Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sometimes healing your inner child involves unspeakable acts of violence ❤️
the infamous heartbreaking number 4 scene captured perfectly, also look at the EMOTION in the eyes
artist: @/koldangrey_art
Recently he was broken, but finds the strength to be cool in front of Andrew 😏
🐾
‘Andrew was watching him, still perched on the edge like he had a death wish. Neil wasn't sure why he did it, but he plucked Andrew's cigarette off the sidewalk and stuck it between his lips. He tipped his head back to meet Andrew's unwavering gaze and tapped two fingers to his temple in Andrew's mocking salute. Andrew turned away and disappeared from sight. It felt like a win, though Neil wasn't sure why’
🐾
how is it that the runaway who’s wanted by the mafia and the psychotic knife boy from all for the game have a healthier relationship than the pretentious twink and butterfly enthusiast from these violent delights
THIS IS NOT MY ART
"What was his name?" He looked to Neil, who frowned confusion at him, and said, "Your father. What was his name?"
"Nathan," he said at last. "His name was Nathan."
"You don't look like a Nathan."
"I'm not," Neil said through the stones in his throat. "I'm Nathaniel."
here is the author's instagram - https://instagram.com/darri.ti?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=
I already know what mini comic I want to do next and I haven’t even finished the one I’m on now... so have some outfits I’m gonna put Neil and Andrew in
Hc that Andrew doesn't talked much once he joins a pro team and his teammates only really hear him talk on the phone in Russian, so they all eventually just assume that Andrew is actually just Russian. Sure, they all have seen what the internet can provide about Andrew, but they've all successfully gasslighted themselves into believing Andrew is from Russia and Russian is his forst language. Like, he never really did interviews in college and even though they've heard Aaron speak perfect English, they assume he just learned well and has a really good accent. They assume the same about Andrew since he obviously speaks perfect English whenever he does occasionally speak to the team.
So one day, at the beginning of the next season, when one of them gets curious enough before practice starts, they ask Andrew where he's from. When Andrew looks up from his phone (which he has barely put down this whole time) and says California, they are all momentarily confused. Someone else asks if his parents moved here from Russia and when, and Andrew is beyond confused (not that he let's it show). Andrew calmly stated that he isnt Russian and the team explodes with queations.
Before any of them can be answered though, their coach walks in with their new striker for the season. The coach introduces Neil Josten to everyone, explaining that Neil's flight was delayed and that's why they're so late, and suddenly it makes sense why Andrew was on his phone. He must have been texting his college buddy, right?
After introductions, the team goes to the locker rooms to change and the guys hear Andrew and Neil murmuring in low Russian, and they get ten times more confused than they were before.
Throughout the season they all try to subtly pry for answers, but they get nowhere. They all resign to just not knowing what is happening with the two of them.
A few months later they hear him talking on the phone in German. When they ask who it was, Andrew simply says it was his cousin. And then they start wondering: is Andrew actually German?
He’s an eight, but he killed his mother and used his inheritance to buy a masserati.
callmebestest-deactivated202211
Paris: -steals Helen-
Hector:
anonknown-deactivated20230720
Book one Neil did not fuck around and I respect that about him - the fandom talks about this, but not enough
Art credits to @detrinity
Obviously not any ships, just meme format placement
✨I found the note of incorrect quotes @starry-night-tempest gave me✨
(PSU as John Mulaney quotes p1/?)