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As a central theme of Consistency is the existence of time — ensuring that you are writing on a timely and daily basis — the theme of this month’s prompts will also be about time.
Today's prompt: [Timeline]
Definition: a graphic representation of the passage of time as a line.
╰┈➤ Write a piece that implements a timeline.
Word Count: Minimum 250 words, no maximum.
Exactly 250 words.
TW: depression, suicide
PLEASE DO NOT READ IF IT'S TRIGGERING.
TW: Depression, suicide
Moments turn into seconds. Seconds turn into minutes. Minutes turn into hours. Time that keeps tick, tick, ticking away, and yet, you are still. You do not move. You do not speak. You let the tendrils of fear gradually engulf your senses. Tick, tick, tick, goes the clock. And slowly, slow enough that one walking by would not know you moved at all, you blink. And you blink again. And again. And again. And again. You blink until your eyelashes are fluttering in time with the clock, synchronised with the rising and falling of your chest. Tick, tick, tick. Blink, blink, blink. Inside, you wonder if you can blink yourself out of existence. If you can blink away your hopes and dreams and fear and nightmares and terror and pain and hurt and agony and it is crippling you and you cannot stop.
So.
You choose to stop it all instead. Stop blinking. Stop… breathing.
You raise your hands to your throat, inhale that last, clear breath and begin to squeeze.
And as your eyes begin to close and you fight to stop yourself from inhaling that one, sweet, beautiful breath, you realise that you could stop this. Restart.
But it is too late. Your eyes have closed, and your chest no longer moves. You fade into the bliss of dark shadows, lost in unconsciousness.
And through it all, the only sound in the ringing silence of the room is the fading tick of a broken clock. Tick, tick, tick.
Destruction. All around a little boy. People running for their lives as flames surrounded them, followed with balls of but pure destruc- "Hold on, this isn't the right one." The image in your mind is cut in half, replaced by a screen of black. Phoduen, shakes his head and now you see the realm of time.
Phoduen floats around, seeing everything all still, and yet still going forward, still doing something. The cogs and clocks and trees and small pockets of time fill this would-be dull place. Phoduen cuts off several branches of a tree so that it only has one branch. "That's how it should be. That's how it all happened." He pointed at the certain points and holes on the tree and it's branches, where if you peek through it, you see something happening. Although he refuses to shi at first, and now he is gone. You take a peek at the first one, near the bottom of the tree. You are now on a mountaintop, viewing the vast ocean in front, even seeing boats and other sea vessels. As you look behind you, nothing, again. All but black.
Destruction. All around a little boy. People running for their lives as flame- "It's the same thing again!" The image is once more cut as everything seems to be going in a loop. And once more you're back in the realm of time. It's the same tree, although Phoduen cuts the other branch from before, now the tree has only one branch, and you peek through the hole to see what has changed.
There is nothing, not until this line of texts, these line of events, end. Surely, something new will happen. You look behind you.
TW: MENTIONS OF DEATH
The teacher draws a line on the blackboard. It's a little crooked, earning splattered snickers from around the class.
"Today, we learn about the War of Ancients." They begin, creating the first vertical line. "It started ten million years ago, the first and only recorded feud between people living in Panagea."
The discussion unravels to an exploration of the mainly mentioned names, Alexei and Ynesa, two lovers from the northern and southern regions, torn apart by duty to their kingdoms. The tale ends with a tragedy, enforcing that both parties fell in battle, where the earth cracked between them, starting the separation of the land. The teacher squints his eyes in suspicion before clipping the book closed with his fingers.
"What are your theories on these two?" He gestures the offer with his free hand. "Do you believe these records?"
After a moment of silence, one student speaks up, "No, Professor."
He smiles, "And why is that?"
"Translation issues," She says, "From the timeline of the events, as well as the evolution of language into what we speak now, there is a high chance of misconstrued sentences and meanings from the tale."
The rest of the class nod their heads, and the teacher tilts his head in meaningful thought.
"Yes, I suppose so." Their words seem to be spoken to someone else, "However, what if I tell you that the translators are correct?"
Another length of quiet and beat more before another student answers, "The writer of the tale wrote it incorrectly?"
The teacher snaps his fingers, "Exactly! This story is a lie."
He seems to take the attention of the dawdling students, and takes it as a sign to continue, "What if I told you a truer story?"
"Ynesa was the daughter of the leading tribes in the north of Panagea, yes." He lulled his head to the side in a sigh. "But Alexei? He was a mere cultivator of the land, a farmer."
He takes the chalk from his table and scratches a line behind the start of the war, "There was no forbidden love, as this book suggests, but there was a tragedy."
As he pauses, the gazes of his students urge him to continue, and his voice barely cracks as he says, "Ynesa had died, that much is true. But Alexei had survived, overcome with grief and anger, he cursed at the heavens and dug his shovel into the ground, refusing to till the land for his fellow people."
"After five days, a terrible storm hit the area," He shifts his weight between his feet. "Alexei had decided to take back the shovel before it rusted in the growing flood. Once he had hold of it, lightning stuck, and the Panagea began to separate."
"He died?!" A student exclaimed, earning hushes and glares from his peers.
The teacher smiles, the circular light catching the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "The rest is up to you."
"He could have died, or he could have lived." The whole class nearly slumps at his words. "Find which one entertains you more."
"You said you'd tell us the real story." One says, rolling her eyes.
"I said I'd tell you a truer one." He corrects. The speaker chime before anymore people retort at him. "Alright! Assignment, splash all your thoughts about this story into a file, and send them to me before tomorrow. Everyone who passes their piece gets to order something in the cafeteria on my tab."
Half the class sigh and half busy themselves among their own conversations as they walk out the door. The teacher takes his seat on the edge of the desk, smiling to himself.
"A shame our story never got the better half of an ending."
[WC: 622]
(( I DIDN'T MEAN FOR THIS TO BE SO LONG I AM SO SORRY. also this takes place like almost at the end of the wip this is for so if the Detective Work doesn't make sense it's most likely from a lack of context okay that's all bye forever ))
“I've figured it out!” “.. uhh ...” “No, really, this time!” Marcus slams his hands on the desk, making Taka jolt back in surprise. “Jesus,” Taka almost yells, “don't just *do* that all of a sudden ...” “Sorry, sorry! But, but, but! Worry no more, Endohora, I have it *all* unraveled!” He turns to the wall behind him with the map of the facility, and moves the map aside, revealing something akin to what you'd see on the walls of the room of any devoted conspiracy theorist, red strings and random circles of photos and all. There's a whole timeline and everything. Marcus has written down the names and extra information of every participant, as well as who died, when, and where. Taka can only look on with dismay. “Oh, Marcus, you *didn't.”* “I *did!”* His grin only gets bigger, which Taka didn't think was even possible. He points immediately to some of the pictures clustered around the left corner. They were all blurred more or less with motion, and from odd, distant angles. Like the subjects of the pictures weren't aware of the camera. Like they weren't supposed to be aware of the camera. And the subjects were them. Taka was there, Marcus was there, everyone they've seen, and a bunch of other people that they've never met before. It's unnerving. “These? Right here? Must date back however long it's been before we got stuck in these buildings, yeah?” “Mhm ...?” Taka nods, hesitantly, wanting so badly to understand but also expecting nothing more than a half baked theory. Where are you going with this, Fisher. Marcus points to two of them in particular. One is of ... it appears to be Octavian. And the other is of Marcus himself. “Now, this. *This* is what's tripping me up.” Slowly, the cogs in his brain start turning, and they catch on to what he's trying to say. “... I get it now. Octavian doesn't even live in the US, and you're from Florida, right?” “Born and raised! But why would you need to take pictures of your victims, and how could you do it at such similar times like this if they live so far apart? I'm still unsure of the first part of that question, but ...” “How do you know when they were taken?” “I'm getting there, don't worry!” “... alright ... well, I don't think you physically *can* do it with just one person like that ...” Taka furrows his eyebrows and leans forward a bit from where he sits. “You're telling me this is confirmation that there's more than one person in on it?” “Yeah, and that's not all! I've figured out one of 'em. And who might be the one pulling the strings behind this whole operation.” Despite his distrust and complete lack of faith in Marcus, Taka finds himself getting his hopes up for a fraction of a second. “You have!?” “Maybe. I'm not as sure about this bit, doesn't make much sense beyond what we know for absolute certain, but ...” He pulls out something from the drawer on his side, and holds it up for Taka to see, who feels their heart drop. It's a camera, alright. But not just any camera. “This ...” “Those pictures were from here.” “... You're saying Bee took the pictures?” Taka looks up at Marcus with a skeptical face. “They couldn't have been in two places at once.” “I don't think it was *just* Bee. In fact, it might not have been Bee at all.” “Why do you make everything so confusing.” “It wasn't *all* of the pictures --” “So you should have started with that --” “Will you let me finish!? Bee didn't have their camera when we first got here, remember? They were looking everywhere for it, and didn't find it until we got to that arcade room.” Why did they even have an arcade room, anyway? This place, wherever it is, is so ridiculously confusing that Taka wonders if it was designed that way intentionally. “And when they ... when. They.” Marcus didn't have to finish that sentence. They both know all too well what happened at the maze. ... He clears his throat. “... anyway. They told me before it all started that if something were to happen to them, their camera was in their room, and to not under *any* circumstances let anything happen to it or the photos inside. So I .. took it. And I looked through the camera roll. “And those weird, far away pictures of us were hidden under other, completely normal shots! Which I found interesting. But the point is, I've figured out when these were taken.” He begins moving some of the pictures to the timeline area, right up behind where it actually starts. “And it's important to figure out the when, you know? The when before the why or even the who, because that's how you piece stuff together.” “Marcus, what are you talking about?” “I'm saying that the order of the photos here led me to suspect that someone stole their camera specifically to frame them, but then failed to take into account that there was no way one person could have just done it on their own like that.” “So it's ... not Bee. Bee is in the clear.” Taka just wants to make sure he's following all of this correctly. “Nope! But do you remember *where* Bee said they lived?” This is going on way too long. But if Taka wants clarity and understanding of whatever ideas Marcus has, he has to sit through all the rambles and side tangents and random facts only loosely related to the situation that will get thrown their way. So they grit their teeth and bear it. “.. somewhere in the Netherlands, I think ...?” “Yes! Exactly!” Marcus frowns, with a kind of serious but not too exaggerated expression that Taka isn't used to seeing on him. It's a bit worrying. “... well?” “And someone,” he adds, “was just *visiting* the Netherlands right before all of this happened. He's brought it up a few times, you know?” ... Oh. OH. That feeling, like a light bulb going off, is one that never gets old, but the knowledge that this train of thought makes a little *too* much sense is enough to scare him more than a little. “Shigeru.”
494 words
You used to grow flowers every night.
I remember stories of mythical creatures and gods of Greek spoken by eyes that held the sun and brimmed with excitement. Past midnight was when roses and daffodils grew out of ink in the pages of your journal. You outlined petals with ink, colored pollens in yellows and reds, stretched stems with paint, and kept its roots inside your garden, never to be read by another.
Yellow curtains that reach the floor left open, dirt stained rug kept underneath a crowded desk, pencils and notebooks placed inside old shoe boxes under your bed, torn pages that held secrets crumpled at the end of feet. On nights you felt that your heart carried too much weight on its own, you never dared to break the night’s silence. Rather, you never had to say a word. Your pen confessed your worries and told regrets you couldn’t say out loud—you told the moon of the gaps carved out of your heart by friends you never reconciled with, of buses you had to chase without an umbrella on a rainy morning, of harsh words thrown at you at work—and for a while, it was enough. The moonlight’s company was enough and the cold air that kept you awake was enough, until time came that it wasn’t.
For the first time in a long time, you stepped out of your bedroom and left your pen uncapped by your journal, not a single flower on its spread. You sought for someone to listen and cared about tales written in the stars. You jumped over fences, tripped on roots, and climbed branches to find someone who would hold your head up when you fell down—and you did. You found her.
She was timid and so were you but you spoke proudly and she listened. She never said a word but fascination never left in her smile as you retold stories you once told long ago, and for a moment I saw yourself in her—the girl who read in the silence as the breeze tucked her hair behind her ears. Her gaze followed your hands when you pointed at the stars and traced constellations in the sky, not once looking away.
Silence turned into lullabies and the moon was no longer your only company. It must be fate that you two share the same eyes—purple and shy of blue, both curious of what the moon hid behind its shadows. As if she’s a clone of you. Not an hour I spent with you was as loud as you were with her.
She must be the person you write constantly in your journals. The person you wished would carry your burdens with you and give their shoulder for your rest. Someone who shared your smile, your interests, and your woes. The stars must’ve heard your wishes and made it come true for I have never seen two faces smile so widely side by side.
“So you see, around year 2300 is when the catalyst happened, and now in 2500 we are still experiencing the effects of that catalyst. Now, 2600 is projected to be…”
He was dozing off, staring vacantly as the professor moved his hand over the timeline drawn on the blackboard. The catalyst, the catalyst. Everyone talked about it but he never really understood what it was. Things people said just didn’t make any sense. So confusing… He would rather sleep.
“Of course, with our time-leaping technology, we are able to go back and see first-hand just what the catalyst was. Unfortunately, every time we have gone back, we have never been able to see exactly what happened. Our wristwatches are meant to keep us from interacting with previous moments along the timeline, but with that there are some…unexpected side effects. But, come now, next week we will be able to experience all this time technology ourselves. To prepare, I want you all to read chapters 42 and 43 of your textbook, and write a paragraph detailing…”
He was dozing off again.
The following week when he and his group of classmates were to time-leap back to 2500, he found that because he wasn’t paying attention, he wasn’t quite sure how to strap the wristwatch to his wrist. Even after they took off it was still loose, and he was too lazy to ask anyone for help. Especially since he was supposed to be paying attention…
The year 2500 looked exactly like how it did in their textbooks, and he soon found himself bored again. He was supposed to stay with his group, but he wanted to find some food or something.
“Hey, hey, hey! Avilio, come back! You’re going outside the barrier!”
Barrier? What barrier? And then he realized the electricity flickering around his wristwatch. People were looking at him, a terrified expression in their eyes, and he realized that there was electricity crackling all around him. He looked back for his classmates, but he couldn’t see them anymore. Everything was burning brighter and brighter and then—
He was sitting in the classroom again. There was the timeline, on the board. The professor, still going on about the catalyst or whatever.
But when he flipped his textbook open, he saw a vague blurry picture of himself in chapter 42.
Blake entered the room, waving a hand at Wre. Wre responded by proudly holding up a diagram, and although it was hard to tell with the many scribbles on it, it did look like a timeline.
"Heyo Blake, how was your nap?"
"It was quite nice. Waking up was a bit weird though. What happened? The house looks completely different, I don't recognize any of the furniture designs, and you look like you aged ten years."
"Well, you see"—Wre smirked—"the short version is that we all got caught up in a magic spell and fought our way out. You make a surprisingly durable shield."
Blake raised an eyebrow. Wre just shrugged in response.
"As for the long version, may I interest you"—he waved his hand dramatically at the timeline on the wall—"In this?"
"Yeah sure, hit me up. Why don't you start with uhh, the magic circle. Also, I'm still dreaming, aren't I? There's no way Dan would ever become such a dramatic person."
Wre shushed Blake. "I'm called Wre now. I can't really prove you aren't dreaming, I hope that it's all too convoluted and confusing but will make too much sense that you'll end up believing me."
"Hit me with it, Wre."
"It all started"—he raised his arms dramatically—"with your nap. A dimensional mage fourth order decided he has a grudge against our house, and ports it to a different dimension, much like we would take out trash."
"Uh huh, very believable." This was the weirdest prank ever.
"Greg got caught along, though you may wanna call her Samanda now, and of course you and I also were transported. Some kind of seer was expecting our arrival. We were trying to wake you up, but the seer said that you won't wake up in this dimension, and that we need to protect you to return home."
"I thought you didn't believe in that seeing the future stuff."
"I still don't, neither did the seer. She was talking about the past, because time flows backwards, and that's why we need the timeline. Look, we start here on the right, after the dimensional mage tossed us here. Before, or for you maybe easier, next thing we did was enter the village, after hunting some monsters."
Blake's face turned into that of a frown and a goofy smile. Did Wre lose a bet?
"Here's where we met the elves, and before that we fought against some slimes. Stupid slimey goo. Then, here at the beginning, we beat the demon king, and were transported" —"back home?"—"To the previous dimension, which is also the next dimension. You can see that we start here in the middle. Time was out of order here, so we hid behind your body. That's when you decided to fart."
Blake touched his forehead with his fingertips. He knew he sometimes farted in his sleep, but this was just embarassing.
"Samanda, being the good girl she was, decided to kick you in the butt, and so we were caught up in the tides of time. By sheer luck, we end up back in our dimension, on the other side of the origin. The origin," Wre added at seeing Blake's confused, and resigned look, "is where all the universes of similar dimensions come from. The universe we were in was not our universe though."
He wildly pointed at the beginning of the timeline. A ton of scribbles were added, stuff Samanda would totally write. Very orderly, very structured, so unlike him.
Fuck, this was real.
"So, here is where we met other lifeforms. They didn't really like sleeping people, reminded them too much of the dead, so they kicked us out in one of their spaceships. Luckily, Drrskskkss knew how to hack into them."
"So that's how we got back?"
"Nah, we're still on the ship."
"Oh."
A rumble shook the room. Alerts flared up.
"We're under attack. Quick, Blake, into the pods!"
"The what?"
"Pods, pods!" Wre pushed Blake out of the room down the hallway into a more isolated room. Escape Pod read the letters, R-13-24-19BT. One of the pods opened with a hiss and steam. Still very numbed and in disbelief by everything, Blake entered the pod.
"Good night; May you live on."
"Wait, what about you?"
"My duty is to the ship."
"What the fuck, Wre?" Blake struggled against the pod. "You just sacrifice yourself for some ship? Is this really what you do after bearing with my fart?"
The sleeping gas kicked in. Blake's eyelids struggled, before they rested down. Wre smiled, and pulled off his mask. "Oh yes. Your fart was so terrible, we just had to pull that prank on you."
The Temple of a Thousand Pillars and a Hundred Crowns is the oldest temple in the world. It is in the heart of the Langai Forest, hidden among mulberry and hawthorn trees. Carbon dating dates it back to around 4000 years, during the Kal Ages. It is a temple built in the honor of the Goddess Kali, locally called Kali Thaiye, Goddess of Time, Death, Sexuality and Doomsday. She is associated with divine feminine energy and the mother of all mothers.
The temple has four entrances, all leading to the center chamber with the statue of the goddess. There are tall walls around the temple, and inside are 99 little chambers dedicated to each deity. The Kali Chamber is the crown piece. The temple is also shaped as a chariot. The Kali chamber has eight 10 feet stallions in a battle motion. It is estimated that in today’s value, it would take billions of gold marks.
The architect of the temple, Rajendra Rama Lingamurthy, was commissioned by King Kaniyan of Eelam. The king thought of this temple as the home of the Goddess. It is rumored that there is a secret tunnel connecting the royal palace and the temple, but it is yet to be confirmed. Architect Rajendra Rama Lingamurthy’s descendants still pursue his art and live among the highest of the high society. They are also one of the oldest families of Eelam and closest to the royals. Rajendra Rama Lingamurthy was paid so handsomely that at one point a tenth of the land in the entire kingdom belonged to him.
There is even a law, passed on a few centuries after the temple was built, that when publishing works that would name the Architect, it is illegal not to use his full name. Any book, movie or journal posts like this would be taken down and a fine of 300 gold marks will be given.
That’s all for this week's bit of ancient facts. Chime in next week for the blog post on the Yelangoan Quarry and its controversies.
WC: 1,018
"Select the memory to be modified." A pleasant but cold voice came from the lips of the room's assistance robot. The off-white room was lit only with artificial light, it was a not very large space of about 4 square meters, however, David was in a state of complete overwhelm.
"Select the memory to be modified." The robot repeated, and David woke up from his reverie, still feeling somewhat lost, but he didn't want to waste another minute, after all, he was only allowed thirty minutes in that room, whether he modified his memory or not. Moremory was a company that specialized in recreating memories realistically for use and review. There were several services, including 'review' which was about amplifying people's fuzzy memories, and then retain the memory in better condition. The second most popular service was to 'modify' memories, and was widely used in medicine to treat trauma, or even remove it outright.
David plugged his memory chip into the port of the robot, which on a holographic screen had access to his entire memory. It would take a while to find the one he was looking for, but since it wouldn't take that long to modify it either, David fell into the nostalgic trap of watching the preview of his memories from childhood.
He went through his first sleepover, three boys in a tent house in his friend's parents' backyard. He had so much fun back then, ate so much popcorn he threw up on a plant, his friends always remembered it with laughter.
Then he saw when he confessed for the first time, a little boy who didn't know about life promising all the planets and satellites in existence to someone who didn't even know his name. Of course, he was rejected, though he still ended up marrying that brown-eyed boy who rejected him so cruelly the first time.
He saw his wedding, full of guests, wishing them happiness, health and well-being, but neither that nor almost any memory had that woman who had mattered so much in his life.
His mother had been so far removed from his life that David still didn't understand why she mattered so much, why he was so guilty, why it hurt so much. Why did he still love her?
After the memory of their wedding, he soon arrived at the memory he was looking for. He selected it, and the robot stepped back a little, repeating the instructions and conditions of service again. While well known and effective these tools were, they were so expensive that hardly anyone used them, so David was a little tense, there was no going back, no second chance, but then again, that was life, wasn't it?
The room changed shape until it replicated the living room of his home, the cold walls turned yogurt colored, and a window from which warm sunlight poured in took up an entire wall. As David turned to admire how detailed and realistic everything looked, he came face to face with his mom. He was home, and his mother a little younger and healthier compared to the last time he saw her was looking back at him.
David was speechless for a few seconds, the lump in his throat taking control of his body, and while he had mentally prepared himself before arriving, he still found it difficult to look her in the eye.
His mother watching him silently frowned, cold, apathetic eyes hiding the fragility he had discovered on her deathbed, and after the last words shared, David questioned what he had returned to that moment for.
"So now what, you're not going to answer?" his mother opened the conversation just as she would have, it was impressive the profile the IA could develop with the few shared memories she had with his mother, her tone, her choice of words, even the pain hidden in the hurtful words. "Now that you know the truth you can rot, this relationship should never have been, you..."
"You should never have been born."
David completed the sentence that had changed everything between the two of them so few months ago, and his mother stared at him in surprise, but quickly returned to her posture. Poised, defensive, and David's heart couldn't help but soften. His gaze softened, and with his voice trembling, he continued.
"I'm so sorry for what you went through for me, for what you fought for me, for what you lost for me." David took a deep breath and connected his gaze with his mom. He began to walk slowly toward her, so as not to scare her. "I know you never wanted me to call you mother and that maybe it hurts you more to be one than it hurts me not to say it, however, even if it's an illusion, even if you didn't get to hear it before you left..."
David stood in front of his mother once again, just an arm's length separating them.
"Even if this moment isn't real, I wanted to tell you here and now that I love you." David's tears were mirrored in his mother's and he saw in that image their pain.
"Thank you for everything you were able to give me, I know at times you tried to do more than your wounds would allow, that you came here...not to separate us, but to try to make amends for a relationship neither of us were ready to have."
He raised her hand and caressed the cheek of that woman who had tried to give the best version of herself to her son, yet the past had left only broken pieces of an incomplete woman. His mother rested her hand on David's hand, and as she parted her lips to answer him, but before his eyes, the room and she slowly began to disintegrate into small fragments of light.
David tried to hold the illusion in his hands a second longer, and the last thing he could hear, was the same "I love you" that on her deathbed he had been able to hear, but didn’t understand.
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
“So what you’re saying is that the king will be assassinated tonight–” Gal spoke in a hushed tone, careful not to alert anyone of their suspicious whereabouts.
Tae nodded, his eyes focused on the couple that strolled through the garden hand-in-hand, entirely oblivious to the two strangers watching them from the window of the palace behind them.
“And we can’t save him… because…?”
A scoff fell from Tae’s lips and he turned to his companion, sending her a look of annoyance. “Gal. The king has to die” he insisted, but it didn’t seem like his lacking explanation served to clear anything out for her. He sighed, turning to her properly. “If we save the king tonight, who’s to know how the timeline would be affected–! Just saving him could– well, it could cause the end of the world for all we know”
Galena blinked. “Timeline?”
“Yes, we can’t alter anything in history or things won’t turn out well. No matter how tempting it might be” he sighed, turning back to the garden, quickly scanning through it to find the couple once again.
The woman went quiet, her brow furrowed in thought as she pondered his explanation. “So then… why come here?”
“Well…” Tae’s strong start faded into a mutter, offering no true reply to Gal’s inquiry. With a grunt of annoyance she gripped his arm, forcing him to face her; her beady black eyes staring him down, leaving no room for him to ignore or otherwise talk his way out this time. “Well– I just wanted to see…” he mumbled out, lowering his head with a pout.
The expression on Gal’s face shifted in an instance to one of apal, her lips parting in disbelief. “...You dragged me all the way here, had us sneak inside in disguises… all so you could experience a murder?”
When she put it that way it sounded awful, but it wasn’t intentionally messed up. Tae was about to explain himself when a scream interrupted them. The two turned towards the sound, eyes wide and within seconds a group of soldiers emerged from the garden into the hallway they were in, coming to a sudden halt upon seeing the duo.
“Who goes there!?” one yelled out, already approaching them.
Without another second of thought, Gal bolted to her feet, dragging Tae with her. “We need to go. Now”
“Stop it right there! THE ASSASSINS ARE GETTING AWAY” another voice shouted behind them as they ran, soon accompanied by the rhythmic sound of footsteps behind them.
Gal turned to Tae as they ran down one hallway into the other, stirring commotion in every turn and sending the entire castle into panic.
“How’s that for messing the timeline?!” she snarled out.
“I didn’t mean to!”
WC: 458
219, a number I'll always remember. The year we first met. You don't remember, of course. I don't blame you. Lives come and go, and I haven't yet met another that remembers their past quite as well as I do. Not even you, with that brilliant mind you always prided yourself over, know of the countless lives we've spent together. After all, if you couldn't recall 1643 or 1938 or even 960, how would you remember the ever-mundane meeting of 219? But if you did remember, I suppose you would recall the rain. You were a scholar, rushing for your imperial exams. I'd imagine your memories of this scene would be framed red with embarrassment. A horse-drawn carriage splashed you, leaving you dripping in the muddy rainwater, a ridiculously large oil-paper umbrella rendered useless, cast aside. I saw you then, and being the bored young lady that I was, I couldn't help but let out a small laugh. In that lifetime, you've always made me apologize for laughing that day. Apologies you'd bring up spontaneously at the dinner table, once every few years, an old memory you would not let me forget. In my defense: you had tried so meticulously to keep yourself dry from the rain with that comical umbrella, but it only took a passing carriage to ruin it all. The irony of that situation was a little amusing, don't you think? And at the end of the day, had I not helped you? Had I not aided you with a more practical umbrella, a change of robes? Had that very moment not defined the introduction for the rest of our lives? So perhaps you should thank me. Or I should thank fate itself, for having us meet at that moment, with that rain, that umbrella, that splash. As cruel as fate has toyed with us in all these years, it has had its kinder moments as well. 231, another number I'll always remember. The year you first died. The first death is always the hardest one. The first death of a mother, the first death of a pet, the first death of a friend, the first death of my own. When you remember things as I do, there's too many deaths to weep for. Too many deaths to mourn. But your death -- that tragic one, has always been the hardest of the countless first deaths I've grieved. And when I saw you in 441, when I had long thought that I had lost everything of yours to the waves of time, it was as if it all came crashing back. We had both changed faces, as these lifetimes make us do, yet you were still the one I had always known. I just knew it, from the way you spoke, biting your lip at the end of phrases you didn't want to say; the way you loved sweets; the way you sought after the planets and constellations; the way you read late into the night with the faint flicker of candlelight as your companion; the way you laced your fingers with mine; the way you teased the driest jokes; the way you laughed as I pressed a kiss to your lips. It was you. I knew it was you. You had come back to me, in a twist of merciful fate. I rejoiced. Your familiarity was a comforting blanket in the biting winter of these lifetimes. Yet three short years -- that was all it was. Three fleeting orbits of the planet, and you were gone. You slipped right past my fingertips, cold, as if I had not held you tight enough. I had thought the first death was the hardest. It could not compare with the slamming grief of the second. To have you, and then to lose you. To fall in love, and fall out of love, and then fall in love again. I did not know if I could continue on after the second death. Except, what could I even do? My memories would follow me, from one lifetime to another, the way it always had, until the last pages of eternity. I was selfish. I didn't want the pain of losing you threaded in the recollections of my heart. At the same time, I didn't want to forget you either. I didn't want to lose these very memories I suffered so much under. You were my hope for another lifetime. I sought you, knowing that if I had already met you twice, I could meet you for a third time, even with the new countries, names, skins, and faces we wore in every rebirth. It wasn't easy. In my lifetime of 480, I had not found you. In 566, still the same. After 583 and 635, I began to lose hope. I began to forget. But 706, and there you were again, sneaking pastries from the kitchens, falling asleep to stargazing on rooftops, holding my hands with a beam on your face. All these years, all these faces, and you were still the same. No one else stayed the same. Not the way you did, in the way that I could recognize you in a sea of people, regardless of your identity or appearance. You were my only anchor in this world. Never would you remember these lifetimes, enduring the same memories I bleed, but because you have always been you, that was all I ever needed. You were enough for me. When fate ripped you from my hands a third time, I knew that there was to be a fourth. And a fifth. And a sixth. And hundredths. And thousandths. Our love has never lasted long enough. We would never grow old with each other, from bright-faced youths to white-haired elders. I searched for you in every life, and sometimes we did meet each other at the most impossible of times, when your skin was creased with wrinkles, when you already had a family of your own. I've been envious of that, knowing that these lovers have given you children that I could never bear. Knowing that they've been with you for longer than I could ever hope for. Along the lives that I've found you in time, I've learnt that three years was the norm. Ten years was generous. Twenty years was a miracle. Fate delighted in that, I believe. Taunting me with the promises of a lifetime, and taking you away before I could love for too long. Making my memories of you fade in the long years to come, and placing you back into my hands before I could forget. Perhaps these lifetimes of mine could be easier, had I chosen to let you go. But I have always been blinded, and so I continued to seek for you, from this lifetime, to the next, in the ever-spinning wheel of reincarnation. I hold your hand now, watching this faint sunrise over the horizon, thinking these thoughts that you will never know. For even if I tell you in this lifetime, you'll forget the next. So what is the point? I am alright with that, this pointless passing of one life to another. Shall you not remember your timelines, I still remember mine. That is enough for now. For you. For me. And for this timeline of us.
CW: mentions of a gun and a robbery (no deaths). Time liked to plan. Time planned that Trinity Prescott would have a wonderful smile, a spring in her step, and a bright future ahead of her. At Harvard, perhaps, and she’d do great things.
And for sixteen years, it seemed like everything was going according to plan. She was top of her class, beautiful, and happy.
So Time didn’t worry about her. She was just one person in this world who wouldn’t cause any damage—which was, actually, kind of rare. She would be a pebble thrown into the ocean which didn’t make a ripple.
But something inside Trinity glitched. It wasn’t noticeable whatsoever, but Time felt it, deep in their bones.
Something was about to go horribly wrong.
Trinity got a spur of sadism, or self-sabotage, both applied. She gripped her hair in her fists and tears dropped from her eyes to her desk. Then she did the crazy, spontaneous act of dropping out of school.
Time was taken aback; this was not what was planned for her! And shit, now she’d cause a ripple, the butterfly effect would take place, and everything would be out of Time’s control now that Time no longer knew what was going to happen.
Time never expected a pebble to ruin everything. Trinity was just one measly human with a good, nothing-much-to-talk-about, picturesque childhood and sufficient money, so why would she ruin her life and Time’s? Why?
Time gritted her teeth and told herself everything was going to be okay. Trinity was just a pebble without a splash. Maybe she’d make a little ripple, but it was nothing major; only a few lives would be impacted by this. She could do damage control once she figured out all the damage.
Trinity went to her parents’ room. Time was watching this mundane happening, of course, as she was highly alert as to Trinity now.
Trinity took the picture off the wall, revealing a safe. Wait, wait, why was she trying to get to the safe?
She opened it. Inside awaited a gun. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no.
This was going to create a larger ripple than Time had anticipated.
Trinity went outside and hopped in her little blue car and drove. Time flew, following it, invisible to everyone of course.
It stopped at the bank. Time knew where this was going. But why, she did not know. Trinity’s family was decently wealthy, for goodness sake!
In the glove compartment, a ski mask was left from her sister’s trip. Trinity put it on and picked up the gun. She entered the bank.
“THIS IS A ROBBERY,” she told them, as if the gun and mask didn’t speak for itself. She pointed the gun around, switching targets, till she focused on a bank teller. “YOU. I need one hundred grand. You’re going to get it for me, or I’m going to shoot you, got it?”
The bank teller held up his hands. “I’m on it, you’ve got it, nobody needs to get hurt, okay?” His voice quavered.
“That’s right,” she reassured him. “Just get me my money.”
He nodded and left to grab it for her.
In the end, no one died. That was good. But Trinity got arrested and the timeline would never, ever recover.
A pebble can make a big splash, unfortunately enough.
WC: 392 Have you noticed most inventions take place as a timeline of discoveries stacked on top of each other? That how it usually is, and it's a rather marvelous display of cooperation between researchers from both the past and the future. Unfortunate as it is, time will always flow in the same direction—infinitely forward towards the future, and the mistakes we make, both as individual people and as humanity as a whole, will forever remain in the past, for better or worse. On the other hand, history can give us windows to the past that we can't be able to experience personally in our fleeting existences on present day. Reading from different people and building upon the experiences of those who have already built upon others' is a surefire way to be a positive effort for humanity in one way or another. Through this process, humanity can potentially redefine how we as a species can progress and evolve to overcome hardships and potentially world-ending dangers. Constantly compounding innovation after innovation to transcend the limitations of the human lifespan and produce results that even the most brilliant minds from 100 or even 50 years ago could not have predicted. I can't wait to see what the future has in store for the days when this little rant becomes a relic of the past. This brings up a very important question I always asked myself as a kid but decided it was too silly to bring up as an adult: What's next for humanity? I mean, in these trying times, now that we're facing a global pandemic that has drastically changed the way most of the world's citizens go about their day-to-day for about three years at this point… I think the priority is pretty obvious. Personally, I'd like to see space travel becoming an experience any average Joe can enjoy, and I remember joking about making a complete clone of myself (complete with conscience and autonomy) before I die, but I'm not sure if the world can handle those kinds of shenanigans by the time I kick the bucket. But hey, if we could go from Nokia flip phones to the foldable pocket supercomputer I'm writing this entry from in about 20 years, I'm really interested in what the world's greatest minds will have in store for the generations following mine. (Woah, déjà vu.)
A brief expedition into my worldbuilding that no one wanted! :D Timelines were rather fragile things — hand woven by Fate and placed in protective gold and silver plated casing by Time — not to mention often messy. They took on different forms depending on the length of your life and different colors to represent the quality of life. In their history, however, the pair had never witnessed a timeline woven with one color and form that shifted into another entirely later down the line.
Despite being called ‘timelines’, majority were not on the straight and even, rather they curved around and created images of their own accord to fittingly represent their respective mortal. Trent’s had taken on the shape of a budding flower, which was typical for a high quality of life timeline, as was the color thread it was made with: purple. However, through Trent’s lifetime, the thread had darkened to a tarnished, bloody shade of red as the flower wilted.
“What could he be doing that’s…causing this? This has never happened before and he’s just destroying his timeline. Completely and utterly, Time.” Fate tilted her head forward to let it drop into her hands and sighed. “He’s decimating it.”
“I do not understand. This should not be feasible. I will investigate.”
“No, no, wait, there’s no need—.” As the words slipped from her lips, Time was already gone in a burst of shimmering sand. Fate deflated when she noted he was gone and finished her thought with a sigh, “ — for that.”
On the planet, Time moved through crowds of people searching for Trent amidst the horde. His brows were narrowed as he stormed through the streets. Dark gold eyes focused on Trent’s pale form as it came into Time’s vision, focusing on where he stood in a shadowed alleyway. The mortal looked gaunt — his cheeks were sunken in and his ribs stuck out through his too thin, tattered shirt. Time pressed forward until he stood directly in front of Trent.
“Hello, Trent.”
“Who’re you, dude? I have shit to do. Please leave. Boss is comin’, and I need to pay ‘em off.”
“I am Time, and I want to understand why you have chosen to destroy your timeline, Trent.”
“Are you fuckin’ crazy dude? Time? Maybe you’re the psychotic one here. Clearly isn’t me.” Trent chuckled and shoved Time backwards. “Get outta here, fucker. Go.” Time flashed a smile more reminiscent of a snarl at Trent before swinging a wild punch at him. His knuckles cracked against Trent’s jaw and sent the mortal careening to the ground. “Jesus, dude, what the hell?”
“Destroy your timeline if you must, but do not disrespect me.” And he was gone as fast as he’d come, leaving a pile of sand before Trent.
Back in the workshop with Fate, Time paced the floor as Fate worried over Trent’s timeline.
“There has to be something we can do to fix this…”
“I believe I have a solution.” The words came out gravelly and emotionless as Time snatched Fate’s shears from her hands. He moved to snip at Trent’s timeline several times in rapid succession until it was a pile of loose threads on the wooden table. “He chose this; I just accelerated his timeline’s end. Simple enough.”
Decided I wanted to try my hand at something a bit more angsty and existential, hopefully I managed to hit the mark! Phouden is Hapi Berd's character so credit to them!
TW: Suicide & Gore
Word Count: 1225
Phoduen stared at the towering tree imposing itself upon existence. He wore a dull expression on his face, looking at the ever expanding branches, all sprawling through reality, teeming with possibilities, a seemingly infinite number of them. Yet more branches would grow from the tree, appearing as if from nowhere. These branches split off into yet more branches, endlessly stretching through the vast, equally endless void. All of them so full of color, displaying each and every possible instance of the world at once, incomprehensible to mortal eyes. Within this void were thousands of other trees, all exactly the same as the one he beheld, yet so different. Each tree, each branch, a host of new deviations, possibilities, timelines. Their unintelligible appearances put all of them on display, as if reality itself was proud of their existence. The man gazed upon the majesty of reality, the birth of an uncountable number of timelines, an incomprehensible amount of lives, with an apathetic, bored expression.
With a deep sigh, he shook his head and flew up to one of the branches. He admired its unfathomable length for a moment. Within the bark he could see himself, laughing with a young man around his age. Looking further along the branch he could see them again, running and joining in a chorus of horrified screams as fire roared. Angry comets rained down with ungodly speed and the Earth bellowed and shook with each impact. Floods swallowed entire islands and blanketed countries. A wrathful god watched from on high, looking down at humanity with gleeful malice and laughing a terrible, maniacal storm. He damned them all for existing, vowing to kill each and every last member of their species. He declared them to be blights upon reality, upon what was to be his perfect world.
“I gave you such wonderful gifts!” He screamed with hysterical laughter. “I granted you such wonderful power and you used it against me!” With a wave of his hand, all clouds gathered, coating the Earth with a horrible, rumbling barrier. He clenched his fist and a chorus of lightning and thunder joined the destructive symphony. Wind howled and screeched a chaotic melody, ripping buildings asunder.
Phodeun looked further along the branch, seeing himself and the man hiding in a cave, both of them had tired, sunken eyes filled with sights of death, reflected with memories of untold destruction. Their sore bodies laid against the rough, cold walls. They both stared blankly at the ground, scenes of that apocalypse played in their minds alongside the hunts for the few that survived. Their eyes burned in vain to produce tears that had long since been spent and dried. He watched as his companion stood up, walking out the mouth of the cave and this branch’s version of him followed after him, asking where he was going. He observed as his instance’s face contorted into one of horror.
“Y-you can’t make it to Vigrah! Are you insane!? The Hunters are everywhere, they’ll kill you if you even get past that pillar!” He heard himself say.
The young man’s tired eyes met with his, he saw nobody behind those defeated orbs.
“L-Liam you…y-you can’t…!”
“Don’t look for me. Just…go back in the cave. I..I’ve had enough. They’ll likely figure out where you’re hiding once they see me. Find another place to hide.” He turned his back to his trembling friend. “...I’ll see you around, Edwin.”
Phodeun watched himself weakly reach out to Liam, unable to move. He fell to his knees, his chest heaved with heavy breaths and dried sobs.
“L-Liam…please…come back..”
His pleas fell on deaf ears, helplessly watching as he pressed onward, his steps were slow and uneven, hardly caring to walk with dignity to his death. Edwin begged his legs to stand, beckoned himself to run to his friend. He heard his dearest friend’s skull being caved in with a short crunch and could faintly hear his body collapse.
Phodeun sighed and ran his fingers through his bangs. “This is so boring..” He remarked, raising his hand up. Before he swung it down, he noticed the branch had split off into another branch. He briefly observed the split, one in which he had screamed and howled with grief and two beings made of rocks and steel quickly rushed to him, covered in his friend’s fresh blood, and bludgeoned him to death. In the other, the Hunters brutally smashed Liam’s corpse into the ground and went into the direction he came and spotted him. Adrenaline surged through his veins and he sprang up, running from them.
The God rolled his eyes and swung his hand down upon the original branch, snapping it off the tree and sending it falling into nonexistence. “I swear I’ve seen that same timeline twelve million times…it never changes. Damn tree doesn’t have anything interesting.”
He flew to another branch, chopping it off, then another and snapped it off, then another, tearing it away into unreality, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another. All with the same bored, plain expression on his face. He tore apart each and every branch, destroying an unimaginable amount of lives and rendering them and their timelines nonexistent. All except one. As he flew up to the last branch, a man dressed in black appeared in front of him.
“Why do you do this?” He asked. “Why do you destroy possibility?”
Phoduen cocked an eyebrow. “You gonna get in my way?” He answered.
“No. I’ve been watching you though. I don’t understand what your aim is. I know what you can do. What is it you plan to do though? What are you searching for?”
“Stimulation. Excitement. Something interesting.” He answered plainly. He looked around at all the other trees, all of them still hosting an immeasurable number of branches. Branches he used to be excited to observe, branches he would treasure, then slowly came to resent as he saw the same timelines over and over with minor, ultimately inconsequential differences. He once dreaded combing through them all but now, when he looks at all these trees, the possibilities on them, he feels nothing.
“...These don’t excite you? Of the inconceivable amount of timelines, none of them are satisfying?”
The brunette gave a short nod. “That’s right. None of them. Now let me ask you something.” He clasped his hands together, pointing both index fingers at the stranger. “Why do you care? You’re in my way, so exit stage left if you don’t have anything interesting to say.” He bumped into the man in black, lightly shoving him out of the way. The man watched him fly to the last branch. As he placed a hand on the tree’s last timeline, the interrogator spoke.
“I’m afraid your search will have to end here.”
The Time God looked down at the intrusive entity. “..Excuse me?” He chuckled softly.
“You’ll never be satisfied. You’re a threat to time, to possibility, even if only a minor one. I can’t take any chances. No timeline is going to have what you want. I’m ending your search here.”
Phoduen snickered and took his hand off of the branch. He flew back down to the man in black and smiled. Leaning forward and getting into his face. “Go ahead and try. That might just be what I need.”
back on the train
Word Count: 1k
Summary:
Akira Kurusu decided to go through it all again.
Was it his impulse? Was it his recklessness? Or was it because he was curious?
Akira knew there wasn’t an answer in the world that explained why he made the oath. But it didn’t stop him from being angry at himself.
Warnings: Brief descriptions of death, implied death loop, implied timeline manipulation
AN: This story is connected to to start again, with past scars. While that entry/story is focused on Takuto, this story is focused on Akira! Maybe I'll make a Zenkichi version, if the prompt allows that idea to flourish. Happy reading <33
Maybe when the time was right, he would be able to find peace for everyone. Especially for himself.
The Tokyo train emerged from a tunnel. Light beamed from the morning sun and shined onto the groups of passengers. The entire car was quiet, with only chatter between students and mutters of businessmen preventing it from becoming silent. The many city buildings flew across the transparent panes. Although the panes were fogged up because of the cold evening before, Akira could spot structures he was familiar with. Many faded from their colors over the years, yet they still adorned the view from the train.
Akira’s body tensed. He was groggily still from his two hours slumber from his town to the city, but a wave of familiarity washed over him. Sorrow was quick to plague his mind once more, and the previous year events fatigued him.
He gasped to himself. ‘A-Again… I have to correct my mistakes… I have to fight back until the very end.’
However, as quick as those thoughts came, they vanished and left him confused. His obsidian eyes lowered and assessed his surroundings, wondering where he was at the moment. His breath became sealed by the ghosts he couldn’t quite recall.
Everything around him was different again. All too familiar, all too routine to him. But reeked of unusual circumstances.
At that moment, Akira didn’t bother to glance at his watch. He was going to get to his destination on time; He was certain because he had done it before. But the certainty was warded off as his head was driven into a wave of aches and pain. He tried clinging to that hope in him, that he’ll get an outcome where he also has happiness and peace, despite contemplating many times before if giving up was the better option.
He knew what would happen if he even took a step off his destined path. If he tugged too hard at fate’s strings—
Akira discovered the first thing that he always saw was his Tokyo train emerging from a tunnel. He would always wake up because of the damn sunlight beaming into the car he was in. He wished he could have a car to himself, with only silence as his company. He wondered if the buildings aged the longer he repeated the routine.
He shook his head and closed his eyes. His memories were fragmented, too disjointed that it was hard to recollect any of them. The struggle to remember previous years remained unchanged. Especially the first. He needed those memories more than anything else.
It reminded him he had a choice. It reminded him of every choice that brought him indescribable joy, unmatched adrenaline, inimitable sorrow. It was the slightest bit of control he had. It was enough to keep him from stepping onto the train tracks. From bashing his head against the cement. From disappearing before he ever existed.
The first was always different. The repeats could never compare.
And despite wanting to detach himself from his repeats of fate’s trials, those shadows of his past mistakes remained present. They followed each step he took in another new year. Akira thought he left them all in the past once he succumbed to the darkness his choices stranded him in. But he was wrong.
He didn’t count how many times he met those shadows, all he knew was that he lost.
“What is he doing?”
Quietly, voices returned to him. However he couldn’t place them on faces or names.
“Dude— Akira, is that blood—”
His body was weak and pale. His eyes were glossed, yet empty.
Akira felt cold metal wrap themselves around his palms and beneath his chin. The voices were loud, unbearable and distinct all at once. Some were begging at him. Some were shouting at him. The ground pounded with heavy footsteps, as other teens rushed to stop him.
“Please. Drop the—”
A loud reverberated through dark walls, and then echoed in Akira’s mind. Like glass shattering and his reflection smashed into pieces. Darkness consumed him for a short moment, and collected the remnants of his consciousness. Then without a second thought, brought him back to the train.
First came the blame to himself, all for things he couldn’t control. Then anger and frustration for all his choices that led him to his own demise. And maybe, there was the contemplation; he felt like even if things would get better in the next year, he would still never be happy. But he didn’t know, if he didn’t try.
It blurred his understanding of time, but that was always inevitable.
Akira slowly opened his eyes upon hearing the train announcement. Most people around him gathered at the doors whilst they opened, blind to the loop he was on. He followed suit in a sulk until he emerged in the middle of Shibuya.
Akira pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, raising his head in time to watch the cars take the intersection.
A faint blue butterfly fluttered close by, and rested on a bouquet of yellow flowers left on a bench near the road. As if awaiting Akira’s path to cross with its own.
He felt as if his legs were to give out at any second. He recalled he was seventeen, but no one could confirm if that was true anymore. His soul had long passed it, and was nothing more than exhausted at his predicament.
Akira promised someone, he didn’t remember who, he would spend the rest of his days in happiness. He stopped a sarcastic chuckle from escaping him. He made the choice to repeat the year. But then again, it would be devastating if he kept breaking that promise a thousand times over.
It was almost like an oath—a sacred promise between himself and a being he couldn’t see. He would show them his ugly writhing, if they showed him theirs. If they displaced their distorted perceptions of humanity, he would show them his own.
It was their own unspoken promise. Replacing the one he had broken and ground to dust.
Akira peered at the road leading to the Shibuya center with newfound determination, hoping the year before him would be the last time he had to challenge fate.
Word Count: 276
This drawing may resemble a tree with an infinite amount of branches, I know. Except, you see here, this is your life. From the moment you were born, to all these unknown paths you could have taken and the linear one that you did take.
Many people believe that there's nothing in death. If you're dead, you're dead. That's it. There's no afterlife, no Hell or Heaven, reincarnation, purgatory. Not me. I believe in the whole deal.
Literally the whole thing. Greek Gods, Nordic Gods, Allah, Hindu Gods and every supernatural being I haven't mentioned. Some have been forgotten, but they still exist even if they don't have as much influence as those who are remembered and worshipped.
Since the start of time they've been there, guiding us. And after death, they are the ones welcoming us into what we believed in life.
And you may not believe it either, however, all these beings have been working together to get you on the best path. Afterall, there's no right or wrong! There's only easier or harder, better or worse. Your life map is colour coded (like everything well organised):
Purple is when you were hurt, red when you made a bad decision, yellow means happy, blue when things were calm.
And now you have the chance to relive your life as it was first meant to be. Are you prepared? Take a big breath because the way through the realms is bumby.
3… 2… 1… Go!
The cries of the baby were a relief to everyone in the room. The parents were crying and talking lovely nonsense as they welcomed the new life to their home.
Word Count: 2,670 words of a mess because my brain just wasn't braining enough hahaha I'm not putting the whole thing here because it will clog up the comments, so I'm putting a link at the end. c:
36.
Miles away from the shores of Rodgem Isle is a tattered rowboat. Its oars, long set adrift into the ink-black sea, have floated ahead—one to the south, the other to the east. Yet Kohl, laying on the keelson, maintains his gaze to the sky and drowns in its star-studded breadth.
Even until the end, he remains a coward. And the thought makes his lips tremble into a shaky smile.
He is a hypocrite, at the end of the day. He taught the kids the value of courage and life, the magic in time well-spent and opportunities well-assessed, and yet he questions if he was even able to live the life he taught.
For the nth time in his life, Kohl mourns—for regrets, for the kids, and for a life he is sure wasn't well-lived. One that wasn't enough. And never will be.
As the last of his tears drop, he prays to whoever that the kids find their way home. Wherever that is. Kuo is, after all, his and Kaia's daughter. If there's one thing he wishes she got from them, it would be the ability to know where and when to run away.
His body sags on the floor of the boat, the weight of the night and the stars bearing down on him. The air is cold, each breath like pinpricks in his chest, yet he welcomes it. Cherishes every bit of it, even.
The stars blink in an ethereal dance. Along with the moon, they blur into a milky haze.
Kohl breathes. Pinpricks, again.
He tries to reach up, tries to see how the stars will feel in his hand, but there's a growing fog in his head. Beckoning. With a blink, he finds he doesn't know where his arms are anymore.
"Ah," he says, blankly. So this is how the Crow leaves its host. Dancing vision and a weightless mind.
He finds it mildly terrifying, and yet so… fitting. A chuckle bubbles in his throat. And he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
In the caress of the silence and gentle, lapping waves, he feels a surge of morbid relief—that he is here, alone; that his daughter Kuo is far away, on the shores of Rodgem Isle; and that she will not inherit this wretched Crow ever-present in the recesses of his mind.
And as the stars begin to sleep and light dims into inky black, Kohl sees a mother's smile behind ivory drapes and the thankful gleam of amber eyes as they close for the last time.
For the last time, like his.
Pinpricks. Then darkness.
35.
There is a series of children’s novels that has swept the hearts of children all over Limeria. Its hero, a vigilante, retrieves children’s stolen dreams from the hands of cruel authorities with a mighty grace.
Kohl admits it bears a hopeful message, scarily accurate, in fact, in terms of how vile he knows the country’s system is.
Ah, his mind is going off track again.
“And who are you?” says the tall, lanky kid, stepping forward with his tiny dagger. His friend steps back, her eyes blazing an icy blue.
< Kohl Himmer. >
With practiced ease, Kohl shrugs off the accursed monotone in the recesses of his mind. He paints a wide grin on his lips, tipping his hat slightly up. He doesn’t remember the name of the novels’ vigilante hero, but he can maybe think of something close. Winking, he says, “I am Grim Sohn, a passing traveler, but just call me Grim.”
The kids look at each other but say nothing.
“Little kids shouldn’t be out and about traveling like this, you know?”
"We're not little."
Kohl points at the girl. "You're, what, twelve?"
She bristles. "I'm fifteen!"
Her friend holds her shoulder back. "Don't—!"
Raising a finger, Kohl tuts. "Don't just reveal your age to anyone, young lady," he says, though as he tries to be cheery his eyes betray his rebuke. Pointing a thumb towards the west, he continues, "I'll at least take you to Ridindell Village, hmm?"
It never occurred to him that he had a flair for theatrics, but Kohl thinks he’s doing pretty great.
But he thinks the kids think he's a lunatic. (He also thinks she gets the attitude from him.)
Yet as he parts a curtain of vines, Kohl hears scuffing footsteps follow after him. He smiles.
Thick roots crawl rampant below their steps and the emerald canopy of roastwood trees shield most of the midday sun. Still, the tiniest, shimmering rays peeking through leaves were enough, as if fairy lights litter every branch and every step.
A murder of crows soars overhead. Looking up, Kohl clicks his tongue. Slate gray and cloudless skies. They have to hurry up.
29.
Dust must be coating Kohl’s lungs now, with how much he has coughed over the past five minutes. He considers a break, but as he swept his gaze past rows of unsorted relics atop boxes caked in dirt, he could feel his shoulders sag.
Link to full: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1knJ19osDzmJDgteFBQ_7Uk0PG6PqRuNyfk5D17EI54g/edit?usp=sharing