50'sdiner

I spend more time than I probably should thinking about what things were like for Bellamy after Clarke left him at the gates to Arkadia

How he had to tell Abby that she had left—"Where to?“ "I don’t know"—and watch as she broke down into tears, every bit as broken on the outside as he was on the inside

How everyone kept asking him where Clarke was (everyone but Monty, who only looked at him in a sad, sympathetic way) and he had to tell them over and over again that she left, and the words never grew duller with use; they still dug into his lungs every time he uttered them, hurting with every breath

How he took to going to the bar in the evening (until he saw what the alcohol was doing to Jasper, and resolved to stop), and met Gina there, a soft sweet girl who coaxed the story out of him in between shots

(The first time she kisses him she tastes like moonshine and honey and it takes him a moment before he thinks to kiss her back; but Gina is a balm to the sharp edges inside of him and so he allows her in, allows her to comfort him)

How he insists on being part of the crew that goes back to Mount Weather to clean it up, and how the bodies there are still slumped over their dinners, buzzing with flies that had entered through the door they had left open, and the air tastes like rotten meat on his tongue

(He had objected when they had wanted to loot the mountain for supplies, but had been overridden; and after that first visit where he spent hours burying bodies in the meadow outside he never went back)

How he patrols the fence and looks into the woods, hoping for a glimpse of blonde hair returning home, hating her for leaving him, hating himself for not being able to let her go

How tales of the great Wanheda, Mountain Slayer, begin trickling in, tales of how killing her would gift her killer with her power; his heart clenches inside his chest but he can’t go after her, he can’t save her when he doesn’t know where she is (and she had left, anyway; she had chosen to leave him, to leave all of them, so maybe he should leave her to take care of herself)

How every day he pretends to be okay, for the sake of the delinquents (his delinquents), for the sake of his people, his friends (his family), and eventually it feels less like an act and more like a truth; eventually whole days go by where he doesn’t think of her, where that nauseating mixture of anger and grief and loss and worry doesn’t curdle in his stomach

How there are days when the weight of the mountain bears down so heavy upon him that he can hardly breathe, can hardly get up from bed in the morning, but then there are other days when that weight is lifted by his friends, and he thinks that maybe they can start healing together

He thinks that maybe the hole inside of him has started to close up, that he can and will move on without her, that life goes on even if she never comes back—

Then he catches a glimpse of her blonde hair through the sights on his rifle and all of those thoughts reveal themselves to be lies; because there is Clarke in front of him and suddenly it’s like she never left, and nothing in the world matters more than bringing her home

Si volta verso di me. «Come stai?» mi chiede, la voce di nuovo dolce.
“Be’, veramente di merda…” Deglutisco. «Se ti dicessi che sto bene, mentirei.»
Lui inspira seccamente. «Anch'io» mormora, poi allunga un braccio e mi prende la mano. «Mi manchi» aggiunge.
—  E.L. James
2

“I remember once you told me,” she said, “that you had loved two people more than anything else in the world. Was Tessa one of them?” “She is one of them,” he said agreeably, shrugging himself into his coat. “I have not stopped loving her, nor my parabatai; love does not stop when someone dies.” “Your parabatai? You lost your parabatai?” Clary said, feeling a sense of shocked hurt for him; she knew what that meant to Nephilim. “Not from my heart, for I have not forgotten,” he said, and she heard a whisper of the sadness of ages in his voice, and remembered him in the Silent City, a wraith of parchment smoke. “We are all the pieces of what we remember. We hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss.

Inspired by [x]

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Autumn Arrival by Stefan
Via Flickr:

يقول الشيخ عبد الحميد كشك _ يرحمه الله _ في إحدى خطبه : لما جيء بالأستاذ سيد قطب إلى حبل المشنقة جيء بأحد الموظفين المعممين ليلقنه الشهادة _ في زعمه _ فنظر إليه السيد قائلا : أتلقنني الشهادة نحن نموت من اجل لا اله الا الله وانتم تأكلون الخبز بها