back to the stone

anonymous asked:


[from a fic currently titled “The Cold, the Dark, the Silence” which I just realized isn’t on my WIP list which means I did hit an even forty, so, cool]

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Thor asked, sitting with his back against the stone and watching Loki sweat and shiver. “Really slept, brother, the night through.”

“Never,” Loki said a little wildly. His voice came out hoarse. “Not since I died the first time.”

Thor sighed as though he regretted asking. “You must rest.”

“How?” Loki laughed, but it hurt. “What rest can I find? I am burning - I am frozen. I am waiting to die. Again.”

Thor shook his head. “You cannot die, Loki.”

“And you are going to stop me?” He whispered.

“No,” Thor said. “I will not.” It was the only answer he could give, but it still hurt to hear. Loki hissed.

“Leave me,” he said. “Leave me be. Grant me a little peace.”

“There is no peace for such as you,” Thor said, though he sounded sorry about it. “But you still need sleep. Or else how will you face what’s coming?”

“The only thing coming is the end,” Loki said, turning his face toward the floor. His body flashed from hot to cold and hot again, and he might’ve licked the moisture from the walls if he could reach it. “Stop interrupting me.”

Thor fell quiet. Perversely, Loki missed his voice.

Roads Less Understood

I sit at the base of the tree and gently scratch the head of the cat sprawled in my lap. No one is paying much attention to us: the Random Street park isn’t random, but it is our of the way and I have a hood up. But for all I know, Mr. Pickles is making sure no one bothers us as all.

“They were throwing rocks at you.” It’s easier to talk to Mr. Pickles than to people. Mr. Pickles is a cat, despite everything else. Or in spite of it.

“They were.” The cat’s voice was soft, a whispering half-shadow and mostly thought in my head. “You did get them to go away.”

“Because I was older. Then they saw me, laughed, made jokes –.” I trail off.

“You could have caught the stones. Thrown them back. Thrown the children back,” Mr. Pickles says. “There were solutions at hand other than waiting for them to leave. Ones that would have let to my receiving more attention.”

“But that’s just – I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want anyone to be scared of me just because I have a talent that they don’t. Or at all. You’re the magician of Rivercomb. You could have stopped them too.”

“Heh.” The laugh of a cat. Soft. Amused. “You arrived and scared them off, Noah. Who is not to say I didn’t stop them?”

I blink. Almost stop petting. Switch to my left hand. It’s easier, without the scarring and pain in my right hand and arm, but I can’t shake the feelings that Mr. Pickles prefers it when I use my right hand. “Oh.”

“Few magicians are subtle. A cat, I admit, is perhaps too much so. But your desire – to hide your power from those who might fear you for having such a talent.” Me Pickles turns his head and looks up at me. Tabby, yes, but under the right light his fur seems more green than orange. I think it’s why he’s called Mr. Pickles but I haven’t worked up the nerve to ask. “That is a road that is far less travelled than you know.”

“I don’t want anyone to be afraid of me.”

“What a most peculiar thing to want.”

“I know what I can do with my talent. To move things is – only part of it. A small part, maybe. To push, to pull to do all of that. I held my own against a magician, Mr. Pickles, in their city. And I know I’m not at the limits of my talent at all.”

“You’re strong, yes. But most people are stronger than they know.” The cat lets out a soft, tired meow maybe intended to comfort. “The lucky never have to discover how strong they truly are.”

“Not many people would call my lucky,” I admit softly. “You heard the jokes those kids made.”

“There are many kinds of luck. And few people are willing to grasp that the terrible things that happen to them might, in part, help prevent an even worse fate from befalling them. Your appearance is, of course, far more like a dog than a cat,” Mr. Pickles continues. “Which only helps disguise you from those who do not wish to see deeply.”

I stare down at the cat in my lap. “What does looking like a cat disguise, then?” I ask.

“Oh, many things.” Mr. Pickles stretches. “There is a reason cats lose many of their nine lives to the jealousy of others.”

I am pretty sure the magician is trolling me. But only pretty sure of that. I wait until Mr. Pickles gets off of me and stand, stretching slowly. “Can you help me?”

“To hide your power, you must first master it entirely. That means finding an entity far stronger than I to test yourself against.”

The cat pauses. This pause feels different, somehow almost uncertain. “Seek out Jay. You might learn enough that way.”

Sometimes, some nights, I still dream about Aram turning toward me. About the gun my foster – my father – held to my head. About the risk he took to summon an entity called Jay. I don’t know what Greg Ruk turned into in the end, but I do know that Jay unmade Greg in moments.

“You will find your limits against his power, and then ways to hide as well. I wish I had another solution, but sometimes even being a cat must bow before being a magician.”

And Mr. Pickles walks away after that. I don’t follow. I don’t know if i can. I just stand in the park, stare out into space, and try to tell myself I’m not utterly terrified.

jstor is a wonderful resource, but it’s also dangerous because you’ll start out reading articles related to your lit essay and then before you know it it’s 3am and you’ve wasted the whole night reading about the perceived threat of witchcraft towards fishing vessels in 18th century dorset

Words could not desribe my unimaginable joy when they announced SS on the stream not only for Heroes but for Cipher too; i’ve waited an entire year for my very first FE to finally get Cipher cards THANK YOU INTELSYS I LOVE YOUUU now i can happily go broke pulling their 5*FEH versions and their SR+ cards v^-^v 

A new something to tear at ur hearts. o(๑❛ꇳ❛๑)o

Cux I’m really an evil person to the core. <3 

Am sorry but as much as I like Gabe, I like torturing him even more hence I regret nothing. Once again, angst76 shit. :3

the problem w digital film is that it looks ugly as fuk. it looks like some 2 bit wedding photographer took his camera and started filming randos. I mean film technology is supposed to be improving but any1 with eyeballs can look at an old technicolor movie and realeyes that visually film looks way better than digital even if it is “primitive” technology. and u have these big budget studios and supposedly “genius” directors using stupid and ugly tints and filters on all their boring movies. 

if u look at these screencaps from modern movies u will see examples of ugly color schemes used for some blatantly obvious metaphorical purpose

so post apocalyptic movie is tinted grey oooo so grim

grimy edgelord movie is tinted green

boring generic action blockbuster is tinted blue

and so on and imo it looks hideous and like so unimaginative and uninspiring idk maybe it’s just me. and then you have old movies on film with technicolor or eastmancolor or whatev

and they look soo visually beautiful. technology literally made movies look like shit I wanna go back to the stone age. I can’t watch ugly modern movies I need candy colored rich vibrant lush glamour back !

Helplessness is watching a person you care deeply for deteriorate right before your eyes without having the means to help them.

Desperation is shouting for hours and hours at the top of your lungs for help until your voice is raw and throbbing.

Defeat is knowing that there’s nothing you can do. You’re stuck and forced to live day after day in a small, cold cell. Whatever hope of help coming is replaced with a numbness, a slow realization that this is how your life will end.

“Stop…. Pouting….”

Keith blinks back into reality at Lance’s weak, raspy voice. The latter is using his lap as a pillow, and Keith glances down to meet the brunet’s eyes.

“I’m not.” Keith answers, and despite Lance’s ashen face colored only with a deep flush across his cheeks, the brunet’s face lights up as a breathy laugh escapes.

“You literally… pouted when you… said that.”

On instinct, Keith moves to purse his lips out into a pout, but he catches himself and breathes out a low sigh instead.

He tilts his head back up to stare at the stone ceiling. How many days has it been now? Twelve, maybe? He lost track after Lance stopped eating, too worried to care about anything else but the brunet.

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