Lysandra of Sparta

thebloodofgods:

To her did his sights wander, not fully capable of disregarding the familiar, albeit marred, form of his wife in spite of it all— the heaviness of the topic, or the heavier still answer he would give. “She is gone.” Any appreciation for the sole living ally in his existence was postponed until he stood back up, that which bound him to servitude rattling distantly. 

“To where she slipped, I do not know.” There was a sullenness about the perpetual crease of his brow, somesuch vindictive disposition starting to slacken. “…only that she is unreachable.”

Gone.

Her daughter was gone. It was a risk, she had known it was a risk—no one returned from death clean. But she had hoped Calliope would be safe from that, had even come to believe. She put a hand over her mouth. There were tears burning in her eyes and a lump rising in her throat, but she pushed those back. Her child was gone. Again, she supposed, although she hadn’t had the time to miss her after her first death.

"Well," she said, keeping her voice as even and measured as she could, "I suppose it will be easier to look now that there are two of us."

It was not long until she was finished, somewhat dry, and dressed again. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. “Do you remember where she last was?”

okayophelia:

Archetypes | GODKILLER



With fists like atom bombs, he walks on the thorny warpath to the heavens, masked in blood and bathed in fire. Beware the man who would kill a god, the choir whispers, for he will never know peace, and he will drag the whole universe into war to keep him merry company along the way. He will stand before the throne, look the void in the eye and laugh. He cannot bear to live in a world where he is not sovereign of his own soul. He would rip his teeth into divine flesh and swallow the universe whole. He wants the apocalypse and the wasteland that will follow in the wake of the gods, that humanity might rise and rise again as their own gods, without sin or fate or fear. And so he rises, knife in hand, to make himself holy and unholy. He has nothing but murder in his mind, nothing but desire in his body, and nothing but truth singing from his tongue. The gods are his prey.
He is every child who ever wanted to hold the universe in the palm of their hand, and every man who wanted to take the throne. He is every woman who tore the kingdom of god apart with her body, and every mortal who stared into the sun and wanted to burn down everything that stood between them and that light. There is nothing left to their story but this: to kill to kill to kill. 



#godkiller #the hand that strikes at god must die #in his triumph always a tragedy #either he will be swallowed by the blast radius or become god himself #either way; who he was will die #a godkiller only exists in that one incandescent moment of destruction #that one point of space and time (and by proxy ripple out through all of space and time) #that is all #that’s it #they who kill god kill themselves #and transform into another state #(hint: it’s called transcendence for a reason) #archetype series #per ardua ad astra #we are singing now while rome burns #the kingdom of god is within you because you ate it 

okayophelia:

Archetypes | GODKILLER

With fists like atom bombs, he walks on the thorny warpath to the heavens, masked in blood and bathed in fire. Beware the man who would kill a god, the choir whispers, for he will never know peace, and he will drag the whole universe into war to keep him merry company along the way. He will stand before the throne, look the void in the eye and laugh. He cannot bear to live in a world where he is not sovereign of his own soul. He would rip his teeth into divine flesh and swallow the universe whole. He wants the apocalypse and the wasteland that will follow in the wake of the gods, that humanity might rise and rise again as their own gods, without sin or fate or fear. And so he rises, knife in hand, to make himself holy and unholy. He has nothing but murder in his mind, nothing but desire in his body, and nothing but truth singing from his tongue. The gods are his prey.

He is every child who ever wanted to hold the universe in the palm of their hand, and every man who wanted to take the throne. He is every woman who tore the kingdom of god apart with her body, and every mortal who stared into the sun and wanted to burn down everything that stood between them and that light. There is nothing left to their story but this: to kill to kill to kill. 

#godkiller #the hand that strikes at god must die #in his triumph always a tragedy #either he will be swallowed by the blast radius or become god himself #either way; who he was will die #a godkiller only exists in that one incandescent moment of destruction #that one point of space and time (and by proxy ripple out through all of space and time) #that is all #that’s it #they who kill god kill themselves #and transform into another state #(hint: it’s called transcendence for a reason) #archetype series #per ardua ad astra #we are singing now while rome burns #the kingdom of god is within you because you ate it 

[[Back despite extensive hurricane problems!]]

Leave None Alive: || and dust;

tofreeaman:

She nodded, and turned towards the path that led down to the river. Walking hurt significantly more than it had last night, but that was perfectly normal. Her muscles would stop painting her eventually. (Her body worked the same, if not her mind.)

The bank was pebbled and flat…

She nodded. “And she is well?” She had thought there was little risk in her…slips. They had been merely inconveniences. But then this had happened, and she wasn’t quite certain what to do. She was preventing herself from panicking simply by concentrating on the moment, but when there was no longer anything for her to do—which would be soon—the sheer magnitude of this would crash over. She wanted to believe she would handle it well, but she was fairly certain that wasn’t true.

This meant there was no one around her who would be able to deal at all well. How wonderful.

"I told you before I was made to give up some memories in payment for crossing the Styx," she said, combing her fingers through her hair. "It appears not quite enough care was taken."

tklivory:

Haiku Meme 26/100 - Video Game Characters: Kratos
Rage comes not from strength,Nor fueled by demands of GodsLoss feeds his fury
(art by ~elmerc)

tklivory:

Haiku Meme 26/100 - Video Game Characters: Kratos


Rage comes not from strength,
Nor fueled by demands of Gods
Loss feeds his fury


(art by ~elmerc)

(via thebloodofgods)

Leave None Alive: || and dust;

tofreeaman:

She ached all over. This was, considering the amount of walking she’d most likely been doing, a perfectly normal thing. That didn’t, however, mean Lysandra liked it. She sat up and stretched, wincing. If that never happened again, it would be too soon.

She realized Kratos was…

She nodded, and turned towards the path that led down to the river. Walking hurt significantly more than it had last night, but that was perfectly normal. Her muscles would stop painting her eventually. (Her body worked the same, if not her mind.)

The bank was pebbled and flat here, unlike the steepness that was further downstream. She walked up to the water’s edge, and, without ceremony, pulled her chiton up over her head and off, and waded in. It was cold, but the current was slow enough to be safe. When it was up to her hips she dove under and came up gasping, her short hair (still unexpectedly so, she had expected it to be covering her eyes, which there was no longer nearly enough to do) slicked back. The water around her was turning slightly brown. It was only to be expected, however.

She turned her marred upwards, inspecting the scar. It was like none of the ones on her husband—this one was jagged and wide, not a mark made by any blade. She’d most likely simply fallen and gashed it open. Such things did happen. It was tender about the edges, but that was all.

No, the largest problem to come of this was tied to the mind.

She wasn’t clean just yet, and so she remained where she was. But she might as well do two things at once. “Before I left,” she asked, “Was I acting…oddly?” Her mind is fuzzed—she doesn’t believe so, but can she trust what her memories tell her? If she knows the signs, she can prevent it from happening again.

And she will prevent it from happening again.

Leave None Alive: || and dust;

thebloodofgods:

Time as a measurable dimension had long ago been out Kratos’ grasp, rendering this restless night protecting his significant other nothing more than minor impediment to overall comfort. A few breaths in and the sun had risen— a deceivingly short lapse of hours, how many he was far from aware. It…

She ached all over. This was, considering the amount of walking she’d most likely been doing, a perfectly normal thing. That didn’t, however, mean Lysandra liked it. She sat up and stretched, wincing. If that never happened again, it would be too soon.

She realized Kratos was sitting across from her. Had he been awake the entire night? “You should have slept,” she said gently. She might as well be a rock when Hypnos took her, but he had reflexes so honed that she’d known him to wake simply because she’d turned over.

Lysandra rose and ran a hand through her hair. She did not at all like the feel of it. It needed washing, and now. “I’m going down to the river,” she said. He could come if he chose—it wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen everything that there was to see multiple times.

Leave None Alive: Redeo

tofreeaman:

“I suppose I should be.” The truth is that she doesn’t know. She can’t remember the last time she slept. It may only have been hours ago. It may have been days, and the fatigue has yet to catch up with her because there’s something very wrong. There is no way of telling.

“But…

She smiles, though she is fairly certain it cannot be seen in the dark, and takes his hand. She would have missed him, if she’d been able. She would have missed Calliope, as well. (That will be hard to explain, when the time comes. He surely cannot have done it well; for all she loves him, this is not an area he excels in. But now is not then, and there’s no use in worrying about it so long before it will come to pass.)

It is a longer walk than she thought it would be—or perhaps it’s simply that the fatigue is catching up with her. It’s creeping up, inch by inch, and by the time they finally reach their destination and she sinks onto the pallet serving as a bed, she’s more than ready to sleep. If it’s because she’s truly tired or because her mind has convinced her body that it should be, she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t particularly care. In the morning, they’ll deal with the consequences of her affliction.

For now, all she wants is a night’s rest.