#osiris marvel

[widderwise]

BuffyTVS/Marvel Fic Idea

Timeline: the Buffy show happens in the late 90’s/early aughts (?) and ends before the (Marvel) Invasion of New York happens and makes ‘superheroes’ and ‘gods’ more commonplace. I headcannon that SHIELD is very okay with the old Watchers Council way of handling (controlling/abusing/neglecting slayers) and are happy to leave them be. I imagine they’re less cool with Buffy and co taking over to run it after the old Council is blown is killed by minions of the First. Thankfully, they’ll be too buys with Stark and co by then. Timelines can be adjusted to make things work.

So remember when Willow, Xander, Anya, and Tara brought Buffy back to life by calling on Osiris (see Urn of Osiris)? Well, in my prompt Osiris (a cannon character in Marvel) exacts a price for the ritual to work. A few weeks after Buffy is successfully resurrected, they discover that Willow is pregnant and when the baby is born it has a symbol of Osiris on it somewhere. Could be an unknown father (demi-god?) or a mix of DNA from the four of them. A mix could have Xander’s magic unluck or a connection to the hyena, a touch of Anya’s past demon life, Willow and Tara’s magic.

The baby can be raised with the scoobies or not. Maybe sent away when Sunnydale evacuates for the last battle. Both Tara and Anya die by the end of the series, so maybe joint custody between Willow and Xander. Despite the mark the kids is as normal as a kid raised by witches, slayers, and watchers can be.

Until…

In the Moonknight series Arthur Harrow (former avatar of Khonshu and current devotee of Ammit) fights the Ennead (Egyptian gods that watch humanity and live in the Overvoid/Celestial Heliopolis), which is led by Osiris’ avatar, a man name Selim. Selim dies in the last fight to contain Ammit.

And when Selim dies… the child of the scoobies with the Osiris mark is empowered as Osiris’ avatar. Will the scoobies be accepting of that? Will they think their kid is evil/possessed?

Moonknight gets to meet the new avatar or Osiris, a slayer/witch/watcher raised possibly demigod. That surely can’t go badly.

I'll probably write at least a few scenes of this, but it would be OC heavy.

Demigod OC making friends in New Asguard? How do the Ennead and Asgardians get along? Does anyone know? Drop me a line! I'd love to read Moonknight comics but all I have atm is google and the mini-series.

[dcs-fkin-mystics]

DC’s magical apprentices & protégés:

Warlock’s Daughter — Enchantress’s apprentice

Misty Kilgore — Zatanna’s apprentice

Salem the Witch Girl —Doctor Fate (Kent Nelson)’s sidekick & apprentice

Aurora — Felix Faust’s first apprentice

Billy Batson — Wizard Shazam’s champion

Fauna Faust — Felix Faust’s third apprentice & daughter

Nevermore — Raven’s protege

Stitch — Doctor Fate (Khalid Nassour)’s apprentice & kid

Osiris — Black Adam’s protege & brother-in-law

[comicwaren]

From Moon Knight: City of the Dead #005, “Vengeance Never Dies”

Art by Marcelo Ferreira, Jay Leisten and Rachelle Rosenberg

Written by David Pepose

[billybatsonmylove]

52 Issue #43

[webshootersandwingdings]

The Origins of Genis-Vell

Silver Surfer Annual #6

[kajaono]

Not Marvel potraying the scale of Osiris, as something that changes between green and red like a f*cking traffic light

They didn't even had ten seconds to explain the whole thing with the feather and the heart and the crocodile. Which really isn't compliacted!

This is why I can not stand Disney. They never care for the actual cultural significance of the things they potray. Green = Good, Red = Dead.

Not that the viewer might have to think or memorize knowledge (sarcasm). No, the viewer is dumb and do not care for the actual culture that is potrayed

Don't get me started in Disney and german fairytales again

[dailydccomics]

Freddy & fam in Shazam! vol 2 (2011)

[marshmallow--3]

Osiris: You spit on everything the Ennead stand for!

Khonshu: Thank goodness! I was worried I'd missed something.

Source: House

[high-priestess-of-khonshu]

Eye of Horus

In episode 4 of Moon Knight, the tomb containing Ammit’s ushabti is shaped like the Eye of Horus. The Eye of Horus is a protection symbol used widely throughout history, from ancient Egypt to the present day. And the story of its origin, in some versions, is tied to the moon.

In this myth, Osiris was the king of Egypt, and his brother Set (a god of chaos) wanted the throne. Set killed his brother to usurp him, cut his body into pieces, and scattered them across Egypt.

Later, Horus (a god of war and the sky) sought to avenge his father, Osiris. In the ensuing battles, Horus defeated Set and gained the throne of Egypt, but he lost an eye in the process. Some versions of the story say Set gouged out Horus' eye, and others say Horus removed it himself as a sacrifice to resurrect Osiris as the god of the underworld. Horus' eye was magically restored, either by Hathor (a goddess of love and often depicted as Horus’ consort) or Thoth (a god of wisdom who is also associated with the moon). In certain versions, it's said that Thoth crafted a new eye for Horus out of moonlight.

[marvelousmrm]

Thor #241 (Mantlo/Buscema, Nov 1975). Thor begrudgingly joins his ensorcelled father on a mission to save the Egyptians’ pantheon.

[hjbirthdaywishes]

February 16, 2023

Happy 60 Birthday to Faran Tahir. 

[anamelessfool]

Duomo di Milano, 1969

Domestic Ficlet of Young Terzo. Inspired by and dedicated to my friends @revelisms and @osiris-iii-bc. They post some really detailed HC and immersive posts describing locations. I've really enjoyed their work.

As always, characterization based on my own Scenes from the Void Ghost AU. Excerpt from an upcoming Terzo-centered fic.

TW: Mentions of Suicide

1969

Giuseppe Lombardi, Archbishop of Milan and spiritual caretaker of the historic Duomo di Milano and distant pen-friend of the current Pope Paul IV, was currently using all of his willpower to not vomit in the back of this police car. Before this moment he was rudely disturbed from his sleep by the housekeeper rapping and creaking the door to his apartments open. He was needed immediately, at the Cathedral. Emergency. He opened one eye, his voice blazing. “At this hour? Can this not wait?” “No, no. Polizia.”

And so here he was, his bones rudely jostled like fruit in a cart as the car drove across the cobbles, lights off. It was an emergency, but whatever incident has occured was already for the most part resolved. Everything was grey, unwelcoming as it all scooted past in the window. It was that boring part of night after the last of the degenerates had staggered elsewhere but before the early pink of morning stirred the ancient stone facades. No emergency, no pageantry, nothing. So why ruin a perfectly good brandy nightcap before bed, just to haul him half-dressed out in the cold? He had been suffering from chronic agita for weeks and it has destroyed his sleep. Maybe it was just him getting old. Or maybe it was the blowback continuing from Vatican II, he wasn’t sure. Bishop Lombardi groaned and squeezed his knees as the car stopped in front of the cathedral steps. The officer respectfully opened the door for him, helped him to his feet but the bishop continued to stare with mild irritation at the priceless stones before him. The sculptures lovingly carved generations ago had no charm to them at this hour, only the weight of the responsibility he did not enjoy at such a time and with so much non-ceremony. Right when he was fully rolling about in his own fabricated misery something caught his eye and gave his brain a swift jerk. A white sheet laid across a body on the cobblestones. Two black heeled shoes peeked from underneath, the feet of a woman. He instinctively looked upward at the white tower surging into the sky, imagining the intensity of the breeze from that height. Marveling at a mental image of those heels against the starry blackness. And they managed to stay on? He was ushered into the Cathedral too quickly to think more about it.

The Cathedral swallowed him like a fish and he stood now in the archway of shadowy overhangs of stone, white fishbones of opulent carvings. The man in the overcoat waiting for him there nodded and shook his hand. “Inspector Rossi, your Excellency, apologies for the late night disturbance.” “What is the meaning of this?” The Bishop wanted his voice to echo across the walls like it did every Sunday but the image of the black heels falling past the white marble facade stalled the voice in his throat. “I brought you in to see if you recognize the victim,” explained Rossi. “She’s…she’s wearing a novitiate’s clothing.” “And you didn’t send for Mother Superior?” He huffed back. “Well, your Excellency it is your Cathedral. And I did not think it would be…an appropriate subject for a woman to talk about. Suicide.” “And you think that’s what it was?” “She left a note. And a child here.” The inspector gestured behind him. “He’s speaking with a doctor now.” “A child?” The Bishop’s head reeled, but their conversation was cut short by the approach of a shadowy figure at the entrance. For a breathless moment both men thought the figure would not cross the threshold, but rather stand there waiting to be let in. It was an odd notion to have about another person, but the way he was dressed in near-mockery of holy vestments prodded a primal sense of doom. There was a beat of hesitation and the man continued his slink over the threshold and into the cathedral, stopping right between the Bishop and the Inspector. He was short, slim, with a smart little mustache and glinting eyes. He clasped his hands together, presenting them with a small neat bow. “I am Cardinal Raphael, pleased to make your acquaintance, your Excellency.” Bishop raised an eyebrow. “I am not aware of you….Cardinal…” His words dripped with the acid that continued to roil in his own guts. His gazed dragged down the man’s appearance, observing the oddly formed biretta, the pendant that at this angle was definitely that of an upside-down crucifix. If it was some sort of perverse statement to wear an out-of-season Carnevale costume, the Bishop was deeply offended but too tired to bluster about it.

Raphael stretched a smile across his face which was supposed to give off a feeling of warmth but was entirely too toothy and smug to accomplish the task. “Not to worry, sir, we shan’t be seeing each other ever again after this moment.”

“You were let into a crime scene, now explain why before I eject you,” stated the Inspector, looking altogether bored with the arcane drama happening before his dark-rimmed eyes.

Raphael bowed his head, nearly curtsying. “You‘ve found a child, have you not? He is ours.”

”Oh? Then you are aware of the victim?”

“Yes, rest her soul,” replied Raphael. “A troubled girl. A convert.”

“Convert? She’s dressed as a noviate, what sort of preposterous—“

“Yes, she wrestled with dark thoughts for a long while. But we took care of her, when no one else would.” Raphael continued his crooked smile. “She was ejected from this very church long before her fateful climb tonight, I’m afraid.”

“We? And who is we?” The Bishop snorted.

“Takes all kinds to lift heaven and earth, your Excellency,” he replied smoothly. “There’s a child here, no? Little boy, dark hair, big eyes? Arsenio.”

“Child?! What is the meaning—a novitiate with a child, that’s preposterous—“

“He’s correct, a child is here,” said the Inspector. “And he’s right about the name.”

“Maria—well, that was the name she chose for herself when she was with us— stayed with us. We helped her raise Arsenio. Delightful boy, very artistic.”

“And do you have an idea of why she would take her life?”

“I wish…I wish I had gotten here sooner. Perhaps things would have been…different.” Raphael sighed. “We noticed she was gone, and had taken Arsenio with her. Didn’t think it would come to this, Inspector. But her heart held a paradox, and we did our best to help. Perhaps the guilt was still too much.”

The acid in his gut and the boiling in his brain curled the Bishop’s lip into a disgusted sneer. Ah, yes, Cardinal Raphael. Some pimp from some sort of depraved bordello, a mocking parody of his organization delighting in vices and whoredom. He’d have to find this den of filth and see it burned to the ground. But later. Right now he just wanted to end this dance and go home to bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The child will go to the appropriate orphanage.”

“The child is not an orphan, your Excellency,” prodded Raphael. “He’ll go to his father, of course.”

”Oh and who—! Who exactly is his father then?”

”Our leader.” Raphael continued his toothy smile. “Although, the major difference between us is that we’re more open about our leader having any sort of progeny.”

“This is absolutely obscene,” stormed the Bishop.

“Then let me take a nun’s child off your hands, Your Excellency.” Raphael’s gloved hands tightened, the leather squeaking. His mouth was calm, but within his stare grew a fire of mischief. “I would not want the Church to be involved in…obscenity, surely. I told you that you shall not be seeing us again.”

The Bishop gulped like a fish, then relented. There was already enough controversies that he spent most of his twilight years stamping down. A whore nun with a bastard child from some priest-themed den of secular vice was only going to add more gasoline to the fire and years off his life. All he could do was shrug and throw up his hands. “Fine, take him.”

Inspector Rossi took it from there, ,addressing Raphael. “Sir, well, if he can recognize you then he’s yours. Let me bring him here.”

And so the two men of faith were left alone for a moment.

“You're young for a Cardinal.” Bishop Lombardi gave a little prod at the man beside him. If this degenerate was to slink so casually into his house of God, Lombardi was going to do his best to make him crawl out.

“Am I?” Raphael’s eyes grew wide, and he looked around the space just in case the other man was talking to somebody else. “I'm thirty-eight. Respectable. But I still have my knees.”

“I have never heard of you, and I frequent the Vatican.” He would write immediately to the Holy See after this, of course. He just decided.

“Different social circles, I suppose.”

The bishop’s stomach boiled as he pressed on. “And I was not aware of your elevation. What are your merits, your publications? I have never seen your name in print.”

“I said please and thank you,” Raphael announced. “I ate my vegetables. I brush my teeth three times a day. I did not step on any cracks in the sidewalk.”

“You mock my question, sir,” the Bishop hissed, but the short man barely bat an eye.

“Isn't that what God wants for us?” The Cardinal asked, his grin almost catlike. “To do what we're told?”

Footsteps, and the patter of little shoes echoed on the marble again. It was the Inspector holding the hand of a tiny boy. The boy’s face was white like the carved statues that surrounded them, eyes wide and feline. His jacket was too large for his body, he fought with the knit hat jammed over his head. The socks slid from his bird-like legs and pooled at his ankles. On the front of his jacket was a paper neatly folded and pinned like a schoolmaster’s note for home.

“Born so early, did not think he'd make it,” explained Raphael. “Impatient little fellow.”

The little boy held out his arms wide, oblivious to his surroundings. His little loafers slapped the stone floor as he ran into the Cardinal's arms. “Uncle! Uncle Raphael!”

“Ah, kiddo,” chuckled Raphael. He stooped to his knees and gave the boy a pinch on the nose. “You're out past your bedtime, my little potato. Shall we go home?”

“That was easier than I thought,” said the inspector. “Mystery solved. Barely needed you to come by, Your Excellency!”

“You're going to let this…child…go with this—this— offensive, Satanic mockery?!”

“The boy clearly recognizes him,” replied the Inspector. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Some look…Happy Carnevale, Your Excellency.”

“In September?!”

“Thank you, thank you Inspector, Bishop,” said Raphael while Arsenio continued to bounce on his tippy-toes like a spring lamb. “I'll take him home….perhaps in a day or two we will sit him down…explain it all…” A pained expression lanced across his easy smile, then he recovered. “I'll admit now that I will miss the little lad.”

“His father will be grateful to have him back safely,” said Inspector, but the Bishop noticed a small wince from Raphael at that. Or perhaps it was a shadow. Or indigestion.

But whatever disturbance it was fell away and the mysterious Cardinal grinned again. “That's the plan. If you truly wanted to know.”

Bishop Lombardi snorted. “Not surprised she jumped. And what sort of depraved imbecile would run your….institution?”

“A musician,” Raphael replied simply.

“Terrible,” snorted the Bishop.

“An American.”

“Even worse.”

“See, there’s at least one thing we agree on,” Raphael said with a perfect wink. He smiled down at his young ward and muttered kind things to him as he helped him down the stairs.

And Raphael was then good at his word. He and the boy were never seen again.

Terzo and Raphael show up once more in this Secondo and Rebecca Domestic Fic!

[crdanexo]

hi! :)

a writeblr introduction

helllooo & welcome to this lil account of mine! so my name is osiris and i'm relatively new to tumblr (i've tried to ease my way into the community multiple times to no avail), and as a writer i thought i'd try my hand at making some friends in the community as a way to grow and improve my writing!

about me

i'm an computer science and english student

I'm 18, and a gemini

he/him

marvel & game of thrones lover

fantasy, sci-fi, & romance writer

lover of lana del rey and autumn

some goals

use tumblr as way of sticking to a wip 👀

write more regularly and frequently

dip my toes into screenwriting & filmmaking

interact with the amazing people of this community and make friends <3

to learn how to engage in fantasy roleplay and learn how to play dungeons & dragons

writing

my current wip is a political war fantasy with sci-fi elements and it's currently in the outline stage

i would like to get better at worldbuilding and creating more expansive and fleshed out worlds like asoiaf and cosmere

i write fantasy & sci-fi but i also have a soft spot for romance, psychological thrillers, and spy stories.

one of my main goals is to write one of the most heart-wrenching, angsty corruption arcs

I've never actually had a successful NaNoWriMo...

would love to do beta reading and critiquing to help improve both of our writing!

also a sucker for any epic fantasy, dark fantasy, sci-fi, corruption or redemption arcs, stories where the villains are the main character (especially this!!!), and an ACTUAL enemies to lovers trope

if your wips feature any of these ^^^ things, then reblog this with your wip details/page because i'd love to check it out!

and with all that being said.....

i am sooo looking forward to meeting you guys! <3

[in-a-nook-with-a-notebook]

I'm Tired

Franchise: Marvel (Moon Knight)

Pairing: Marc Spector & Steven Grant x male!reader (reader's pronouns are he/him/his)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: angst, swearing, blood, angst, guns, severe injuries, angst, sad Marc, angry Marc, sad Steven, DID I MENTION ANGST

Summary: A mission in Guatemala goes perfectly. Well, not so perfectly.

A/N: get your translators out, it takes place in Guatemala and there's a lot of Spanish and I forgot to write down the English translations and I don't speak Spanish so I just used Google Translate (I'm sorry if I got anything wrong); also, reader used to be the avatar of Osiris but in the same way Mrc/Steve/Jake are the avatar of Khonshu, like he went on missions and had powers and stuff

The mission was a success.

Khonshu had you, Marc and Steven deal with a drug ring that had been terrorizing a small town in Guatemala. The ring was taken down, the threat was neutralized, and the town was safe once again. Everything went according to plan.

Until it didn’t.

You were already pretty busted up after your scrapes with the members of the cartel and you were wishing you still had Osiris’s protection. You were limping, favouring your left leg; your arm was definitely broken in at least three places; and there was blood everywhere. As you were walking to meet Marc and Steven outside, you heard shuffling behind you.

“Marc?” You murmured quietly, hoping it was one of your moon boys. “Steven?”

Instead, you were met with a member of the cartel that you hadn’t yet neutralized. Before you can react, the man draws his gun and shoots you twice in the gut. Without further ado, he runs off into hiding.

You’re too surprised to react any way other than shocked. Your hands fly up to cover your stomach as blood pours out between your fingers. You gasp for air and blood trickles from your lips. You stumble into the wall for support. Your senses stop working; you can’t hear anything other than your own ragged, uneven breathing. Your vision blurs, clears, then blurs again. You vaguely think you can hear your boys calling for you, but you can’t be sure.

You slide to the ground, still clutching your bleeding stomach. A figure kneels next you; judging by the cape you think you see, it’s Marc.

Your ears are ringing. If he’s talking to you, you can’t tell. His firm hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look at him. You blink your bleary eyes, begging silently for them to focus. Coughs suddenly wrack your body and you almost double over when more blood leaves your mouth. Marc’s talking is still muffled, but he picks you up with no argument from you.

Your good arm is pressed against his chest and your head falls onto his shoulder.

“…Breathing,” Marc says. It’s the end of a sentence and your hearing only returns to hear the last word. “Just keep breathing, baby.”

“M-Marc,” you say weakly.

“Hey, there you are,” Marc says through a nervous laugh. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Where…” You interrupt yourself with another cough. “Steven?”

“I’m gonna get you back to the car and then I’ll let Steven out, okay?”

You nod slowly, burying your face in his shoulder. “Hurts,” you whisper. Your forehead is pressed against the bandage fabric of his suit.

“I know, baby, I know. We’re almost there, I promise. We’re gonna get you help.”

“Layla?” You ask softly.

“I’ll call her, it’s alright. Just stay awake for me, okay?”

Though it feels like an eternity, you reach the car where Marc had hidden it before you went in to take out the drug ring. He manages to get you into the front passenger seat. Your head droops tiredly as Marc takes a step back. His suit dematerializes and a moment later, a worried British accent meets your ears.

“Y/N?” Steven asks, leaning into the car to look you over. “Oh my days, I didn’t want it to be as bad as it looked… we’ve gotta get you to hospital, love…”

Marc takes the body again, shuts the door, and jogs back to the driver’s side to get the car started. You can feel yourself slipping out of consciousness as the drive begins. The vibrations from the rough terrain mixed with the heat inside the vehicle threaten to lull you to sleep.

“I’m tired, babe,” you whisper.

“No, no, no, stay with me, stay with me,” Marc says. He reaches over to you and takes your hand in his, despite the coating of blood over your palm and fingers. “We’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you, we’re getting help. You’re gonna be okay.”

The numbness you had originally felt begins to fade and you wince, screwing your eyes shut as pain begins to wash over you.

“M-Marc, it… it hurts…” The car bounces over a bump in the road and you gasp in pain, your head hitting the headrest, which definitely isn’t good for the already pounding ache that already resides there - you might have a concussion.

“Just hold on, baby, we’re almost there.”

You don’t entirely remember what else happens on the way to the closest hospital. It’s all a blur, even as Marc pretty much carries you into the emergency room, yelling in Spanish for anyone’s attention.

“Necesitamos un doctor!” He hollers. “Por favor, necesita ayuda, por favor!”

Somehow, you find yourself on a gurney. A drop of blood drips from the corner of your mouth when you start to cough again. Everyone around you is shouting in Spanish. You can’t entirely understand them; Marc only just started teaching you and Steven how to understand Spanish about a month ago. One nurse in particular has their hands putting pressure on your wounds to keep you from bleeding out more than you already have. You know Marc is with you because he’s still holding your hand, refusing to let go of you.

“No lo dejes morir, no puede morir, por favor,” Marc begs the doctors, keeping his firm grasp on your hand.“No puedo perderlo.”

“Vamos a hacer todo lo que podamos, señor,” one of the nurses says. “Puedes decirme tu nombre y el de él?”

“Soy…” Marc hesitates. “Soy Marc Spector. Se llama Y/N L/N.”

“Sr. Spector, voy a necesitar que mantenga la calma, por favor. Cuidaremos bien de él, pero necesitamos que lo sueltes por ahora, de acuerdo?”

“Marc,” you groan, your face scrunched in pain. “Don’t go, please, don’t go.”

“I have to, baby, I’m sorry. They’re going to take care of you, okay? I’ll be there when you wake up, I promise.”

Very reluctantly, Marc lets his hand drop from yours. He watches the nurses roll your gurney down the hallway until you turn a corner. That’s when he breaks.

He stumbles back into the wall, sliding to the floor and burying his head in his hands. Silent sobs begin to wrack his body, tears streaming down his face. His fingers rake through his hair and his eyes are already burning.

“I should’ve been there,” he murmurs half to himself and half to Steven’s reflection on the floor. “We should have been there.”

“Marc, we can’t blame ourselves for this,” Steven says gently. “All we can do is hope we got there in time for him to be okay. All we can do is wait.”

“Sr. Spector?”

Marc looks up to see one of the doctors that had rolled your gurney to surgery. He quickly composes himself, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands and pushing himself to his feet. “Sí? Puedo ayudarlo, doctor?”

“Puedo hacerle algunas preguntas sobre sus heridas? También tengo papeleo que necesito que llenes. Solo necesitamos toda la información que podamos recopilar para poder ayudar a su…?” He hesitates.

“Mi amigo,” Marc says, awkwardly and reluctantly, “pero es más o menos de la familia. Lo amo, sabes?”

“Eres familia, esencialmente?”

“Sí.”

“Nuestros cirujanos lo están cuidando mientras hablamos. Podemos sacar el papeleo del camino y podemos mantenerlo actualizado sobre su condición. Suena bien?”

Marc nods numbly. “Sí, gracias. Puedo encontrarte en la sala de espera? Solo necesito usar el baño muy rapido.”

“Seguro. Estaré esperando. Tómate todo el tiempo que necesites. Justo por este pasillo, la última puerta a la derecha.”

“Gracias.”

Marc treads down the hall and slips into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He braces his hands on either side of the sink and stares into the mirror. “Steven?” He says in a small voice. He watches his reflection change, showing Steven pacing nervously.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Steven murmurs. “You know you can’t let me out yet, though, right?”

“I know, I know,” Marc says. “I wish I could. I don’t know how to deal with this, I don’t know what to do with myself.” He cards his fingers through his hair. “Y/N’s hurt bad and I couldn’t stop it and I can’t fucking fix it either.”

“Marc,” Steven says in a surprisingly calm tone. Marc looks at him in the mirror. “We will deal with these emotions, I promise. But right now, I’m sorry, but you have to go out there with that doctor and get the paperwork sorted. I’m still gonna be here, obviously, but you’re the only one of us that speaks Spanish.”

“Fine, I know.” Marc turns on the tap. He washes the blood off his hands, then splashes some water on his face. “When we get home, Y/N isn’t going on missions for a long while, even after he’s fully healed.”

“It’s not his fault he got shot, Marc!”

“I know it isn’t but he got hurt while I had the body and I can’t let it happen again! I won’t lose him, I can’t lose him.”

“He was an avatar.”

“Yeah, was, Steven. Past tense. He can’t heal the way he used to anymore.”

Steven is silent for a moment. “Call Layla,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“She needs to know too, she cares about him. Call her.”

A shaky breath escapes Marc’s lips as he leans against the sink, pulling out his phone. He finds Layla’s number. His hand is trembling when he brings the phone to his ear. His other hand grips the sink almost hard enough to break it. His knuckles go white.

Layla answers after four rings.

“Marc? It’s like two in the morning. What’s going on?”

“It’s… it’s about Y/N,” Marc says slowly, trying to keep his breathing regulated. “He got hurt on a mission. Really, really badly hurt, and I couldn’t stop it, and-”

“Where are you?” She asks quickly. “I’m coming.”

“Hospital in Melchor de Mencos. Guatemala.”

“I’ll get the first plane out of Mexico City, I can be there in 7 hours. How is he?”

“They, they took him into surgery soon as we got here. I gotta go fill out paperwork ‘cause I’m the only one fluent in Spanish,” Marc explains.

“You can’t even let Steven out?”

“Not yet. Not until the paperwork’s done. You’re coming?”

“Of course, I’m coming. I’ll see you in seven or eight hours.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay, see you then.”

Layla hangs up and Marc shoves his phone in his pocket again. He clenches and unclenches his fists over and over again, trying to keep his cool. His eyes feel like they’re on fire and he still can’t control how much he’s shaking. There’s a lump in his throat that won’t go away.

“All you can do now is sign the papers, Marc,” Steven says gently from the reflection. Marc looks up at him. Steven’s eyes are red and his face is shiny with fresh tears.

“Sign the papers,” Marc replies softly. He takes a deep breath, unlocks the bathroom door, and walks back down the hallway to the waiting room.

————————

Marc falls asleep in an uncomfortable chair after all the paperwork. He’s gently shaken awake and he opens his eyes to see Layla.

“You made it,” he murmurs.

“You told them about me,” she replies, sitting beside him.

“Well, I didn’t know if they’d let you in otherwise. Better safe than sorry.”

“What exactly did you tell them?”

Marc sits up properly, rolling his neck to get rid of the stiffness. “Told them you were family. Figured then they’ll let us see him sooner after he gets out.”

Layla hums in response. “How’d the mission go?”

“It was perfect until some fuck hurt Y/N,” Marc says bitterly. “If that guy was still there, I would’ve killed him.”

“Marc…”

“He hurt him and I couldn’t-”

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself,” Layla says, gently putting her hand on his arm. “Thinking like that isn’t gonna help anyone in this scenario; me or you two or Y/N. There’s nothing you could have done and it’s not your fault. As terrible as it is, shit happens. I’m here for all three of you. It’s going to be alright. Unfortunately, all we can do now is wait and see the results, you know?”

Marc sighs, carding his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. We just wait."

————————

Both of them end up falling asleep in the waiting room even though they’d told themselves that they’d stay awake.

A nurse wakes Marc and Marc wakes Layla.

“Is he okay?” Layla asks.

“He is asleep,” the nurse says through a thick accent. “Painkillers. He spoke English. Not many doctors knew what he was saying. He was asking for Marc, Steven and Layla.”

“That’s us,” Marc says. “Can we see him? Please?”

“He will not be conscious just yet, but yes.”

The nurse leads us down a few hallways to Y/N’s room. “If he wakes, do not overwhelm him. Be gentle,” he adds.

“Muchas gracias, señor,” Marc says, silently stepping into the room with Layla on his heels. Marc has to brace himself against the wall at the sight of you.

Your left leg is propped up and casted, another cast encasing your entire left arm. Your forehead is bandaged and the lights are mostly off in the room - a concussion, Marc assumes (and correctly so). You’re too bandaged up to need to bother with a hospital gown but, save for your propped up leg, your lower half is covered with a blanket.

“Shit,” Marc whispers, though he’s not entirely sure if it was him or Steven that said it. He’s pretty sure he’s got the body right now, even if part of him wishes he could hand it over to Steven. Not yet. He wasn’t going to hide from this, as much as it hurt to see.

He’s slow in his movements to sit in the chair to the right of you. Layla pulls up a chair next to him. His trembling hand reaches out to hold yours closest to him. He blinks back tears, gripping your hand unintentionally tight. His thumb brushes over your knuckles and he bows his head, covering his face with his free hand.

“My fault,” he murmurs almost inaudibly. Layla frowns a little.

“Marc-”

“It’s my fault,” Marc stresses.

Knowing there’s no use arguing with him, Layla gently squeezes his arm. “I’m gonna get some air for a minute.”

“You’re not staying?”

“I’ll be back, I promise. You want a coffee?”

“What, you mean the shitty vending machine coffee that all hospitals have?” Marc asks sarcastically. Layla nods. “Yeah, sure. I could use the caffeine. Maybe one for Steven too?”

Layla smiles gently. “I’ll be back soon.”

Minutes after Layla’s gone, Marc still hasn’t said a word and you’re still unconscious next to him. He knows the doctors say you’ll be alright, but he can’t help worrying anyway.

————————

You could hear the people in your room before you could see them.

First, it was doctors speaking Spanish. It all sounded like gibberish to you, despite Marc having taught you some Spanish a little while back. It was after they’d gotten you out of surgery, before the extra painkillers they’d pumped you with. You hadn’t had the energy to open your eyes to confront the doctors, so you’d passed out again.

Then, it was two voices - familiar voices. Voices so agonizingly familiar that you’d silently prayed to the gods that you could open your eyes to see if it was who you thought it was. Then, you passed out again.

The third time, you don’t hear much, just someone shifting beside you. Something - no, someone - is holding your right hand. It’s no doctor, you can’t feel the latex gloves they all wear. It’s calloused. It’s a hand you’ve held before.

It’s one of your boys.

You finally, finally, manage to open your eyes. You tilt your head to the right. Your gaze is blurry at first. You blink a few times before managing to get a clear picture of the man in the chair next to you. His head is bowed but he’s gripping your hand like you’re about to disappear.

“Fuck, Y/N, if you die, I’m gonna kill you,” a rough voice says. American. Marc. He sounds like he’s been either crying or sleeping or both for quite a while.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” you mutter. Your throat is bone dry.

Marc’s head shoots up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t break his neck. You shoot him a weak smile before you start coughing. He immediately lets go of your hand to reach for the pitcher of water on the table next to the hospital bed, filling one of the little plastic cups stacked next to it. He passes it to you. You manage to stop coughing long enough to down the little cup of water. It soothes your parched throat immediately.

“Fuck, I needed that,” you mumble. “Desert.” You clear your throat and thankfully you don’t start coughing again. “Hi,” you add awkwardly.

“Hey,” Marc says, though he can’t hide the way his voice cracks a little. His eyes are glistening. You frown worriedly.

“Marc, baby…” you whisper. You reach your hand up to wipe away a couple of stray tears from his face. “Don’t cry for me. I’m here. I’m here, my love.”

“I thought… we thought that we were gonna lose you.” His voice is thick with emotion and you wish you could wash away his pain right then and there.

“You won’t lose me. Not if I have any say in it. Come here.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve as he pushes himself to his feet. “What?”

You scowl teasingly up at him. “I wanna kiss you but I can’t exactly move, dumbass, you need to come to me.”

A smile tugs at Marc’s lips as he leans down to press his to yours. Your good hand reaches up to hold his cheek as you practically melt into the kiss. When Marc pulls away, you try to chase after his lips, but you push yourself up too far. You wince and lay back down, gasping in pain. Concern flashes over Marc’s face.

“Are you alright?” He asks quickly.

“Mhm,” you murmur through clenched teeth. “Just moved, moved a bit too much.”

“Should I get a doctor back in here?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine, it’s okay.” You take a few deep breaths, trying to relax your tense body. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay.” You pause for a moment. “Is… is Steven there?”

Marc’s body language changes, and you know you’re looking at Steven now.

“Oh my days, I was so worried,” he says. He leans forward and kisses your forehead, then your cheek. He almost pulls away completely, but you grab the collar of his shirt with your good hand and pull him down to kiss you on the lips. The kiss lasts a solid few seconds before you let him go. You smile a little as he sits back down.

“I’ll be okay,” you say quietly, holding your hand out. He slips his into your grasp, giving it a squeeze. “It’s like I told Marc, I’m not going anywhere if I can help it, Steven. You’re stuck with me.” You chuckle a little. “Sucks to suck.”

Steven rolls his eyes fondly. “I’d like to see you living and breathing on this earth for a little while longer, thank you very much.”

You smile gently. “I love you both.”

“We love you too, Y/N/N.”

“You’re awake!”

You turn your head towards the door and your grin widens when you see Layla holding a tray of three shitty vending machine coffees.

[A/N: no, she totally doesn’t almost drop them when she sees that you’re conscious, I dunno what you’re talking about…]

She puts the tray on a table and rushes to your side to hug you. She nearly pushes Steven out of the way just so she can get to you on your good side.

“Not too tight, the ribs, the shots,” you hiss out when you feel a stinging sensation from your torso. Layla apologizes immediately, loosening her grip but not quite pulling away just yet. Eventually she does, sitting down next to Steven. His demeanour changes, signalling the return of Marc. He looks over at her.

“Coffee?” He asks, his voice a little hoarse.

“Oh, shit, right.”

Layla retrieves the coffee tray and puts it on the table next to your bed. There are names scribbled on each one; Marc, Steven, Layla.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t get you one,” she admits, “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

You shake your head. “S’okay. I probably shouldn’t have anything more than water right now. Plus it tastes like ass.”

“You’re not wrong,” Marc says, taking a swig of his coffee and nearly choking on it. “Fuck, that’s terrible.” He hesitates. He takes another sip. He straightens up as he puts his cup down. He reaches for Steven’s and takes a sip.

“Oh, bloody hell, that’s horrible.” He takes a second sip.

There’s a knock on the door and doctor begins to enter. Steve surrenders the body to Marc, in case of a need to speak Spanish.

“Buenos, días,” the nurse from earlier greets us. “Soy Dr. Juliàn Laguna. Soy el que supervisa el cuidado del Sr. L/N. Todos sois familia, sí?”

“Sí, es su hermano,” Marc lies, gesturing to Layla. “Estarà bien?”

“Sufrió muchas heridas. Su pierna está rota en un lugar mientras que su brazo está roto en tres. Dos costillas fracturadas. Conmoción cerebral de tercer grado. Tuvo suerte con la colocación de las heridas de bala. Bueno, tan afortunado como uno puede ser cuando te han disparado. Pudimos curarlo bien en la cirugía. Con el tiempo, sanará y estará bien.”

“What’s he saying?” You ask quietly.

“You broke your leg in one place and your arm in three. Two fractured ribs. They patched up the gunshot wounds well in surgery. With time you’ll heal and you’ll be alright,” Marc translates, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Muchas gracias, doctor, no sé- no sabemos qué haríamos sin él. Gracias.”

“Por supuesto. La muerte tendrá toda la lucha para sacarlo de esta tierra.” He clears his throat. “Les dejaré tener más tiempo para ustedes.”

“Gracias, doctor,” Marc says.

“So, I’ll be okay, right?” You asks quietly.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Marc says reassuringly. He takes your hand in his and presses his lips to your scratched and bruised knuckles. “We’re gonna take you home as soon as we can. As soon as the doc gives the go ahead, we’re hopping on a plane and we’re out of here.”

“Good,” you say immediately. “I think I’ll be taking a break from fighting for a little while. I’ll take the sidelines.”

Marc looks surprised. Sure, he told Steven and Layla that he wanted you to sit out once you fully healed, but he didn’t expect you to feel the same about it.

“Are you sure?” He asks gently.

You shoot him a tight smile. “More or less. I like being out there to watch your six, but this was too close of a near death experience for my liking,” you explain. “Plus, I’ll be able to take care of you when you get home. Both of you,” you add, shooting a glance and a smile at Layla. “Besides, since I’m not with Osiris anymore, I really need to take it easy.”

You squeeze Marc’s hand. “You won’t have to worry about me then either.”

“I’m always gonna worry about you,” he insists.

“You know what I mean, dumbass.” You pause for a moment. “So. When can we go home?”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! This has been sitting in my writing folder for a hot minute so I figured I'd finish it. Also I know virtually nothing about Guatemala including knowing nothing about Guatemalan healthcare but what little research I did had me decide to have Marc hide his relationship with Y/N for fear of homophobia but I wrote that bit a while back idk... Anyway, might make a fluffy little part two of Marc and Steven taking care of the reader while he heals 👀 lmk if you want it 👀 feed back is encouraged and appreciated! Have a lovely day!

[talonabraxas]

The Logos Talon Abraxas

The Law of Three and Creation

“It is necessary … for us to know the LAW OF THREE in depth. IT IS URGENT to know what position we occupy in this MARVELOUS RAY OF CREATION.

THE SON came into the World to save us and it is necessary to know who the FATHER, who the SON and who the HOLY SPIRIT are. All the sacred TRIMURTIS of all the Religions correspond to the three primary forces of the Universe.

The FATHER, the SON and the HOLY SPIRIT constitute a trinity within the UNITY OF LIFE. ISIS – OSIRIS – HORUS, BRAHMA – VISHNU – SHIVA, etc., are the SACRED TRIMURTIS which always represent the same three primary forces.

All the cosmic phenomenon, all creation, have their foundation in the three primary forces. Contemporary scientists recognize force & resistance (the positive force & the negative force, the positive & negative cells, that is to say, the masculine & feminine cells, etc.), but are ignorant that without a third neutral force all phenomenon, all creation is impossible.

It is certain that one or two forces can not produce any phenomenon, but the scientists believe that the positive and negative forces on their own can produce all phenomenon.” -Paraphrase from Ch. 3 ‘The Law of Three’ of The Science of Music

aka The Spiritual Power of Sound

Only Three Forces Can Produce Phenomenon

“One or two forces can never produce any phenomenon and, thus, whenever we observe a halt in the development of anything, we can state with absolute certainty that there the third force is missing. The three primary forces separate and unite again; they divide themselves and multiply themselves cosmically.

WITHIN THE UNMANIFESTED ABSOLUTE, the THREE PRIMARY FORCES constitute an INDIVISIBLE AND SELF-CONSCIOUS UNITY in an INTEGRAL form.

During COSMIC MANIFESTATION, the three primary forces separate and unite; Phenomena, Worlds, Universes, etc., etc., etc., are created in those points where the three concur or come together.

These three forces seem like three wills, three consciousnesses, three unities in the RAY OF CREATION. Each of these three forces contains in themselves all the possibilities of the three. However, in their point of conjunction, each one of them only manifests one principle: the positive, negative, or neutral.

It is very interesting to see the three forces in action; they separate, they move away, and soon they MEET each other AGAIN in order to form new, different, trinities that originate new worlds, new cosmic creations.

Within the ABSOLUTE, the three forces are the SINGLE LOGOS, the VARIETY within the TOTAL UNITY; there, the FATHER, the SON, and the HOLY SPIRIT constitute an OMNI-CONSICOUS AND OMNI-MERCIFUL whole.” -Paraphrase from Ch. 3 ‘The Law of Three’ of The Science of Music aka The Spiritual Power of Sound

[sylenth-l]

How tall would you say each character is, like warlocks and the hunters and Saint? (Timur, Osiris, Felwinter)(Cayde, Andal, Shiro,Tevis) like, do you have any head canons for that?

(Oh man, I remember I got similar question once, I wanted to do a proper lineup to answer that, but failed to do so in the end 😭)

I'm not sure about the exact height of each character, but I do have a rough idea of how they stand compared to each other! Also my general rule is that Felwinter is the tallest (with Big Red being the only exception taller than him) and Tevis is the shortest, so everyone else are somewhere in between and are measured by these two extremes. Also I must mention I'm not very consistent in terms of heights... Sometimes I just. fail to draw the proper height difference for various reasons OTL

For those you've mentioned, I'm pretty sure about the hunter pack - Shiro is the tallest among them, Cayde and Andal are roughly of the same height (but Cayde ofc always says he's taller because The Beautiful Horn), and Tevis is the shorty (sorry Tev, no offence). But in general their height difference isn't too dramatic, aside from Tevis, I think. For the others - well, as I said, Felwinter is the beanpole here. But Saint is also very tall, so I think he's maybe like only half a head shorter?.. Timur and Osiris both aren't short objectively speaking imo, but compared to these two marvels of Exo engineering of course they seem rather tiny 😅

I really want to do an all characters (those I frequently need, at least) lineup one day..........