inbabylontheywept - Tumblr blog

[inbabylontheywept]

This is not my most popular story, but it’s my favorite and it always makes me happy when a narrator gives it a whirl.

My one romance: What Talon and What Dreadful Claw. Read by Agro Squirrel.

[inbabylontheywept]

I started my first year of college majoring in education. My college normally had a sort of ASU 101 course where you show up, and you're shown your major specific study areas, as well as general tips about the campus, and guides on handling stress and stuff (Pro Tip: Just about anything but excessive drinking is fine). Anyway, the teachers college has a huge problem with students changing majors so they decided that having a weekend camp would be a great way to build camaraderie in the major. Which was a good idea, but there were no other good ideas about how that went. So, taking it from the top, here's how the camp went: First we arrived. Arriving went fine, so they get credit for one thing going right. There was a sort of obstacle-adventure course thing planned, and each group had a starting point in the circuit. The guys were all put in one group, and our first event was... Not Paintball. See, they'd originally planned paintball, but then there'd been a school shooting like a week before. If they kept the paintball, you know, it would've been in bad taste but I'd still have played. If they'd cancelled the paintball entirely, that would've made sense. Instead, they got rid of the paintball guns, gave us slingshots, and told us to have at it. It was very painful. Overdraw the slingshot, hurts like shit. Underdraw, also hurts like shit. The popping of the paintball disperses a lot of energy. Also, the paintballs reeked for some reason. Everyone said they smelled like rotten fish. I'm a jackass and I don't have a sense of smell, so I gathered as many of the stank-balls as I could find while hunting down my peers and popped them over myself. Like stinky warpaint. We never learned what the second event was, because one of the events was an obstacle course and someone broke their leg and had to get airvac'd out and they just canceled everything for the day.

We as the men's groups smelled horrible because of the stinky paintballs, so we went to take a shower. Sign on the bathroom said that there was a water shortage in the area, so we had to lather up before going in. We covered ourselves in suds, walked into the showers, turned on the water, and lo, nothing.

Apparently, the organizers were supposed to bring their own.

We went to them, still covered in soap, and learned that they had no water, and the nearest way to get it was over three hours away. They did however have offbrand gatorade. So we could rise off with gatorade, or we cold leave the soap on and get rashes. Itchy or sticky. We chose sticky. It turned out that it was a lot closer to koolaid than gatorade because it kind of tinged our hair pink.

After that, all 40+ of us guys decided to tuck in for the evening (this is where this all becomes relevant to the post). We got to our cabin and learned that it only had 25 or so beds. Ideal. Excellent, even. Our solution was for everyone to take all their spare clothing, put it into the middle of the room, and make a nest before drawing straws. Winners got beds, losers go floor, and yours truly was banished to a corner because without a true shower I still smelled like sunripe fish.

I am bisexual, and the most gay thing I have ever done is look at the pile of pink haired men spooning in a pile of underpants and gym socks and felt hot envy for twelve consecutive hours. I have never wanted anything as bad as I wanted to be part of the sticky cuddle puddle while freezing my lonely ass off in my desolate corner covered in stink and gatorade.

Then morning came and we went home. 10/10 experience. Literally wouldn't trade it for the world. There is no success that could even hold a candle to a failure this spectacular.

So I’m on a trip with my robotics team and there’s only two “girls” (me, an enby, and a cis girl), so we get our own beds in our own room, but the guys are rooming four to a room, but there’s only two beds in each room. Which means that two guys are sleeping on the floor every night.

I’m not joking. They were literally arguing over who’s sleeping on the floor tonight (apparently they plan on rotating).

And I asked them “why don’t you just share a bed?” And they all gave me the same answer:

“No, that’s weird! That’d be gay!”

And I just looked at them and I decided to break the bad news to them

“If lying next to another guy makes you wanna suck dick, you already wanted to suck dick.”

I’ve never seen so many Straight Guys™️ enraged by a single sentence before

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part VI

There came to Decapolis twelve men, following a thirteenth by the name of Jesus. 

It was, frankly, an odd trip. The sea of Galilee was only eight miles wide. Compared to the Mediterranean of Silas’s home, it was a puddle. But they had arrived after a storm, one where the waves had grown high enough to spill over the deck. Several other boats didn’t return at all, which was a first for the city. They’d forgotten what it was like, to have a sea could both give and take. 

Lots of stories came with that. The ship owner claimed he’d seen Jesus walk over the waters. The apostles claimed that they’d seen him do that and that he’d calmed the storm with a few words. Those claims made the Romans of the city nervous: One does not end a storm if it’s not their storm. Tempestaas did not interfere with Thor, who did not interfere with Indra, who did not interfere with Enlil. 

Which either meant this man had sent the storm, stolen the storm, or - more likely, but still a problem - was commiting casual blasphemy against foreign Gods. 

Silas kept an eye on them, because he kept an eye on all the holy men that went through the city. Priest-shopping was a little frowned upon in the world of spiritual illnesses, but he had money and hope and more care for his allies than concerns about decency. It latter was as Roman a vice as lead boiled wine. 

He did not speak with Jesus because he did not trust the man. He spoke instead with the most reasonable and respectable of the twelve-man entourage: A fellow Roman citizen by the name of Peter. 

He caught Peter in one of the markets, haggling over fish with one of the local fishermen. In his eyes, that was a great sign. A man could be as Holy as the Gods, but if he wasn’t grounded, he was useless. Like a kite without a string.  

Γεια he said to Peter in the most passable Greek he could manage. Hello. 

In the name of God, just use Latin, Peter responded. Your accent is thick enough to cut into cubes.

Silas was charmed. He liked Latin, and he liked straightforwardness. Peter paused a moment longer to inspect the fish before continuing. 

Actually, you look military, so let’s go further: Just tell me what you want. 

A miracle, Silas replied. And instead of fluffing up into some mystic man on the mountain, instead of faux stooping to dispense wisdom as if coming from a great height, Peter kept looking at the fish. 

Yeah, yeah, very dramatic, but what kind of miracle? Deaf guy? Blind guy? Lame guy?  Possessed guy? We did a dead guy once, but that was-

Possessed, Silas interrupted, both because he didn’t want to hear the story and also because it seemed closest to what Legion had described - the sensation of being full of parts he could not assimilate, of being lost within himself, teeming and wordless. 

Yeah, I can work with that. Just lemme get my fish and I’ll meet you by….?

The tombs, Silas said, and if Peter raised an eyebrow, it was an eyebrow pointed at a fish. 

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part V

It turned out that was about as bad as things ever got. 

Legion was not ready to make it into town, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t live a better life. Silas found that buying a tomb was not particularly expensive, and that keeping a living person in a tomb was legal, albeit a little morbid. Putting furniture and a well inside the graveyard was considered, yes, a mild eccentricity, but the region was close enough to Egypt that it wasn’t unheard of. So long as he didn’t trap Legion inside a catacomb to serve as his slave for all eternity, the people of the Decapolis could care less. 

He arranged for shipments of food to be brought up to his friend, and hired a talented doctor to heal the man’s wounds. Legion’s skin was a criss cross of pink, jagged scars, but the weeping sores healed and could, with time, fade. On his good days, Legion was almost normal, and on his bad, there were a few people willing to drop whatever they had on hand to restrain him before he hurt himself. 

But whatever was wrong with Legion was deeper than his skin, and no one knew how to treat it. The doctors said it was a sickness of the spirit, and the priests said that whatever it was affecting his soul was not coming from the Gods. 

Not cursed, they’d say. Wounded. The Gods cannot force him to heal, as they were not the ones that forced him to hurt. 

Which was, sure, deep and mystical and shit but also deeply unhelpful. 

Still the message was clear enough: Wait. Keep him alive long enough, and maybe, he’ll sort himself out. He was certainly trying. If he failed, it would only be because the strain killed him first. 

(And Silas - honorable, dutiful Silas - was afraid that day might come very soon.) 

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part IV

Several hours later, tired and bruised, Silas returned to the town. 

Remember how I said I would never need your help as Legion did? he said. Well, perhaps I was too confident. 

It turned out that there were a lot of things he could not do around his friend. 

For starters, speaking Latin? Not ideal. Speaking bad Greek with a heavy Latin accent? Marginally better. Marginally. Trying to lead his friend into town on the fifth day, when the blacksmith was out sharpening scythes? Fucking terrible idea. 

And then they ran into a man with braids. Germanic braids. 

Silas pinched his nose just remembering how that went before continuing onwards. 

It took me two hours of wrestling just to get him into one of the tombs, he said. Two hours! And another three to take all his sharp rocks away. How many fucking sharp rocks can there be in one tomb anyway? Do you guys all demand to be buried with just mountains of sharp rocks? Does your afterlife say that you can pay for all your sins by giving Death a sufficient quantity of sharp rocks? Do you think you’re getting drafted into some kind of skeleton war against Roman ghosts whose only weakness is sharp rocks? Is there a new Olympic event where you have contests to see who can put the most sharp rocks in a single tomb? What the hell was that all about?  

And the citizens listened to the tirade patiently, but when it was done, one woman raised a hand. 

Was it, perchance, the tomb that has a statue of a woman with enormous breasts atop it? she asked.

It was the nearest tomb, Silas replied, defensively.  

Right, right, she said, hands up for peace. Now, that’s fair and all, but we kind of agreed to use that tomb as the tomb for putting all the sharp rocks in. From the other tombs. We figured putting them outside wasn’t the best idea, and he seemed kind of averse to going into that tomb from our past experience. I think the whole tits out thing just makes him uncomfortable, and you know how it is, a short fence still works better than none.

Silas mulled the response over carefully before giving his reply. 

Well, he said. Fuck. 

The word extended thoughtfully into the air for several seconds before he cut it short. 

Anyway, he said. I may need to hire some hands for helping my friend. This is too much for me to handle alone.

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part III

Alright, Silas said. So I lied. I’m mad. But I know it would have been easy to just cast him out again, and however little you did, you did at least let him stay. 

The crowd he’d traveled with did have the grace to at least look slightly ashamed of themselves. He looked around the tombs and wrinkled his nose before adding. 

In your finest graveyard, even. Only smells faintly of rot and corpses. 

He asked the crowd if anyone was willing to come forward, and list what good deeds they had done for Legion. And while most were ashamed at how little they’d done, a few came forward with their small acts. 

I gave him my clothes, once, replied a beggar. 

I chased off some dogs that had chased him up a tree once, replied a boy. 

I bandaged his cuts, said one herbalist. But I wish I had simply stayed around long enough to prevent them.

And Silas gave them five denarius each for their troubles. 

I will never need your help as much as this man did, he replied. There is no favor you could do for me that would mean as much as what you did for him. Remember that.

And then he left with Legion in tow. 

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part II

Six years after the arrival of Legion, there came a man to the Decapolis by the name of Silas. He spoke of a man he had served with once - a fellow legionnaire from the Clades of Lolliana. A man whose name he got forgotten, even as he owed him a life debt.

Unfortunately, the Decapolis was a sprawling hub, and the number of former legionnaires who lived inside was in the hundreds, so he was asked to describe this man in more detail. 

He is impossibly strong, Silas said, and prone to shouting. 

And the townspeople said: Hm. 

And he’s a little bit sensitive to noise, Silas added.

And the townspeople said: Hmmm.

And… he has several freckles on his nose? continued Silas, which earned him the longest ‘hmmm’ of all. It was at this that he finally relented and told the truth. 

And… Well. I hate to mention it, he said. But I’ve been trying to find him for some years, and there’s a rumor, from some of the towns had stayed at in the past, that he might not be, you know, entirely well. 

And at that the townspeople said: Ah. Yes. We know someone who might fit that bill. But you must promise not to be mad. 

And as soon as Silas promised, he was led out to the tombs. 

It was a promise he could not keep. 

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[inbabylontheywept]

I uh, posted something recently, and I thought I could use the read more feature to chop it into sane, reasonable pieces. But I couldn't. So, I'll probably be piecemealing it so that it's not just a fucking nuke on your dash. Apologieds to anyone that ran into it before. RIP.

[inbabylontheywept]

you ever spend like, three months with an idea for a story in your head and you keep writing and rewriting it and you finally finish and you look at it and its kinda dog but the relief is like having a splinter out of your brain? its like 'finally, i can write about something else.'

[inbabylontheywept]

Feather Voices covered Part 1 of this series! I love their work, and they did a stellar job on this one. Give their channel some love if you like narrated short stories.

Party Favors: Part 1

The ambassador asked me if I wanted a party favor. I was tempted, but human minds were notoriously resilient. What might bend their mind into an amusing shape for an hour or two could break mine altogether.

I declined. The ambassador shrugged in a way that made it very clear that he considered it my loss, before dropping several spoonfuls of the substance into a specialized port on his exosuit. By default, the visor was dark enough one could barely make out the dark outline of the creature's bulbous skull, but as smoke started to trickle up into the dome, even that was lost. Where I should’ve seen an alien face, there was my own dim reflection, twisted by the curvature of the glass and the slow roil of smog.

“It is rare to receive guests,” it said in my voice. As if stealing my face wasn’t enough. It was an unsettling but common convention for humans to borrow the voice of whoever they were talking to. The generous view of this was that they enjoyed being mirrors. Personally, I’d always viewed them as a species afraid of being observed. It is hard, to see the mirror underneath a reflection.

“Do you want more?” I asked.

I couldn’t see its face, but I could tell it was exhaling by the way vortices formed in the smoke.

“Yes,” it replied. “But I know my limits.”

It then carefully pushed the remaining pouch of powder towards the center of the table. The question of whether it had been talking about guests, or its recreation, suddenly grew fuzzy.

I decided to assume the best and plowed forward.

“Our colony by outpost Battan. It’s-”

“Struggling,” it finished. There was a glint of white inside the smoke, a hint of exposed wet bone. Weeks of study informed me this was intended to set me at ease.

“Yes.”

“Bad neighbors?”

The question was posed innocently enough, but it gave away the entire story. Twenty years of guerilla strikes, of blood and coin andlost life summed up in two words. A pathetically small conflict, and yet, large enough that the humans knew of it.

I did not answer. I stood still and watched my own face stare back. Humans loved games. I did not want to play.

It matched me again. Always the mirror. Coy when I was coy. Serious when I was serious.

“Any requests for how they are handled?”

“No unnecessary bloodshed.”

It inhaled deep enough to clear the smoke from the dome. My reflection was interrupted, replaced with the form of the thing in the suit. The lines of the face were murky enough but what shone brightest through the glass were its eyes - perfect paper white spheres, slick and shining. It seemed wrong for something to look so earnest and so hungry.

“That is not what humans are for.”

I could not decide if it was agreeing to or denying my request. I looked into its eyes as long as I could, as long as I could still make them out through the haze drifting up through the neck slot. Only when they were well and truly gone did I take my glove off, and reach across the table. It gripped my hand, clenched around it hard, and then let it go suddenly. I’d been told this meant the deal was sealed.

I should have just left. But I was always too curious, so I asked my final question.

“Why us? Why not them?”

“Because you came to me first,” it replied, as if the answer was obvious. “And I was very bored.”

It showed me the door very soon after that. I had the presence of mind to avoid running until I made it out of the building.

[inbabylontheywept]

I have a weird piece that I would like some alpha readers on. It's about 5k words, so it's a 15-30 minute read for most people. If you are interested, lemme know. If you are not interested, that's totally fair. thx <3

[inbabylontheywept]

Put the party hat on the horse demon to achieve Jungian synthesis.

[inbabylontheywept]

No, I think this makes sense. The list of people that have wanted me carnally is like, maybe fifteen people? Twenty? But the number of people who have wanted to throw me out a window is in the hundreds.

how tf does english have a word specifically for throwing someone out of a window but not to describe something being somehow adorable and hot at the same time

[inbabylontheywept]

I think there’s something very moving to the idea that Lovecraft wasn’t trying to frighten the world: He was just trying to show us what we looked like through his eyes.

[inbabylontheywept]

That’s about a 65% loss every year for 6 consecutive years. Even Musk only tanked twitter by 55% this year.

Imagine doing worse than twitter has done this year, for six consecutive years. I get why you guys call this a hellsite now.

[inbabylontheywept]

i would've fucked so hard as a court jester in ye olde i would've jangled my balls and done a little dance and sang my silly tunes i'd be so good at my job. alas i have to be on tumblr instead which is like a poor imitation of it