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#angst – @helpmeimblorboing on Tumblr
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Welcome to my thoughts

@helpmeimblorboing / helpmeimblorboing.tumblr.com

Trust me, you won't enjoy the stay Biromantic abrosexual He/him . No one is unwelcome here other than bigots
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I feel like the general zeitgeist of the majority of my ships (both fanfic and original) can be explained by the fact that I read both Call Me By Your Name and the Song of Achilles as a tiny tot and both irreversibly changed my brain chemistry

Like, sorry, my babies, but my angst-loving heart says that you need to suffer for your love.

Oh, and the fact that Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens fucked me up the first time I heard it, and I don’t think I ever quite recovered

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Desolation Avatar Tim headcanon -

After his brother died at the hands of the Circus, Tim was, naturally, hurt. One might even say, desolate. Predictably, said pain and emotional injury attracted the attention of none other than the Cult of the Lightless Flame, and Tim, desperate for anything that could let him revenge himself upon his brother’s killers, willingly accepted their influence, becoming an Avatar of the Desolation

But the Desolation has never been a benign force, even to its own followers. It’s a Fear, and it’s hungry. So it fed. Not just on the people Tim hurt, but on Tim’s own hurt. It gorged itself on the memories of his suffering, until one day, it just burned them clean away

Now, Tim can’t remember why he came to the Cult. He can’t remember why he hates the Circus. He can’t even remember what his brother looked like, sounded like. Hell, he can’t even remember that he had a brother

But he remembers the pain. He still mourns for a man he has no recollection of, he just doesn’t know why. He hurts and hurts, but without knowing why he’s hurting, he never heals. The pain never numbs

He is, now and forever, desolate

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I really like imagining Nie Huaisang’s response to Jiang Cheng’s whole shtick post-WWX-death, because, you CANNOT tell me that he wouldn’t immediately draw parallels, true or not, to his own shit with Nie Mingjue.

Like I can just imagine him thinking while talking to Jiang Cheng like “You were so unwilling to accept the notion of a world where your brother was dead that you were willing to spend your entire life chasing a ghost. That’s admirable. I admire that. Maybe if I had done that, Da-ge wouldn’t have…”

And meanwhile Jiang Cheng is just seething, fully convinced that he was chasing after Wei Wuxian’s ghost because he just hated him so gosh-darn much. Like, not to stir up any debate or piss off any of the more opinionated people on this site, but I genuinely don’t think JC hated WWX as much as he, or the jianghu, thought he did.

Hate can drive a person to do many things, but I genuinely don’t think it’s possible for hate to drive a person to chase a dead man for thirteen years. Five ? Maybe. Seven is pushing it. But thirteen ? The only kind of hate powerful enough to do that is hate adulterated with at least a sprinkling of love

And I think that creates a really interesting contrast, one Nie Huaisang, who disguises his hate and grief behind walls of obliviousness, all the while drowning in regret and despair, and one Jiang Cheng, who disguises his grief and regret behind walls of hate so solid that he’s managed to fool even himself

Both of them wearing masks. Both of them pretending to be whole after the death of their sibling(s). Neither of them actually okay

On the other hand, maybe Jiang Cheng does just fully despise Wei Wuxian, which just makes the whole thing hilarious instead of melancholic. Like here Huaisang is, drawing up elaborate manuscripts of the tragic story of the Yunmeng Shuangjie, and meanwhile Jiang Cheng is just the living representation of that one neighbour who’s been pissed off at you for a full decade because you accidentally insulted her apple cobbler at a meet one time

And once again, that’s a really interesting contrast, because, Huaisang holds grudges too, but unlike Jiang Cheng, who goes around announcing his hate, Huaisang hides it behind faked incompetence and obliviousness

Either way, it’s an enjoyable experience

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More about my story (Crimson Redux)

“Two Birds", is SUCH a SpringFang-coded songs, I swear it's like away like Regina Spektor reached across aeons to pluck the idea out of my head

Like, "I'll believe it all, I won't let go of your hand", for Damian and Serenity vowing to stay loyal to each other ? That night in the green meadow, the River of Heaven making its way across the black fabric of the sky above them, its stars coating them with an unearthly radiance. "Us till the end of the line" ?

"I'm tired" for after Serenity has his epiphany ? When he finally, painfully, decides to leave the Carneficina ? To separate himself from Fang, once and all, breaking the oath they took so many years. "One more or one less, nobody's worried", him reassuring Damian that no one will miss him after he leaves ? That the Carneficina will continue on without him ? Only for Damian to reply with "I will" ?

"But one's never going to let go of that wire", reflecting how entrenched Damian is in his violence and madness ? How he's never going to be able to follow Serenity out into the light and peace, because of how deeply scarred he is ? And Serenity knows that, knows that leaving the violence and madness of the Carneficina behind him is tantamount to abandoning him ? And leaves, anyways ?

God, I am so normal about these two, I swear

Just the fact that Serenity leaving is a desperately -needed act of self-preservation on his part, and that had he stayed, the violent terror of the Carneficina would have no doubt broken him down to nothing in due time

But it’s still a tragedy, because Damian losing Serenity means losing one of the few things in existence that anchored him to something other than madness and death

It means that he’ll have to stop himself from spiralling into madness alone - that he’ll be the only one who would even CARE, because most of the Carneficina see him as mad already - with only the memories of Serenity to sustain him

And to Serenity, Damian was the first person outside of his sister to show him unconditional love and kindness. Damian was the one that proved to him that he COULD be desired, that he was WORTHY of love

Leaving him isn’t an easy decision for Serenity by any means. It’s akin to pulling out a splinter - it’s more painful than just leaving it there would be, but leaving it there would cause more harm in the long term

Fun fact - the night they parted was a cloudy one. You know what that means ? It means that while the River of Heaven was right there, above their heads, neither of them could see it. And the dark, stormy clouds ensured that even if they looked for it, they couldn’t find it

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“Two birds… on a wire”

“One tries to fly away… and the other”

“Watches him close from that wire”

“Says he wants to as well, but he’s a liar”

“Ill believe it all”

“There’s nothing I won’t understand”

“I’ll believe it all, I won’t let go of your hand”

“Two birds of a feather”

“Say that they’re always gonna be together”

“But one’s never going to let go, of that wire. Says that he will, but he’s just a liar”

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The white sand crumbles beneath Gilgamesh’ feet.

The blood of the bull he had personally sacrificed in Enkidu’s honour stained it a deep scarlet, red as the blood that once flowed in Enkidu’s veins, that yet flowed in Gilgamesh’s - for after all his tribulations, the truth that he was a man still struck at him like a viper

Before him sits the baked clay coffin that houses his love. By him kneels a weeping woman, eyes painted, a prostitute’s cord-crown circling her braided black hair. Her name is Shamhat, his men reassure him, and she loved Enkidu dearly

About him sing the priests of the gods, exhorting Ereshkigal to hold the great Wild Man well. It was meaningless. Gilgamesh had seen the depths of Namtar, and it was naught but dust.

He longs for it, now. With Enkidu by his side, even dust would taste like the sweetest honey. And without him, even the richest wine was bitter and tasteless

Before him stands a great statue of gold, lapis in its eyes. It was wrong, all wrong. Beautiful, certainly, but the face was wrong. Too coldly serene, like a god's face. The sculptor never saw Enkidu alive.

It had taken the palace sculptors seven tries before Ninsun finally stepped him and forced him to approve the eighth. Seven statues for the seven nights that civilised his love, the seven nights that doomed his love

Far beyond the walls, Gilgamesh can see a flock of gazelles on the hillside. Beasts live unknowing and die without fear. A man could envy them

His hand falls and rests on Shamhat’s shoulder, heavy and pressing. She looks up with tear-stained features, clearly expecting a rebuke or an insult - and indeed, Gilgamesh was tempted. What was this priestess of Ishtar doing mourning one doomed by her patron ?

But he was tired. And hate did not become one mourning his love

“Cheer up girl”, he says, his voice heavy, “Everything dies. Even ones loved. Especially ones loved”

Kings are clay, and then dust. So are cities. All that lives is wild and untamed - gods and animals, shapeless and uncivilised

Writing tablets go to dust, too. But words on clay can be copied, and copied again, outlasting memory. Stories are like animals, as wild, as untamed, as shapeless

The dead eat dust. The dead eat clay and dirt, and words pressed into earth will always remain. Those gone speak with voices of earth

He turns to one of his advisors.

"Bring me a scribe," says Gilgamesh the king. He'll see his story written before he dies, “and tell him to prepare. The story of Gilgamesh and Enkidu is a long one”

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Really into stories where love can’t hold off inevitability. Where no matter how much you love someone, eventually you have to lose them

But that doesn’t mean the love was meaningless. Because no matter how it ended, the love was there

And the fact that it was there, that you loved and lost, instead of simply losing… well, I think that makes all the difference in the world, don’t you ?

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The world passes by, and it’s cold. The gravestone is warm. In the depths of Achilles’ fevered mind, he thinks it still smells like Patroclus, the warmth of his skin, the cypress smell of his clothes

He kneels in the frozen dirt, and twigs dig into his skin like the claws of the Furies his mother used to tell him about, screaming, raving spirits of vengeance, risen from the other world to punish him - how dare you let him die !! How dare you let him hurt !!

He thinks he’s been kneeling here for years, but that can’t be right. The Sunday chill is still in the air, and the wind carries the smell of his corpse, limp and dead

The stone is simple, just a slab of rock, words carved into its face - PATROCLUS MENOITIADES 1995-2024

He thinks there should be an “Achilles” scrawled beside it. He thinks he might be dead, too

He remembers how he looked, in those final days, eyes sunken, face shriveled. Skinny as a twig. So unlike the Patroclus he loved that he was half-convinced it was a prank

They said it was pneumonia. Achilles thinks it was Fate herself, playing a cruel joke on him

The weather was calm, almost irritatingly so. Briseis came by to leave out some coffee and donuts for him, lest he ended up starving himself to death, but that was hours ago. And Achilles’ stomach felt like a black hole. He hungered for only one thing, and that was now forever beyond his reach

By now, the cup contained only black-brown sludge, and critters had devoured whatever remained of the donuts. As he watched, one of them nibbled on a crumb

He derived some vicious satisfaction in squishing it, leaving behind a smear of black blood on the rim of the plate. If he had to suffer, so would everyone around him

Maybe, if he sits out here long enough, he’ll catch pneumonia, too. Maybe then he’ll finally be able to follow Patroclus over to the other world. Maybe then he would finally get to be happy

A hoarse voice cleared its throat right behind him. The man was wearing doctor’s scrubs, having just gotten off work. Achilles flinched. It seemed unfazed, “I’m sorry for your loss”

Achilles didn’t respond

Hector continued, “We did everything we could, but it was too late for him. All we could do was-“

“Shut up”, his voice was sharper then he remembered, hoarse and rusty from screaming, like shattered glass, “Shut up before I gouge out your eyes”

“I understand you’re upset”, Hector’s voice was placating. Achilles wanted to kill him, “but it’s not OUR fault”

“I thought I told you something”, his voice was dead, lifeless as his love, right under him, like all the nights they had spent together, “Let me repeat it - shut up”

“Right…”, Hector paused, before clearing his throat, “Briseis wants to know if you’re okay”

Achilles was silent. After a long moment, the tell-tale sounds of a man shuffling away reached him. He didn’t move

After a long moment, he rose to his feet. At the gates of the cemetery, Automedon, clearly worried, perked up slightly at the sight

“Boss”, he called, “The car’s waiting”

“Is…”, Achilles cleared his throat, “Is Mom…”

“She’s at the house”, he swallowed. Hard, “She wants to see you”

“I…”, the breath he drew in was ragged and torn, as he turned back towards the grave, feeling oddly like he was chopping off a limb by leaving this place, “I…”

His mother had never liked Patroclus. But these last few weeks… she had changed. For some reason, the thought of her son losing his heart seemed to get her to finally show the young - so young, too young - man some compassion.

Who knows ? Maybe she had a change of heart.

“Boss ?”, Automedon sounded a bit nervous. He idly scratched the back of his head, “Lady Thetis said she wants you inside by sundown, lest you…”, he swallowed, “…end up like him”

Achilles resisted the urge to bark out a pained laugh. Isn’t that what she always told him would. come of associating with the likes of his beloved ? A bastard, a disgrace, someone disowned by his own family ?

How odd that, now that he was dead, those words were repeated, and with such a different meaning

“Boss ?”

“Yeah”, Achilles turned towards his friend, and was a bit disappointed to not be faced with a funeral hearse, “M’coming”

It seemed improper, for a corpse to be carried around in his mother’s gleaming black Chevrolet Cameron, but he supposed after it had carried his mother around for years, it was used to carting around wounded souls

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So I’m reading a period piece (Vietnam era) MLM fic and the love interest just got diagnosed with PCP - out of the blue, with a mention of a low T-cell count - and I just audibly went “Oh, you motherfucker”

Anyways, this is me preparing to get my heart crushed because I read queer history and I can smell the blood dripping from the walls before I see it

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Imagine Achilles after the death of Hector, anger all drained from him, nothing from sorrow animating him now

And he sits, in the dark stillness of a tent that is too big for one person, that was made to house two

And in front of him sits the golden shape of an urn. And inside it lies his beloved

His fingers reach out, half-expecting to meet soft flesh and warm skin, only to touch nothing but icy, frozen metal.

And his lips part, and he starts to sing

“Leaves from the vine, falling so slow

Like fragile, tiny shells

Drifting in the foam

Little soldier boy, come marching home

Brave soldier boy, come marching home…”

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Consider a goddess. Consider her dishonored. Consider her hurt. Consider her brought low by one so much lesser than herself

Consider her standing in the surf, mouth pressed into a thin line of red, eyes brimming with utter loathing, as she gazed upon the mortal, who claims to love her still, despite the pain he foisted upon her

There is a child in her arms, one born after weeks of agonizing labor, soaked through with the golden blood of gods, so different from the Ruby blood that pulsed through his own veins

For a moment, she considers dashing him against the gnashing rocks of Phthia’s coast. Considers killing him, hurting him, all for the sake of hurting this beast of a man who had hurt her so

But she does not. Because Achilles is her son, and she could not bring herself to kill him, to spill her own blood into the tides

Perhaps she should have. It would have been a kinder fate

Consider a goddess, standing in the surf once more, regarding a son with cool eyes. They no longer brim with the loathing of one hurt so terribly, but nonetheless, they are not kind

Achilles has grown to resemble her, her god-eyes and bright skin and goodly face, she notes with some pleasure, this is good

Her lips part, and words flow forth - threats she does not mean, not truly, curses she would come to regret.

Honor is why you were born. Honor is why I suffered. Make it worth it, Achilles. Bring me Honor

A boy lurks in the grasses, right at the boundary where Phthia’s dark soil turns to beach-sand. Her eyes meet his, and she nods - take care of him for me

Consider a goddess, comforting her son in a tent made for two, that now housed only one. His eyes are wide, staring at nothing

He has never seemed more human than this moment

The thought should disgust her.

It doesn’t. It makes her sorrowful. Her son is dead, she feels, it is only a matter of time before his body follows

Consider a goddess, staring at a funeral pyre from afar. No tears spill from her glass-shard eyes.

Why would they ? Achilles was dead long before Paris’ arrow found him. At least this way, he will finally be with his lover

At least this way, he will be happy. Thetis is a mother . That is all she desires for him now - it was foolish of her to demand anything more

Consider a goddess, standing in a surf. The tides lap at her feet, and her eyes are fixed on the sandy beachhead

But there is no answering gaze, loving or defiant or submissive. There is no one

Pyrrhus had fallen and so had Peleus, and so has Achilles

And Thetis ? She remained. Alone. Unhappy.

Consider a goddess, standing in the surf. She turns and walks down the slippery sands, down into the murky green

No one notices her leave, as no one noticed her coming. There is no one in the world for her now

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Sorry, the ghost of Judas Iscariot possessed me and personally told me that he was in love with Jesus. Have an incomplete chapter of Judas mourning his ex-boyfriend

Judas Iscariot sat alone in the corner of the tavern, no other man daring to come near him, lest the heavy pall of depression that hung about the former Apostle be contagious. He didn’t mind. He was too distracted to care about what the bar patrons thought of him. In his mind rang the heavy clanking of Roman armor, the thud-thud of spear butts on wood, the clinking clutter of a bagfull of silver being placed down on a table

The High Priest of the Sanhedrin leaning close to him, his greying beard tickling the side of the young man’s face, “Well done, my son”, he’d whispered, his voice hoary and silken, “I know you may have your doubts now, but trust me. In due time, you will realize that this was all for the best”

Judas didn’t feel like what he had done was for the best. He felt terrible. He felt blind. Like some unseen light had been ripped away from him the moment the words “thirty pieces of silver” slipped past his lips. His lips. Lips that still stung with the memory of the final kiss he and his Lord had shared, under the silver eye of the moon, the Apostles arrayed behind him, the Garden of Gethsemane about them

He had visited the Garden but once before, back before Jesus had become so large, when it hadn’t been Twelve Apostles and their Lord, when it had been just him, Jesus and Andrew, traversing the world, helping people. Together. Always together

He still remembered that day

The sun shone bright in the sky, the burning jewel of the Lord set in the blue fabric that enveloped in on all side, the drifting misty clouds doing barely enough to keep the harsh rays off their faces, but to Judas, none shone quite as bright as the man who sat next to him, dressed in a simple burlap robe, picking at one of the flowers that grew in the garden with an honestly undeserved amount of unreserved joy

“Look, Judas”, Jesus shot him a grin, “This is moly !! I’ve never seen it outside of Greece before”, Judas felt half-tempted to note that Jesus had never been to Greece before, but chose to sigh languidly instead. He supposed that you hardly needed to visit places, when you had been there at the time of their inception, “Isn’t that amazing ?!”

“Moly ?”, Judas leaned in for a closer look. Yup, that was moly alright – white flower, black roots, “I thought the Greek myths were made up ?”

“Well…”, Jesus looked slightly sheepish, before his grin turned so radiant that Judas resisted the urge to shade his eyes, “…perhaps !! Made up is all a manner of speaking, you know ? Sure, the gods weren’t real, but there’s nothing to say that the heroes weren’t !!”

“Is that so ?”, Judas hummed, “Astounding, that”

“Isn’t it ?”, Jesus nodded vigorously, “God is truly great, isn’t he ?! I mean, to think that he created all this…”, he gestured vaguely at their surroundings, the birds chirping in the dark olive trees of the Garden, the dewy grass, “…it’s amazing !! His Creations really are amazing !!”

“Well…”, Judas’ lips twitched into a faint smile. His eyes rose from the moly flower to linger on Jesus’ own features, but if the son of God noticed, he did not react, “… one creation certainly is”, he reached over to brush his fingers against the stem of the moly, the very tip of his index finger meeting Jesus’ skin, “So, what are your plans ?”

“Oh”, Jesus looked mildly surprised, and for a moment, Judas almost felt sorry that he had to interrupt the moment with talk of business. But no. Someone needed to focus on the practical stuff. They were almost out of food, and if they kept giving what little they had away to every peasant to catch Jesus’ eye, they really would be. Already, Peter seemed rather miffed at his brother’s admittedly skinnier physique. He really didn’t want to see the bigger man’s reaction if his brother came back borderline-skeletal, “Um… Preach, I guess ?”

“And for money ?”

“Judas”, Jesus’ voice took on a chiding tone, his expression turning grave, “Don’t worry about such things. The Lord God will handle it, alright ?”

Judas stared back, a protest readying itself on his lips, before his eyes met Jesus’, his irises beautiful, sparkling zircon, sparks of brilliant gold speckling their crystalline rings. His mouth suddenly felt very dry, “…alright”, he ceded, “I trust you”

“That’s all I ask”

So much for that. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but they refused to fall. His back stung from where he’d flogged himself in some vain hope at achieving penance for what he’d done, the rough cloth of his tunic sticky and tacky where it was stained with his fast-drying blood. The air he breathed in tasted stale and rotten, sharp with alcohol, nothing like Jesus’ scent of wood shavings and earth

He leaned back, pressing his eyes shut and resisting the urge to claw them out himself. The gleam of silver still rang sharp against the backs of his eyelids, and the betrayed expressions of the other Apostles when the Roman soldiers flooded the garden

One of them had trampled the moly flower. It had felt symbolic, somehow

And, of course, the way Jesus had looked at him. Not a trace of anger in his expression. Nothing but a bone-deep exhaustion. He had looked so, so human in that one moment, that Judas had almost been tempted to throw himself at the guards in some vain attempt at holding them off, had almost been tempted to tell Jesus to run, run as far as you can, leave your followers to die

But he would have never accepted that. This Judas knew. It was one of the reasons he loved him, after all

He had leaned close to Judas, before the soldiers had grabbed him roughly by the arms, had dragged him away. His forehead had pressed against Judas’ own, clammy with sweat and lined with worry in a way it never had been before. And then his lips had moved, and for a moment, Judas could have sworn that nothing had changed, that they were teens again, eating together and living together and teaching together

“I forgive you”

A pause, and then Judas lowered his head against the table, the rough-hewn wood coarse and sharp against his clammy skin. His eyes, once prickling with phantom tears, were now well and truly wet with them, staining the wood and dripping down his cheeks in snail-trails of silvery white

He was really starting to hate the color silver

The patrons arrayed around him were starting to mutter – did you hear, the King of the Jews has been arrested ? How ? Betrayal, of course !! From the one man he trusted more than himself !! From the son of Simon Iscariot !! Always knew he was a bad egg, that one

He heard the tales through bits and pieces, in tavern after tavern, as, slowly but surely, he spent the thirty bits of blood money drowning himself in as much ale and wine as he could possibly buy. At this point, he was half-certain that the vast majority of the taverns in East Bethlehem were being run off of him and him alone

Good. At least that way his worthless existence would be good for something

Jesus was whipped. He was hurt. And Judas could not go to him, could not aid him. Because Judas was the one who caused his pain to begin with. Even the Roman general – one Pontius Pilate – had grown appalled at his treatment. The Apostles had fled. The love his Jesus had sought so dearly had all but been forgotten in the horde of people baying for his blood

And then it happened. He felt more than heard it, as the sky went dark, and it felt like something cold and icy had reached into his chest, had grabbed his heart and forced it to stop beating. His Lord was dead

He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. He wanted to beg God for help, but the sky was empty and dark, and the only Lord that awaited him dwelled far below the Earth in pits of hellfire and brimstone. He wanted to grab the nearest person and shout, and beg, and scream – I didn’t know this would happen !! They promised they wouldn’t kill him !! Imprison him, torture him, but not kill him !!

But it was pointless. And so he did the only thing he was good for anymore. Started wasting what little remained of Simon Iscariot’s fortune on as much self-destruction as he could. His Lord was dead, and, though there was no way for Judas to truly go to him, he would be damned if he allowed himself the privilege of life after dooming the one man he had ever loved to death

Well, he was damned either way, he supposed. At least this way he was liable to make some poor barkeeper’s day with the money he spent

Now, do y’all want more ?

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This new world was strange. Caelus had never seen anything like it before

It looked… dead. And yet, clearly not. The buildings stood empty, but clearly well-loved. Almost like someone had been caring for them, in the absence of their inhabitants

It was big, sprawling and vast, from the frozen wastes to the North, where the earth shone silver with permafrost, to the oddly charged winds of the South, the electrified water sparking an odd purpley hue, the grass bright and saturated

He dragged his fingers along the ridges of the statue he had found near the beach where the Astral Express had touched down. It was set in the middle of a dried-out lake, the edges of it oddly sharp and clifflike, almost like it had been made by a comet of some kind.

A little ways away stood an overgrown forest, its mossy floor littered with odd, lamplike flowers, wild apples and orange, pearlike fruits growing in abundance on its trees. A haven for wildlife, but, judging by the way the boars reacted to his presence – namely, immediately trying to ram him – not so much for humans

Animals darted through the underbrush, boars that seemed too small for their species and dogs that bore signs of being tamed, once upon a time.

The earth was oddly yellowish here, more like sand than anything else, light and airy. More to the point, the grass surrounded the dried husk of a lake on all sides was overgrown and wild, save for one path that wound through the jungles, where the grass was cropped low and trim, forming an impromptu trail for the Trailblazers to follow

The impromptu path led them straight to a lake, the waters murky and greenish, littered with the broken remnants of a footbridge. Pigeons perched on the bits of rock that poked through the near-opaque waters, idly pecking at the scuffed stone

And in the center, on a vast hunk of barren rock, stood the ruins of a city, bounded with walls that may have once stood proud, but were now broken and crumbled, the tattered remnants of faded red pennants hanging from their towering ruins

It was small, was the first thing Caelus noticed - certainly smaller than the dockside city they had found in the far east, buildings made in the Xianzhou style, part of it clearly having sunken into the yellowy waters centuries ago

And definitely much smaller than the ruins they had found to the east of THAT, consumed by the green jungle that surrounded it, populated only by the odd-looking tigers and colorful birds that clearly named that region of this continent their home

But it had been the one to yield the greatest results. The buildings had been overgrown, covered in creepers and vines and plants of all manners, but still mostly intact

And inside one of them, a small tavern nearer to the towering statue that marked the centre of the statue, features too eroded to be recognisable, they had found their prize

A photo, lying on the tavern’s dust-coated floors, clearly having fallen out of the pocket of someone paying the place a visit, for it was clearly far newer than the building itself

It depicted an odd pair - a young boy with shining blonde hair, tied into a rat’s tail, his bronze eyes sparkling, his arm wrapped around the man that stood beside him- a rather disgruntled-looking individual, hair an oddly-bright red.

The blonde boy’s other hand had been brought up in a peace symbol, and a wide smile decorate his admittedly-cute features, the expression clearly for the benefit of whoever had taken the picture

A hand was stretching into the photo, dressed in an oddly puffy-looking white sleeve, a frill encircling its wrist, a blurred face poking out just above its shoulder - clearly someone who had tried to make it into the photo and failed

On the back of the photo had been scrawled, in a coarse, chickenscratch script - “Do you remember where we first met ? Starfall Lake ? I do. I don’t think I can ever forget”

A pause, and Caelus angled his eyes up towards the statue’s face, features having long-since eroded into a featureless mass of rock

God, he hoped this was the right place. If it wasn’t, March would never let him hear the end of it

A pause, and then he heard rustling behind, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump of feet on grass

He swirled around, arm already moving towards the handle of his trusty baseball bat, before another hand grabbed him by the wrist, fingers rough and calloused – the hands of a warrior

“What are you doing here ? Who are you ?”, a rough voice demanded, sounding oddly disbelieving, like he was shocked at finding life here - which was fair, given how abandoned this world seemed

Caelus drew in a sharp breath . Peace first, he reminded himself, and then you can cave their heads in

He cleared his throat in a vain attempt at sounding somewhat professional, looking up into the intruder’s face, features drawn and shocked-looking, bronze eyes wild, blonde hair cut to brush against his shoulders. Half his face was scarred, the tissue an odd blackish hue, veins of brilliant blue webbing their way across it

“Greetings, sir”, he tried his best to bow, but the man simply refused to let go - which made sense. As far as he knew, he was the only other sentient life form this poor man had seen in years, “I’m …”, the urge to introduce himself as the Galactic Baseballer resurfaced, before being overridden by the thought of Dan Heng’s disappointed face, “… Caelus. From the… Astral Express ?”

“Who ?”

“Ah, right”, Caelus mentally berated himself- he lived on a dead world. Of course he wouldn’t know who they were !! , “We… explore worlds. For the accumulation of knowledge”

“Oh”, slowly, the man let go, nodding slightly, “I see. I see”

“Um…”, Caelus looked around, but no other viable life form offered to show itself, so he turned back to the man, who was clearly on the verge of some kind of breakdown, “Would you happen to know this planet’s name ? And would you care to serve as a guide ? We would pay you”

He grinned. The man, eyes glassy and unfocused, didn’t seem to care much

“Sir ?”

“I…”, the man began again, his eyes snapping back to focus, his voice hoarse, “Of course”, he laughed humorlessly, “Yeah. I’ll show you around”

“Right”, Caelus’ grin widened, “Um… so, where are we ?”

“Right”, the man swallowed thickly, “Right. This… I don’t actually know the world’s name, but… but… this continent. It is… or at least, was, once named…”

He pressed his eyes shut, seeming pained, “Teyvat”

Avatar

Consider. Achilles, Aristos Achaion, destroyer of a thousand armies, slayer of a thousand men. Consider him kneeling

There’s a throne before him, and on it sits a man, shrouded in Myrmiron green and the golden armor of a half-god. His dark beard is trimmed close to his jaw, and there’s a smile playing at his lips as he watches the great hero kneel before him

He leans forward, and the tips of his fingers brush against Achilles’ jaw. A pause, and he laughs

“What are you playing at ? You’re the leader of the Myrmidons. I should be kneeling to YOU !!”

Achilles smiles and shoots back, something sparkling in the gold-flecked green of his eyes

“But you’re my king”, he pouts, “and I’m your slave. And I like the way you look sitting on my throne better than I like sitting in it, anyways”

“And your armor ?”

“You suit it better than I ever could”

Patroclus throws back his head, long, ebony locks brushing against his broad shoulders, and laughs, a full-throated, resounding sound

Achilles closed his eyes, and smiled, before rising to his feet and joining Patroclus on the throne, the two jostling uncomfortably for a moment to find space on the narrow seat, nearly falling over each other in their vain attempts, before finally finding themselves tangled up so inextricably that it would likely take them hours to fully separate

They look at each other, identical expressions of bewilderment adorning their features, before Achilles breaks the silence

“You know, that seemed a lot more romantic in my head”

A long pause, and then Patroclus started laughing again, a hearty, joyous sound. And for the first time in a while, Achilles joined him

Consider a tent. Consider darkness

Consider a man kneeling before a throne. Consider tears streaking his grime-coated cheeks. Consider blood staining his unwashed cloak of Myrmidon green

Consider a man. Consider him naked, armor stripped from his body by the unforgiving hand of a god. Consider him lying on the throne, blood leaking from his mouth, staining the dark hairs of his beard and deep ruby. His eyes, unseeing and glassy, closed, never to open again

Consider a corpse, lying between them, mutilated and coated in dust. A horse-hair helm, or what remains of it after being dragged through the Scamander plains, sits atop his head.

His eyes are glassy, too, and unseeing. He wears the armor that once sat on the other corpse’s form, but his helm is the same

His son had looked on that helm and weeped, once. He had taken it off. He had laughed at his son’s wide eyes, his bewilderment at how this weird creature’s head had lifted to reveal the features of his Baba

That helm is firmly attached to him now, metal crumpled too close to his skin for it to ever be removed without his mutilation. He will be burned in it, and Astyanax will never see his father again

Achilles kneels, two corpses on either side of him. His heart, and his self. He looks up through eyes as glassy as any corpse, and sees that no smile plays on Patroclus’ lips. No laughter. No joy

No fingers to caress his jaw. No heart to overflow with the love of him

Nothing, but a cold, empty grave

He lowers his head

There is silence

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