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sunnynwanda · 2 months

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Part 2

The shackles drag across the floor, filling the space with the clanking of the metal against marble. The hall is dark but warm enough to make the chained creature shiver from thermal shock, numbness being replaced with pain as his white fingers start growing red. He fists his hands, pressing his trembling lips into a thin line to dissociate from the sensations rushing through his body.

Once they reach the middle of the hall, the guards step back, allowing his body to sag to the cold floor. It’s nothing compared to the snow that he was buried in.

Someone enters the room - he can hear the guard speaking but fails to discern words. His brain must be shutting down. He uses the last of his strength to lift his head when one of the guards nudges his shoulder.

The man in front of him is already staring at him, his expression nothing short of austerity. He looks to be in the second half of his life, grey streaks lining his temples and forehead, but his features have not yet lost their sharpness. There is a small scar on the underside of his chin, only visible under intent observation, and a much more noticeable crown on his head. Oh, no.

“What are you?” The King’s voice is tense. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, never leaving, even when he reaches out to tilt the creature’s head up with his other one. The captive gulps, afraid to speak or meet the King’s intense gaze. “What is your purpose in my land? Answer.”

“I-” he tries, but his throat seizes, clumping in to try and swallow himself up. He coughs, facing the floor once again, lips coated in blood from a wound no doubt inflicted by the guards trying to detain him. The guard on his side steps back, scared of the dark crimson poision dripping down his chin. “I didn’t know I shouldn’t be here... I didn't know where I was.”

The King raises an eyebrow at that, not convinced by the act. His kingdom has lived in peace for over eight years - ever since he reached an agreement and outlawed vishaps from entering his land. In return, humans were banned from crossing into Vishap territory for fear of never returning, which was the least of all evil for the safety of his people and, most importantly, his family. The King sighs, rubbing his temples in slow circles.

“He was found half-buried under the snow right by the Edge,” the guard that captured the young creature informs. “He did not shift when attacked.”

This caught the King by surprise, which was written quite obviously in his features. He glanced at the guard before returning his attention to the young creature still slumped at his feet. It looked young - perhaps nine or ten years of age. Too young to be sent after him or be capable of inflicting significant harm. Vishaps did not tend to leave their younglings alone if they couldn't shift yet. Unless his parents were not in the picture, that is. “What is your name, child?”

“Vanki,” His voice comes out weaker than he intended, so with another cough, the creature repeats. “My name is Vanki.”

“Vanki,” the King repeats with a nod. He motions for one of the guards to lift the boy from the floor. The guard practically picks him up, supporting him as he stands, bone-weary from days of running and hiding in the woods with no proper food or rest. Vanki doesn’t know where they are taking him, but an unconscious fear settles in the pits of his empty stomach. He knows he is too weak to put up any fight. Damn, he was too weak to so much as move when the snow started falling, so all he did was roll to the side and hug himself to keep whatever warmth he had left in his sinking heart.

“I didn’t know,” Vanki claims, panic flashing in the depths of his dark eyes. His eyes dart to the King’s face, who looks at him quizzically. “I wasn’t aware I was trespassing.”

The guard hisses for him to be quiet, but Vanki shakes his head no. He has no strength to struggle against his chains or captors, but he won’t go down without a fight if it’s the last thing he does.

“I was lost.” It comes more pleading than he intended, but that can be attributed to the frailty of his voice. Or so he hopes.

“No.” The King’s answer is plain and straightforward, his voice void of emotion. It sends a chill down Vanki's spine.

“Please,” he hates himself for begging, but the prospect of being executed or, worse, thrown into a dungeon to be tortured for public entertainment gnaws at his side, threatening to rip his ribcage open and wrench his heart out. As it is meant to be.

“You weren’t lost, you were running from someone," the statement catches Vanki off guard. The King’s tone is even, but there is something in his eyes that the boy fails to decipher. “Other vishaps chased you out. Isn’t that right?”

Stunned into silence, Vanki struggles to answer right away, terrified of what his reply may entail. The King approaches him again, standing so close that the boy can see the small scar under his chin again. He wonders if it’s one of his kind that gave it to him.

“Well?” The King prompts, cupping the boy's jaw with a warm hand. His fingers are rough but his touch is featherlight, careful not to hurt. Vanki can only muster a short nod, his eyes getting watery at the contact. For a moment, he envisions his misfortune retreating. The King sighs, seeming satisfied with the answer. “Take him away.”

“I didn’t harm anyone.” Whatever was left of the boy's resolve shatters in an instant. Not paying him any mind, the King waves a hand, and that movement stirs something within Vanki - something feral, something animalistic, something dangerously close to his true nature. With a desperate cry, he hauls away from his captors, yanking at the chains until the shackles loosen around his wrists. “I didn't do anything! You can’t just kill me... you can't!”

“Kill you?” The King turns around with an incredulous look adorning his face. He almost chuckles at the suggestion, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Let me go, please,” Vanki can feel his eyes watering again, and his voice is a whisper by the end of the sentence. Misfortune grips his limbs with renewed vigour, marks the skin on his forehead with a sharp kiss that makes him hiss, baring his teeth. “Please.”

“You have nowhere to go,” the King notes, correctly so. He has nowhere and no one to go to - having escaped the Vishap territory and stepped into the land that considers him nothing but an animal, a monster, a god too vicious to trust. “But you can stay here.”

Vanki isn’t sure if he heard it right, but the King looks as stern as when he first came in, albeit with less hostility in his gaze. At a loss for words, he doesn't have a chance to object when the King speaks again. “So I can keep an eye on you,” he explains before waving the boy away and departing the room.

Vanki is still processing the situation at hand as he is led across the hall and along dimly lit corridors of the castle. It’s too early in the morning for anyone to be awake yet, so they meet no one on the way to the spacious room allocated to him.

The guard walks him in, only stopping to inform the boy that a servant has filled a warm bath for him and left food on his bedside table. He then bids him a good night and locks the door, leaving Vanki alone and utterly confused. He cannot comprehend why or when all of this was arranged for him, but none of that matters when he lowers his aching body into the warmth of the bath, his head lolling back at the sheer pleasure of his element enveloping him. It takes only fifteen minutes for it to soak his bones, healing all of the cuts and bruises littering his skin.

Vanki has no way of knowing what is going to happen in the morning or what the King intends to do to him. He doesn't know if he will be allowed to stay or handed back to his kind. He can't even tell if he is a prisoner or a guest. The only thing he does know is that he is safe, warm and sated. Even if only for a night.

Part 2

Lore: Vishaps are serpent-like dragons in Armenian mythology, closely linked to water. They were seen as guardians or spirits of water sources that lived for thousands of years. They lived in the mountains or beneath lakes and had shape-shifting abilities. Vishaps' blood was believed to be deadly poisonous.

Author's note: This is based on the beautiful request by @annablogsposts.

Thank you so much for this, I enjoyed it incredibly ♡ As I've mentioned in my first reply, it corresponds greatly with my WIP novel and I took the liberty of aligning it even more. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did but even if you don't, feedback is welcomed.

Masterlist

Taglist: @marvellousdaisy @alltimelowing @lateuplight @surplus-of-sarcasm @betwist @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @miaowmelodie @thatonerandomauthor @hhabaddon @burningoutlikeicarus @daemonvatis @weepingcowboywolfbat @thelazywitchphotographer @kaiwewi @soul-of-a-local-bard @pigeonwhumps @aflyingsheepnamedrose @thatneptune @ohwellthatslifesstuff @worldsfromhoney @thiefofthecrowns @crow-with-a-typewriter @qualityrabbitsoup @stargeode @villain-life @villainsblood @whumpifi @silviathebard @misskowe @ayeshaturnedtoashes4444

P.S. I know this isn't my usual content, so if you don't wanna be tagged in stories like this one, just let me know! Sunny xo

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maribellablack · 2 months

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Exactly a month ago, we celebrated the birth of one of the most influential and outstanding people in the USSR, Sergei Parajanov.

Sergei Parajanov (January 9, 1924 – July 20, 1990) was an Armenian film director and screenwriter who invented his own cinematic style which was out of step with the guiding principles of socialist realism, the only sanctioned art style in the USSR. This, combined with his lifestyle and behaviour, led Soviet authorities to repeatedly persecute and imprison him and suppress his films.

He was born as Sarkis Hovsepi Parajaniants in Tbilisi, Georgia to artistically-gifted Armenian parents, Iosif Parajanov and Siranush Bejanova. He was an incredibly talented person who had the ability to show you the beautiful colors of the world, take something uninteresting and unattractive and transform it into something magnificent and breathtaking. Parajanov's films are full of allegories and metaphors, small important details that one might miss easily if they are not familiar with the eccentric worldview and borderless, unlimited imagination of Sergei. Some of my absolute favorite films directed by him include: "Ukrainian Rhapsody" (1961), "The Color of Pomegranates" (1969), "The Legend of Suram Fortress" (1985)...

He died on 20th of July, 1990 in Yerevan, Armenia at the age of 66 because of the lung cancer.

In a 1988 interview he stated that, "Everyone knows that I have three Motherlands. I was born in Georgia, worked in Ukraine and I'm going to die in Armenia."

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unhonestlymirror · 10 months

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Me, a person who studied and lived in russian culture, seeing takes "Poor russia has innocence although he went through so much😭😭":

#you guys really need to read dovlatov at least #a guy who was armenian(?) but had to become a russian writer because of communism #journalist*#eventually he ran away to estonia and then to america #one day people stop romanticising russia i hope.

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xiyade · 2 years

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Nar-Dos “The missing person/ Անհետ կորածը” (1920)

my translation of this story in english part 1

The young woman had just returned from a walk with her child and the nanny. She was changing her clothes to set the table before her husband and son would come home, when the maid came and told her there was a man waiting to see her.

“Who is it?” she asked intrigued.

“I don’t know.”

“And he wants so see me?”

“Yes.”

“Not my husband?”

“No, just you.”

“And?”

“I told him it’s dinner time and we don’t receive guests at this hour. He didn’t leave saying he had an urgent business.”

The young woman went up to the big windows facing the street, stood on her tiptoes and tried to look down through the glass, but she could only see the brim of a gray hat.

“Fine, bring him in, I’ll greet him,” she said to the maid.

The maid went out of the room.

The young woman once again buttoned up the brown silk blouse and approached the mirror. She powdered her slightly sweaty face and neck, fixed her hair and headed towards the living room.

As soon as she went in, she froze. At first she wanted to scream and run away controlled by a wild emotion, but then her surprise and interest were so big that she just stood still staring without blinking.

Across the main door, under the rays of sunshine coming from the big windows was the guest. He was a young man of around 30-35, tall, with a worn, sun-kissed face, in a soldier's gray long-coat, without shoulder straps, with a faded officer's hat stuck to his forehead like a navel. He had only one leg left. Under his long-coat only one leg was visible in a worn and dirty boot. He had a crutch under his arm to help him walk.

As his right arm was holding the crutch, he used his left hand to take off his hat, nodded silently as a greeting and didn’t move from his spot as if scared the woman would react in any way: would scream, would run away, would call for help, since that much was visible from her face. He couldn’t expect anything else from the unusual and surprising reunion.

The young woman was frozen in her place overtaken with immeasurable surprise and interest. She couldn’t take her eyes away from those big deep black eyes. They were so familiar, so dear, so lovable in the recent past and only thanks to them she could recognize him.

“Aram,” she whispered half-terrified half-suspicious.

“Yes, it’s me, Flora,” he replied quietly.

He leaned forward and looked at her with all the love and longing he could master.

That voice… There was no hesitation; that was really him. The young woman’s surprise and interest suddenly turned into bone-chilling fear, the type only those who face an unescapable terror know. The reality of the situation hit her currently numb brain like lightning and shook her to her very core. For a moment her vision blackened, her heart started to pound and she felt dizzy. She would have fallen down if she hadn’t sat down on the chair next to her.

The visitor, hopping with his one foot and rattling his wooden stick on the floor, hurried up to her and called out in fright.

“Flora…”

The young woman, who had turned pale, closed her eyes, lowered her head on her knees and put her arms around her head as if protecting herself from an expected blow.

But the guest ever so gently took one of those well-kept, white, smooth, adorned with gold rings hands in his left hand, brought it closer to his lips and said in a soothing, affectionate voice:

“Don’t be scared, Flora. It isn’t revenge that brought me to you, but longing, which has tortured me for so long in my distant solitude. I completely understand you and fully support your decision. The dead don’t come back, but if they could by some miracle, I presume they would evoke as much fear as the amount of tears spilled for them. Raise your head, let me look into your eyes. I came all the way here to see you, didn’t I? To see you and… you and my son.”

His voice was shaking and his eyes were full of tears.

#I'm back babyyyyy #so once again it's barely edited so if you see any glaring mistakes ignore them or tell me to fix it #tbh didn't know he lived long enough to be around ww1 #i always imagine nar-dos as a 19th century writer #which he is but you get my drift #this story is a few pages so i might need 5 parts for it too #read nar-dos kids #he respects women and hates violence what a man #nar-dos #nar-dos the missing person #armenian literature #armenian story #ww1

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girlfictions · 6 months

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"Who Remembers the Armenians?" by Palestinian poet Najwan Darwish / "Who Remembers the Palestinians?" by Armenian writer Sophia Armen

#palestine #words #quotes #poetry

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lechusza · 5 months

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Pathos weekly column, blog 1

New blog on Pathos, where I have a weekly column. Share, view, subscribe! https://www.patheos.com/blogs/thesweatpantsessions/2023/11/system-of-a-down-protect-the-land-an-apologetic-deconstructive-reading/

#writer #author #writerscommunity #lechusza #author life #writers on tumblr #politics #rock music #armenian genocide #system of a down #blogger #blog #critical thought #critical theory #critical thinking #sociology

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possum-mom · 5 months

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"Who Remembers the Armenians?" by Palestinian poet Najwan Darwish

Who Remembers the Palestinians? by Armenian writer Sophia Armen

🇵🇸❤️🇦🇲

#palestine #free palestine #armenia #najwan darwish #sophia armen

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agavnythepigeon · 29 days

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❤💙🧡I am so excited to announce the release of our digital Armenian charity zine, Split Pomegranate - Sacred Seeds! 175 pages, 93 amazing artists and writers, and so much more, 100% of the profits of this digital book will be donated to All for Armenia It is such a privilege to showcase so so many beautiful pieces from Armenians and non Armenians alike, all representing the beauty and depth and resilience of Armenians. All supporters also automatically enter into a raffle to win amazing prizes, and the first three people to find the hidden links in the zine win a sticker bundle!! Thank you! ❤💙🧡

#splitpomegranatezine

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havingapoemwithyou · 5 months

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“who remembers the palestinians?” by armenian writer Sophia Armen

#Sophia Armen #poetry #poem #🇵🇸#Palestine

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marineashnalikyan · 2 years

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The Aftermath ✨pg 120 of #themoontaughtme 🌙 Available on Amazon 💖

#marineashnalikyan #poetry #poem #poemsdaily #poetryoftheday #poetry corner #poets on tumblr #poems of life #short poetry #poetry book #poetry is not dead #poems daily #armenians #armenian poet #armenian writer #my poems #original poetry #poetry books #books to buy

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metamorphesque · 2 months

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Vardges Petrosyan (1932 - 1994)

#armenian literature #literature #vardges petrosyan #famous writers

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sunnynwanda · 2 months

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Part 1

Rays of dawning sun dance across Vanki's scrunched face, prompting him to peel his eyes open. He basks in the warmth of the morning light, allowing his face to grow hot before pushing himself off the bed. It's been a total of seven days since he was dragged into the castle on the hill, interrogated and informed that he would be staying.

Vanki expected to be led into a dungeon then - his kind never trusted with freedom. Though he was not. Of course, he was still locked, but his room was nothing short of royal. For the first few days, Vanki woke up before daybreak and went to sleep only when the castle fell into languid slumber. Soon, however, he grew accustomed to the comfort of his large bed and the tranquility of his bath. Perhaps a little too quickly.

The King visited him every day but kept his distance, sensing the tension in the boy's shoulders and seeing his restless eyes darting back and forth during their conversations. Vanki was surprised to discover how much the King knew about vishaps. He never dared to ask about the scar, wary of indulging his curiosity. His gaze must have given away his thoughts unbeknownst to him because, during one of their conversations, the King rubbed his chin, his eyes crinkling slightly.

"I earned this one when I was around your age," the King had said with a lighthearted chuckle. "Went swimming into a vishap's lake to see what would happen - turned out he did not like being woken up from his nap."

Vanki let out a snort before he could stop himself. He looked up with wide eyes, fearing he had offended the King, but the man was laughing at himself.

"I expected to grow some scales or, at least, a tail, but a scar would have to suffice." He added, winking at Vanki, who was entirely astonished. His mom used to tell him about the times when vishaps lived in peace with humans, but Vanki always assumed it was thousands of years before his birth. The King did not look old enough to him.

"I've never turned," he mumbled under his breath, timid at the confession. His grandmother was bitterly disappointed when she learned about it. Vanki's breath hitched, worries about receiving the same disappointment again resurfacing.

"I know," the reply caught the boy off guard. Noting the confusion on his face, the King continued. "You're too young. I don't think you've slept, either?"

"No," the young vishap shook his head, his fingers twisting the edge of his shirt. "My mom didn't want it. When she died, my grandmother wanted me to go through the stone sleep, but I was scared, so..." He trailed off, not finding it in himself to finish the sentence.

"So you ran," the King concluded for him, his stare distant but not indicating any hostility. Vanki fell silent, searching for words to thank the King for his hospitality and to be greedy to ask - no, beg - for more of it. He didn't have to because the King spoke before he could. "As I said, you can stay."

Vanki's head snapped up, his eyes misty from unshed tears. He wanted to speak, to express how thankful he was, but his voice was nowhere to be found, stuck in his throat in a thick lump of disbelief and gratitude.

"But you cannot stay locked up in this room forever," the King smiled at him, a playful glint taking over his disposition. "How about you meet my wife and kids tomorrow? Then we'll think about school, hm?"

Vanki's head bobbed so enthusiastically he was scared he would damage a vertebra. The King huffed out another laugh, delighted at the boy's enthusiasm. Then he left the room, leaving Vanki shaking with anticipation and mortifying dread.

What if they don't like him? What if they ask the King to kick him out?

Vanki runs a hand over his face as he finishes tying the strings of his fresh shirt. Today was the day that would mark the first time he left his room. He was set to be introduced to the royal family right before breakfast, which was nearing like an impending doom.

Vanki glances at his hands, noticing the spreading black stains on his fingertips and halting his pacing to take deep breaths when a knock is heard. A servant unlocks the door, pushing it open and peeking in. She breaks into a broad smile the moment she spots him.

"Come on then, the kids cannot wait to meet you." Her voice is so cheerful that Vanki forgets his worries for a moment. He follows her along the corridor and down the stairs - all the while listening to her excited chirping. When they reach the large wooden doors, the lady stops, offering him another smile before sending him in.

Vanki feels as if he got submerged in the warm waters of his mom's favourite spring when he enters the room. For several seconds, he forgets how to inhale, trepidation fluttering his heart to his throat. His fears prove idle because the Queen rushes towards him, welcoming him with a tight hug and a kind smile. Vanki feels himself lean into her touch but is interrupted by an extremely excited squeal followed by a boy colliding with him at full force. Vanki stumbles back, managing to remain on his feet by a miracle of coordination. The kid's hands circle him with an iron hold, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"That's Sar, our son," the King introduces with a laugh while his wife struggles to pry her son's hands off Vanki before the boy collapses from lack of oxygen. "He's five and a half and has been dying to meet a new friend."

Vanki looks down at him and is met with the brightest smile he has ever seen, even though the boy lacks a front tooth. When Sar finally releases him from his suffocating hold, Vanki notices another child tucked behind her mother. She looks older than Sar but younger than Vanki and has bright ginger hair, making it impossible for her to hide despite her best efforts. The King nods for his daughter to come greet their guest.

"And this is Amber," the Queen informs, prompting the girl forward. "She is about two years younger than you."

Seven, Vanki counts. He offers her a hand, and the girl shakes it shyly, jerking her hand away the moment Vanki's fingers loosen around hers. He wonders if she is scared of him and decides that she must. The assumption is soon denied when the siblings barely finish breakfast before dragging him out into the inner garden. Sar won't stop talking as he suggests a game after a game, and, if Vanki is honest, he has never had that much fun in his nine years of life. By the time the day fully breaks, Sar announces they are now the best of friends, which doesn't seem true to his sister.

Amber is weird.

She won't talk to him, instead opting to poke his arm until he pays attention to her. Even when Vanki tries to speak to her, she only communicates with him by nodding or shaking her head. At first, he thinks she doesn't like him, but that does not seem true since she continues playing with him and even shares her stolen cookies when they lie down on they grass to rest after the eventful morning.

Vanki is even more confused when Sar is taken away for his afternoon nap. He expects Amber to leave, but she grabs hold of his sleeve and pulls him after her. He follows wordlessly, curious to see where she is taking him, only to find himself led into a library. For the entire afternoon, Amber shows him her favourite books, still not uttering a word, and, when they leave to prepare for early dinner, she helps Vanki carry all of the books they've picked for him to read and smiles while waving him goodbye by his door.

As Vanki sets the books on his bedside table, he smiles to himself, delighted to have befriended Sar. He isn't sure where they stand with his sister. Amber is weird. Vanki can't help but like her nonetheless.

Part 1

Masterlist

A/N: Vishap stones or Vishapakars are dragon stones, characteristic monoliths or stelae found in large numbers in the Armenian Highlands, near sources of water. They are believed to be images of vishaps, built to protect their respective water sources and honour the vishaps. In the Legends of Vishaps, however, vishap stones are the bodies of the sleeping vishaps. Vishaps can sleep for a thousand years, not waking up unless called upon.

xo Sunny

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