written-in-ink
written-in-ink
"Do you blame Shakespeare for any of it?"
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@ori0ns-arrow's writing sideblog | any pronouns | I'm always open to feedback and constructive criticism!
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written-in-ink · 1 year ago
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Reflections
A/N: I had to write a Gothic piece for my English class and I thought it was pretty cool tbh. There might be random spaces and incidents everywhere but oh well
He didn’t need to send me so many letters; I never replied to them. My tired eyes skim over the letter in my hands:
To my dearest Adonis,  – I know you read my letters. Why must you be so cruel and leave us without knowledge of your condition? I understand that you say you no longer love me, but must you leave even your own family in the depths of ignorance?  They’re worried about you. Everyday they come to me distraught over their distant son. Adonis, they don’t even know if you’re alive still. Is this what you wanted? Your parents are barely able to cope with their missing angel and I’m their only link to you.
I’ve spent nights pondering your last words to me. Your words are engraved in my mind, my love. “The beauty you hold is worthless to an artist of my ability” is what you said. Why leave me like that, Adonis? Why leave me with piles of questions without saving me from the pool of ignorance that I swim in? After that, you told that I was no good as a muse. Was it my face perhaps? I understand that some of my features may not be as appealing as that of a woman’s, but that didn’t bother you before.
We used to be happy, Adonis. Remember that day we spent by the lake? We frolicked like children and savoured the coolness of the summer breeze. The water calmed our senses like the clouds calm the storm. I miss those days, my love. I kept your paintings from that trip too. They hang proudly above my desk, waiting for their true owner to return. 
I’m beginning to lose hope for us. If I don’t receive any words from you, I fear I may search for someone else to fill this gaping hole in my heart. I fear that your art has consumed your heart in ways that romance cannot. 
Would you love me if I were a mirror? Artists always love their muses. Fate has condemned me to a lover whose only muse is himself.
Be done with this and come home, Adonis.
Please.
Ernest Rosemore
Paris, Nov 1st, 19–
The ink is smudged and the words are messy. In the dim light of my studio, the words seem to blur and merge together. Some words are neatly written while others seem to be quick scribbles. Despite all these obstacles, I can still sense the message lying behind his words; he has given up on me. 
With the letter in hand, I stride towards the small candle that sits upon my window sill. I press the letter against my lips – my final farewell.
I breathe in its scent.
A sweet yet bitter perfume lingers on the paper. Roses, perhaps? Ernest had always smelled like roses. There is another fragrance masked by the floral scent – something smoky and heavy. Perhaps Ernest started smoking after I left.
The letter sits in my hands for a few moments after being pulled away from my lips. With shaky hands, I lead the yellowed paper to the orange tongue of my candle. It sits calmly in the flame as it is consumed. Red and orange dancers sway along each word and comma until only black flakes are left.
Without hesitation, I turn back to my work. I reach out for the paintbrush on my desk. The wooden handle of it is smooth and unblemished while its bristles are in disarray. The cold feeling of the brush in my hand has become familiar – whether that’s good or bad is a question that still haunts me.
The sleek handle of the paintbrush has come to bring me comfort. It reminds me that I am an artist – a being whose sole role is to create masterpieces. No matter which tool I pick – a brush, a pencil, a fountain pen, or clay – my hands will immediately surrender and move along to their rhythm. 
This thought brings an equal amount of uncertainty to me. An artist who is incapable of creating beauty shouldn’t exist, yet here I stand. The tired bristles of the brush remind me that my art holds no worth no matter how much time I put into it.
Ruined paintings and marred sculptures litter the floor of my small studio. Dozens of ripped sketches are pinned above my bed. Small bits of charcoal and lead fall onto my pillow, leaving dark trails and streaks on the cream cover of it.
The sketches themselves are a sight to behold. Each portrait, landscape, and hand is made up of harsh and soft, thick and thin lines – a cacophony of lead and charcoal. Some sketches are clean and untouched while others are smudged and rough. There was only one thing that all the sketches had in common.
In fact, every piece in the studio shared this one dreadful feature.
None of them are complete.
The eyes of half-drawn people judge me from afar. Each face seems so human but feels so alien. There is nothing beyond their scribbled eyes. No happiness, no misery — nothing but a deadpan awareness for their Creator. 
My hands linger above my paintbrush before picking it up. Warily, my eyes wander the page in front of me, tracing each stroke of orange and brown. Hesitantly, I press my paintbrush against the rough surface of the canvas and follow its majestic rhythm. The bristles dance across the canvas, leaving nothing but pure art behind. 
When I lift my hand away from the canvas, I am left with nothing but a reflection of myself. Its eyes are dull like graphite and its smile holds no life.
Is this what I truly look like?
With shallow breaths, I turn to face the grimy mirror that sits atop my desk. The image it reflects is almost identical to that of the canvas. Its tired, sullen eyes have lost their former glory. Wrinkles outline the fatigued bags beneath my eyes.
Is this what I have become?
I look at the painting.
I look back at my reflection.
There is no difference.
Beneath me, my legs tremble. My heart pounds within my chest as if it is trying to escape. The longer I stare at both images, the harder it becomes for me to differentiate them from one another. 
The eyes of all my creations mock me. Within the confined walls of my room, each piece stares at my overwhelmed state. Their formerly lacklustre smiles now seem cold and scornful. From the safety of the walls, they laugh and ridicule me from above.
Quickly, I turn back to face the catalyst of my anxiety. Without thinking, I take the canvas into my hand and stare into the eyes of my portrait. I grasp the piece until my knuckles turn white. My hands twitch and my lips quiver as I prepare to rid my life of such a hideous image.
Despite all my anger, I hesitate. The canvas lingers in my hand before I finally decide its fate. It feels heavier than usual but I pay it no notice. The cotton feels smoother under my fingers – where are the imperfections I painted atop of? 
With all the strength I can muster, I throw it to the floor. 
A piercing crash echoes like thunder.
Dozens of glass shards lay next to my feet; dozens of eyes stare back at me.
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written-in-ink · 2 years ago
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And So The Sky Fell
A/N: This is a short chapter from a draft I found in my notes and I thought it was cool so I decided to rework it into its own piece. I'll rework some other chapters from the draft if people are interested and I can explain some of the plot but it's not really a project I plan to finish.
TW: mentions of de@th and blo0d
It was a quick movement.
   I didn’t even notice him move.
   The dagger is cold against my skin, then suddenly something wet and warm drips from my neck. I put a hand to my throat to see what was causing the warm feeling.
   My fingers are painted with a sickening shade of red.
   The slight metallic smell scares me.
   It’s blood.
   Not Ernest’s blood, not Dahlia’s blood - mine.
   Blood is spilling from my neck fast. I take deep, heavy breaths and fall to my knees.
   No, no this can’t be happening. Am I going to die?
   There’s a pool of blood surrounding me, staining my clothes crimson. It hurts. It’s agonising. 
   I let out one final scream to let the world know my pain. People will watch this and realise the monster that is Ernest Nightshade.
   Everything in front of me is blurry but in my head, everything finally makes sense. My dad was wrong about the Gifted. We should never have started fighting about who’s superior. It should’ve never been 'sans talent' vs the Gifted. 
   We suppressed one, now they want revenge. In a few decades, they’ll suppress us and we’ll want revenge. If this cycle continues, more lives will be lost without reason. If I die tonight, it won’t be in vain.
   Someone runs towards me. White dress, blonde highlights - it has to be Hyacinth. She presses one hand onto my wounds and I wince at the pain. She puts the other behind my head and I let myself rest.
   “Hyacinth,” I whimper. I hate feeling weak. There was nothing I could do to stop Ernest. I can’t die knowing that my death was for naught. “Don’t let them win.”
   Tears fell from her eyes. I didn’t think she’d care. I’ve said some unforgivable things to her and her boyfriend, yet she’s still willing to help me when I’m at Death’s doorstep.
   “Shut up. Stop acting like you’re going to die here,” she sobs.
   
   There’s a loud ringing in my ear now. All other sounds are starting to fade. Hyacinth says something, but I can barely make out her words. My sight is getting blurrier too. I can’t tell if I’m dying or if my tears are causing it.
   “Hyacinth, I don’t want to die.”
I’ve spent nights staring at my ceiling, thinking about what comes next. Do I go to heaven? Or is there nothing after death? Maybe the afterlife is just a barren wasteland that shows you images of what could’ve been. Those were the nights that I hated most. Most of my questions are going to be answered tonight, I suppose.
   The next few minutes are a blur.
   “Told… Not… Die…” What is she saying? It doesn’t matter. It’s too late for me. I should start thinking of my last words.
   “Tell them that I’m sorry. Tell them not to forget me.”
   I have so much more to say. I never got to confess my love to Cameron. Nor did I tell my brother that I’m proud of him.
   What is Luke going to say? I don’t want him to see me like this, weak and pathetic. He should be disappointed in me. I don’t deserve to be his brother.
   I savour the warmth of Hyacinth’s hands.
   I hope everything goes well for her.
   There’s a bright, white light.
   The pain has stopped.
   I can finally rest.
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written-in-ink · 2 years ago
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Hamartia
Icarus flew.
The Sun gladly wrapped him in her warm embrace as if claiming him as her kin. Clouds made of dreams and wonder urged him forward, daring him to reach the skies beyond Olympus itself. Even the harsh North Wind led young Icarus through the strange fantasy of the sky.
Icarus laughed as he flew.
Dark curls framed his face and swayed with the Wind’s song. His head was thrown back and the corners of his lips were pulled into a wide smile — a smile brighter than the Star herself. A melodic laugh escaped Icarus’s mouth. The sound was airy yet in the vast emptiness of the sky, it boomed like thunder. 
The wings on his back were fragile, too fragile. Each feather was as delicate as the petals of a flower — perhaps even moreso. Yet Icarus wasn’t scared. 
Something seemed to glisten underneath the Sun’s prideful light. It dripped slowly against Icarus’s back. Sweat, perhaps? The Sun has always been envied for her powerful warmth. No mortal should be able to withstand her heat, no matter how much he loved her beauty.
Feathers soon began to fall. They gently drifted from Icarus’s back and danced to the rhythm of the Wind. 
Icarus did not tremble.
He shed no tears as he struggled to keep his balance.
By now, barely any feathers remained. The wax that once gave the wings structure now left burning kisses along the young man’s back.
Yet Icarus still smiled.
In fact, he even reached out at the Sun that had condemned him. He felt no anger towards the celestial being, nor did he resent it. How could anyone hate something beautiful?
Icarus had finally tasted freedom.
The first years of his life were wasted behind palace walls — a punishment for a crime that wasn’t his own. Every morning, he would watch the Sun’s show. He would  stare with eyes full of awe as she performed for the Sea.
Oh, how he yearned to be the great Sea itself!
The Sea has touched each corner of the earth. It has seen the splendours of the world and has met all kinds of people.
Icarus could never put his envy into words. His entire life had been filled with the faces of the same three people — his father, the man he had angered, and the radiant Sun. Icarus was tired of normality; he feared it. The idea of spending his whole life confined to the same room with the same faces sent shivers down his spine. What kind of life was that? A life without beauty, without love, without passion — Icarus wanted a purpose.
To face the Sun’s ardent beauty for eternity was all Icarus ever wanted. If he were the Sea, he would have applauded each of her dances. Each night, before she went to rest, Icarus would have kissed her with such ardour that even Aphrodite coveted. And once she had gone to sleep, Icarus would have waited patiently for her to arise once more. Perhaps that was his sole purpose — to be a witness, no, an admirer of the Sun’s immortal beauty.
He wasn’t vain.
Nor was he a fool
No, Icarus was enamoured by the Sun.
And so, Icarus smiled as he died; he laughed as he fell from the heavens.
He tightly shut his eyes and savoured his final memory of his only love. Her fiery locks flowed like a gentle river. Each strand cascaded through the cerulean skies. A kaleidoscope of warmth filled his vision — the bright colours brought him comfort as he plummeted into the harsh depths of the Sea.
It felt as though sharp fingers were clawing at his throat as the Sea wrapped him in its cold embrace.
Yet Icarus didn’t care. For once in his life, he had finally tasted freedom. The taste lingered on his lips. For a second, he thought he had tasted the nectar of the gods. It was his final solace as darkness began to envelop his sight.
As his body became one with the object of his envy, he felt only one thing:
Satisfaction.
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written-in-ink · 2 years ago
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Hyacinthus
To love a god is to live a tragedy.
The poets’ ballads of love and heartbreak rarely ended with laughter. Patroclus never saw the end of the Trojan War. He died on the battlefield with nothing but his lover’s armour — nothing was strong enough to protect him from War’s wrath. The Fates showed Patroclus no remorse as he died at Hector’s hand.
The Fates never pity us mortals. Ariadne, Megara, Daphne - what became of their lives? How many souls have been lost for the gods’ pleasure? Even Psyche, who found peace with Eros, didn’t find it without any suffering.
Everyone knows this.
Everyone knows that no good comes to those who become entangled with the gods.
I’ve known this ever since I was a small child, roaming freely through the palace. Back then, I thought I was invincible. I thought no sword nor monster could ever make me fall.
 If only I knew better.
Perhaps I could’ve done more with my life — something worth remembering. I could’ve become a great philosopher whose ideas are taught for centuries after my death. Or perhaps I could’ve lived to inherit my father's throne and ride proudly into the battlefield. Even if I was killed in battle, I would be remembered as a hero. My people would honour me.
Yet I chose to stay with Apollo. 
I was a naive boy — a fool, even.
When I woke up each morning with him by my side, I had no regrets. He was my Sun; I couldn’t live without his warmth. Every morning, his hand was entwined with my own. His grasp was tight, so tight that it felt like he had no plans of letting go. I would run a hand through his golden hair as he peacefully slept. Apollo’s hair was soft like a bird’s feathered wings. He was perfect in every way.
His bare chest rose and fell with each breath. I loved the freckles that were littered across his sun-kissed body. Some days, I would try to kiss each one as Apollo let out a quiet laugh.
I would give anything to hear that laugh once more.
I would give my heart to have that soft laugh echo through my ears again. There is no one in the world who sounds like him. His voice was angelic, almost musical. Every word he said was alluring. He had a siren’s voice. If he told me to, I would dive into the murkiest waters to follow him.
Our routine stayed the same for months. We would awake together, fulfil our respective duties, and meet once more at dusk.
I was a fool for thinking it would always be like that.
One morning, as he wrapped his arms tightly around my waist, he asked me a question.
“Hyacinthus,” he said with a mellow tone. I loved the way he said my name; it made me melt inside. “Do you love me?”
I did not hesitate. “Of course. And you?”
I smiled as he traced a finger along my bare chest.
“I love you like the Stars love the Moon, Hyacinthus.”
A voice lingered in the back of my mind, telling me I was unworthy of a god's love. It laughed harshly as it mocked me for falling for Apollo. You are nothing but his plaything, it whispered.
I opened my mouth to tell Apollo that perhaps I am undeserving of his love despite my better thoughts. He pressed a finger against my lips as if he knew what I was going to say. Gently, he pulled my hand towards his chest and laid it upon his heart.
It’s a known fact that the gods of Olympus do not their need hearts. Nor do they need any of the organs that we have within us. That is one of the many things that marks us as inferior to the gods. They are not like us; they are not human.
“You are my Sun, Hyacinthus,” Apollo said softly. “I couldn’t live a single day without you, just as the world cannot live without light.
I feel more love towards you than Aphrodite herself has ever felt. Do you feel that?”
His heart was pounding beneath my hand. I thought it would burst at any second.
“No one has ever made my heart wild with such ardour. Hyacinthus, you’re the only true love I have in this world.”
His words were everything to me.
My voice wavered as I spoke. I could no longer deny the truth.
“Your heart beats for love, Apollo. My heart—” I swallowed my words and shuddered at what I had to say. “My heart beats to live. One day, it will stop. One day, I will run out of time and I will find myself at the foot of Charon’s boat.”
Apollo’s face tightened into a frown. I cupped a hand around his cheek and looked into his bright, sky-blue eyes. Tears welled in his eyes and threatened to fall at any moment.
“You’re very dear to me, Apollo. I love you more than words can say. That’s why I want you to find someone worth your time, someone who—” I hesitated once more. Apollo’s frown became an expression of pain and discomfort. His sky-blue eyes were like a storm now— his tears were like rainfall. Only now did he truly understand the fragile nature of human life. I don’t blame him for it; I too struggled to accept the fate of mankind. “Someone who is not destined for death. Apollo, my time on this earth is short and you—”
He pressed his warm lips against mine and I forgot all my past worries..
“I don’t care,” he muttered as he nuzzled his face into my neck.
The god cried silently as I ran my hand through his soft, feathery hair. This wasn’t the same god I had seen in the tapestries around the palace. There, he always had a triumphant smile on his face as he posed with a lyre in hand. Yet here he was, distraught by his mortal lover. Apollo, the Sun god, was more fragile than I had thought. Perhaps the Olympians have more humanity than the poets say.
“I will never leave you, Hyacinthus.”
A harsh wind roared outside the palace as if it was angered by Apollo’s words.
*
“Are you sure we should do this today?” I asked him, raising my voice as the wind blew loudly.
“We’re already here,” he replied as he fiddled with the discus.
Apollo had insisted on having a game of discus. Did he want to distract himself from the day before? 
I shivered as the wind roared once more. The cold pricked at my skin until it felt numb.
No man with a shred of common sense would play discus in these conditions.
Apollo held both my hands and rubbed circles into my palm with his thumb. 
“It will be fine,” he reassured me. I sighed and watched as he gracefully threw the discus. His sun-kissed skin glistened under the light and his blue eyes shimmered like pearls in the clearest sea. The god laughed proudly as the discus flew to the sky. The throw was so powerful that it seemed to split the clouds. Perhaps it even saw the lights of Elysium.
His laugh was contagious. I laughed until my throat hurt  as we ran to chase the falling discus. 
Time seemed to slow down as we ran without a care. The wind felt refreshing as it blew against my face. I looked back to see Apollo trying to keep up. His golden locks were pushed back by the wind and a bright smile was plastered on his face. My run slowed to a light jog as I admired him. He was like a statue — perfect in every way. It was as if he had been crafted carefully by the finest sculptor in all of Greece.
Beautiful.
He quickly caught up to me as I stared at him. Before he could say anything else, I wrapped both my arms around his necks and pulled him into a kiss. Flowers of warmth blossomed within my body as Apollo placed a hand on my chest. His lips were so soft, softer than any pillow in the palace. I never wanted this moment to end. His hands travelled along my body, caressing me softly.
I only pulled back from the kiss when I needed to breathe.
Apollo was never the first to pull away; he never needed to.
“The discus,” I rasped as I turned towards the direction of the discus.
The wind shrieked. It was worse than before. Each gust of wind seemed angry. I thought back to rumours of an angry god. What had we done to anger anyone? Surely no god had the power to scare an Olympian.
“Apollo, we—” 
A sharp pain in the back of my head interrupted me.
*
I don’t like thinking about what happened next. In fact, everything was a blur by then. My knees buckled beneath me as the world spun before me. 
Overwhelming.
It was all too much.
I fell to the floor soon after, landing harshly on the dry ground. It felt as though someone had enhanced each and every one of my senses. I could feel everything — especially the pain throbbing in my head. 
A golden figure crouched down beside me. 
His voice was familiar. I’ve heard it somewhere before. Just who—
A sudden cry brought me back to my senses.
Apollo. Of course it was Apollo. Who else would it be?
I couldn’t think straight anymore. The pain in my head wasn’t helping. It sliced through my thoughts like a dagger. Each time I felt it pierce my mind, it felt as though sparks of lightning had been sent through my body.
The god weeped beside me as he held my head up. His hands were red — a hideous, sickly shade of red. What had happened? Surely it couldn’t be Apollo’s blood—
It was getting harder to think.
“Don’t leave me yet,” Apollo cried as he caressed my cheek.
His hand was so warm.
Home. It reminded me of home.
The hearth in the palace was warm too. I don’t remember the last time the fire died out. Is that fire waiting for me to come home?
“Hyacinthus?” Apollo’s voice had been reduced to a meek whimper.
I hated it when his voice became hoarse. It always meant he was upset.
“Hyacinthus?”
I didn’t have the strength to open my mouth. Fuck, I could barely keep my eyes open.
“I love you.” Apollo pulled me towards his chest. “Please stay with me, my love,” he whispered into my ear.
It was too much.
I couldn’t hold on for any longer.
  I heard a gut wrenching cry.
There was one final blossom of warmth in my chest.
Then it became cold once again.
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written-in-ink · 2 years ago
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written-in-ink · 2 years ago
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Why did I make this blog in the midst of my writer's block that wasn't a very smart move from me
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written-in-ink · 2 years ago
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Not a photographer but I took these pictures during the summer and thought that they were pretty. Who knows? Maybe someone could find inspiration from them. That's what I had in mind while taking them.
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