how the time passed away

i might need help.

Hwær cwom mearg?  Where is the horse gone?
Hwær cwom mago?  Where the rider?
Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?  Where the giver of treasure?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?  Where are the seats at the feast?
Hwær sindon seledreamas?  Where are the revels in the hall?
Eala beorht bune!  Alas for the bright cup!
Eala byrnwiga!  Alas for the mailed warrior!
Eala þeodnes þrym!  Alas for the splendour of the prince!
Hu seo þrag gewat,  How that time has passed away,
genap under nihthelm,  dark under the cover of night,
swa heo no wære!    as if it had never been!
—  The Wanderer

Feeling lost again
I don’t know who I am
I don’t know what this life is
I don’t know how to live
I don’t know what to follow
I barely know how to swallow my pride
I barely know how to be alive
I don’t know how to have a life

Just doing whatever will pass the time
Just wasting away my only life
I don’t really know how to be alive

I am a loner
I don’t belong here
I’ve never belonged here
Only gotten along here
I know how to blend in
Know how to hide in my skin
I know how to pretend
But I will never fit in
It’s just not who I am

But I don’t know who I am…

Trinity Part 6 - Post-Mortem

And I just realised I never actually posted part 6 on tumblr… so here’s that!

Genre: Casefile | Fandom: The X-Files x The Fall x Sreetcar | Rating:Mature | Setting: Circa 2012. Canon compliant | Chapters: 6/6 of Part 1

I’m not sure how much time has passed since the heavy doors of the morgue sealed me away with only my thoughts for company.  Doubt and reason echo in confusing cacophony around this hollow room. There is always a timelessness to this type of inbetween place; the dead will remain dead no matter what I do, and yet, tonight, I feel feel a sense of urgency, some ticking secret that is running steadily away from me. Something dark.

I was confident when talked my way past the receptionist, dropping DSI Gibson’s name heavily on her objections, but now, alone with the bodies I feel like a stranger. It’s been years since I’ve spent this much time among the dead, since I’ve breathed this formaldehyde air for long enough to become accustomed to the chill, the smell and the quiet. I purposefully distanced myself from law enforcement, conspiracy and all the confusing darkness of the X-Files, but my withdrawal from pathology had been less calculated and so I assumed it would be easier to go back to.

I was wrong. I have made myself at home now in hubbub and humanity of a busy hospital, got used to taking my blood and bleeding with a chance of recovery. I recognise all the markings of the morgue, it is a cordial reunion, but I feel somehow like an outsider in this silent place. It’s almost like I have walked away and returned to a pale facsimile of the real thing, a film-set reality. I shake myself. Maybe the distance is the hangover of my conflict with Gibson. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have only been allowed in as an observer; I can read and I can review but I may not touch, may not open up the bodies and learn their secrets in my own way. These autopsies are complete, test results pending on all but the first victim. All I can do is look on and try to connect someone else’s dots. But it feels like more than just distance, like something is wrong and a foreboding knots tightly with my feeling that we are running out of time. I press back hard at those lingering thoughts, determined to rise above whatever strange mood has gripped me and do my best by these women in the time I have left. After all, it’s hardly the first case where I’ve come in at this stage of an investigation. Bad timing has never before stopped the dead from telling me their stories.

Digging in my purse for a rubber band, I scrape my hair back, shuddering at the cool air on the nape of my neck. I snap on latex gloves from the smallest box, drawing my old self over my uncertainty and force myself into the past. A quick external exam is my only means of corroborating the information I have been given and, if it all matches up, if I can find nothing to support my doubts, I will walk away. My trip to the morgue was born out of frustration, rebellion, and a feeling that I, along with the investigation, am missing something important. Time and fatigue are chipping away at that idea, urged by Stella’s dismissal leaning heavily against my conviction as it teeters on the shaky foundation of Blanche’s testimony. Maybe I should just go home. I can admit that the visit to the hospital has shaken me, made me question things I haven’t questioned in a long time, but I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t just looking for something to believe in, trying to play Mulder’s part. Perhaps my feelings about Blanche’s testimony say more about me than they do about her, the old Scully would never have responded so violently to Stella’s scepticism or confronted her in so heated a way over her methods.  It’s been a long day of high hopes and intense conversations coming to an end now in gruesome reality. Even if the truth is lying on these gurneys, it may not be mine to find.

But I am here and so are they.

Keep reading

inkblxtrefxrmed  asked:

“If i leave will it make you feel better?!”

Mickey had to struggle to keep his breathing normal, but he wasn’t succeeding; his whole body shook with the choked sobs that wouldn’t stop coming out, like he was running out of air.

The Blot had that effect on him; he would always trigger that memory that would make Mickey come undone. No matter how much time it passed, it would never really go away.


What the hell happened to Cheslock’s scar?

I just noticed something, just a minor detail, but still…

What the hell happened to Cheslock’s scar? The face scar? It was always there in the Weston arc, but since his return it’s disappeared. Was it drawn on or something??

The scar in Cheslock’s debut:

His re-introduction:

I wonder what that’s about? The scar was very prominent and a significant part of his unique appearance, it’s strange that it’s faded away completely like that. How much time has passed since the Weston arc? But a scar doesn’t go away like that, a scar’s there to stay. So was it drawn on, presumably like the shadows under his eyes? If so, why does he take the trouble to draw on the eye shadows but not the scar? If the scar is real, where has it gone, what caused it in the first place? Did he get rid of it with magic? Is the Cheslock we saw a fake?

Sorry, getting a bit hysterical here XP But I wonder if any character will mention this, or whether the scar, and current lack of it, will become a part of his character development this arc? I always did wonder about the history behind the scar, and Cheslock, as well as Edward, are in need of character development.

Also, is it just me, it may just be a shading issue, but does Cheslock have different coloured eyes as of chapter 109? Specifically in the panel above?

Questions about Percy Jackson everyone has probably asked:
  • -does Nico have an Italian accent
  • - did Bianca have an Italian accent
  • - what does Hades sound like
  • - does Sally know percy is even alive
  • - How much time has passed between Leo dying and flying away with Calypso
  • - Do Jason and Thalia actually form a bond
  • - Why was there not ever a reunion of Grover and percy, did they actually meet up again
  • - where the heck did Apollo go
  • - does Artemis even care
  • - Does Percabeth
  • - How was Octavian stupid enough not to notice his rope tangled in the catapult
  • - how did his robe get tangled in the first place
  • - does anybody actually care about Octavian's death, fictional and in fandom, cause I did
  • - what is Octavian's backstory
  • - why am I so intrigued by Octavian's backstory

I got all hyped when they were talking about the cage because Michael and Lucifer coming back would be the shit! However, the second they said it was the archangels trying to warn them about the darkness, that they were afraid, I lost all of said hype…

Also, how the fuck can everyone “hear” them from the cage? Is it hell adjacent? Can Michael and Lucy have conversations with passing demons to while away their time? “How’s the weather over there in hell?” “A bit tepid.”

No matter what you do, DON’T imagine Stanley Pines as he steps out of the portal, looking for a second at Grunkle Stan and then walking right past him.
DON’T imagine Stanley picking up the pace as he crosses the room, kneeling on the ground in front of Dipper and hugging him tight, muttering half-choked apologies with tears in his eyes.
Most of all, DON’T imagine Stanley doing that because, for a second, he doesn’t realize how much time has passed, how long he has really been away, and that that little kid who looks so familiar isn’t his son.

Please don’t imagine Stanley feeling his boy, his precious little boy stiffen in his arms, and when he finally turns his head around to look at that girl not far from him, realization hits him like a train.



My dearest best friend, or whatever I may call you now. You’re gone for seven years now and I just can’t believe how fast time passes. I’m getting flashed back to the place and day you slipped away.

I’ve been with you. My name was the last thing you said. It still doesn’t get out of my head. The sound is still the same. And I remember Colbie Caillat’s “Bubbly” playing in the background. I remember your mother cry. I remember your last smile, your last move.

But I also remember the 11 years we spent together. We knew us before the kindergarden, we knew us well and even if we only were “kids”, we both knew what friendship was.

I miss you so much, I have literally no idea how to write all this. I’m just… thinking of you.

7 freaking years without you. I hope you’re fine wherever you are.

I still hear your mother say: “Thank you for coming. She can let go now. She can let go because the only and last thing she wanted was to see you. You were here last wish.”

* 08.09.1996 - † 28.02.2008

Rest in peace, my dear.

guys i need your opinions 

how much time do you think passed during spirited away?? bc there’s such a big difference before and after

do you think a few months or a few years? cause the most logical thing i’ve read was about 15 years so idk??


As Nan pried from behind the net curtains, she felt a pang of loneliness, so heavy on her heart, and a solitary tear rolled down her pained face, as the world continued to live outside her window. A busy, hectic world, a world she was no longer a part of.

She cast her mind back in time; how many years now since her  daughter Nancy had passed away? Passed away at the age of sixty, her last true companion, leaving her alone, her friends all long dead and her remaining relatives too distant and too far removed to even care or take the time to call on her. Or did they even know she existed? But someone, someone she had never seen or met,a complete stranger, would come seeking the spoils to be had when they laid her in her grave. But they would get a shock! And she would love to be able to see their long faces when her last will and testament was read and all she had went to charity.

Not that she had a lot, but what she had was going to charities of her own choosing and not to hungry relatives she did not even know.

And at least she had one other thing to be grateful for; her funeral was paid for, no paupers grave for her as she was laid to rest beside her long dead husband Peter. How many years now? How many years since her dear, precious Peter had left this world?

“  It wont be long now, Peter “, she thought, “ not long at all, my stint here is almost done.  And until then, I have my memories for company. Memories to keep me warm on the long, cold sleepless nights. And ghosts. Yes, a houseful of ghosts to sit with me “. 

She tried to think; when did the ghosts first appear? Or were they always here and she never noticed them until she was truly alone?That could well be!

” Think harder “, she chided herself, “ think harder “.

When had she first noticed Peter? In the library?

It was the tobacco. The sweet smell of the plug tobacco he always smoked. She had fallen asleep in her armchair, Peter’s empty chair, facing hers. She awoke, not with a start, but slowly, like rising from a pleasant dream, a dream you wanted to cling onto for just a few more precious moments, and he was there. Sitting across from her, going through the ritual he had performed every evening for so many years, the ritual of cleaning and filling  his pipe. Cutting the plug tobacco, rubbing it between the palms of  his calloused hands, filling his pipe with the fragrant tobacco, tamping it down with the blunt end of the little knife he used. Satisfied that all was right, he struck a match and holding it above his pipe, the little flame was sucked into the bowl, his lips smacking, sucking, until the tobacco began to glow. Then he sat back, pipe in his mouth, paper on his knee, and settled for the evening.

And through all this, Nan sat still, not wanting to intrude on this wonderful spectacle taking place before her eyes, thinking she was still dreaming. And, as she looked at her long dead husband, a contented look peered back  at her from behind a cloud of fragrant smoke, and she was happy. Not afraid, happy. And she could see his smoking things, his pipe, his pouch of tobacco, knife and matches, on the mantle above his head. Where they had sat for the many years since his untimely death. And she had never felt as happy or contented as when Peter had been alive.

He never spoke a word, just sat there smoking his pipe, the paper on his knee. How many silent nights had they shared like this? Hundreds! Thousands! No need for words as the night glowed around them, sitting, content and comfortable, one on each side of the fire, silent,for talking would surely shatter the dream they were both sharing.

And then daughter Nancy had appeared. Not the sickly Nancy she had watched waste away before her helpless eyes, but a vibrant, happy Nancy. The Nancy she knew and loved. The Nancy who had been her pillar of strength went Peter had died suddenly. And, in a way, she was glad Peters death had been quick and silent, creeping up on him while he slept peacefully, and not wasting away, dying a little every day, like poor Nancy had.

Poor Nancy! How she had suffered! And Nan prayed that when her turn came, it would be quick and silent, and creep up on her in the still of the night.

And now Nan was happy for the first time in years. Every night she would light a little coal fire in the library. Every night she would drift off to sleep. And every night she would awaken to see her husband smoking his pipe beside the fire, and Nancy sitting between them, knitting on her lap. And every night she sat in contented silence, her loved ones beside her. 

And there were other ghosts. Ghosts she saw out of the corner of her eye, never getting a proper look at them, always on the periphery of her vision; children playing in the corner of the room and adults, adults she did not know, passing through the library on their way to somewhere else. And Nan watched all this, never afraid, watching with a smile on her face as secret lives were played out in front of her, in her own private theater. 

Nan was happy with her ghosts for company. For the living never called on her. Just Meals on Wheels. Her doctor once a month. And the grocery van, once a week, with the few things she ordered over the phone.

“ Damned phone!”, she thought. She hated the contraption! But she had to admit, it had its uses.

When had she last had a visitor? A real living visitor, Not someone who called because they had to.

She could not remember. And even the “once hated” salesmen now walked past her door, as if  some secret, silent code had been shared between them, telling them to avoid the strange old lady who lived in the corner house at all cost.

Was she strange?

“ Yes “, she thought, “ I must indeed seem strange. Or maybe even contagious, an eccentric , mad old woman, harboring  some lethal disease, waiting to strike down anyone silly enough to call to my door “.

A wry smile appeared on her  wrinkled face as this thought crossed her mind. Even the Meals on Wheels people left now almost as soon as they arrived, never pausing to gossip or chat. Always eager to be on their way to the next lonely old timer down the line. And she wondered, not for the first time, were there many more like her, crying out for companionship in their old age, lost souls seeking someone to talk to. Or had they signed away their independence, and were now living out their days in a nursing home somewhere, their privacy, their dignity, their independence, all taken away from them.

“ It is true”, she said to herself, “ I have lost my independence, but I have held onto my privacy and dignity. But for how long?  Already the wolves are gathering “.

“ And the night noises “, she thought. “ The street outside is getting noisier with every night that passes. Drunks singing like mad dogs howling at the moon and fighting like dogs after bitch’s in heat. Fighting and screaming, that’s all people seem to do now. How much more of this can I take?  How much more of this do I have to endure. Surely Lord, I have served my time on earth“.

And Nan did not have to live with her fears for very long. The Lord was listening to her prayers.Nan had served her time.

And the Meals on Wheels people found her at lunch time the next day. She was sitting in her armchair, dressed in her best clothes, ready to go out and face the world for the last time, ready to move on, dressed to meet her beloved Peter and Nancy once again, and to meet her Maker. A proud and pious woman, her privacy and dignity, with her to the very end.

And as her body was carried out to the waiting hearse, Peter, Nan and Nancy, watched from the library window, through the net curtains, a smile on their faces. 

Ambrose Harte.