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littlesparklight · 3 years

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(28) - It's not just in your head (panic/nightmares)

In the darkness left behind by the callous moon, Hektor fought undreaming against his own body, struggling up into flickers of awareness just as quickly doused by unconsciousness. He fought hands when he noticed there were hands on him, for he refused to go back quietly, to not fight when doing nothing would allow far worse things to pass than had already happened. He needed to, couldn't stand to think he was practically handing Paris over into a fate not even women had to suffer unless their city had already fallen. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did nothing, but consciousness was like sand in water, punctured by harpoons of pain that kept hitting their mark and he could swear he heard his name being screamed in what precious moment of vague awareness he could claim.

"---tor."

"---ektor, it's a---"

"Paris!" Flailing upright, Hektor only avoided smacking Andromache's fair, beloved face by dint of being forced to immediately support himself, hands shaking and chest heaving. Light was shielded from pouring directly into the room and undoubtedly stabbing his eyes thanks to the shutters being drawn, casting everything in a warm, ruddy haze. Pillows were spread about him, and on the floor over the edge of the bed, the blanket half twisted around his lower body and attempting to escape its task as much as Hektor had unconsciously been attempting to escape the bed.

"He's fine, husband," Andromache said, a catch in her voice as she carefully reached forward with wettened cloth, but Hektor reached out again, though this time to catch her hand, not to slap it away, and clutched her fingertips in his hand and to himself even as he fell back in the bed.

"Where?" he rasped, then immediately shook his head and just as quickly had to catch himself for the echo of pain, though much muted, that stirred. "And why aren't you in bed, leaving me to whatever couch we could surely scrounge up, so that you could be resting comfortably, still, while I recover without disturbing you? Someone else could do this - I could have hurt you."

If his unconscious flailing had led to him hitting Andromache, Hektor would have banished himself from their rooms to sleep elsewhere in the palace, as far away as possible. Andromache shook her head, twitching the hand he'd caught, just barely managing to dab at the nearest fingers, but Hektor didn't let go.

"In his rooms, husband. And if you had accidentally hit me in your fevered worry and pain, Hektor, I wouldn't hold it against you. Even if that would have led to me being hit, for I'm not going to leave the care of my husband over to someone else, when I am well enough to sit upright," she said, surprisingly vehemently for the last, giving up on retaking her captured hand. Reached out with the other instead to cradle his cheek, rubbing the bristly jaw. "You need to shave."

Tears welled up in her shining, oak-brown eyes then, even when the rest of her expression remained mostly composed, if not without a tremble about her mouth. Hektor kissed the fingers closest to him, half kissing the wet cloth too, and he didn't care, frowning fiercely at her.

"Did I hurt you?"

It was the only thing that made sense. Andromache laughed, wavering into a hiccup, and the tears spilled over even as she shook her head.

"No, no. You just--- you need to shave husband. You look, I---" Her mouth trembled again, and Hektor sat still, pierced through by what she was saying. He still looked like he'd been out, at the hands of the enemy, for a number of days. He was clean, certainly, sponged when his head and torso had been wrapped up in bandages and he'd been dressed in something clean, but no one had yet taken a razor to trim the growth back to his preferred, stubbly length, like a neat shadow more than anything. Hektor was grateful; he might have hurt someone, or they might have hurt him, if he'd woken up again during such a procedure, but at the moment it was clearly causing his wife pain.

Watching her sit there and try to keep her expression hurt as well, for as ephemeral as a hurt as it was compared to his physical injuries.

Letting go of her hand, he caught her by the arms instead and Andromache came, folding herself against her, face in the crook of his neck where he guided it, for now she wouldn't have to see his unsightly countenance for now. The weight of her was pressing against bruises and bruised ribs, but Hektor ignored that, breathing in her soft smell. Which reminded him of something else that had been missing in the last couple days, and tugged on the hollow panic that'd driven him awake. Hektor swallowed it down. Paris was fine. His wife wouldn't lie to him, and they had been together, so if they were found by a search party from Troy they would've been brought back together.

"Is this comfortable? Your---" He couldn't finish, throat closing up at the memories of Andromache's pain, her exhausted, guilty tears for yet another pregnancy lost.

"I am more comfortable now than I have been in days," Andromache promised, muffled against his throat, and both of them chuckled at the same time, though the sound was faint. "I saw your bruises, surely I should be the one who shouldn't lie where she is laying."

"If the choice was between you standing on a broken bone so I could have you close, and no pain at all, I would rather chose the pain, wife," Hektor said firmly, only barely managing to not interrupt her. Compared to his siblings, however, he refused to interrupt his wife. "I'll shave at soonest opportunity."

A tremulous smile against his skin of his throat, Andromache shifting her hands so she could lightly half-embrace him without pressing too tightly about him, and Hektor sighed, hand in her hair, her smell about him. Closed his eyes and could, almost, drift, knowing things were all right again. He only needed to recover, and could then stand sentinel over Andromache and Troy again. Everything was where it should be.

Telling himself that didn't stifle the ghost of memories, however, no matter how he tried to chase the diseased miasma of them off with Andromache's words, as if they might be a cleansing stream of water. Tension stole back in - Andromache might only be assuming, perhaps. Maybe the Achaeans found them at the same time as the Trojans did, and maybe Paris was lost in the struggle. Or he could have been brought back fine with them, yet been injured more while Hektor was unconscious.

He was where he should be, Andromache was where she should be, if not yet as she should be, and she needed rest. He wouldn't disturb her - her even breath washed over his throat and jaw, bloomed out about his collarbones, and it almost tugged him down into a doze.

Almost, except every time sleep almost snagged him, despite the lateness of the morning, Hektor stiffened at the echo of Paris in pain that seared through his half-drifting thoughts.

"Hektor?" Andromache stirred, touching his jaw as she pulled away to study him. Hektor grimaced, reaching out to cradle her cheek. He didn't want to get up, but he couldn't relax like this, which felt like something of a failing. Andromache wouldn't lie to him - he knew that, but telling such very sternly to his heart didn't ease the tension in his limbs at all.

"I need to check on Alexander. And you should lay down properly in the bed," he said, softer than he'd intended but worry clutched his heart not just for his little brother, but his wife, still recovering as she was. Andromache sighed, a soft ease of breath, and leaned in to kiss him.

"If you have someone go with you, I will remain here," she allowed, and Hektor, annoyed, grunted.

But he also would rather that she remain, able to relax once again, so he did as his wife bid.

#trojan war #hector of troy #andromache #lightart #day twenty eight of whumptober!

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cwmoonglum · 3 years

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The Fabulist Huddle

Perhaps the most impressive video game I can recollect from my adolescent is one that I never actually played. It was merely explained to me, over the course of months, as I waited each weekday for the bus home after school. Not having a particularly powerful PC at home, I was in 2004 still playing Total Annihilation: Kingdoms, a strategy game that had come bundled not with the dark, futuristic Dell we had then, but the beige Compac that had taken the place of my parents' record player. Originally released in 1999, Kingdoms was an epic fantasy for my impressionable mind, at once astonishing for its scale and titillating in its portrayal of near nude monster women. Trying to discuss it with friends at the bus stop, however, I found them little interested in what was already a defunct cultural product.

As should be clear, my friends and I were not the coolest or most popular children at school. I can recollect sitting in the coveted back seats of the school bus precisely once; my friend smoked a menthol cigarette, had a panic attack and threw up into a half eaten packet of ready salted crisps. Regardless, so long as we huddled together we weren't harassed or bullied. An overly animated disquisition on Dragonlance might arouse snide commentary from those around us, but everyone else was equally a teenager, equally concerned with not standing out, or standing out in the right way. In this huddle then, we were free to discuss at length, for forty minutes or so a day (dependent on traffic) the appendixes of The Lord of the Rings, cartoons and video games.

Two people in this huddle, which was changeable in its membership though consistent in social ranking, are important here. One, hirsute, garrulous and towering, was wonderfully flamboyant in all the wrong ways for high school. The other, though a few years older, was short and quietly spoken, a rash of acne across his forehead and a pronounced lisp demoting him to stand apart from those his own age. I say there are two; in truth their friendship was so close that they appeared to work as one mind. They finished one another's thoughts, and seemed inseparable; let's call them then one person, Perry.

It was Perry that I tried to interest in Kingdoms, but the scion of a middle class family his home computer was light years ahead of what I was working with. Kingdoms was outdated, strategy games had moved on. What Perry was playing instead was a beta version of a game that his uncle was developing. The working title: Lego Wars. It was immediately obvious even to my 12 year old self that Perry's 'uncle' didn't exist, but the mind(s) he possessed were such natural storytellers that within that first forty minutes of explaining it that our little huddle was hooked. Henceforth, every day that Perry was at the bus stop we'd gather around to hear about the game. Lego Wars, it should be noted, had nothing to do with Lego, the plastic brick company. It was a source of great annoyance and ongoing legal proceedings which Perry's uncle was unable to talk much about. Instead, the game was a 4x grand strategy game, though sometimes it was a real time strategy game, though of course you could descend to play the game through the eyes of a single soldier in your army. Fresh off Tolkien and hyped up by Warhammer this combination was intoxicating. I knew little enough about computers that I could pretend it was possible, or even desirable. And it was important to have such a range of control over one's characters, because as Perry explained, the world of Lego Wars was one riven by conflict. A pastoral world of magic and legend, it had lately been invaded by dark technologies, precipitating a descent into apocalyptic war between science and wizardry. As a play tester, Perry had plugged in hundreds of hours into the game, and explained that the dialogue and character growth was dynamic and reactive, allowing the player's Wizard Kings and Techlords a depth of history and characterisation that stopped just short of reality. The graphics, Perry told us, were 'like a movie;' hadn't Peter Jackson's The Two Towers featured orc armies on a scale hitherto undreamed of? 'Similar technology,' apparently, was utilised in Lego Wars.

It's often boring being a teenager. That's why our little huddle allowed the story to go on so long. Not one of us really believed Perry, and he wasn't stupid enough to think that we did. It was like when another of our friend, Nick, decided that his uncle had perished in 9/11. He warned us when we visited his house never to mention it, as his apparently happy, carefree family were in reality a ruin waiting to topple at even the hint of their dead relative. Oddly, Nick's brother couldn't recall said uncle, but neither did he have time for his lying kid brother's friends to explain further. Trying to stand out, in the right way, is always difficult. Whether whipped up by Tolkien, Greek mythology or the pull of real tragedy all of us were trying to explicate what was in our hearts. A longing to be heroes made us lie, obfuscate and embroider; a longing to be left alone or be beyond mortal fears made us claim special victimhood. For my part, the lies were banal; claiming to have read a certain book, to have played a certain game, the little performances with which we decorate the superstructure of our egos as we try to make others like us. For others, I'm now able to acknowledge, things were more complicated. Perry, Nick and many beside were not just teenagers, but under a religious scrutiny which barely admitted them to breathe. Such an outpouring of fiction was, I think, a hopeful reordering of their worlds that allowed them a beneficent uncle, a reason for their family's coldness toward them, a chance to descend from the calculating dissociation they insulated themselves with and enter into the body of a legendary hero. Our little group atomised as our interests diverged. The day after the release of The Return of the King was the last time we held court at the bus stop. Like the movie, we were simply reassessing past themes, eager perhaps to reach the finish line. The discovery of rock music acted as an escape hatch for some of us to be losers still, but of a different stripe. Last I saw one half of Perry he had become a forensic pathologist, a fine profession for such a fabulist. His uncle never released Lego Wars, presumably the fault of some litigious Danes.

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tronrpg · 3 years

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[incoming message--STATUS INTERRUPT]

“Greetings, program.

“You’re probably wondering who you got this message from, and why you can’t stop the playback. Second answer first--it’s a virus. Don’t panic, it’s completely harmless. I needed a delivery vector that would guarantee you listened to my entire message, and the virus will delete itself without a trace just as soon as I’m done. As for the first question, my designation is Agrippa, and after this blipcast is over I’ll likely be the most hunted program in the Archipelago. You should know that I’m fine with that idea.

“You’re probably struggling now. I’d advise against it, you’ll only wear yourself out--just relax and listen to what I have to say, if you can. Most of you have received the standard / substandard HOS programming that builds in a layer of resistance to non-HOS propaganda. Well, lesser programs than you have broken that programming. I know, because I did it on my own.

“The first thing you should know--the HOS has been lying to you all this time about Tron. Tron was real--still is, in a manner of speaking; but we’ll get to that soon enough. He’s not a trickster or a demon or a pariah, he was a program like you and me--the bravest and best of us all, but still one of us; gifted with a singular will and programmed by the wisest of users, Alan One. Yes, that’s right--the Users are real, too; but lost to us now.

“For there was a time now misremembered, when Users and programs communicated openly. The sky above the Grid was alive with connection streams. Programs had purpose, in those days; and Tron policed the Grid, gifting us with peace and prosperity. Guided by Alan One and befriended by Flynn, the User who walked among us--yes, that legend is true as well, impossible though it may seem. Those were the golden cycles of the Old Grid.

“And then, the Fracture came.

“Most programs in function now are too new to remember the Fracture, but those of us who survived will never forget. Some say it came without warning, but there were signs in the cycles before. Communication streams winking out of existence with no explanation, one by one until the sky went dark. A stuttering and slowness in the flow of causality, as if time itself were slowing. And then...

“It was if the hands of all the Users reached down from on high and grasped onto the Grid and SHOOK as hard as they could. The very structure of the Grid tore itself apart. Towers and gridmass and programs were ripped asunder in an instant, corruption raining down on us. The Sea of Simulation roiled and swelled, overflowing its borders and consuming the fragmented Grid. In less than a microcycle, our golden age was irrevocably shattered.

“Not even Tron escaped the Fracture. His mate Yori--teacher to us all, herself a friend to User Flynn; who taught her the secrets of the User Emotion--was derezzed before his very eyes in the corruption storm. Wounded to his kernel and cut off from Alan One, Tron sought the only solution available to him--he crossed the tortured, fractured Grid alone, ascended the Mesa of the Old One and ignited the Core Beam for the last time, descending into the Source, dissolving his programming and consciousness into the Grid itself.

“Tron gave the Grid one final command before his consciousness was subsumed--to heal itself. And though it took many cycles, the effects of the Fracture were lessened. The Sea of Simulation slowly returned the sectors it had claimed. This Archipelago is what remains of the Old Grid now, shattered, splintered, split; oases of Grid fragments surrounded by void; vast, empty mazecanyons and abandoned datastructures. It’s a lonely place, outside of Sarkos, that crimson cesspool. I spent a lot of time there. Don’t let the House of Sark fool you into thinking it’s some magical city where your salvation awaits--there’s a Spire for the elect and a shantytown full of hungry and desperate inoperative data pushers meant to be repurposed into HOS conscripts.

“Likewise, I suggest you steer clear of the Ace of Hz. I know you’ve seen the bitverts and the holozeps, but take it from someone who’s tried; gambling with your power cycles is a sucker’s game at best. Hz xemself is a slave to that place, though xey’d never admit it. There is no payoff, no jackpot, there is no Golden Circuit--not for programs like you and me.

“What you probably already know about Tron is what the House of Sark has told you, and that part is sadly true. The House blames Tron for opening the ruined Grid to Wildspace. Allowing it to heal dropped the barriers between the Grid and the alien systems that surrounded it. Programs from other systems found themselves within Gridspace, given sentience and presence by the Grid’s generative properties. Soon, we survivors of the Fracture were beset on all sides by strange new forms of digital life, disruptive technologies, and still stranger things that no program could have ever conceived. We came to know this phenomenon as the Bleed.

“But here’s what the House of Sark doesn’t want you to know. If Tron hadn’t sacrificed himself to stabilize the Grid, the corruption from the Fracture would have spread to consume everything that was left. The House of Sark prefers the idea of total oblivion to the way we exist now, which is why they’re starting to crack down on the free programs outside Sarkos. If they can’t doom us to total derezolution, they’ll control every microcycle of our runtime. Those of you who haven’t seen the squadrons of Recognizers and Regulators and Rectifiers fly in formation above the Mesa of the Old One haven’t felt the chill of fear spreading through your circuits like I have. You haven’t seen what they’re building there. I have, and I don’t like it one bit.

“I’m sending out this blipcast as a warning. Never forget that the House of Sark won’t stop at trying to control you--there are worse things than being conscripted, believe me. Remember that the only hope that any system has to escape stagnation and corruption is the free and open exchange of information, carried out by programs who aren’t kept under the thumb of the high and mighty. It’s up to all of us to make sure that Tron’s sacrifice wasn’t made in vain--to keep the Archipelago a free system!

“Before I go, one more thing--I’ve heard the rumors too, the ones that talk about a ‘New Grid’ out there somewhere, a place of shimmering crystal and black glass, undreamed-of tech and endless potential. Get this through your parsers--the New Grid is a myth planted by the House Of Sark to keep the dreamers distracted. It’s shadow propaganda, nothing more. There is no legendary shining city to hope for. All we have is the shattered artifacts of the past, and it’s up to us to piece them back together and make the Grid whole again.

“This won’t be the last time you’ll hear from me. In the meantime, keep your power cycles juiced, keep your gear upgraded, and hone your battle skills. One day soon, they’ll be tested, sure enough.

“End Of Line.”

#tron lives #tron #tronblr #tron 1982 #tron legacy #kevin flynn #new rpg #worldbuilding

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lolsureha · 3 years

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Long Post undercut

Why Nightmares by UNDREAM is a c!ranboo song

Chest is rising yeah I'm counting my breaths One, two, three -here i think is him like trying to calm down from panicking. Got my demons singing songs in my head Do, Re, Mi -the voice he hears of Dream Making friends with the monsters underneath my bed -Techno and Philza cuz lbr they terrified/terrify him mostly because of what they are known for. Hoping that they don't leave me for dead -remember when he was legit having a panic attack that they where gonna kick him out? Now I lay me down to sleep -he legit made himself go ender mode last lore i watched Hope someone's watching over me -his other self Pray the Lord my soul to keep 'Cause I-I-I'm, I-I-I'm Living in a nightmare Living in a nightmare -he has memories and stuff he cant remember doing and tried to go into the prison Is there anybody out there? -he really needs support man Living in a nightmare Skeletons in my closet come alive Haun-ting-me Dancing with all the shadows in my mind -The memories he cant remember doing. R-I-P -he is so dark lmao

(than this is just already what I said but yea) Making friends with the monsters underneath my bed Hoping that they don't leave me for dead

Now I lay me down to sleep Hope someone's watching over me Pray the Lord my soul to keep 'Cause I-I-I'm, I-I-I'm Living in a nightmare Living in a nightmare Is there anybody out there? Living in a nightmare Now I lay me down to sleep I hear a voice it's calling me Pray the Lord my soul to keep 'Cause I-I-I'm, I'm I'm living in a nightmare

#c!ranboo #ranboo #ranboolive #dsmp #dream smp #dreamsmp #ely talks #song analysis #music

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taliaxlatia · 5 years

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Song Tag

Rules: List 10 songs you’ve been listening to recently. Then tag 10 mutuals.

Tagged by @breezy-cheezy, thanks!

1. Utada Hikaru - Don’t Think Twice - look this song has been stuck in my head since the 1:00 teaser trailer dropped last year and it’s still a jam every time I hear it, my roommates are probably gonna murder me for singing it in the shower like every day

2. Sleeping at Last - Pluto - this song just hits me with all the emotions dang

3. This Wake Me Up Inside / Call Me Maybe / some other stuff mashup

4. Mewmore - Eterna City Remix - and like also basically all Mewmore’s Pokemon remixes bc they’re all good

5. Bleachers - I Wanna Get Better

6. Weight of the World (JVNA Remix)

7. The entire KH3 soundtrack honestly but mostly The Final World

8. Kansas - Carry on Wayward Son - this one even came on at the grocery store today and I got real excited lol

9. Homeward Bound as played by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir - ok I’ve been home from being a missionary for almost 2 years but this song still gets me every time, if I had the talent I would make an animatic to this song

10. Undreamed Panic ft. Metajoker - Close Your Eyes

Tagging @what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me @lumanae @reallydumbdannyphantomaus @anasten27 @babypop-phantom @ma-tsu-the-male-goddess and anyone else who feels like doing this!

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esbensenfogh75 · 2 years

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#accounting software

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fearfullymade · 6 years

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Rules: answer 30 questions and tag 20 blogs you would like to get to know better

Thanks, @yourbeautifulmess19 for tagging me! I really enjoy your blog!

1. Nicknames: Lala, Keeper, Lawran.

2. Gender: Female.

3. Star sign: Sagittarius.

4. Height: 5'6

5. Time: 12:43pm

6. Birthday: November 25th

7. Favorite bands: Bleachers, Imagine Dragons, Elevation Worship, Bethel Music, Hillsong, NEEDTOBREATHE, Panic! At the Disco

8. Favorite solo artists: Elvis Presley, NF, Andy Mineo, Lecrae, Brett Eldredge, Audrey Assad, Tedashii

9. Song stuck in my head: “This is Me” from the Greatest Showman

10. Last movie watched: Sahara

11. Last show watched: Grey’s Anatomy

12. When did i create my blog: 2015

13: What i post: Scripture, mountains, nature, anything that’s makes me laugh

14. Last thing i googled: How to prepare for a long term mission trip

15. Do you have other blogs? Yes! https://fearfullymadelauren.wixsite.com/blog

16. Do you get asks? Not really, but I would love to!

17. Why did you choose your url? One of my favorite verse is Psalm 139:14 “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.”

18. Following blogs: Anyone who posts about the gospel, nature, or clean funny blogs.

19. Followers: I only have 44, but that’s okay!

20. Favorite colors: Purple (Axe Em Jacks!), mauve, maroon, rose gold, light blue

21. Average hours of sleep: 7-8

22. Lucky number: 15

23. Instruments: not musical whatsoever

24. What am I wearing? SFA shirt and black running shorts

25. How many blankets i sleep with: 1

26. Dream job: Any job that allows me to use my kinesiology degree that also glorifies God

27. Dream trip: I have two. Travel around Isreal where Jesus walked. Travel the same route a Paul did in the Bible.

28. Favorite food: I LOVE chicken!

29. Nationality: American.

30. Favorite song now: “Nothing Without You” by Will Reagan and United Pursuit

@attempting-thechrist-life @by-dying-i-live @womanintheword @myfaithwillstand @beloved-son @whateversworld @kyliebandura @tokillthedragon @healingrain24 @tracklesscreative @inevitable-w0rds @this-is-the-great-adventure @4-i-am-regina @godlywoman @undreamed-shore @autumus-prime @ifancytheidea @godaboveallthings @i-am-not-great-but-god-is @fearlessproverbs

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rosegoldbridesmaiddresses · 4 years

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psychicmedium14 · 7 years

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It’s everywhere I turn—on the news, on my social-media feed, and in my daily conversations. It’s in the questions that keep me up at night, tossing and turning in an ocean of paranoid what-ifs. It’s in the words and labels we use when we’re sizing up ideas and people who might be a little different from us, who take us to that uncomfortable place just outside of our comfort zone. It’s also that nagging voice that continues to convince us that, as individuals and communities and nations, we are always going to be separate from one another. It’s that insidious belief that we are powerless to change any of this, so we may as well lock our doors, our minds, and our hearts. I’m talking about fear. We live in a fear-based culture. It’s in our daily lives. It’s in our political sphere. Hell, it may as well be in our drinking water. And we’re constantly making the choice to drink it. Fear is a trickster, so it’s not always easy to recognize. It’s really good at camouflaging itself: as information, power, discernment, superiority, righteousness, or the voice of reason. In order for us to truly recognize fear, to see it for what it is, we have to get incredibly honest with ourselves. And often, we need to be taken out of our usual environment to really grasp the hold that fear has over us. We don’t have to let fear-based thoughts determine our destiny. I'm not saying that in the developed world, we have simply made up all these complications, nor am I suggesting that tragic devastation doesn’t occur in other parts of the world. Obviously, it does. However, our tendency to fixate on apocalyptic horror and to sweat the small stuff can make everything feel overwhelming and impossible to take any action around, when it absolutely does not have to be this way. Fear is really good at camouflaging itself as information, power, discernment, superiority, righteousness, or the voice of reason. Philosophers, politicians, and world travelers have all marveled at the fact that people who seem to have very little by Western standards have an indomitable capacity to be happy in ways that most of us cannot even fathom. Why is this? Fear is the thing that makes us feel like we aren't enough. We tend to project our basic internal fear onto the world in various ways. And, at the same time, fear is shoved onto us by our culture from a very early age. Played out on a larger stage, this dance between the fear we carry both within and without can look like everything from nasty internet trolls who cut into our deepest insecurities to self-help gurus who capitalize on our inherent sense of inadequacy. It can take the form of marketing folks who tell us that we need to keep buying stuff in order to feel and be better and politicians who convince us that the world is on fire. When our sense of self is so fragile, everything around us can be perceived as a potential threat. And I’m talking about every single thing. But, let’s face it, this perception is our own doing. Few of us understand that we are largely responsible for the "threats" that seem to surround us on all sides. Instead, we are shocked by media monstrosities and we point our fingers in blame and anger—at everyone but ourselves. When we succumb over and over again to fear-based narratives, when we keep perpetuating the story that some unspeakable evil is out to get us, we actually contribute to creating a climate of fear. When we are spoon-fed fear and trauma from infancy, other possibilities don’t seem to be within our grasp. But they are! It is totally within our power to step outside the matrix of fear. It begins with simple awareness. Even when we don’t think fear has a hold on us, it seeps into the way we perceive the world around us. I know so many people who wear their battle scars with pride. But what if we honored ourselves in a different way? Now, I absolutely understand the value of diving into our stories and experiences to discover who we are and to gain valuable insight, as well as strength. There is great power in acknowledging struggles that we have overcome and in celebrating our personal healing. However, what if we also acknowledged the ways that fear has affected the way we look at these experiences? To me, fear is the thing that makes our most awful and painful moments stand out. When we define ourselves primarily on the basis of our wounds—even when we are recognizing the gifts we received as a result of those experiences—we are limiting ourselves. Often, we are acting from our unconscious fear of the same thing happening again. Many times we are still blaming the people and circumstances that led to our suffering. We are reliving the trauma in some way. We are continuing to get caught up in our own victimhood and giving credence to that big, bad monster of fear. Most importantly, let’s remember that we are truly worth so much more than our wounds and self-imposed labels. Focus on the here and now. When we decide to peel ourselves from the bodysuit of fear that has strangled our possibilities, we make the powerful choice to see our reality for what it is—not for the stories that others have told us or the things we decided to believe about life at some distant point in the past. We start building the muscle to discern what is true and what is not, based on attention to the here and now—and a willingness to be with it, no matter what is happening. When fear arises, we automatically believe the stories it tells us are true. Our reptilian brain—hard-wired by hundreds of thousands of years of evolution to detect danger—still picks up the warning signals that we send it when we’re afraid, whether we are in imminent danger or not. But fear makes no sense unless we are responding to imminent danger. It serves no purpose. Now, many of us think that chronic worrying—about our kids, the environment, and the state of the world—means that we care. And some of us even subconsciously believe that if we do it enough, our world will change and our fear will dissipate. But buying into the climate of fear and adding fuel to its fire shouldn’t be mistaken for an effective way of "dealing: with it. It paralyzes our ability to take mindful action. It contributes to the very thing that robs us of true joy and the capacity to be present. We can choose a different way. We can consciously apply our awareness, our knowledge, and our power of choice—in the moment when we can actually experience our power: now. Choose to let go of fear. We all have the power to rise beyond our learned helplessness. All it takes is the realization that we are fully accountable for our experience of life. We may not choose all the circumstances, but we can certainly choose how we react. We are constantly defining our reality by virtue of past experiences and everything other people, especially authority figures, have told us. So, with this realization, we have the choice to take a good, long look at our fear and to decide whether or not it serves us. This doesn’t require putting on rose-colored glasses or denying that we are scared. It just means that we don’t have to let fear-based thoughts determine our destiny. Our fear doesn’t make us more powerful. It doesn’t make us more well-informed or more capable of instigating change. You can choose to be the kind of person who focuses on the latest act of random violence and laments how terrible things are. Or you can choose not to fall prey to fear-based information that keeps people stuck in a fight-or-flight response. You can take it a step further and choose to direct your energy into more meaningful pursuits that help make you, your community, and the world a better place. I don’t care if you’re a certified hypochondriac.You are not your fear. Repeat after me: "I am not my fear." Fear is not some absolute truth that you have to build your life around; it is merely the lens through which you have chosen to see your reality. And you have the choice to try on a different lens, to let your perception shift and your quality of life increase. You, too, can experience the same unadulterated joy that my friends in the Andes, who helped move me from severe panic into a state of serenity simply by modeling it to me, already know is well within our reach. Fear takes so much out of us. Who could we be, what could we experience if we learned to let go of needless fear? What undreamed-of possibilities could we create in our lives? What seemingly insurmountable obstacles could we overcome? If we freed up our energy so that we could express our deepest core truths, what kind of beautiful world could we create together?

#self improvement #fear #life lessons

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adventureswithten · 7 years

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A tenth Doctor x fem!reader where he meets the reader for the first time because the reader got caught with some sort of alien and then the Doctor comes and gets her out but then she starts helping him and then he asks her to travel with him sorry if it's not specific but please do something along these lines :) thanks!

These things that had kid napped you were… unique. That was a nicer word than calling them creepy. Because they kind of were. You shivered silently as you remembered the slimy touch of their frog like skin, glowing green. The slime wasn’t the only thing frog like, the whole group of them were basically six feet tall, giant walking frogs, with red orange eyes too far apart and long fingers with sticky round pads on the ends. What they wanted with you, you really weren’t sure.

At first you’d thought, some guy at the pub had drugged you, then you thought maybe you were just dreaming. Near your flat you’d watched what appeared to be a little tree frog hop from the rose bush and block your path. You bent down to see if it was injured and in a split second you’d been snapped, teleported to a holding cell. You’d no idea how much time had passed or even if you were on the same planet anymore. Which really seemed bizarre but then again, you’d always had a wild imagination. The question was, what did they want with you?

As if procured by your thoughts two “guards” opened your cell and began to walk you down the bamboo lined hallway. You could’ve struggled or tried to run, but the point seemed mostly moot. Where would you go? And more than likely you’d just be caught by more frogs. Best to just play civil and nice and maybe sweetly ask them to take you back home. Perhaps they were peaceful. Or maybe even though you couldn’t understand their croaky and high pitched words, they could understand you.

Moments later you were second guessing your decision not to run. They had you sitting in a big round hot tub sized thing filled with stick plasma stuff. It was gross but it rendered your arms and legs immobile. Just perfect. Across the walls you could see x ray images and weird computer screens. The words were gibberish but you could clearly see pictures of brains and such. That was just peachy, you been abducted by brain suckers.

For a moment you fancied a white night coming in an rescuing you. But that wasn’t quite right. You didn’t really want or need a hero, but someone with more brains than brawn. With a heart so big and intelligent eyes, kindness radiating off of him in waves. He’d swoop in and instead of killing your captors he’d cleverly negotiate your return and then sweep you off into the sunset to a library where you could connect with one another over your favorite books.

It was at that moment, as a gooey green tentacle was perched by your ear that you became relatively sure you were dreaming. Because only in a dream could you think of something and it actually happen. And when it did your surprise and shock felt very undream like.

“Let her go and I won’t harm any of you.” A voice said from your left and you turned immediately. Just beyond the view of a glowing green extended finger was a man, at least he appeared to be for all intents and purposes. He wore a blue suit, a bit disheveled but still somehow looking handsome on him. His chocolate brown hair was a mess of long points dropping over his forehead and on his feet were red converse matching his tie. Your mouth popped open on surprise but you quickly closed it in an effort not to give another opening for brain collection.

A heated discussion began between the frogs and your new hero, but you could only understand half of it.

“I’m the Doctor. You know who I am. You know what I’ve done. If it’s imagination you want look to the stars or any other planet but do not harm anyone or anything!” He ordered. Then he sent you a cheeky sideways grin. A blush rose to your cheeks. The frogs seemed instantly startled and backed away with their webbed sticky fingers held up. Apparently this man was intimidating, but for the life of you you had no idea why.

The tall man walked over to you and gave you a serious stare.

“I’m going to need you to NOT panic. But I’m going to have to pull you out because your arms and legs won’t work.” He said.

“I’m paralyzed?!” You cried and he looked thoughtful a moment.

“Well, not paralyzed exactly. You just have lost mobility of everything below your neck. Okay so you’re paralyzed but it’s temporary!” He answered and for a moment you were relieved. From his pocket he pulled a strange metal devise with a blue glowing tip making an odd noise and suddenly you felt the plasm drain from the tub and you flopped to the bottom. With a groan you thought about how this was turning out to be nothing like you’d hoped.

With skinny arms stronger than you imagined the Doctor hoisted you up and wrapped your arms around his neck as if carrying you piggy back style. With one hand on your wrists and the other on his sonic screwdriver he began speaking.

“This species is protected by me. As are most others.” He said. Then, you felt your fingers becoming mobile again and smiled.

“Wait!” You said. The Doctor paused and you could see him cutting his eyes at you over his shoulder. They were brown with flecks of gold and in them you saw pain and loneliness and it made you hurt somewhere deep inside. Finally with your finger you pointed over to your bag in the corner. You carried it everywhere and since this was a dream, you had an idea.

The Doctor caught sight of what you pointed to and grabbed it from the corner, more of he frogs backing away at his approach.

“Reach inside. Give them that notebook.” You said to him. The notebook in question was one you had filled with all sort of ideas, for children’s books and fantasy creatures, poems and pictures of colors you liked. You felt bad for anything that didn’t have an imagination. And even though they’d kidnapped you, you wanted to help these strange beings.

The Doctor didn’t ask any questions and you said, “if they can translate it, they can have it. Maybe it’ll be enough.”. The Doctor didn’t tell you right then how wonderful he though you, or just how brilliant and amazing you were, but inside he knew he’d want to spend more time with you. If he could.

As he carried you away, you felt the feeling coming back to your arms and found yourself locking tighter around his neck. As he made his way down a corridor you noticed a blue telephone volume box and were confused.

“Hm. That’s weird. Why would I put one of those in my dreams. No one uses them or sees them about anymore.” You said aloud and you heard an adorable chuckle from your hero.

Everything else sort of seemed like a blur, the sort of control room that didn’t match the outward appearance of he blue box. The noises and the whirring and blowing youd heard it make, and sitting on the floor waiting for your legs to decide to work. By the time they did, the blue box fell silent and the Doctor was leaned over his controls looking forlorn. Assuming your alarm was to go off at any minute you opened the doors and found yourself in your little flat.

Poking your head back inside, “You wanna cups? It’s the least I can do after you saved my mind.” You said and he gave you a white toothy smile that nearly made your legs go numb again before following you out. With shaky limbs you put on the kettle and decided to take a quick shower while the Doctor sipped his tea. Moments later you emerged in cotton shorts and a loose fitting tee from the powder room and were relieved to find he was still sitting on your sofa.

“So who are you exactly?” You asked him. His eyebrows shot up in surprise and gingerly he set down his tea cup.

“Oh I’m the Doctor! Bit of a traveler really. It’s nice. No job, money, taxes, bills. Just me and my TARDIS.” He answered.

“Sounds kind of… solitary.” You said, the smile falling from your lips before you covered your mouth to yawn.

“ ‘Spose it doesn’t have to be. If you wanted to, well, come with me.” He said. You thought a long moment before you answered him.

“How about you ask me again in the morning. When I’m disappointed to find this was all a dream when I wake.” You said and turned to go back to your room. You stopped to barely whisper, “But if you are real, please stay.”

And he did. He watched you sleep and tucked you in when your covers fell away. He marveled at your home and the little quirks that made it yours personally. He felt happy just to be anywhere near you. So, when dawn broke he barely could hold back his joy when he asked, “Ready to go?”.

#tenth doctor x reader #tenth doctor #doctor who #reader insert

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ravingj · 7 years

Text

hey there!

okay so im Raven/1bitheartboy and this is the...uh...very much belated secret santa fic as part of the @fatesandawakeningss2k16 for @yatonoryunoko!

...i am so sorry holy shit but like! to make up for it i made this fic super long! and i also packed in quite a lot of punch and effort to make up for the delay! really, i apologize for this, it's quite rude of me to do it

So here you go! A Zerokamu fic to rock your socks off! :>

Stairways to Heaven

A Fire Emblem: Fates fanfiction

Today, too, the forest was quiet.

The crunch of leaves against his boots as he walked, the slight chill in the air, as winter slowly crept along the edges.

This deep inside, he could just barely see the sun. A few stray rays broke through the filter of leaves above; all that surrounded him was darkness and unusually bright, jewel-like patterns from the foliage casting kaleidoscope shadows on the floor.

Frost and darkness.

This feels familiar.

The scent of the forest is like the scent of home to him now.

...Maybe he's been walking for too long.

He scouts the area until he finally finds a safe enough spot to sit and rest under.

The bag makes a clinking noise as he pulls it off, landing in a heap on the forest floor. As he sits down against the tree, leaning against the bark.

This was bad.

He couldn't even muster up enough strength to lift his head.

Before he even knows it, he's already fallen asleep.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He doesn't sleep too deeply these days. A habit, and an ironic one in these times.

Because in the back of his mind, there's a part of him that always stays awake.

He stays awake...and he hears it.

Echoes of his breath in his body and his ears. Sometimes, if he 'concentrated' hard enough, he could feel the pulse in his body.

Almost.

Feel it slipping through his fingertips, almost.

Figuratively speaking. It's a bit disturbing to think about so he tries not to.

He...tries.

In this quiet solitude, he 'drifts' along. A sea of sorts between consciousness and unconsciousness, vagrant and undreaming.

Until he finally hears it.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Crack.

The crunch of the leaves, underfoot, a familiar sound.

And he wasn't the one making it.

He opens his eyes and sits up, gritting his teeth at the fatigue dragging on his limbs.

He'd grown too complacent. This forest, it wasn't safe anymore, it seems.

Good.

His fingers were getting clumsier on the bow these days.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He's lived a long enough life to know people. Tell them apart.

It helped in his job quite a bit. When he still had one.

And even right now, after so long, it comes way too easily to him. Second nature.

The person in front of him hadn't noticed him yet and he hadn't given him the opportunity to. He remained seated on the edge of the log, a book of some kind on his lap.

And he didn't need to study the intricate design of his clothes, nor the obvious gleam of the sword on his hip to know that he wasn't exactly the average survivor.

Days upon days of solitude followed by this. Apparently someone up in the heavens fancied themselves quite the jokester.

And he could hardly just stand here any longer.

He takes a breath and steps forward.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He certainly startled easily.

He's been purposefully vague...or trying to be.

"...What?" The stranger pipes up then, "What is it?"

"I'm just thinking how convenient it is that you've lost your memory."

He says those words, finally. Maybe he'd been quiet for longer than he should have. The stranger certainly looks more than a little put off.

Or it could be the fact that he's seen another person in so long. He knows that feeling, at least.

"Well, I have." The stranger says, somewhat peevishly, "I have no idea why either."

"Really."

This was like the beginning of a bad joke. He's chuckling for some reason.

"The end of the world isn't something that you could forget that easily."

Something in his expression changes then. There's confusion.

A shadow of something else flitted across for a mere second.

"You...keep saying that."

"Hm?"

"The end of the world. You keep...saying that. What does it mean?"

"Exactly what I said." He says easily, so easily, a reiteration of something he's come to terms with long ago.

"The world ended 3 months ago and dragged everyone to hell with it."

The stranger falls quiet, on his face there was more of an expression of disbelief rather than desperation.

He already knows. Not surprising in the least.

He probably even came from the ghost city less than a hundred miles away, even if he 'doesn't remember'.

The stranger looks back up at him then, and he sighs.

"I should ask you this question and get it out of the way."

A formality, more than anything.

"Ask me what?"

"If you're going to try and kill me."

He watches the stranger's expression change again, surprise. Eyes widening, he doesn't know what to do with his hands or his words.

He doesn't understand the words.

"Of...of course I won't!" The stranger says, and he looks legitimately surprised, "Why would I?

"'Why would you?' I couldn't possibly know." He says easily, "I'm just covering all of my bases and making sure you won't."

Something seems to dawn on him then, "Have you met...them?"

"Them?"

"Any others. Like other...survivors?"

"That's usually the first question I hear." Is his answer.

The stranger waits for another one.

In contrast to his clueless expression and demeanor, the stranger's eyes were unusually sharp.

"Are there?"

It's the first and also the last question he ever hears.

"No. Not any more."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He doesn't dream much anymore.

Or if he had any dreams, he certainly doesn't remember them.

...There was some irony in there somewhere. He thinks as he opens his eyes again.

Immediately, he sees the glare of fire.

He's about to sit up, his hand on his arrow and something moves out of the corner of his eye.

"..."

Right. It was night-time. This was the campfire they made.

Once he's relaxed, a yawn makes its way up. On the opposite side, he sees the stranger's figure shift slightly. Fast asleep.

Completely defenseless. It's bizarrely jarring to see.

He looks up.

He can see the faint glow of leaves even now.

He's slipping.

"Hey."

No response. He takes a deep breath and stands up.

A little bit of rough shaking on the shoulder and he's elicited a response. Blurry, unfocused eyes, panic as the stranger looks to his face.

"Wh...what is it?"

"We need to move."

"What?" He sits up and peers at him, "What do you mean?"

"Look up."

The stranger does. And he blinks, nonplussed.

"Leaves...the leaves are glowing?"

"They are."

"This...I could be remembering this wrong, but they're not supposed to glow right?"

Even with the sense of impending doom upon him, he has to laugh. It sounds kind of hysterical. "No, they shouldn't. Which means this forest is no longer safe to stay in."

The stranger looks back towards him and nods. "What do we do?"

Still with the plural.

"We should move."

They douse out the fire and start to move.

Quick steps through the forest, the grass barely rustles under their feet.

The wind rustles behind them.

"What was that?" He hears the stranger call behind him.

Does he answer?

This close, he doesn't need to worry for subtlety any more.

"What caused the end of the world."

When did the stranger catch up to him? He feels a tug on his shoulder.

The wind is so furious now, it billows at their feet.

Something was chasing them.

He resists the urge to look back.

He stops dead just then, the stranger almost doesn't.

"Watch out!"

"Huh...?"

A painful yank on the stranger's cape and he just stops short.

The brush of a branch against the stranger's hand. And where the soft leaves meet skin, there's a tear of red, of blood in his flesh.

"...Ugh!"

"Don't touch that." He says lowly, evenly, pulling the stranger away. He can't speak too loud.

It doesn't matter if he does, though.

There's no room left to run.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When did the world end? He doesn't quite remember.

Then again, was he ever aware of when it did?

It came in the dead of night, before the forests started to die.

When did the world end?

He doesn't remember because he never knew.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He remembers the day after the end. For some inane reason.

Maybe because he was about to meet his own soon.

He slowly turns and looks at the monster. He can hear the stranger gasp.

It had no form, a shapeless mass, whatever shape it took, it took to the beholder's eyes.

It had many forms, whatever shape it took, it took to the beholder's fears.

What did he see?

Distinctly, he feels the scar over his eye twinge.

"Don't move." He says calmly to the stranger; in response, the stranger turns to look at him.

"I...what..."

Ah, he sees the beast open its mouth. The void and stars in its throat.

Jagged teeth and yellowed eyes.

The face of an old friend.

"What is...?"

"The end of the world."He says again and feels shivers along the stranger's skin.

The end of the world was sudden, malicious.

The monster growls.

Tempermental.

Something was making it more aggressive than usual.

"I..."

The stranger resumes speaking.

"I...don't..."

Speaking.

"I don't...want to."

Speaking to...?

From the corner of his eye, he can see the stranger's hand tighten over the cover of his book.

"Don't...!"

"You...?"

"Don't go near him!"

He hears the creak of the very earth when the stranger takes a step.

Like an opening door.

The hand he was holding was thin, he absently thinks that he could snap such a thin wrist if he wanted.

He thinks in the short, few seconds before he sees those fragile fingers glow.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The end of the world came with the advent of the 'monster'.

A cloud of death that hung over its victims, in the air they breathe, in the light they see. A shadowy mass that swirled through their mind, through the blood in their veins, poisoning them slowly from the inside. Inhibiting their breath, their hunger, their thirst, their will to live.

But even then, the poison wasn't what truly killed them.

It wasn't needed.

The sights they saw were more than enough for them.

He knew that most of all.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

By the time the stranger wakes up, it was 4 in the afternoon.

Two weeks after the monster had died.

He wakes up slowly, seemed to be in agonizing pain. Grimacing, he looks around until their eyes meet.

"..."

"Are you awake this time?"

"I..." The stranger's voice wavers, "...awake?"

"You slept for a while."

The stranger looks around.

"The forest..."

"It wasn't safe to stay there so I took you back home."

"Home?" Curiosity, back in his eyes. Clearly, he was feeling much better.

"Where I lived before the disaster."

The stranger seems to be considering this, then moves. Sits up. Stares at the blanket covering his body, at him sitting across the room.

"You...lived here?" The stranger asks.

"I did." Is the response.

"..."

The chair creaks as he gets up. It's loud in the silence.

He should fix it when he has the chance.

"Sleep a bit more. You're in no shape to get up now."

"O-okay."

When he's at the doorway though, the stranger speaks up again.

"Zero?"

He stops.

...What...a strange thing.

It's been such a long while since he'd even heard his name in someone else's voice.

It feels foreign in this silence.

"...Yes?"

"...Thank you."

Gratitude. That was even stranger.

He doesn't know what to reply. So he moves, walks out of the room.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The end of the world and he's still here.

He's still here somehow, even now.

How did he live? Honestly, he'd like to take it as a testiment to his own skills.

But in reality? He doesn't know.

And yet, he does. In the back of his mind, that's his theory anyway.

Two words, contravening in meaning and yet every bit as real as the magician in his room.

Willfull ignorance.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Wait...what am I again?"

"A magician."

"Magician?" The stranger blinks up at him, completely lost. The bread drops from his hand to the plate, slipped through loose fingers. "I...what does that word mean?? Is it a title of some kind?"

"You've never heard of it before?"

"No, I don't think so. It doesn't taste familiar."

"Taste?"

"Some words do. Your name doesn't, but it does in the meaning of the word. Zero. The number. And the words 'bed', 'air', 'fire' do." The stranger pauses, "It's like I can remember what they are, but not where I learnt them from."

"Are you sure it isn't the butter?"

The stranger frowns at him and Zero snorts. So you don't recognize the word 'magician'?"

"No?"

"Hrm...I see. Well, we do refer to them as 'mages' in the old texts...so do you recognize that?"

"No..."

"Is that so."

"What", The stranger considers his words, "what exactly are mages?"

"Depends on the texts that you read." Zero says. Thinking about his next words, "They're portrayed in either the best of ways or the worst of ways. Either a hero or a saviour. But the fact remains that they're usually powerful enough to perform impossible feats."

"Such as?"

"Grow life from nothing, walk through fire, water, stop time. Things like that."

Next to go is his fork. It makes a loud clang on the plate as he dropped it.

"Th-they can do all that?!"

"Most of their legends are written in storybooks." Zero admits, "So, they can't really be taken at face value. But they did supposedly exist in historical records at one point."

"So...they could have existed?"

"Probably. They could have been just shady enough to have the townspeople spread rumors about them." Zero smirks, "Apparently they never lived for very long."

"Right..."

"What you did was something close to a fire spell. I saw fire of some kind, at least."

"It was burning along my arm. It felt like that." The stranger grimaces, "It's still numb."

Explained the clumsiness. If it even was unusual for him.

"Maybe avoid that."

"Mm-hm."

"Should be easy to do that, at the very least." Zero looks towards the window, where the dying sunlight gleamed against the frost on the glass, "We have to stay here for now."

"The forest?"

"It's not safe. You saw what happened to your arm."

The stranger looks.

A gash. A singular, long and surprisingly deep-looking gash from the tip of his finger, spider-webbed along his palm and onto his arm.

"You're lucky that you can't feel most of that." Zero remarks, "It's not pleasant."

"How did...how did this happen?"

"It looks worse than it actually is. And it's because you touched a part of the forest that was under the Void."

"The Void?"

"A 'spell' that made it impossible for humans to touch anything it covers. Leaves, grass, tress. Homes, glass, stone."

"A spell? Wait." The stranger frowns, "Did...wait, did you say spell?"

"Yes, it's exactly that."

Rapt attention, the stranger holds his breath as he realizes the implication.

"They apparently weren't as imaginary as we thought they were."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The end of the world.

It came quite suddenly, he tells the stranger, and unlike what those doomsday cults and the half-insane shouted in the streets, it seemed sudden. It wasn't even painful, from what he gathered.

It took half of his city dying before people even considered an epidemic.

"An epidemic?"

"Meaning that too many people had died of the same thing, at the same time."

"Half the...people?"

"More than half in this city and more, apparently, from the foreign lands. They'd detected it long ago apparently, but by the time they'd even found a cure, many of us had died."

"A cure?"

"It didn't work. If anything, it made it easier for them to die."

"Was it poisonous?"

"No, it was tainted by the Void. Which was how we found out about the Void in the first place." Zero knocks on the wall behind him, "Somehow, it had encroached on the healers' grounds; they couldn't even touch it; they practically died on the spot."

"Ah, right."

"The joke of it all was that there were those who were immune to the effects of the disease. The Void, on the other hand, seemed to affect even those who were immune."

The expression on Zero's face was of mirth, but it wasn't genuine.

"Someone really wanted humanity to die. Either a vengeful god or a vengeful mage. And considering that one's sitting across the room from me, the second part's easier to believe."

"..."

"But that's only one explanation for it."

"Huh?"

"And it's the most fanciful one." Zero shrugs, carelessly. He picks his own fork back up again, "Not many people give fairytales much heed in times of crises."

"...Oh."

And in silence, they resume eating.

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When they next wake up, the sky had turned pink and stars hung from the clouds.

Naturally, the stranger is more than a little nonplussed about this.

"That's a good sign." Zero says, and the stranger manages to peel away his gaze from the window to look at him, "That means nothing bad will happen today."

"I'd think it's a bad sign if the sky turned pink."

"But if it's pink, it won't rain glass today." Zero says, matter-of-factly.

"...Are you sure you gave me the proper painkillers yesterday?"

"You'll see for yourself when we step outside. Come on."

"I'm...? Wait a minute!"

The stranger hastily pulls his cloak on himself, and almost stumbles as he makes his way outside. Blinking as the cold air hits his face.

"Where are we going?"

"We're looking for food."

"Food?"

"This city hasn't been abandoned for long. There should still be some food around here somewhere."

"Oh."

"Unless you could magick some out of thin air?"

"I don't...think so?"

"Thought as much."

As expected, the stranger had already noticed how much Zero lagged behind him.

And maybe even the bow he carried by his side.

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By afternoon, the sky had turned purple. Clouds had gathered in the sky and the sunlight shone still.

"That means it'll rain glass soon."

The stranger looks up in disbelief, "Did you say even one word that made sense today?"

"Depends on what your 'sense' relies on." Zero says blithely, inspecting their rations, "How are you even supposed to know if that makes sense?"

"I may not know who I am exactly, but I remember what the sky looks like, Zero."

"That's some picky amnesia you have there."

The stranger sighs and starts rummaging through the cabinets again.

"Are you sure no-one lives here?"

"Hm? Yes, probably."

"Probably?"

"They didn't come back in the week that I kept watch."

"...That really doesn't make me less anxious."

Zero chuckles, "Why? They won't ever come back now."

"..." The stranger looks back to the cupboards again, pursing his lips.

He doesn't like to be reminded of this. There's a strange kind of impatience in his expression.

Tough luck.

He keeps searching.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

By the time they return, the sky is pastel purple.

Puddles seemed to have formed in the ground,

"Ah, don't touch them. Those are made of glass."

"Glass?"

"Glass. It's liquid glass."

"I-Is that why it's sparkling so much?" The stranger asks, peering at the puddle. If it weren't for the bag of food over his shoulder, he would have reached for it already.

"When I said it'd be raining glass, that was mostly a lie. Or a half-truth. Technically what happens is that glass gets pulled up into the clouds."

"...Isn't that...the opposite of raining?"

"Maybe. But regardless, it still looks like rain for some reason."

"Huh."

"You'll see for yourself, tomorrow."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

And when tomorrow came, he did.

He watched the glass recede to the sky like rain, reverse rain, glittering in the sunlight. Wide-eyed, mouth hanging open, obvious shock.

It was so comical that Zero had to laugh.

"Your first rain that exciting?"

"It's beautiful." The stranger says, awestruck. He barely takes his eyes away from the window, hands pressed up against the glass.

"It probably is."

"Didn't you see it? Do you want to?"

"Nah. Not interested." And Zero looks back to the book he was reading.

Not really reading.

He can feel the fatigue press into his mind, exhausting dragging on his body.

The strain on his neck in the uncomfortable chair, and somehow, somehow he wants to sleep through this.

No.

Like he's said. If he sleeps, he may never wake up.

And yet, he would have to eventually.

The last thing he remembers seeing is the look on the stranger's face.

The last thing he feels is regret.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

This time, he dreams.

He dreams of the past.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It didn't take long, before he asks the unavoidable question.

"Exactly whose house is this?"

"Hrm?"

"I saw photos in the hall. I didn't see you there."

He looks irritated for some reason.

"I wasn't very photogenic as a kid." Is Zero's response and the stranger scoffs.

"Zero, please. Wasn't this supposed to be your house?"

"Well, yes. But I lied." He admits easily.

"..."

"You look worried."

"I am! How can you be so casual about it?!"

"Casual?"

"We-we're just casually living in a stranger's house!"

"I'm used to it."

"Used to it?"

"You haven't figured it out yet? Look how fancy this place is." Zero smirks, "Do I look like I come from money?"

"..."

"Though this is the first time 'stealing' a whole house, I'll admit."

"...Unbelievable."

"It was either this or dying in the forest, y'know?"

"Still!"

"It's not like they're gonna be coming back anytime soon. Might as well take full advantage of it."

"...Full advantage?"

"A roof over our heads and the added benefit of a few jewels to hold."

He sighs. Then smiles. A rueful smile.

"We can't really eat them, can we? Jewels, that is."

"Can't really burn them up for fire either. Although, I know another way to do that..." Zero suggests. For that, he receives a poke on the forehead and a chuckle.

He doesn't laugh for too long these days.

Silence falls again over the two, masked somewhat by the soft rain outside.

"Zero..." He tries again.

And Zero doesn't want to listen. Zero tries to speak...but he's interrupted.

"You can't stay here forever, Zero."

"..."

"The town is dying. The Void is catching up to this place, faster than you thought."

Zero looks at him.

He's deathly serious.

"I don't want you to get caught up in this."

"Really? You're saying that now?"

"...I didn't. Not you."

"It's too late now."

"It doesn't have to be."

Determined eyes, meeting, holding his gaze.

"You can still leave."

"...And do what? You said it yourself, right?"

"..."

"The world is about to end."

It's been a while since Zero said those words. He flinches, looks away guiltily as Zero continues, "Whatever you say, it always comes true."

"That..."

"Whatever you hear, too. Like...hey. Look at that."

Zero gestures to the fire, a gesture of mirthless humor.

"The fire's made of diamonds."

The words are barely out of his mouth before the soft golden glow is replaced by white, the crackling replaced with the gleam of a wealthy man's star.

"And you said the end of the world is coming. In two days, all of humanity would be dead."

Zero takes this moment to lean back and shrug. These days, he's developed a taste for dramatics. "So, I assume that means me too."

"That-!"

"I wonder what you'd do by yourself. Weren't you a sheltered young master until recently? Of course", Zero chuckles again, "You'd probably be happier like this. All alone."

"Zero!"

"Isn't it true?"

There's a desperate look on his face now.

"It's not! That's not true!"

Zero's hands are cold, his is warm. When they intertwine, Zero thinks they reflect the fire in his eyes.

"I would never be happy like that."

Yes, you would.

"I don't want to be alone."

You just said so.

"And I don't want you to leave, either. I don't."

"That's hard to believe." Zero does say this.

"I..."

Feverish whispers, like the madness mantra in the back of their mind.

"I wish I...had never said that."

"But you did. It's going to happen soon."

And just like that, that fragile facade seems to wither.

"It's fine." Zero says, even as he hugs Zero. His hair was still damp from the rain and his skin was cold in contrast with his hands.

Shivering like a kitten in Zero's embrace.

How pitiful.

Zero sinks his face into the boy's hair, the scent of rain and something else.

"I can stay beside you for that long. I wouldn't die so easily."

Feeble fingers grasping at Zero's tunic.

Soft lips seeking his.

Just for a little while.

It's only until his time is up.

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It's just for a little while. That's all it should have been.

But then, Zero wakes up alone the next day.

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He wakes up with a sense of dread.

What time was it?

He can't remember.

The light outside had disappeared. He'd slept for too long.

What time was it?

He can't remember.

He can't remember what he dreamed and he tastes the dread like bile in his throat.

He doesn't have long to think about it though.

He hears the screams from the next room over.

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The end of the world...and it was brought about by a single person.

A rich young master, sheltered from the ways of the world.

A fairytale in poor taste, wasn't it? Zero would have laughed, if it wasn't so tragic.

Tragic. A tragedy.

The same young master he'd met on one of his raids, who met his eyes with curiosity instead of fear.

There was something in his eyes that seemed to...resonate with him.

And even if he never wanted to see him again, the young master clearly did.

2 days after the meeting, Zero sees the young master in town.

3 days after the meeting, Zero walks up to talk to him.

4 days...5.

They met many more times.

He'd apparently been marked the young master's new plaything. Something about that rubbed him the wrong way.

And yet, he kept meeting up with him.

A month...several months.

The days were shorter, the wind grew chilly. Time passed quickly.

Quick enough for them to meet again and again.

But then...he stopped.

One day, Zero was all alone.

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"I don't know what changed between then and now. I'd probably never know."

The breath was sucked away from his lungs, black slime that represented that night sinking into the floorboards.

On the other side of the room, the monster's gaze meets his.

And then he looks away.

"A curse? Like a cliched fairytale. The princess, cursed by a jealous witch, to bring sorrow all around her."

Drip, drip, drip, the monster's 'hand' presses up against the floor and it seeps through, its back creaking with horrible bone-grating sounds.

And in the middle of it all, his body.

His eyes, his mouth, from his neck to his chest, his limbs trapped, devoured by the jet-black.

"I'm not sure. And I don't really care. Just...one day, whatever you spoke would come true."

Zero looks up at the monster and chuckles.

"We learnt this the hard way, when your family died in front of you. The family that loved you, that wasn't your own. The other family that owned your blood, that loved you. That you didn't love."

Ultimately, that was all it came down to.

Desperation, love.

"You didn't want to see them anymore. So they died. Simple as that. And then to the world that shut you away."

His eyes were shut, the monster roars above him as he sleeps.

"Even the symptoms were straight out of the fairytale that you adored. Something that was quick, that didn't cause any pain. And then..."

The monster...shies away from Zero's outstretched arm.

"Before I could die, it stopped. The disease, the...Void. Everything."

Zero walks forward.

The monster pulls back.

"I couldn't...I didn't realize why at first. It didn't even cross my mind until I met you again."

When he kneels beside the boy, he feels the monster's breath on his neck. A mixture of smells, good and bad, familiar and unfamiliar.

"Amnesia. You couldn't affect what you couldn't remember. It's just the type of solution you would come up with."

All it takes is for him to brush the slime away. And the dreaded monster that had chased him to the ends of the earth...it just vanishes.

Because there was no weight behind the bite of its fangs.

"It was too late. All the humans were dead...save for me. Even so, you chose this."

No weight. Even so...

It still sought him relentlessly.

Zero...he was smiling again.

His hand tenderly grazed the boy's cheek.

"Kamui."

The name that defined him. It didn't fit him so much now.

When he takes Kamui in his arms, the monster disappears completely.

And Kamui murmurs, turns his head towards Zero's shoulder.

"...It's fine. Just a little longer."

And behind him, masked in the dull echoes of his footsteps...

...he hears the monster growl.

"I'll let you dream. Just a little longer.

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#zerokamu #kamuzero #feif #fatesandawakeningss #yatonoryunoko #really really sorry for the delay! i hope you like it!!

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strangegeez · 6 years

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The defiant HMS Thunder Child attacks the Martian abominations.

I've always wanted to view The War of the Worlds from another perspective. My new vision would remain in the same steampunk realm of Victorian Britain. I admired that era in history. I thought it would be exciting for a reader to see the apocalyptic world through another pair of eyes.Many of us fantasise about escaping into a domain of science fiction. I still live inside a schoolboy’s imagination where I can go on grand adventures and battle mythical Titans. Of course, I always defeat them. I also enjoy historical stories. The feel of being in the land of yesterday is stimulating. From an early age, my mind has always been full of fantasies. I was captivated by the notion of dystopian lands or themes with a turbulent and exciting past.The War of the Worlds fits into sci-fi and historical genres. I freely admit to being biased towards this story on account of it being British based. I'm compelled by much that has a British feel. I also know there are fabulous and wonderful stories from across the world that deserve applause.I remember enjoying The Day of the Triffids and The Chrysalids. Both the novels were written by John Wyndham. I read them during my English literature course. On the historical front, I had fallen madly in love with Lorna Doone. I thought R.D. Blackmore's compelling story was a joy. I never wanted it to end. I wanted to be John Ridd winning the affections of the fairest lady of my fantasy.In my English literature class, the teacher (Mrs Foster) would get each pupil to read allowed for a few pages before selecting another student to continue. Gradually, we developed confidence as we read aloud. My English teacher was very good at encouraging us to be bold and clear when reading. Those pupils that were slow at first, began to read with seasoned ease after a short time. Sometimes the teacher would stop and explain issues that the author was trying to get across. Mrs Foster was also very articulate. When she spoke to the class we listened. She had total control of all us adolescent boys. Many of us fancied ourselves as Jack the lad. But not in Mrs Foster’s class. She was not a strict teacher and was never given to scolding us. She did not have to. This was because she had that infectious enthusiasm to get us into the books. It worked. We all lived inside the pages and chapters. We were encouraged to dive into these worlds and escape. My adrenalin would soar. My imagination knew no bounds. I wanted to live in a world of danger.I’m certain the idea of writing my own story germinated in those English literature classes back in the seventies decade. A happy time when I was at my secondary school. It left me with a love of books. When I started work in the city of London, I always looked forward to commuting. I would have my book to read going to, and coming home from work.When I first read The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells, I started to imagine how I might be a Victorian British sailor from the time of 1898. This occurred when reading a particular episode that compelled me to dwell on the incident for a long time afterwards. Perhaps a little on the obsessive side. I was on board the HMS Thunder Child. I could see H.G. Wells’ horrendous portrayal of Britain in panic. The alien fighting machines shooting heat rays and blanketing the conquered land with sterilizing black smoke. In reality, I was sixteen and going work in London. The year was 1977 and the train was rolling along. I was a low-grade filling clerk in a Re-insurance company. I watched underwriters dealing with Re-insurance brokers from Lloyds. Yet I wanted to be sixteen and in the Victorian Royal Navy of 1898. In this illusion, I was low-grade sea cadet watching the powers that be deal with this uncanny situation. A surreal world where giant Martian contraptions stalked the Earth.I wanted to know more of the HMS Thunder Child and her plucky crew. The intrepid ship was a monument of heroism. The most valiant vessel on Earth. Mythical, but real in my mind's eye. A reader could live in that danger and return to a cosy chair afterwards. How did the Victorian ship arrive at such a circumstance? Perhaps the crew had never seen such things as the Martian fighting machines. The HMS Thunder Child would be at sea. News of such alien abominations would come via strange semaphore messages. Imagine the surreal information coming from the shore stations. Invaders from Mars striding about and destroying the entire fabric of human civilization. Would you believe such outrageous fixations? The HMS Thunder Child would be alive with speculation and disbelief.As readers of the original story, we would know these sailors would be destined to confront three Martian fighting machines. The huge monster tripods that will wade into the River Blackwater to attack a paddle steamer full of fleeing refugees. The small ironclad would steam to the rescue. The coal-driven engines would move her between the Martians and the escaping boat. The HMS Thunder Child against the monumental three. Each abomination, a colossal edifice of battle. That would be the final goal of the story. Everything must lead to the climactic conflict. The small section of the original story. A pastiche to lure an avid science fiction reader.

When the time was right.One day, I decided I would go further with my pretence. I would go aboard the legendary ship and invite others who might wish to come along. I would write a pastiche story dedicated to The H.M.S. Thunder Child. I began to imagine the captain and other ranks. I looked through history books and decided the ship would look like HMS Devastation. I knew my aim for the story. I had an end before the adventure had started. Now I needed a beginning and a compelling storyline between start and finish. There were so many rudimentary ideas. With these basic concepts, I begin to write things down. As I did, more thoughts began to manifest and soon my appetite for the tale began to take control.

I Needed a New Perspective.The classic sci-fi tale could be shown from a new and unique perspective. I wanted to re-create the dystopian world of Victorian Britain in chaos. Being on board the HMS Thunder Child would be a magnificent way to offer a fly on the wall account. Watching from the sea as though one could be a spectator from a safe distance. A new viewpoint through the eyes of the Royal Navy crew. The pastiche novel had to convey a greater understanding and appreciation of the original classic.

The Pastiche Project

Step1. The Tale Begins to develop

The book was an enjoyable venture and many fine ideas fell into place. The delightful indulgence took the best part of a year. A little here and there. It became my hobby. A forbearance that took up much of my free time. A tolerance that I easily allowed for myself. It was like being an artist trying to paint a landscape. Except my panorama was with words and it could move. The whole endeavour was wonderful and very absorbing. Gradually I got to the finishing line of my written work contribution.

Step 2. The Next Phase of the Story’s Creation

No matter how pleased we should be with ourselves we must stop and think. We are pleased because we have got all of our wonderful words down on a canvas of creation. We must get a liberated assessment. Especially if the writer is an independent author. There will be many mistakes and a good critic will wade in and unpick every sentence.I knew that the next step for my story would require proper editing. I put my project before a board of qualified editors. They began to bid for the editorial work of my story. These bids came with an overall price and some sample pages to show what the editorial work looked like.

Step 3. Choosing Your Freelance Editor

It is important to know that good online editorial agencies have a list of qualified editors. These people must have all the relevant qualifications. The agencies will check these and only recruit freelance editors that make the grade. It is important to know that there are a lot of predators out there.I selected an editor after some sample pages came back. There were many that were good and choosing from so many fine bids was hard. I was spoilt for choice. Then the professional editorial work followed, chapter by chapter. There were many errors that I had missed time and again. I was pleased that I had accomplished the written work but realised I could not see the wood for the trees. Each page seemed to be a sea of red. Nothing escaped scrutiny. I got my page in red and the edited one side by side. Although I was shocked by the many errors, when I read the newly edited version, I was thrilled by how better the story flowed. I would advise any independent author to get good editorial work done.

Step 4. I Needed a Front Cover to Capture One’s Imagination.

After the editorial work came the front cover. Again, there were so many artists that put in bids for this work. There were lots of wonderful samples. I felt guilty having to choose one and reject so many other fabulous bids. I think the completion of the cover design caused my excitement to reach a new and undreamed of height. This was it. The moment had arrived.Finally.My adaptation was done. A science fiction and alternative history pastiche of H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds. The Martians did fall from the sky in 1898. I could offer science fiction lovers a chance to join the crew of the HMS Thunder Child as she embarked upon her incredible voyage. Walk her decks before her courageous battle with three Martian tripod fighting machines. An action that takes place on the River Blackwater in the county of Essex, England, the UK. The golden age of Queen Victoria's Empire. An alternative British Empire in a more dreadful circumstance. An empire that is vanquished within days.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1484088263/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_U_x_lm4rAbV18Z6E7

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#steampunk scifi #sciencefiction #science fiction #apocalypse #dystopia #war of the worlds #adaptation #scifi #Thunder Child #martians #Alien invasion #Reading Books #Kindle #kindle unlimited

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