaze right to the TARDIS, standing squarely in the middle of the alleyway. Salvation and safety only a few feet away.

That was her second mistake.

Something whistled through the air, slicing the tense silence open as easily as a knife through butter. The Doctor closed her eyes, braced for the impact of metal against stone - it never came. Instead, there was the sound of cloth rustling, and a pained, sudden gasp.

Your hand slipped away from her grasp. No.

The Doctor turned around. You stood stock still, silhouetted against the blinding sun. Your shaking hands slowly rose higher until they hovered over your shoulder.

This wasn't happening -

Your expression teetering between confusion and fear - your pink and green dress that draped around your body, now stained red - your skin, glistening with sweat like diamonds - an arrow, with a plume of golden feathers, sticking out from your shoulder.

"Doctor?" you whimpered, your eyes flickering to meet hers.

This wasn't happening!

And yet it was.

For the Doctor, time slowed to a crawl. As she lunged forward, your body crashing down like a puppet without its strings, she couldn't breathe, nor could she think. All she could wonder was: how did we get here?

"Are you ready to go yet?" the Doctor called.

30 minutes earlier…

"Nearly! Just give me a minute!" you called back, your voice echoing down the TARDIS corridors and into the console room. It had a slight lilt to it - you were smiling, the Doctor realized, and before she could stop herself, she was grinning too. "Sorry, when you said prestigious event there was no way I was going to just hop out there in jeans and a t-shirt."

"It's not like they'd care." You’d look fine either way, a little voice in the back of the Doctor's head quipped, with an imaginary nudge to the shoulder and a cheeky smirk to boot. She recognized it as her own. I always think you look fine.

The Doctor's wide grin slipped off her face. With a small frown, she pushed that little voice into a compartment in her brain to deal with later. If she ever had the time to deal with that specific compartment in her mind, she would be buried underneath an avalanche of unaddressed feelings and other things she couldn't name. So best to stay focused and alert at the task at hand…

"Hey, how do I look?"

The Doctor made the foolish mistake of looking up from the console. Oh, bugger the task at hand.

The amber light of the crystals that lined the TARDIS console glowed around your head, surrounding your styled hair with what looked like a halo. Gauzy pink and forest green fabric draped over your body, cinched at the waist with a woven belt, pooling on the floor in a hazy puddle of color.

"So?"

"You look…" the Doctor swallowed. Every word that came to mind was simultaneously the right word and the wrong word. Beautiful? Radiant? Glowing? Gorgeous? Perfect? Incredible?

You looked down at the Doctor expectantly, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

The Doctor swallowed again. The little voice snuck a hand out of the compartment that it was in and poked her brain. Go on, then! it urged.

"…like a goddess," she said finally, when she had found her voice.

You startled. The Doctor felt a swell of pride in her chest at the way your breath stuttered at her words, and the way your eyes widened in shock. She'd been a Casanova once before, a couple of faces ago; maybe she still knew the tricks of the trade.

"Th - thanks," you squeaked, suddenly looking very small and completely engulfed in your dress. "You're not too bad, yourself."

The Doctor looked down at her own attire - a formal affair that she had worn once. Her nice black-tie coat and trousers. She adjusted her bowtie deftly, a practiced motion that she had done a million times before. "Right! Of course. You did make me wear this, though."

"Yeah, otherwise you'd never clean up," you said, reaching out to smooth down the lapels of her coat and making the Doctor swallow hard for the third time in that hour. She wondered if you could feel her hearts hammering away underneath your delicate fingers.

"I do clean up," the Doctor retorted, though she found that her voice was not as loud as she wanted it to be, nor was her gaze as steady as she wanted it to be. It kept flickering over you - your hair, your dress, your absolutely beautiful and disarming smile…

She coughed - she wasn't some little schoolgirl with a crush - "Anyway! Holy exhibition on the planet of Phoebus - want to have a look?"

The planet of Phoebus certainly lived up to its name. The blistering heat came over the Doctor in waves as soon as she opened the TARDIS doors into the heart of the city. Blinding sunlight reflected off of the marble floors, making everything glimmer like precious stones.

The Doctor extended an elbow towards you. "Shall we?"

Grinning, you looped your arm through her elbow and drew her close. "Certainly. Lead the way."

"Welcome to the Apollonian Plateau of Latonia," the Doctor said, holding you close to her as you both began to ascend the many steps that led up to the museum.

"Apollo, like the Greek god?" you asked.

The Doctor grinned, using a free hand to pat your arm. "Gold star for you! Or five points. Think I've lost track. Next question - yes, I've thought about it - why does an alien planet worship gods from human mythology?"

You paused to think for a moment. "…Because our mythology has travelled through space and arrived here?"

"Bingo!" The Doctor patted your arm again. "Five gold stars. Actually, three. A couple of Ancient Greeks travelled through time, a temporal shuffle of sorts, and those Greeks were the first to settle here! The Latonians see Apollo as the bringer of light, the patron of the arts, much like you lot do. And that's why - through here -"

She carefully ushered you through a large set of intricately carved double doors. Immediately, you were both greeted with the towering figure of Apollo, sculpted from crystal, draped in flowing robes and looking over everything in the exhibit with sharp Roman features. He stood over hundreds of large glass cubes, each one encasing a different ornament. People carrying trays lined with flutes of drinks danced through the ever-shifting sea of onlookers. One of them drifted towards you and leaned their head to the side quizzically.

The Doctor fumbled through her coat - sometimes her large pockets were both a blessing and a curse - before pulling out her psychic paper, flashing the server a confident smile. “Not to worry,” she said. “Not intruders. Or thieves. Quite the opposite really. Relatives to the Royal House of Apollonia.”

The server’s head settled back into a normal position. They gracefully handed you a drink, then moved away into the crowd.

The Doctor pulled out her sonic screwdriver and scanned the drink. It seemed normal - a kind of sparkling water with flecks of gold leaf swimming in it, flavored with a local fruit. “Careful, that’s gold you’re sipping on.”

You spluttered. “Sorry? You mean fake gold, right?”

“Real gold!” The Doctor gestured at the opulence around her. “They can afford to not cheap out on luxury - look at this place! Must cost more than all of the riches in your galaxy combined.”

You lowered your drink to look around. The Doctor took a moment to steal a glance at you. Looking around at the people, she found your worries about looking out of place were certainly misplaced - everyone else was dressed to the nines in similar, delicate fabrics, almost gliding across the smooth bone-white floors of the buildings surrounding you. You were almost like an exhibit yourself, your awestruck expression reminding her of why she took you to these places, more dazzling than any of the precious gems around -

Ah, what had gotten into her? What was with this sudden burst of poetry? Maybe being in the presence of the patron of the arts was doing that to her.

“Doctor, you’re not just here for the exhibits, are you?”

“What?” The Doctor blinked, feeling her face heat up. She’d been caught. “‘Course I am. Lover of history and culture, me. Could never resist an exhibit. Especially one of this size!” She spread her arms, almost to prove a point.

You looked thoroughly unimpressed. “No, look. This is a bit too upper-crust for you, isn’t it? What are we really here for?”

The Doctor spotted a glimmer in your eyes, that flash of intrigue and curiosity that she could never deny.

Slowly, she pulled you in close, gently guiding you to the center of the exhibit. Spinning inside a larger cube of glass was a chalice. It was a delicate thing, carved from an even more delicate crystal. It looked as if it would shatter if someone so much as breathed on it.

“This,” the Doctor said quietly, “gets stolen today. They never catch the culprit. It ends up in the history books of Apollonia, forever unsolved until the planet wastes away from famine and disease, as predicted by their prophets.”

You peered at the chalice. It cast a kaleidoscope of color onto your face. “And you want to find out who did it.”

“Spot on! If we could find them, whoever they are, we could - !”

Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness.

“Doctor?!” you cried out.

“I’m here!”

The Doctor’s hands fumbled in the dark until she found you, grasping the fabric of your dress. The room filled with the sounds of panic, murmured voices echoing off of the vast walls of the museum. In the distance was the sound of shattering glass, getting closer and closer until -

Just as quickly as the lights had gone out, they powered on again. The museum was completely silent except for the faint hum of the lights and the now raised murmuring of the museum goers, rising to a crescendo as they began to really take a good look around.

“The chalice is gone!” someone screamed, pointing a manicured finger at the glass display. It was completely cracked open, as if someone had taken a hammer to it, and it was empty. They raised another trembling hand to point it at the Doctor - “Foreigners! Thieves!”

A group of armored men emerged from the nearby corridors, lifting their bows in your direction.

The Doctor raised her hands in surrender, nudging your leg to urge you to do the same - a pacifist surrounded by threats of violence, once more - and gave the armored men her best expression of peace.

“I promise, we have stolen nothing,” she said carefully. Maintaining eye contact with the soldier in the front was easy, but staring into his eyes was like looking into the pit of a volcano. Barely contained and unchecked rage. The Doctor had seen that look before. “We’re just visitors!”

The soldier in front nodded at the sonic screwdriver in the Doctor’s hand, the golden crest on his helmet swaying with the motion. “What’s that in your hand then? Some kind of detonator? Explosive devices are strictly banned on Apollonian soil.”

“Not that there’s much soil to go on, it’s mostly marble,” the Doctor quipped in your direction. The quiet, albeit nervous, chuckle you returned was a small comfort. “But this -” she continued, pointing the sonic screwdriver in the direction of an intact display, “totally harmless! See?”

The sonic screwdriver trilled and then the glass display exploded, raining down shards of glass.

Ah.

“Whoops, wrong frequency,” the Doctor said meekly. "My mistake."

The soldiers slowly began to raise their bows, aiming them at you and the Doctor.

“What do we do?” you whispered.

“Same thing we always do,” the Doctor replied, one hand shooting out to grab yours, “run!”

And that was where she had been only thirty minutes before, racing out of the Royal Museum and into the streets below. There was fear, yes, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to the exhilaration she felt as she ran, your hand clasped tightly in hers. The rush that it gave, the rush of adventure, the thing that had kept her hearts pounding for each and every lifetime she had lived - it was addicting, and looking at your face, she was sure you felt the same way too.

You were smiling ahead despite the danger, eyes shining with reckless abandon, not caring whether your pretty dress got ruined, and all the Doctor could think about was that she had never seen a more beautiful sight. Your determined expression could have rivalled the fire-tinged sunsets of her childhood on Gallifrey. Warm and real and -

Thunk!

You gasped. The air completely knocked from your lungs.

"Doctor?" you whimpered, your eyes flickering to meet hers. Your expression flickered - from confused, to scared, to pained. Things that you should never be feeling under her watch, under her care. “Doctor, I -”

You fell, and the Doctor did what she promised she would always do - catch you.

She wrapped her arms around your waist and hoisted you up, adjusting you so your uninjured arm slung over her shoulder. Where she found the strength to keep you up, she didn't know.

"You can still walk," the Doctor grunted, shifting her weight onto one side. "Come on."

Well, she did know. She'd locked the very vivid, very real image of you in pain in her arms and how it made her feel into a dark corner of her mind, for later (or maybe much later, or maybe never at all), because there were bigger fish to fry, bigger things to worry about than the fear that was coursing through her veins. No more focusing on the what-ifs and they should-haves - universes don't get saved that way.

Priority number one: Get you to safety. Everything else after that was secondary.

Safety was a bit farther now, though. The TARDIS had disappeared, leaving a square impression on the dirt below. The Doctor swore under her breath. Of course. She had sensed danger coming.

And, as if the universe wanted to do nothing but spit in the Doctor's face, cold droplets of rain began to fall from the sky.

A man in tattered clothes hobbled past, looking up at the darkening sky with a reverent expression on his weathered face. "Praise Poseidon, the bringer of life and of the end," he whispered, before walking away and disappearing into the winding alleyways of the old city.

There's nothing to praise, the Doctor thought bitterly. She wanted to curse the sky, curse the universe, even curse the poor man that walked past for even implying that there was anything remotely good about her situation.

"Still with me?" she said, jostling you.

You groaned, but managed a stiff nod. “Still with you.”

"Good girl,” the Doctor said. “I'll get us out of here, yeah? I promise. Hang tight."

Carrying you through the old city, the Doctor tried not to think about every single broken promise she had ever made. Speaking to you over the pounding rain, she regaled you with stories of Apollonia, trying to keep her voice level as she spoke about the old priests that worshipped Apollo, and the fishermen that turned their faith to Poseidon for their blessings. She talked about how the history of the planet had twisted their image of Apollo, turning him from patron to healer to poisoner. She tried not to think about every person who had ever put their faith in her, only to have that faith broken, sometimes at her hands.

Keyword: tried. She failed miserably at that.

But she would not fail you. Not today, not ever.

"…and of course, now they see Poseidon as a destroyer, and want him to sweep away the city as punishment for their crimes - which is a bit of a heel-face turn if you ask me, pretty extreme - hey, don't go to sleep!"

Your eyes were lidded now, looking at nothing in particular. The Doctor jostled you once more – instead of a muffled groan of pain, you gave no response.

"No, no, don't you dare," the Doctor said through gritted teeth. She lifted you once more, holding you in a bridal carry, letting your head rest limply in the crook of her shoulder. "Don't you dare - you keep breathing, alright?"

The Doctor blinked away the rain (and something else in her eyes, though she didn't know what) and squinted at a wooden door with faded lettering on it. Danae's Chest, it read, in peeling golden paint.

The door to the inn swung open with a loud creak, even louder than the rain and thunder outside. But the interior was quiet, the only sound being the pitter-patter of droplets from a leaky roof and the murmured prayers of the person at the front desk.

"Excuse me," the Doctor called, and when her voice trembled, she chalked it up to the chill of the rain.

The person at the front desk lifted their veiled head and peered at the Doctor with beady eyes. "Yes? What're ye here for?"

"I'm the - inn inspector," the Doctor said, placing her psychic paper on the table. The veiled figure stared at it. "Inspector of inns. Here on official inn business. Need to check if the place is… all up to inn-dustry standard. I'll have your best room."

The veiled figure's gaze snapped to your form in her arms. "And yer friend?"

"Just that," the Doctor replied, feeling her hearts twist, "a friend. She's had a bit too much to drink, if you catch my drift."

It couldn't be farther from the truth, of course. But a fond memory bubbled up from a deeper part of her - remembering the way you had melted into her arms drunk on some alien liquor before, sighing contentedly like it was the only thing you ever wanted in life and nuzzling your face into her chest. She would have smiled at that. She'd prefer that over this, over your cold body in her arms, any day.

"Hmm." The veiled figure peered knowingly at the Doctor. Not at her, through her. "Yer running. Fugitives, aye?"

"That obvious?" the Doctor scoffed. "What gave it away? The bloodied person in my arms? The dirt on our clothes?"

"Not from the guards, ye nitwit," the veiled figure said, "from somethin' else. From yerself. No more time for that, missy."

The Doctor frowned. "Did you just call me missy - ?"

"Hush!" they croaked, and with such conviction that the Doctor was reminded of her childhood caretakers. "I'll take ye to your room now," they continued, rising with effort from their seat. They took a lantern into their bony hands and gestured at the stairwell behind them. "Follow me."

The innkeeper was leading them to their "best room" - but any word except best would have described it more accurately. It was cramped. A crumbling fireplace stood in one corner, and in the other was a small, rickety bed. One cracked window cast a solitary ray of moonlight across the whole sad affair.

"Keep safe, ye hear?" the innkeeper said softly, as the Doctor gently laid you down on the bed. It creaked and groaned in protest, and so did you. "It's not safe for you out there. Your ship will come tomorrow, though."

The Doctor looked up at the old fellow, who had now pulled back their veil to reveal kindly golden eyes and a mysterious, toothless smile.

"How are you sure?" she asked.

"Hush, child," they replied, slowly hobbling out of the room. The glow from their lantern made them look almost holy, even though the Doctor was not one for prayer. "I know what it's like to be running away. They'll be alright, you hear?"

The Doctor didn't have to ask who they were talking about. And the Doctor - weary, but finally feeling a flicker of hope - gave the innkeeper what she hoped was a thankful smile and not a grimace. "Thank you."

"May Apollo guide you," the innkeeper said in farewell, and the flickering light of their old lantern disappeared down the stairs.

Apollo, the gentle. Apollo, the healer.

Healing. That, the Doctor could do.

Right, then. A step-by-step plan slowly came to life in the Doctor's mind. First things first: warmth. The fireplace in the corner was easy enough to light, only needing a few stray pieces of tinder and some old magazine clippings and grocery coupons from her pockets to light. The Doctor considered burning the statuette of Apollo on the mantle, but decided against it - it could be bad luck. The flame wavered in the cold evening wind, but it would have to do for now.

Step two: assess the injuries. The Doctor tore her eyes away from the shadows that the fireplace cast on your pale face, and set her sights on the arrow sticking out of your shoulder. The best thing to do would be to keep it in, of course, because pulling it out would have you bleed more…

You moaned softly, twisting slightly in her grip. A bead of sweat dripped from your forehead to the thin sheets underneath you. You were warm. Why would you be - ?

The Doctor dug her fingers into the fabric of your dress and pulled, tearing it open and exposing the bare skin of your shoulder. The flesh around the arrowhead was darker now, a touch more violet than a normal human wound. She let her fingers trace softly around where the arrowhead pierced your skin - it burned to the touch.

Even that gentle touch was enough to draw out a quiet whine from you, a keening, vulnerable noise. She was hurting you.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," the Doctor said, pleaded almost, wrapping her hands around the shaft of the arrow. Another arrow whipped past her face, a memory of it, and she tried to remember how the arrowhead looked. Not curved. Not spiked. Thin, and narrow, just enough to incapacitate a suspect.

She had to pull it out. The thought alone made her stomach churn.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I have to," she said to you, not knowing if you could even hear her at all. "I have to, I -"

A million apologies would never be enough. She gripped the shaft tighter - "I'm sorry -!"

With a slick, sickening noise, the arrowhead came out cleanly, and you screamed.

The Doctor had seen you in pain before, the Doctor had seen you scared - but she had never heard you scream like that. The sound seared itself onto the Doctor's hearts, echoing over and over again in her soul - she had done that to you, she had hurt you, she had made you scream in pain and it was all her fault -

Her racing thoughts faded into a hum in the background, and her mind and hands began to run on autopilot. The plan continued.

Step three: clean the wound. She found a clean cloth while rummaging through her pockets, and collected some rainwater from the cracked window. The Doctor watched as the pristine white handkerchief that must have belonged to someone slowly stained red, every inch of it colored with your blood. The wound looked better clean, she decided, and moved on to the next part of her plan.

Step four: use regeneration energy to -

"No."

The Doctor's vision snapped into focus. She'd been a passenger in her own body for a few minutes. "What?"

"No," you managed, as strong as you could. You blinked up at her, eyes still swimming in a pained haze, but they still looked determined. "Whatever you're doing, no."

"I -" The Doctor swallowed, shook her head. "Listen, I have to. You'll die if I don't do this."

"I don't want it," you ground out. "I don't want you wasting your life on me. Don't be sentimental."

"Is now really the time to be arguing about this?" Golden dust fell off of the Doctor's hands, her fingertips humming with energy. "I'm saving your life!”

You took in a deep, shaky breath. The brief flash of determination in your eyes slipped away and gave way to that same pained haze. "'M not worth it," you slurred, one hand reaching up to push hers away. You moved it by about a centimeter. "I'm really not."

And that compartment, that she'd locked away in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind, the one that stored every feeling that she had for you, burst open at the words. A flood of emotion, of love, of joy, and now of unbridled terror, washed over her, and now there were tears running down her face that she'd never felt before.

"You are," the Doctor snapped, pressing her hands closer to your shoulder, "you are always worth it. Always to me. I can't lose you, not like this, not like everyone else - you have to let me save you!"

A tear dripped off of her chin and lands on your cheek. It glowed golden for a moment before disappearing.

"Please," she pleaded, through tears. "Please let me save you."

And even still, as your eyes fluttered closed once more, you shook your head no.

The Doctor considered it. She considered it, her hands, once still, now trembling, glowing golden and shimmering dust falling off of them and onto your discolored skin.

She could do it.

Save your life.

It would be that easy.

She could press down, seal the wound closed, and move on.

You would be alive, and safe, and she would never have to worry about anything ever again.

…But you'd never forgive her for it.

The Doctor swore under her breath. The golden energy pulsing through her hands faded away, leaving just the flickering embers of the fireplace in the corner as the only light in the small room. A wooden figure of Apollo, with his arms around a prone man, stood alone on the mantle. Apollo the gentle, Apollo the healer.

The Doctor was not one for prayer, but for a moment, she prayed to him.

So - the Doctor did what she could. She cleaned the wound once more, finds an antibiotic in her deep pockets (thank Rassilon), and covered the wound with a torn strip of your dress. But after that – there was nothing more that she could do.

Nothing more, except wait.

The night only got colder as the rain continued on. The Doctor had shed her coat hours ago when the slightest hint of a shiver wracked your body, wrapping it tightly around you until you stilled. She turned away from you for a moment and pocketed her trembling hands…her trembling hands. Dexterous, deft fingers, shaking in fear of losing you.

"…Doctor?"

"Yes?" The Doctor rushed to your side. A once over with the sonic screwdriver told her that you would be alright, in time, but without the TARDIS it was time she couldn't skip. It was a unique torture, this, worse than any other she'd ever experienced over her lifetimes. Watching you weak and prone, the sound of your labored breaths so soft she would have thought you were gone.

The Doctor laughed, dry and mirthless. Was this what it took? Nearly losing you for her to realize how much you meant to her? Was the universe that cruel in their ways to make her see the truth?

"…laughing," you mumbled, your head lolling over to face her. You stared at her through half-lidded eyes. "What's wrong…?"

"It's nothing, love," the Doctor whispered. Another lie in a long list of lies, but the last one she would ever tell you. For tonight, nothing meant everything. "Nothing at all. You need to get some rest."

She laid a hand on your chest. Thump, thump, thump went the quiet sound of your heartbeat, a quiet reassurance of her hard work.

"Hold me," you whispered, so softly that the Doctor nearly missed it. "…please?"

The Doctor sat gently on the creaking, rickety bed. She moved to lie down beside you, but her arms remained hesitantly outstretched, afraid to hold you, afraid to hurt you, as if the frozen image of your pained scream in her mind would play on and haunt her for the rest of the night. "I don't want to…"

Slowly, you moved closer to her, lifting your head up so it rested on her chest. "I know."

The Doctor's hearts were hammering in her chest beating out a steady but confusing rhythm - she couldn't tell whether if it' was because you'd gotten so close, your clammy skin against hers, or if it was because she was absolutely terrified to going to lose you tonight.

She wrapped her arms around you. She had two hearts. She could multitask.

The Doctor jumped in surprise when your hand fell into place on top of hers. She let her fingers intertwine with yours, remembering how warm they felt as you ran together; she pressed her lips against them, and their erratic shivering seemed to calm.

A low vibration rumbled across the Doctor's chest, right where your head was. You were talking. She stilled, listening to you mutter incoherently for a moment - and with a painful twist of the knife right between her hearts, she made out the words:

"Sorry. C-can't sleep," you mumbled, the words quiet, your breathing far too shallow for the Doctor's liking. "Cold. H-h-hurts."

"You're cold?" the Doctor asked. The tiny movements of your head were all the affirmative you could muster. "What can I do?"

You blinked your eyes open up at her, but when you met her eyes, you weren’t looking at her. You were looking through her, eyes fever-bright and glassy and your mind not all there, just hanging on by a thread to the last bit of coherency you were still managing to hold on to. Your next word came out as a soft whimper - "Help?"

What more could she do that she hadn't already done? The Doctor was the last shred of warmth in this rapidly cooling room, and she couldn't bear to leave you to stoke the dying embers of the fire in the corner. Not while you were still like this. "How?"

"H-help me sleep. Turn my brain off, o-or…something," your voice bordered on the edge of pleading, helpless even though she was doing all she can to help. "Anything. Please."

The Doctor's hold on your shivering frame tightened. It was a risk. Rest was what you needed - enough energy to at least get up tomorrow to find the TARDIS again.

If you would wake up to see tomorrow at all, that is.

"P-please," you repeated. She felt your fingers weakly paw at her shirt, at the bowtie wrapped around her neck. Your eyes misted over with tears, just barely threatening to escape. "Please."

(It's a risk she was willing to take if it would make you stop looking at her with those eyes.)

"Okay. Okay," she said, unwrapping one arm from your waist. She let her fingers rest gently on your temple, watching your eyes flutter closed at the contact. "It's alright. Just let go."

I've got you, the Doctor thought. You melted against her body as she willed you to sleep slowly, unlike the quick send-offs she usually gave. She willed your mind to sleep like the gentle waves of the ocean, rocking you away into the void. She hoped it was enough. I've always got you. I'm never letting you get hurt again.

The Doctor tried to give you images of warm smiles and laughter, of running together hand-in-hand, of peace and calm and safety. She soothed your troubled thoughts and guided you towards good dreams. As she felt your consciousness dim, disappearing into the sea of sleep, she tried one, final thought.

…I love you.

She didn’t expect a reply, nor did she need one. She was content with watching your furrowed brow disappear, with feeling your trembling body go still, and with hearing your breathing become slow and even. But she felt a brief flash – a connection. The contact had bridged a gap.

Me too, she heard you whisper, me too, Doctor.

And then you were gone, asleep in her arms, the corners of your lips pulled ever-so-slightly upward.

The Doctor smiled. Truly, properly, really smiled, and pulled your sleeping form closer to her.

Yes, everything would be alright now.

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