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fxckbiscuit · 4 years

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In Reverse

Day 30: Time Travel (kinda…lol)

@sasuhinamonth

The sandalwood scent of incense retreats, its smoke returning to the burners where they came from.

In a neat line to an open grave, people take turns revoking their goodbyes for the boy resting cold six feet under. Every white lily they drop to the chasm leaps back to their waiting hands.

Hinata hears the creaking of ropes as she watches a group of men lift his coffin out of the freshly dug earth. Guilt stops gnawing on her heart.

Could I have done something that would have saved you?

His family resumes their place in the front row, while the priest withdraws his parting words—he won’t be calling Sasuke a sinner anymore. And then Naruto retracts his awful cries, Kakashi reels in his choked sobs, and Sakura recoils her wails of pure animalistic agony.

Down the back, Hinata pauses to contemplate on the wounded echoes around her—they’re so heavy she could almost see, no, touch their grief in all its blackness. Did I help you to a death you didn’t want, Sasuke?

Halfheartedly, she listens to the small crowd unmurmuring their eulogies, every syllable going back to the refuge of their throats. And when his coffin returns to the pedestal, the harsh pulse of mourning comes to a stop. The shared sorrow among them quiets down.

As they all walk backwards to the mouth of the graveyard, Hinata quits wondering if there would ever be a kind of strength, a kind of warmth that could fill the hollow in her chest.

—

Outside the morgue, the late morning sun slowly slinks back to the east, and the flood behind her eyes dry up. Hinata surrenders to the violent sobs of panic that won’t be coming anymore.

How dare you. How could you leave me? How could you do this to me? A wave of anger and nausea abruptly disappears from her that for a split second, he was just a faint vision, a blur lying dead on the steel table.

“No. That…mangled thing is not Sasuke. No, I d-don’t recognize it. It’s not him. I’ve never even seen that thing before.” She swallows back this denial as the fire in her chest stops burning. It stops burning the second she unidentifies the dead, dead body.

“Do you recognize this man?” She turns her head away from the disgusting mess.

The operative sets the white sheet back to cover his face and the sight of Sasuke’s graying skin webbed with blood vanishes from Hinata’s mind; she won’t be knowing it’s him anymore.

And the whole world shifts back in place.

The ground returns from under her feet, twin teardrops run back up her cheeks. The suffocating fear that threatens to split her skull open disappears, because now he’s less dead with every breath she draws out.

The quiet of the examining room bleeds outside the corridor, and Hinata backtracks to the entrance of the morgue where her mind empties out the dark unease eating her alive.

—

The sundown finds Uchiha Sasuke freckled with a light drizzling of snow, lying on his back with incredibly blank eyes. He’s surrounded by a strange weightlessness in the air, a vacuum that knows no guilt or ache.

Then the void spits him out.

Clouds of breath retreat to his mouth like a tide as he retakes his last breath.

I wish I had. Sasuke thinks back to the last thought he would have ever had—Hinata’s bright eyes, wide with a silent plead, asking him to stay.

A snowflake lightly stirs in his eyelash before lifting into the iron sky. Pain floods him gradually, then all at once, blocking out every other thought.

(He doesn’t mind the jagged ache in his heart, because it is the same ache reminding him he has a heart.)

The blow of the backhand that knocks him to the ground suddenly jerks him upright and brings him to a kneel. Sasuke shifts his gaze to the trails of lifeblood crawling from the ground, receding to the gaping wound on the dead center of his chest.

All of a sudden, a thick red light blankets the world around him. Everything stills. Through dazed eyes, Sasuke faintly makes out a shadowy figure in front of him. The man opens his hand and catches a sword leaping up to his grasp. He points the blade to the bloody mess of Sasuke’s chest. Sasuke’s vision clears as the man slowly inserts the steel straight to the entrance of his wound. Fuck, fuck.

With the blade buried in his chest, Sasuke feels his insides stitching themselves together around the cold, intruding metal. Then the man yanks out the sword. The wave of pain ripping through Sasuke disappears at once. The copper taste on his tongue subsides. The wound closes.

Looking up, Sasuke locks eyes with his brother, and then heaven stops bleeding.

—

“I’m tired of running away from ghosts.” There’s a jump in his heartbeat when he revokes the confession.

“Why do you have to go?” There’s a crack in her voice when she withdraws the question.

It happens at the pause after he breathes her in, and the realization comes back like a rush: he won’t be leaving her anymore and she won’t be letting him go. Hinata removes the arm that encircled his neck and Sasuke unclenches the hand fisted in her hair.

After leaning away from him, Hinata erases her reply written on the fogged up window. Yes.

Sasuke points a finger against the glass and removes his question smeared on it. You’ll always remember me, won’t you? Every letter disintegrates in the fog building under his fingertip.

They return to sit side by side on the floor, shoulder to shoulder with their backs against a wall, listening to the rain go heavenward, sloppily retrieving its kisses on the roof. His mind erases the memory of him taking a good long look at her—he forgets the way he couldn’t differentiate his pulse from hers as their wrists touched.

(He knows well enough that nothing stays and that everything eventually returns to ashes, plumes of smoke, nothingness—he wouldn’t stay, and she wouldn’t stay, and what they have wouldn’t stay either. But it’s okay. This is enough for him anyway.)

Sasuke rests his forehead against hers, lightly brushing her cheeks and temporarily painting her skin the color of his calloused hands, before he pulls away again to look back beyond the windowpane. So they look on. One by one the little raindrops jump to the clouds.

Up.

they

go.

—

Sorry if this was confusing lmao. Got the idea for the reverse thingy from this poem. Happy SasuHina month!!

#idk what this is #not even sure if this fits the prompt #look away!!#namatay ako kakasulat neto putangina #sasuhina #sasuhinamonth2020 #shmonth2020

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lukeiathings-blog · 5 years

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Sacrifices & The Ends of the Earth

"You're insignificant, an irritation I no longer need to tolerate once I ensure your agonising death by banishing you to the ends of the earth..."

Her heart stopped temporarily.

His betrayal instantly became irrelevant.

"N-No," She stammered, dread weaving itself through her sorrowful tone. The teardrops trickling down her gleaming cheeks suddenly subsided at the mention of Aladdin's execution. Instead, horror rippled through her brunette eyes, mirroring the unease gushing through her chest.

Alarm flashed across his facial features. This was it. He was completely mindful that his destiny was sealed since he was immobilised by Jafar's enchanted staff, in fact, he should've expected this sooner. Loopholes were non-existent at this point.

His eyes never left hers.

Jasmine noticed Aladdin surveying her earnestly, acceptance swimming in his eyes. She looked back at him, not deeming this as their final moment. But his eyes believed a different truth. In spite of knowing all too well that he would be dead in a matter of seconds, he exhibited a soothing demeanour through his eyes which declared: "it's okay." It was almost as if he was bidding her goodbye with his eyes.

Detecting the clear-cut terror slithering upon her countenance activated a fusion of relief and heartache in him; It was a privilege to know that she could overlook his deception, however, inflicting grief upon her as a result of his banishment was never his objective: he only aimed to steal the lamp so he could rescue her kingdom.

Jasmine couldn't lose him. She wouldn't justify it. Extermination was extremely inappropriate. Sure, he was dishonest about his social status, however, a lie similar to his had vacated her magenta lips before.

An insane scheme launched through her mind: She'd shove him away from Jafar's staff, hopefully hindering Aladdin's exile. She couldn't care less whether it implied her being his replacement. Her own safety was no longer her concern. She'd act as his substitute any day if it guaranteed that he lived a painless life.

In a matter of seconds, Jafar mercilessly plunged his enchanted staff against the costly, wooden flooring of the palace, producing a thundering clank and a circular hole no doubt.

"It's now or never," Jasmine murmured inaudibly, pep-talking herself.

She rushed forward, skilfully dodging her father's bodily restraint and dismissing his panicked requests, insisting for her to: "stay back". Pleading with her was hopeless since she was adamant about this. Not even her own father could get through to her. She forcefully rammed herself against his slim figure, however, he remained stationary. Abu too.

His heartbeat boosted abnormally.

"Jasmine, get out of here," Aladdin begged, concern coating his tone, making him sound as if he was on the edge of weeping, still powerless against Jafar's sorcery, "We can't prevent my banishment, but if you just move, you can be saved."

"No, Aladdin!" Jasmine declined passionately, frantically shoving him over and over again ineffectively, "I'm not leaving you for dead."

Jafar wore a chilling smirk, demonstrating his amusement. The death of the princess was the perfect ingredient to provoke Aladdin and the Sultan's suffering; Jasmine playing martyr was displeasing Aladdin, automatically igniting triumph within the depths of Jafar's mind. Executing the Sultans daughter, although initially unplanned, tasted delicious as vengeance. It sufficed, especially since his craving involved the Sultan enduring an overwhelming wave of trauma as he did for all those years.

"Jasmine, please!" Aladdin demanded, his tone wobbly.

It was too late.

SWOOSH!

A sudden, icy whirlwind enveloped the three of them. A drastic switch in weather conditions caught her off guard. She could already feel her teeth chattering from the chilling temperature that was penetrating her skin. Mid-blizzard, Abu pounced into Aladdin's vest, shielding himself from the upcoming outdoor freezer, signalling to Aladdin that movement was no longer a restriction. Aladdin retained feeling in his body seconds later, but he could no longer push Jasmine away for she was cornered by Jafar's paranormal transportation vortex. Instead, he clutched her hand reassuringly, basically grasping a handful of the ice itself. Neglecting the numbness, he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling her squeeze his hand back reassuringly.

A void of blackness invaded their eyesight.

Aladdin's unconscious form faced upwards, submerged in the glacial surface.

Abu whimpered from his vest, wrapping the shabby material around his tiny body furthermore to act as a blanket before he nestled his head against Aladdin's frigid skin. The effects weren't significant but not non-existent either. Normally, his fur served him well in chilly settings. However, it wasn't designed to protect him from deathly climates at a supposedly mythical destination.

Snow drizzled from Aladdin's eyelashes as his eyes fluttered open. Endless goosebumps decorated his strikingly lightened skin as unpreventable shudders leaked from his cracked, colourless lips. This wasn't good, it was only a matter of time before he dropped dead, before Jasmine dropped dead.

...

He immediately shot up.

"JASMINE!!!" Aladdin hollered hysterically, unaccountable robustness surfacing randomly, prompting his unfeeling legs to spring up.

Abu squeaked in complaint after almost slipping from his vest. He cared for his companions' safety, however, identifying Jasmines whereabouts was his principal priority right now. Because of this, he simply cupped his vest, hindering Abu from plummeting into the snow.

He boundlessly trekked around the glacial landscape, wailing her name optimistically, even with zero indications of feedback. Vivid conspiracy theories surrounding her current condition swarmed his mind, only intensifying his anxiety, however, surrender wasn't an option in his manual. Searching would subside when he found her lifeless remains, well, if hypothermia hadn't wrestled him to the ground already.

Abu whimpered. The unsettling truth was transparent to him: She'd perished due to breaking her neck on impact or hypothermia. However, he couldn't destroy his best friend like that. Aladdin would certainly give him a cold shoulder. Jasmine was a protagonist in Aladdin's epitome of a contented life. Assuming Aladdin and Abu made it out alive, the truth would slaughter his aspirations for a joyous future. Coming to terms with her death was something he'd have to do on his own...

Her eyes shot open.

A hardcore throbbing tingle penetrated her skin, shuddering seemed permanent, maintaining the sufficient intake of oxygen entailed a series of strained wheezes and the masterpiece which was her freshly shampooed raven ringlets had collapsed from its half up, half down hairstyle into an unkempt frenzy with bits of frost decorating most strands. She would be astonished if her lips hadn't turned blue. Despite the pain, she stood up.

She thought she heard Aladdin desperately shouting her name. His angelic voice sounded faraway, so far away that it almost sounded like it could be a figment of her imagination. Who's to say it wasn't? However, optimism kindled the undying faith that she wasn't confined in a hallucination.

Capturing his attention was key right now.

"Aladdin," She squeaked, her voice corresponding with a mouse; unconfident, fragile and unheard.

Discouragement was gradually exterminating all his faith ferociously. She was nowhere to be found. Sure, the realm was enormous -according to his calculations, Agrabah was a mouse in comparison to the Ends of the Earth which was a dinosaur- however, they couldn't have landed extremely far from each other.

"JASMINE!"

"Aladdin!" She croaked, her vocal cords trembling as her projection amplified insignificantly. Her throat felt as if it was on fire which was quite ironic considering the opposing weather conditions. She still followed his voice.

"JASMINE!"

With a click of Genie's azure fingers, Carpet expertly zoomed through the chilling air plagued with limitless snowflakes in the route of Aladdin's quavering wails.

"JAS-"

SWISH!

Puzzlement swamped his system. How in the world were he and Abu hovering mid-air? However, the mystery merely lasted five seconds before the missing puzzle piece spontaneously locked into its designated spot; he was friends with a mystical Genie who doubtlessly sent his magic carpet to his aid.

There was no time to waste: With Carpets assistance, Jasmine's whereabouts would be clear in no time.

"Carpet, I need to find Jasmine!" He ordered frantically, an uncommon element of assertiveness altering his tone.

Carpet knew Aladdin would shred him into a pencil-thin, swirly mess of rainbow-like string with the mere pressure of his enraged stare if he refused, however, finding the Princess was already a prime concern of his. He wouldn't have left without finding her anyway. The Sultan wouldn't be impressed by Carpet retrieving Aladdin but not Jasmine.

Carpet soared through the frigid air rapidly, obeying his wishes. Aladdin himself cautiously patrolled the area from a birds-eye view, alert for any traces of Jasmine. He pictured Genie pulling out a pair of binoculars from thin air and commentating as if he was a pilot on duty. Thankfully, the Genie wasn't there because if so, Aladdin's irritation would only heighten. He doubted any of his companions would want to deal with that.

Through blurred vision, Jasmine identified a rectangular silhouette voyaging hurriedly through the sky. Evidently, it wasn't a bird, life forms didn't exist at the ends of the earth. It was a Magic Carpet, but not just any magic carpet; Aladdin's Magic Carpet.

Hope glistened in her utmost delicate era.

Her survival relied on her voice being audible from metres above. Phrases of encouragement like: "YOU CAN DO THIS!" and "KEEP FIGHTING!" replayed on an infinite loop inside her head, convincing herself that capturing his attention was achievable. She inhaled a mouthful of oxygen deeply as if she was low on the recourse. An unexplainable gust of energy extracted from an intense desire to succeed in fulfilling such a vital motive, pulsed through her veins, prompting herself not to go speechless once again:

"ALADDIN!"

An unmissable feminine voice sliced the silence like a knife, seizing his attention. He'd have to be deaf not to hear it. He turned his head so fast that he could endure whiplash and studied below frantically. Abu recognised a vibrant blend of magenta, gold and teal metres below. He poked Aladdin roughly, snapping him out of his panic-stricken quest.

"What is it, Abu?" Aladdin questioned

Abu pointed out what looked like a multicoloured, eye-catching blob against the immeasurable blank white sheet of snow. A thankful smile danced across his lips, replacing the frown.

"Over there!" Aladdin instructed, grasping fistfuls of the material at the edge of the Carpet as a safety precaution prior to navigating it to travel to the right and then straight downwards. Carpet swerved sideways, following the instructions. Approximately at the speed of light, Carpet dived in the direction of her whereabouts.

Although she couldn't feel her lips move as a result of the deathly climate, they curved into an appreciative grin. She would survive. Not even the Ends of the Earths could defeat her. What a title to have: A survivor of the Ends of the Earth. As soon as she felt alive again, Jafar was in for a knuckle sandwich. How delicious.

The landing was rough, to say the least: The passengers were flung violently onto the ground with a thud. Jasmine cringed at the sound, internally hoping none of them had injured themselves. Although both had, the inflicted injuries were minor such as a fuschia bruise decorating Aladdin's knee as well as a crimson scratch mark inhabiting Abu's cheek. Aladdin picked himself up instantly, sprinting to the princess.

He soon froze and it wasn't because of the hypothermic temperature.

Jasmine resembled a corpse - he would've even mistaken her for one, however, her chattering teeth thankfully proved otherwise. Her typical radiant complexion had been drained, making her skin look shockingly pale - he'd even go as far to say that her skin probably matched the colour of the snow. Gosh, he probably looked worse.

"Are you just going to stand there and look at me as if I'm dead?" She asked, amusement flashing through her eyes.

Aladdin unfroze the second a smirk slithered upon her nearly blue lips. Gosh, he missed her, and even if it felt like they'd been apart for a lifetime, they'd only parted for twenty minutes maximum. In his defence, you tend to miss someone a lot more if you think they're deceased.

Before he had the chance to dart to her, Carpet swept them both of their feet and in the direction of Agrabah. They'd been at the Ends of the Earth long enough.

She leaned her head into the crook of his neck, squeezing her eyes shut tightly to savour the comforting feeling. His arms felt like a safe haven, mimicking the security she felt when residing in her mother's arms years earlier. It was a feeling she wasn't sure she was ever going to experience once again an hour ago.

Aladdin slid his arm around her waist protectively and also squeezed his eyes shut, praising the Lord over and over again that they'd found her before it was too late. However, guilt was still eating him up inside. If he hadn't decided against going through with Genie's advice to stay back, Jasmine being plagued with hypothermia wouldn't be a possibility.

"I'm so glad we found you," Aladdin murmured, cradling her in his arms with the intentions of never letting her go again - other than for a bathroom break, "I don't know what I would've done with myself if I lost you, especially since it's my fault you're even here in the first place."

Her heart swelled at his words.

"Hey, hey, you didn't lose me," She reassured him, unlatching herself from his embrace so she could inspect his countenance. She grasped his hand softly when discerning his regretful expression. "And this isn't your fault, Aladdin, it's Jafar's. So don't you dare blame yourself!"

Aladdin avoided her gaze at all costs, suddenly finding the setting below him rather enticing. If he looked at Jasmine, he'd only be confronted by the mess he'd made. How could she say this wasn't his fault? Venom intermixed with a tinge of vulnerability trickled from the next words he spat, "But if I hadn't reached for the lamp, you wouldn't be here. Jasmine, you could have hypothermia because of my lack of logic and patience!"

"I don't want to hear it!" Jasmine declared, "Look at me, Aladdin!"

He stubbornly continued to peer downward.

"Look at me, Aladdin!" She declared once again, her tone plagued with a assertiveness.

This time, Aladdin listened. He tilted his head upwards and looked to Jasmine. Only when he looked at her did she realise how responsible he felt. His eyes were watery and had reddened moderately. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He felt so responsible to the extent that he was crying. Jasmine extended her thumb and tenderly brushed it away.

"Aladdin, You didn't do this." She reassured him, thief eye contact with each other persisting. She then cupped his cheek. "Jafar did, okay? You didn't send me here, Jafar did. Please don't blame yourself."

"I can't help it," He sniffled, cherishing her touch despite it feeling as though the temperature of skin was below minus a million degrees. "I hate the fact that you could've died here because I made an irrational decision."

"Either way, Jafar would've done something." She informed him, "He had been mistreating us from the start. Don't blame yourself."

Aladdin still felt as if he was partly accountable, but didn't dare voice his outlook.

"I won't."

#jasmine #princessjasmine #aladdin #menamassoud #naomiscott #primceali #disney #liveactionaladdin #magiccarpet #sad #aladdinandjasmine

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hearthstvnc-blog · 5 years

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hey fam!! i’m ollie and i love bringing back old muses of mine... sry if this intro gets a little a lot long...

++ Who’s that running into Camp Half-Blood? Oh, it’s the [OC] demigod [LAWRENCE HEARTHSTONE]! They really look like [CODY SAINTGNUE]. Rumour is this [NINETEEN] year old [CLAIMED] [SON] of [KHIONE] is very [QUIET & CLOSED-OFF], but at least they’re also [ADAPTABLE & GROUNDED]. Hopefully the monsters won’t get them. {ollie, 20, she/her, est}

THE STORY:

opposites attract, but they never ensure true love.

jason hearthstone is a kind man with a warm heart who lived for a game played on the ice --- and maybe that’s why khione was drawn to him in the first place; not for the game he played, but the fact that the prettiest lights are the best to snuff out.

lawrence is born ice cold on the coldest day of the year, the product of a drunken one night stand between a pretty girl and a guy fresh off a win. he never gets told all the details, but what lawrence know is this:

--- he was not meant to be --- that does not mean his father loves him any less

( despite the hectic schedule of an nhler. )

( despite the fact he sees his aunt more than his father sometimes. )

in the end, it’s no surprise he follows in his father’s footsteps, into a world of skates and sticks and pucks and ice --- and maybe with her blood in his veins too, it was never meant to be anything else.

the truth hits like a snow storm.

it’s february in winnipeg and the temperature is dropping to that point where it’s almost too cold to snow. the winters are harsh here, harsh enough to turn lakes into hard glass ( but harsh winters bear the toughest people ). jason hearthstone laughs at his son –newly turned twelve– who begs him to let him play shinny on the frozen pond in the woods behind their house. he lets him go after bundling lawrence in clothing with a stern reminder to be back for dinner to which the child enthusiastically nods.

there are some days that jason hearthstone sees so much of himself in his son.

( there are other days that he’s reminded of her, though –from cold eyes to cold hands. perhaps he had always known that was going to be more than a one night stand ).

on a frozen pond, lawrence hearthstone practices his skating and shoots pucks into a net. these are the drills he’s known forever now –from watching is father, from the little leagues, to elementary school. but pond ice is not perfect. it’s shaped by the elements, rough and imperfect. lawrence’s skate blade catches in a flaw and he twists his ankle as he goes down.

lawrence falls to the ice, to cradle his leg, gritting his teeth against the pain. a few tears escape as he tries to stand again only to fall back down. the snow seems to fall more thickly, and when lawrence looks up, she is there.

“ my dear— ” her hand is cold on his skin.

the khione lawrence sees is young, barely looking past twenty one, probably the same she looked to his father all those years ago. “ —any child of mine knows to be wary of tears for they can freeze. ” with his face in her hands teardrops freeze in their tracks. “ do you know who i am? ”

lawrence blinks back, silent.

“ i suppose your father never would tell you about me— he never had a reason to. ”

and that’s “ —-mom? ”

her laugh is like icicles rattling together, bell-like but a touch too sharp. “ most know me as khione —but you’re not wrong. i trust you will do me well. ”

she says very little after that, disappearing in a burst of snow that drifts slowly down with the rest of the flakes. jason hearthstone would find his son hours later, half buried —and he would know that the truth was out.

three weeks later, lawrence freezes his waterbottle solid in the middle of practice. he thinks he can almost hear her laughing in his ear.

it all starts to snowball after that. it’s perhaps a mixed blessing that he spends so much time at the rink --- ice disguising ice and snow well.

and his cyrokinesis isn’t the only thing that gets better.

it’s like a switch gets flipped in him, an extra sense he can feel all ends of the ice when he’s on it, feels slightly off when he’s not. he gets better and better and better and his father is delighted --- his laugh never seems to quite meet his eyes, though, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to finally drop.

for a while it’s easy. easy to play hockey, easy to catch the eyes of scouts already, easy to wipe away a sheen of frost, easy to disguise a few snowflakes.

lawrence turns sixteen and things stop being so easy.

he’s locked into a playoff game when the puck drops --- along with the other shoe.

it’s all a blur, monsters, a whirlwind of action. breaking his stick across the nose of something. a satyr --one of the team’s trainers-- finds him, and takes him where things will never be the same.

it’s snowing when lawrence crosses the boarder by thalia’s tree for the first time. one minute his boots are in a foot of snow and the next they’re on grass and the sun is shining above. almost immediately, he starts sweating in his jacket.

ryan –his satyr– guides him to the big house while lawrence remains in a stupor —still rattled from the attack and exhausted from the plane ride from winnipeg to new york. he never needs to be claimed with a glowing symbol. they ask him that first night and he says “khione” as snowflakes drift above his head.

he stays the summer and learns how to protect himself –learns the details of greek myth and all the things his father had half hinted at but never really told. but he wants to go back home –he has a future built on ice, but not the kind his mother gave him. the future he wants is the same as his father’s ( sweat and ice and skates and goals and team ), but his mother’s blood in him has other ideas.

lawrence goes home and learns the hard way that once things go bad there’s no returning to the past.

the gorgon severely injures his best friend josh as it and its cohort attack the team in an attempt to get to him. lawrence still doesn’t know what nightmares they saw in those moments manipulated by the mist. his best friend out for an entire season, his team in shambles —only then did lawrence see.

( maybe he’d always known --- dating back to a frozen lake in winnipeg, his mother warning him of the dangers of crying as tears froze on his face ).

it’s snowing when lawrence crosses the boarder for the second time, alone and unsure.

HEADCANONS:

the one time lawrence has left camp boundaries was at the beck of hestia who no doubt found his last name to her amusement. her cat had escaped and found itself literally on thin ice and lawrence was recruited to retrieve it. honestly, he’s not even sure if this counts as a quest.

ironically, lawrence’s most prominent scar has nothing to do with his demigod genes. under his left eye there’s the remains of a nearly two-inch scar slightly paler than the rest of his skin from a wayward puck while he was playing shinny. he has other very small and various scars from accidents, pre-chb and post.

when it happened, he had planned to have his draft day tattooed on him, but that passed six months ago. he doesn’t think there’s any chance of that ever happening now.

lawrence is always extremely cold to the touch. his hands are freezing and his skin never warms even if he’s sweating. he functions much better in cold temperatures and thinks CHB is too hot literally all the time. if it’s above freezing, it’s too hot.

the water nymphs HATE him because he always wants to freeze the lake to skate.

lawrence is VERY competitive. boy may not be the happiest here, but bet he goes HARD in capture the flag.

lawrence is very aware of what khione had done and her role in the fall of olympus –obvious he does not condone it, but he’s not ashamed of the power he has either. you cannot help who your parentage is –but you can decide what to do with the power you’re given

personality-wise, lawrence is very loyal and down to earth --- but he is very good at hiding his emotions and intentions, and that he did not get from his father.

CONNECTIONS

i’m too terrible at this to really list random ones. but come to me or give this a like or something and i’ll read ur chara’s intro and i’m sure we can rustle some fun things up !!

my discord is olofsson#5730

#hoth:intro #whatduppppppp fam

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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In a world where fashion increasingly doubles as a form of political statement or protest and the first lady’s jacket choice is a partisan tinderbox, it’s no surprise that a possible new example of fashion-based progressive idealism is making headlines.

What is surprising is the source: Queen Elizabeth’s jewelry. A viral twitter thread is suggesting her majesty may have been using her trademark brooches to send subtle messages repudiating the Trump administration and its policies during the president’s much-discussed visit to London last week.

The queen wore three brooches during Trump’s visit, and each of them — at least according to the online fandom with an appetite for Intense Brooch Politics — was an act of subtle nose-thumbing.

The inciting Twitter thread was published by Twitter user SamuraiKnitter, who is apparently the internet’s preeminent brooch decoder. A writer based in Pennsylvania, SamuraiKnitter described herself to Vox as a longtime history and fashion nerd who’s gifted with “an ability to put together jumbled facts into a coherent picture.” Her theories have caused the hashtags #BroochDecoderRing and #BroochWarfare to spread, and inspired Vice to label the affair “Broochgate.”

#BroochDecoderRing The following data relies heavily on the work of the blogger at “Her Majesty’s Jewel Box”. If you swing by there (I will be linking), BE ADVISED THE BLOGGER WANTS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS POLITICAL STUFF THAT IS NOT WHY SHE IS THERE so take it easy.

— Bitch. STILL my superhero name. (@SamuraiKnitter) July 15, 2018

But what does it all mean? Is there a meaning behind the queen’s jewels? Was she really sipping subtle tea over Trump while having actual tea with him?

In a word: possibly. Let’s take a closer look.

Her majesty’s brooches are a ubiquitous fashion statement — they’ve been a prominent part of her wardrobe her whole life, and her fondness for them is so well-known that they’ve become a common gift presented to her by foreign dignitaries and other guests and friends. And on the internet, there’s a small but thriving band of jewel watchers and bloggers, broadcasting the #TiaraAlert and documenting royal jewels from around the globe, with an eye toward Queen Elizabeth’s in particular. One of these blogs, Order of Splendor, drew so much interest for its posts about the queen’s brooches that its author created a spinoff, the Queen’s Jewel Vault, just to chronicle the royal bling.

As that blogger has explained, “There are brooches representing countries, organizations, and regiments as well as brooches given as gifts and brooches inherited with great historical and sentimental significance.”

And these jewels are frequently interpreted to carry significant meanings beyond “here’s a shiny thing on my lapel.” For instance, there’s the huge True Lover’s Knot brooch, which the queen wore at two royal weddings — the 1960 wedding of her sister Princess Margaret, and the 2011 wedding of her grandson Prince William.

Additionally, there are multiple brooches that have been given as gifts to Queen Elizabeth or her predecessors by various countries, and which she has subsequently worn — you guessed it — while attending state functions hosted by those countries. Thus, it has become generally accepted among jewel watchers that the queen frequently uses her jewels to indicate loyalty and friendship between the UK and other nations.

Hence the great attention being paid to the brooches she wore during Trump’s visit.

Queen Elizabeth wore three brooches during Trump’s visit. She donned the first one on the day of his arrival, at the height of the publicity surrounding his appearance as well as the height of the controversy.

The brooch in question is colloquially known as the “American state visit brooch.” That’s not an official name — it was made up by the author of the Queen’s Jewel Vault blog (which SamuraiKnitter cites many times throughout her Twitter thread). The media seems to have run with it anyway, perhaps because up until now, very few people outside these royal fashion fans were keeping a close eye on what jewels the queen wore.

The so-called “American state visit brooch” is an antique gift, made in the US in the 1950s in and given to the queen by the Obamas during an official state visit to the UK in 2011.

The so-called “American state visit brooch,” which the Obamas gave the queen. Queen’s Jewel Vault

Small and relatively unassuming, the flower made of gold, diamonds, and agate attracted little attention at first. But when sharp-eyed observers realized the queen was wearing a gift from Trump’s most prominent political enemy, tongues started wagging.

The US has given QE jewelry before over the years and I bet her dresser could put hands on any and all of it given five minutes. But she chose the most SENTIMENTAL piece in the collection, the one that was given OUT OF FRIENDSHIP WITH THE OBAMAS AS PEOPLE.

— Bitch. STILL my superhero name. (@SamuraiKnitter) July 15, 2018

Next up: day two of Trump’s visit, during which he sat down with England’s prime minister at a state banquet that was notably not hosted at Buckingham Palace and was unattended by Queen Elizabeth, in contrast to her treatment of the Obamas. Throughout the day, Elizabeth wore a gift presented to her by the governor general of Canada in 2017.

Queen Elizabeth wore the Sapphire Jubilee Snowflake Brooch on July 14 while meeting the king and queen of Belgium. Getty Images; Queen’s Jewel Vault

It’s the Sapphire Jubilee Snowflake Brooch, and it was given to commemorate her 65 years on the throne. But to SamuraiKnitter, Queen Elizabeth’s choice to wear it during Trump’s visit was an in-your-face demonstration of loyalty to a country Trump has had serious issues with of late:

It’s called the Sapphire Jubillee Brooch, and it was given to the Queen of England as a gift for ruling for eleventy billion (okay, 65). From Canada. You know, who Trump’s been screaming about and insulting. The commonwealth country and one of the UK’s greatest allies. Them.

— Bitch. STILL my superhero name. (@SamuraiKnitter) July 15, 2018

If all that sounds pretty baller, it arguably gets better.

For the last occasion — the awkward moment when the ruler of the British Commonwealth stood around waiting for nearly 15 minutes to meet Trump — the queen wore an un-ostentatious diamond teardrop brooch.

Getty Images

The brooch was a gift passed down to her by her mother, who wore it during the 1952 state funeral for her husband, King George VI (Queen Elizabeth’s father). It appears prominently in the famous “Three Queens” photo from the occasion.

Jewel watchers nearly died, because it is the brooch worn in the famous “Three Queens in Mourning” photo, worn by the Queen Mum: pic.twitter.com/3xS2C56Xcj

— Bitch. STILL my superhero name. (@SamuraiKnitter) July 15, 2018

Of course, it’s impossible to know for certain that the queen intended to send the message that dining with Trump was the social equivalent of attending her father’s funeral — or, just to toss out another metaphorical possibility, that Trump’s presidency represents the symbolic death of the American experiment.

But either way, Trump detractors seem to be delighted by the idea of Queen Elizabeth supporting the #resistance with bosom gemstones.

“The irony to all this,” SamuraiKnitter told Vox, “is I don’t actually pay that much attention to brooches. I like the tiaras.”

And even though jewel watchers can only speculate over the queen’s intended brooch symbolism during Trump’s visit, the popularity of the discussion has made it overwhelmingly clear that there is a growing audience for those seeking confirmation of their political opinions in even the most unexpected places.

We look forward to discovering what sort of coded shade her majesty might be tossing the next time she breaks out the Burmese Ruby.

Original Source -> “Brooch warfare,” explained: what Queen Elizabeth’s jewels might be saying about Trump

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

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onwingsofwaxstory-blog · 7 years

Text

On Wings of Wax (Chpt. 1)

Snowflakes fall, slowly swirling, dancing in the night to a tune only they can hear. What reflects in the eyes of the dancers is a city of the future. The whole of Metropolis is a mass of lights and movement. Cars on the ground and ships in the sky fill their respective spaces with trails of light that seem to compete with the skyscrapers own lights in a dazzle of sparks that a person could get lost in for hours just watching. Skyscrapers blanket the city like leaves on a great tree with bridges connecting every one of them. A slow dirigible floats through the air displaying the current time; 1:00am and an advertisement for a new medical company. If one were close enough, they could discern the carriage that hangs underneath the balloon. There stands a lone figure, masked partly by the shadows cast by the city below. Slowly, Tristam comes into view. At first glance, you wouldn’t notice anything special about Tristam, but a second glance would tell a whole different story. Hair the color of the blood in his veins, is matted and unkempt as if he had never taken care of it, a dark blue jacket and grey pants ward off the chill of the air, and finally eyes the color of emeralds that sparkle, not from joy but from welled up tears. The light now allows one to see the bruises that cover his face and how he is favoring one leg over the other. Seconds after leaving his chin, the teardrops dry up as they come into contact with the heat of the engines below. Slowly, Tristam begins to climb onto the railing of the dirigible preparing to make a grand exit.

Other airships slowly climb into the sky as if to greet him. Sitting still on the edge of the railing, Tristam looks at the snow falling from the sky in wonder, feeling somehow akin to the quiet dancers. Both starting so high and slowly but surely, making a beautiful fall to the ground. He closes his eyes. Memories come flooding back to Tristam, heartbreaking ones, ones he wished he's never have to remember. Tristam can see the faces of the others as they surround him, both fist and foot crashing down on him. He tried to fight back, but there were many of them and only one of him. Through brief gaps between his attackers, he can see people standing on. Watching, pointing, recording but never helping. Finally, there are shouts and the attackers move off, laughing still. One even complains about a pain in his hand. There is not a hand that helps Tristam up, only snickers and solemn whispers as he pulls himself off the ground. Tristam’s memory shifts now to a scene in one of the many apartment buildings that cover the city. His parents arguing, words flying but they fall on his deaf ears while he slips out the door and into the night. Opening his eyes, Tristam lets go of the railing. The only thing keeping him from a certain death are his legs that are locked into the bottom. Suddenly, he is scared and once again grabs hold of the airship. By now, many other of the autonomous airships have reached his height in the sky. His feeling of relief short lived, when another airship smacks into his, pitching him out into the night. Tristam falls with a wry smile as if he was saying, what else could have happened?

To his surprise, there is a girl falling right next to him, smiling as if she was enjoying the biting winds that cut deep into him. She reaches out her hand and takes hold of his and shockingly, speaks to him, the sound of the wind rushing away. “Is this really as far as you want to burn? Is this as bright as you will burn?” The question surprises him. No one before had ever asked him what he ever wanted in life, it was always an order, a command. Tristam got a clear look at the girl and he completely forgot that he was falling to his death. No more did he feel the sting of the bruises or the pain in his leg. She was wearing one of those nano-suits that could turn into anything; only the rich and famous could afford one. It was first designed as a new form of protection for those working in space or traveling through it frequently. When it was discovered that if you toned down the amount of material that each suit needed and gave it more freedom to move around, it was a perfect product to sell to the public. Although it wasn’t bulletproof like the space version, the suit was durable and could change into whatever kind of clothing you wanted.

Right now, her suit was in the shape of a dress that seemed to be made of the moonlight with the way it glowed against the backdrop of stars- she had hair the color of the snow falling around them and eyes that glittered like rubies, full of life and excitement. Tristam’s confusion was all too obvious and the girl continued, “Are you going to just die and twinkle out like a star reaching the end of its life or are you going to keep on shining? I can give you what you want. I can give you the power to change this twisted world. After all, what good is a star without its light?” Tristam thought. Was it really worth all the effort, even if he just survived, it wasn’t like he by himself could do anything. She suddenly spoke up again, “Of course not, that’s why you have to become more than just yourself. Become my Icarus, and eventually touch the sun.”

Tristam was filled with something he had never felt before: a sense of direction in life. Before in life, he simply moved from day to day without any real purpose. Like a leaf floating in the wind, Tristam went in whatever direction life pushed him. He had long since given up on trying to walk his own path of powerlessness. Everyday was out of his control. Here was this mysterious and bewitching girl who appeared out of nowhere. Tristam had nothing to lose so why not? He was going to die either way, so might as well see what she had to offer. He nodded his head and the girl smiled. In her other hand, he noticed that there was a white sphere that fit neatly inside the palm of her hand. Instead of some serial number or company logo, there was a simple black feather imprinted upon the ball. Pulling her hand back, she made a fist and then stuck out her index and middle finger as if she was making a gun and then plunged the little ball into Tristam’s chest. He didn’t register what had happened until she removed her hand from his chest. Looking down, all he saw was the little ball sitting there, shining through the hole she made. Instantly, the blood was washed away from her hand by the winds howling by and gave a quick smile. “When you can truly touch the sky, come find me” she said out loud, and then Tristam saw the wings unfurl from her back. They were the same white as her hair and for a second, Tristam couldn’t help but be captivated by the angelic beauty that she possessed. Then she was gone, having flown away, leaving him with a hole in his chest and a pain unlike anything before as it spread through his entire body like a worm burrowing in the dirt. It was a curious sensation being burned from the inside and frozen from the out. As he twisted and contorted in the air Tristam began to realize that he could now pick out the forms of cars moving below and that he was going to hit the ground very, very hard.

The pain was almost too much to bear, holding onto consciousness like a hungry wolf clinging onto the last bone, Tristam struggled to stay afloat in a sea of pain. All he could see was a swirl of white and red. It was now that Tristam began to cry, here he had almost finally found a purpose to live and yet he failed. He would crash into the hard ground below and be scattered like the snow surrounding him. No one would find him as the snow would soon cover what remained and leave no traces behind. He continued to fall and the red around him grew. Tristam’s back arched as another wave of pain across his shoulder blades hit him and then the pain was gone. Tristam realized that he wasn’t falling anymore, but the air was still filled with specks of red and white. The snow mixing with blood red feathers in a beautiful and haunting dance. Tristam’s wonder grew as he realized that he wasn’t just falling, but gliding on through the air on wings of crimson. Suddenly, he couldn’t feel the chill of the air anymore, only his wonder at the wings on his back could fill his mind. Mouth agape, he could only watch the scene around him come into focus as his eyes adjusted to whatever the girl had done to him. Suddenly Tristam smacked straight into a rising airship and once again fell into a tumble. Thankfully, he hit a snow drift on his way down and survived but to his horror, his wings were gone. As Tristam lay there, he gazed at the sky wondering if it wasn’t just some sort of dream. His body no longer hurt and there were no wings for him to see, no girl flying through sky, no sign of even the dirigible he fell from.

Slowly getting to his feet, heart still pounding, Tristam threw off his jacket and shirt, holes in both confirmed that the night’s events did indeed happen, but his wings were no longer with him. Then the feathers fell around him, all dancing to the same tune as the snowflakes. Sorrow, happiness, hardship and success, the feathers and snowflakes seemed to hear a tune and laugh at jokes only they could hear. Tristam grew jealous for a moment at the sight, wishing that he too could laugh and dance to the tune of the air. He wished he could once again feel the wind under his wings and the power of flight. Taking in his surroundings, Tristam realized his drop from the skies took him quite a ways from his home. Feeling cold now that his clothes were in tatters, he was about to set off towards home when he noticed that his feathers disappeared. Looking up, Tristam could see his feathers slowly dissolving into the wind. All evidence of what just happened, gone. Almost as if it never happened at all.

Looking at his surroundings for the first time, Tristam saw that he had fallen into the courtyard of some bigwig company. The center of the courtyard featured a fountain that had been frozen over with the winter and huge statues of what looked like past CEOs lining the inside of the walls. The problem of course was getting over the huge wall that surrounded said bigwig company. Feeling lucky for a second time, he scaled a statue next to the wall and managed to scramble his way onto the top of the wall. Seeing a nice patch of snow piled up from a plow-truck, he took the leap and landed safely, albeit coldly and hard, onto the ground. Growing up in the city and relying on himself, Tristam quickly memorized the layout of the city and developed the ability to navigate his way around. Although he wasn’t too far from his apartment, he knew that staying on the bottom level of the city like this was not going to end well for him if someone decided that he looked good enough to kidnap. Once again orientating himself, Tristam head off towards the apartment he lived in. Of course, it wasn’t really home to him, but it beat sleeping on the streets. That he knew from one of the many times that were spent away from home.

His steps slowed to a crawl as he approached the apartment his family lived in. It was just him, mom, and dad, but only by blood. There was nothing about them that were parents. Tristam had an older brother named Arthur but he had moved out long ago, desperate to get away from his parents. Every month,the government sent money to help cover expenses for their children. Tristam had yet to see the money spent on him. Hearing a car approaching, Tristam quickly ducked inside the lobby of the apartment building. The familiar smells of cleaning chemicals washed over him and for once, he felt comfortable. The landowner of the apartment was a kind lady who helped both him and Arthur get a better start in life. She even gave Arthur some money to start him off in life. Of course, their parents never noticed this at all even after years of living there. They simply thought of Arthur as dead and never talked about him when they weren’t arguing about something. Kicking the snow off his boots, he is glad to finally be in some place decently warm. The apartment building wasn’t anything new, so no grav-lifts for him. Just an old fashioned squeaky elevator that ran along the outside of the building. Living at one of the uppermost floors had its perks and its disadvantages. As the elevator ascended into the sky, Tristam could see, through a pair of skyscrapers, the Academy.

The Academy was something of an oddity even in this day and age. The designers obviously took some time and love into its creation, something very rare these days. From afar, the Academy looked like a giant flower, complete with leaves and a stem. As Tristam’s elevator continued to rise, he could clearly see how there were various offshoots from the central pillar that marked the administration of each grade level. There were five of them, all displaying their grade level with the color of highlights that they used. The first years were color coded green, the second years orange, the third years red, the fourth years purple and finally, the elites with white and gold. The elite level was at the top of the building and was reserved only for those with exceptional grades, or those with gratuitous amounts of money in their pockets.

Finally at his floor, Tristam took a good look at the gold and white petals that sat on the top of the spire and realized that he wanted to tear those petals down anyway he could. He wanted to stand at the top and yell to the world that he existed and wasn’t going to let it run over him like a truck. With a sigh, Tristam crept to his door, opened it and instantly received a blow to the face. Staggering, he tried to recover, then he heard the voice of his father. “What the hell are you doing out so late?” Sloan demanded. Tristam knew that the only concern his father had was with losing the funds that were sent to him for raising Tristam. Then Sloan caught sight of Tristam’s torn and shredded clothes and screeched loud enough to wake the dead.

“You damned fool! D’ya know how much money those clothes cost me!”. Tristam tried to get out a quick “Nothing” but was caught in the stomach by another blow. The wind rushing out of his lungs, Tristam sunk to the floor, unable to stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mother standing there, slowly smoking a cigarette. Sloan half picked up and half dragged the wheezing Tristam into their apartment. “Martha, get ready, we gotta go get some new clothes for the damned boy before the school calls and they stop sending us money ‘cause they think we ain’t takin’ good care of him.... o’ this brat.” Sloan moaned out in exasperation: “somehow our brainless son ripped his shirt and jacket to shreds and was out so late, who knows what coulda happened to him” Martha gave a slow and smoke filled reply “You are damned lucky I heard him go out. You sleep like a whale with an eating disorder. Something like a pig and a dog was coming outta your mouth and woke me up. ‘Made me think there was a wild animal in the house.” This amount of talking was unusual to her and so instead of ending in a mocking tone like Martha intended, she ended in a fit of coughs and wheezes which is probably what saved Tristam from another one of their arguments. Sloan dropped Tristam in his small bedroom and shut the door. “Get to bed and don’t let me catch you trying to run away again or I ain’t gonna be so nice this time.” This was home for Tristam. His father and mother extorted as much as they could out of him, asking both the government and the Academy for more money for all of these ridiculous reasons and whenever an official tried to see what their home was like, Sloan or Martha would claim to be sick and thus could not accept visitors.

For the most part, he was able to get in and out of the apartment without them noticing, only using the place to sleep if he had nowhere else to go or sometimes get a change of clothes that the Academy provided. If he was feeling super lucky, he could even get the money the school sent Sloan and Martha before either of the slobs could add it to their accounts. It arrived each month by mail, though it came at varying times, depending on how fast the mailman was feeling that day.

School had only just got out, so there was no need to go to sleep and be ready for the morning. Tristam’s room hadn’t changed in all the years he spent there. It was still small, drab, and only had a bed and closet. No desks, drawers, or posters. Anything he could, he moved to a supply closet on top of the apartment complex. The closet had been long forgotten by the rest of the residents, and Tristam had only found it on accident while exploring the rooftops. It was a small thing, probably used to store equipment to maintain the old air conditioning units but was made obsolete by the passage of time. Heating and cooling still worked and the room still received electricity. The repairman was even kind enough to leave the keys to the room inside, thinking no one would open it again. Fortunately, any equipment that had been stored there was long gone, probably hauled off to a warehouse so there was no need to do too much renovation. All it needed was something to sleep on, a computer and he was set.

Of course, getting to the storage room was a problem. The apartment Tristam lived in was located in the old part of town. The buildings were all still made of brick blocks and crumbling mortar. Donning a new set of clothes, Tristam opened his window and immediately felt the blast of frozen air hit his face. Climbing through the window, he stepped onto the fire escape that ran along the side of building. Instead of going down though, he went up.

It was a strange feeling. Even though he was supposed to be so high up, the old town was small in comparison to the gigantic skyscrapers that towered over everything else. All of them connected by a tram system that stretched for miles in every direction. Every passing day, when he looked up it seemed like there was more and more city, while the sky kept shrinking. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Tristam finished his climb and walked up to the door. Before taking the necklace that the key hung on, he made sure to check all of the windows. All of them were completely cased in ice. “Good” he thought, “No one else has been here yet”. That was his fear really. Someone else looking for shelter from the cold would try and figure out a way to open the windows like he did and maybe even bust their way in. Of course, the windows were locked to prevent this, but it never hurt to be too careful.

Fumbling in the cold for his keys, Tristam opened the door without pause. He was greeted by a blast of warm air and quickly closed the door. He sighed with relief as he collapsed onto the makeshift mattress and simply lay there. With the night’s events running through his mind, he began to laugh and cry at the same time. He had flown! He, whom everyone else had written off, had done the impossible! He laughed and laughed until his throat was sore and still he couldn’t keep himself from giggling at how impossible it all seemed. Slowly at first, but eventually Tristam fell asleep, dreaming of all the things that were possible.

Tristam awoke the next to a hungry growl coming from his stomach. Ah. Food. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial in how long? He quickly dressed himself and and headed out the door. The whole city gleaming like one giant snowflake. He could see people walking to and fro down below. Even though it was like any other day, the sounds of the cars, the rumble of the trains going past, all somehow seemed brighter. Tristam was excited to get the day started. Of course, first was to procure some food. The apartment building he lived on top off hosted meals in which you could bill the apartment you were staying at. For that, he needed the keycard from Sloan and Martha. They always got a new card each time they lost theirs or even when it simply got dirty. The service was free of charge, and so that meant they would abuse it as much as possible.

Climbing down the fire escape was always tricky this time of year. The bars were icy, the snow made it hard to tell what you were standing on. Tristam could feel the icy cold even through his gloves as he made his way down. Arriving at Sloan’s and Marta’s floor, he found that the door to the fire escape was locked. Tristam swore profusely. No one had ever checked the door, so why did they suddenly do it now? Being at the 56th floor meant that he would have to go down all the way down, on the outside. While the wind was blowing. While it was really cold. This wasn’t going to end well.

Tristam took in his options. Jump down and hope that he figures out how his wings work, hope someone goes down on an elevator so he can ride it down, or take the boring and miserable way. He figured if there was any time to learn how to fly, this would be it. His block was largely unpopulated with everyone choosing to live in the newer parts of the city.

Tristam went back into his getaway and cut holes into his jacket approximately where the wings came from last time. With this done, he then started the hard part. Actually figuring how they worked. Tristam decided that whatever came naturally must be the best way to do it. He lifted his arms into the air mimicking what a bird would do with their wings. After a bit of waving, he even added a desperate “Caw, caw!” he gave up on that idea. Next up, Tristam put his hands together and began to rapidly make different hand signs from a show he used to watch. Again, nothing.

He sat there feeling like an idiot for putting holes in his jackets without even knowing how to start the process when he got an idea. Tristam remembered where the ball was and put his hand over it. Remembering that moment when he met the girl, Tristam focused on that feeling of desire.

It was faint at first, like a small tingle on his back and then he could feel his bones and muscles begin to ripple and shift like water. Two black tendrils shot out of his back and began to launch offshoots that then blossomed into the familiar red feathers that he knew. Stepping outside as his wings finished, Tristam watched as they spread to their greatest length. He could feel the cold breeze blowing into them, and had to make sure he did not get blown away. He extended them out, and then contracted them in, over and over again to simply awe at them. Tristam felt like he had these wings for his entire life. Every movement, every rustle was familiar to him.

He say there in wonder, simply folding his wings in and out, when his stomach rumbled again to remind of the problem at hand. Deciding beforehand, that jumping straight off the building and hoping to learn how to fly while going down was not a good idea, Tristam instead decided on trying to learn on the roof. First off, how hard was he going to have to work his wings to even get off the ground. After a bit of experimentation, it was obvious that he was going to have to lighten his load a little bit. Shedding a few layers and putting on normal shoes let him get off the ground easier. A few more minutes of building his confidence and Tristam was ready to give it a go.

He set his sights towards a building close by and got himself a running start. Swallowing his fear, Tristam lept from the rooftop with as much as he could muster. Beating his wings as hard as he could, Tristam rose into the sky. At first it was just the block, the neighborhood, and then the whole of the old district was beneath him. His rhythm was erratic at the start, but as he went higher, he began to set a pattern at which his wings beat. For a minute, he was lost in the simple pleasure of it all. There was something so captivating by seeing everything laid out beneath him.

His stomach once again reminding him that there were more urgent matters to attend to, Tristam began his slow descent back to the ground. By slightly tilting his wings, he found that he could lazily circle to the ground without effort. Once he was a few feet from the ground, Tristam pointed his wings upwards and began to beat them in a way as to cancel out his momentum. That was the theory anyways. Instead of the smooth and graceful descent originally planned, he hit the ground in an awkward sliding motion upon landing on a patch of ice. The ice didn’t last more than a second before it gave way to hard ground and a face full of snow.

With his hand over his chest and eyes closed, it was as if the wings had never existed. By the time he had opened his eyes, everything was gone. Only the holes in his jacket to prove that they were ever there. A brisk jog and an elevator ride later, Tristam found this month’s keycard right where he expected it: still in the mail slot. Taking only one of the two, he went downstairs to grab himself something to eat.

Knowing that the bill would ultimately be sent to Sloan or Martha’s account, he ate everything he could get his hands on. He knew that he would be getting weird looks from everyone else when they came down to eat and saw a kid in torn clothes, spattered with muddy snow surrounded by empty plates. When he finished eating, Tristam went back to Sloan’s to change and then decided that it was time to go shopping seeing as how he had school tomorrow.

Previous experience taught him, that although he wasn’t spending his own money when he used their card, neither Sloan nor Martha had limitless amounts of money. Well, not in their accounts at least. Tristam knew where to find their secret stashes of money they would hide from each other. It was never an incredible amount, but it was still much more than what the Academy would send. Sloan’s money was behind a loose panel in the floor. Tristam never took much, he wasn’t that greedy, but it was enough to get him the most basic of things. The trick was to take a combination of the smaller and larger bills instead of only either one, so that it was difficult to tell if something had moved or not. Quietly putting the panel back, he made his way out the door into the city.

What Tristam did not see, was the girl with white hair sitting in a room of one of the apartments in the new district with a telescope, watching as he started his first flight and then burst into laughter when he face planted into the snow. She spread her own wings and stood up. Her snow white hair was long and it almost reached her waist, which were a stark contrast to the red of her eyes, that sparkled with an impish light. Reaching down, she picked up the closest chunk of a human body and tossed it into a pile she had made in the middle of the room.

#OnWingsOfWax #Story #Chapter1

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