Two Wizards; One Soul

HE. WAS. SUPPOSED. TO. WALK. BUCK. DOWN. THE. AISLE. AT. THE. BUDDIE. WEDDING.

i sent you omens and all kinds of signs, i taught you melodies, poems and rhymes

lord huron - the yawning grave

High King Peter the Magnificent; War; Sword of Aslan; the Boy-King; the Once-And-Future-King

before, in the shadows of a life that has long ceased to be your own, war was suits and uniforms, severe men and overworked mothers. war was looming large, approaching fast. war was terror lurking in the skies, a constant fear of the open air. war was everywhere; your brother and sister forever slighted by all things turned into luxury inside your home. and sure, you only remember the before once it turns into the after, but war—no matter the where of it all, you remember war.

war: standing tall, standing straight, standing with the weight of worlds borne on youthful shoulders; war: a shadow, a streak of vivid red and vicious gold; war: a man-turned-boy-turned-man.

war: steady arms that cling with welcome desperation, a rallying cry that makes your heart burn bright; war: a stumbling boy bearing skies that turn red before they ever find their blue. war: familiar like no other, from cradle to your shaking adult hands.

before-turned-after, you hear your mother—unsweetened tea, old perfumes, and factory oils scrubbed out with rationed soap—whisper to her friends about war. you sit on wooden steps—not stone, never stone in the after—and dig your nails into your shins. war, forever burning bright, sits at your back with the skies and the sword's edge. you lean to feel the shift in his breath, to remember that with everything lost, war remains.

she let the war in, your mother says in words tinted with war-weak drink. she lets war sleep on the same floor as her children, she confesses, like a wolf amongst sheep. you dig your nails deeper. war, his forehead against your back, sighs.

you know war best, cradle to the here and now. he wipes your tears with too-soft hands until you miss the swords and bows like the air inside your lungs. he brushes your sister's hair, listens to your brother with intent. war holds it together in the cracked marble that you've all become. war, warm and familiar, holds on tight.

when you start to wear your mother's old dresses, outgrowing your own, when you start to paint your lips a new shade of red, war's reflection almost cracks the fragile glass of your composure. he watches, looming, bearing the crimson skies like a gift rather than the curse it grew to be. his eyes—blue still, too blue for england clouds and england air—carry even more, a looking glass for worlds long closed to you and him. the curve of his smile makes you ache for string and wood, makes your fingers crave the weight of pulling it all taut. his shoulders are broad, his hands calloused again.

over your shoulder, your mirror shows a sword stained beyond repair. you ache with the wish for the battlefield. you fear it as you always did, even when you called it home. war, a rag in hand and shoulders straight, hums in tune with the memory of arrows loosened from your gentle hands.

you leave before the blood can reach your polished shoes.

——susan pevensie learns of ares, of atlas, of war on a horse. she weeps for the brother she finds in them.

x

Magic in her Blood: story concept

(This is an idea I played around with. I might make a small series out of it if some people are interested)

Please do not replicate my work anywhere without my permission :)

*

Smoke filled the streets of Small Heath, workmen feeding coal to metal beasts, breathing in the toxic air. The noise of their exploits echoed over the slated roofs, carrying for miles, and allowing for a cloaked figure to pass by silently.

Her eyes flashed with each burst of flame, catching the depth and piercing brightness of their blue. A pointed, angled hat cast shadow over her features, the glint of steel on the brim a warning to all those who are prey, and obscuring everything but the subtly smirking lips; painted blood red.

She passed through Small Heath with no opposition, no second glances, for all those who saw her, knew. This woman was one of them.

Granddaughter of a Romani king, princess of the Peaky Blinders, and all round predator. Sarah Shelby walked the streets of Birmingham like royalty, because that's exactly what she was.

The doors to the Garrison swung open, and heads came up, only to dip down again in respect. And fear. A few newcomers stared, until one of their friends shoved their heads to the table. 

She swept along the bar, plucking whiskey and a glass on her way. Her heels clicked off the wooden floor, a quiet power spilling out from the smooth, rolling silk that hugged her figure. Equally dark curls bounced upon her shoulders as she turned her head, one last look falling over the pub before she vanished into the private booth.

The Shelby boys all looked up, grins appearing on their faces and papers being set down. To those outside, nothing would have shocked them more than to know she returned the smiles.

"Good to see you again, boys," she said, sitting adjacent from the eldest sibling, Arthur.

"And you, sister," Thomas said, "we'd begun to think ourselves too common for your tastes."

"Oh, not at all," Sarah replied, matching the smirk he wore as she poured herself a drink, "I merely had some business of my own to attend," she said, and crossed her legs.

The air, filled with smoke from their cigarettes, tasted bitter on her tongue. Something hung there, unspoken, interrupted. It seeped into the old wood, spinning around the circular booth like a wailing spirit, begging for freedom.

Eyes narrowed, Sarah regarded her brothers with a tilted head. "What's happened?"

John chuckled, glancing over at Thomas and bouncing his leg. Little humour was to be found in his face, only a rather satisfied "I-told-you-so" gleam in his eye.

The two elders exchanged a brief look, and Arthur gestured towards her, raising another cigarette to his lips and leaving Thomas to answer the question.

"There is a copper from Belfast sticking his nose in our business," he explained, hands clasped on the table he leant on, "and he's causing problems."

"Now the barmaid makes sense," Sarah murmured, sipping her whiskey and gazing at it as the liquid swirled.

The brothers straightened in their seats. Thomas wet his lips. "What do you mean?"

She raised her eyes to them, one eyebrow arched. "A copper from Belfast comes along, poking his snout where it isn't wanted, and a beautiful Irish girl suddenly drops into Harry's lap; surely you don't think it's a coincidence?"

John and Arthur laughed, but quickly stopped, noticing the missing voice. Thomas stared at his sister, heart hammering in his chest, and fell back against the bench.

"Grace is not working for Inspector Campbell," he said, in a tone that seemed directed more at himself than anyone else.

Sarah drew her wand from its sheath at her side, rolling the cool instrument in her grasp. The familiar touch sent gentle sparks flying as she waved it through the air.

They each gulped, glancing at one another and backing up, further away from the weapon. But Thomas met her eyes, and smirked.

"Let's find out, shall we?"

A landscape I did a few (several?) months ago. I have such a backlog of paintings that will never see the light of day or of the computer screen.

You will listen to me. Listen! The Brethren will still be looking here, to us, to the Black Pearl to lead. And what will they see? Frightened bilge rats aboard a derelict ship? No. No, they will see free men! And freedom! And what the enemy will see is the flash of our cannons. They will hear the ring of our swords, and they will know what we can do! By the sweat of our brows, and the strength of our backs…and the courage of our hearts! Gentlemen! Hoist the colors.

PERIOD DRAMA APPRECIATION WEEK Day 2: Favorite Character ↳ KEIRA KNIGHTLEY as ELIZABETH SWANN

I don't have anyone to talk about this

““What’s new with you?” “Not much. An old friend just turned out to be a murderer.” “Same.””

— Cully and Ben, at some point, probably