Astyanax Would Beg To Differ

me, reading TLT: who the fuck is the body. who is A.L. annabel lee?? what

the humble planet Earth:

Gideon Nav: a woman who, surrounded by the most repressed elderly nuns ever, independently invented being a masc lesbian

hail

ow

Do you think I could get it at claire’s??? 💖😍😍😍

“what’s your favorite horror movie?”

idk maybe when Andromache drew a bath for Hector to return to, not knowing that he was already dead

Idk maybe when his baby son cried at the sight of his father in a helmet, and so, laughing with his wife, he took it off and laid it on the ground, then held his son in his arms and kissed his head. All the while, his house mourned for him while he was still living

IDK IDK maybe when he died, Achilles tied him to his chariot and dragged him around troy for his family to see. Maybe when his people had to stop his aged father from running out the gates and wallowing in dung to beg for his son's body. Maybe when Achilles continued to desecrate his body for the next several days, until the gods themselves couldn't bear it any longer, all the while keeping his body preserved from injury. Maybe when Priam, the old king, kissed his sons' murderer's hands under the cover of night just to get his eldest's body back

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you're welcome

"'Toss A Coin To Your Witcher' has a special place in my heart, but I've been listening to it in my head for the last 8 months, so now I'm ready for a new one. That's why my favorite is 'I won't give anything away' from episode 6." — Joey Batey

DOS Fanfic: The Silent Swaying of Sorrowed Men

!! // TW: Suicide, Hanging

I saw a theory a while ago that the reason we don't have book 3 is because Kvothe is dead and never went downstairs to tell the third part. I combined this with the theory that the "one single, perfect step" was him walking off of something to end it all. You can still decide if this happens before or after he's told his final tale.

------

DAWN HAD ARRIVED. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. 

The most obvious part was a vast, echoing quiet made by things that were lacking. If its innkeeper had been awake, the smell of early noontime stew would have drawn the men of Newarre to the Waystone, their feet clattering upon the cold stone of the doorstep as they filled the inn with the clamor of amiable, hungry men. If there had been the barest hint of impatience, the innkeeper’s student would have ran up the stairs and knocked on his door and called on him with the cold banter of a man who could no longer wait. If there had been music . . . but no, of course there was no music. In fact, there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Inside the Waystone, a dark-haired man made his slow way up the stairs to his master’s room, moving with the confident caution of fearless men. His steps were steady and sure, hidden from the rest of the world and careful not to give too much away, slow and even more slowly set. In doing this, he added a small, fretted silence to the larger, more prominent one. They made a melody of sorts, making way for the song’s refrain. 

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it from the slow swaying of a knotted cord and the soundless waiting of a letter, safely tucked away. If you listened for longer, you would find it in the weight of a man’s mortality, hidden within his darkest chords, kept deep beyond the great stone doors of forgetting and finally laid to rest. And it was once in the heart and mind of that very same man who hanged there, rocking, swaying for the sweet embrace of memories never lost. 

The man had true red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he remained there with the indifference of someone who had known and learned far too many things.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, holding the others inside itself, as firm as a single, perfect step. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was as heavy as a thrice-swallowed secret of the heart. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who could not wait to die.

this is why i ever only idolize omnipotent eldritch beings who art beyond death

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

nothing feels better than finding the word that fits perfectly for what you're trying to describe

writing really is just googling synonyms. that's it. just a constant carousel of "I used this word two paragraphs ago, what is another word for this word"