There's A Method To My Madness There's A Secret To This Town There's A Reason Why I'm Still Living Here

History repeats itself

is this anything? are there enough of us jsmn enjoyers out there for this to be anything?

High King Peter the Magnificent; War; Sword of Aslan; the Boy-King; the Once-And-Future-King

before, in the shadows of a life that has long ceased to be your own, war was suits and uniforms, severe men and overworked mothers. war was looming large, approaching fast. war was terror lurking in the skies, a constant fear of the open air. war was everywhere; your brother and sister forever slighted by all things turned into luxury inside your home. and sure, you only remember the before once it turns into the after, but war—no matter the where of it all, you remember war.

war: standing tall, standing straight, standing with the weight of worlds borne on youthful shoulders; war: a shadow, a streak of vivid red and vicious gold; war: a man-turned-boy-turned-man.

war: steady arms that cling with welcome desperation, a rallying cry that makes your heart burn bright; war: a stumbling boy bearing skies that turn red before they ever find their blue. war: familiar like no other, from cradle to your shaking adult hands.

before-turned-after, you hear your mother—unsweetened tea, old perfumes, and factory oils scrubbed out with rationed soap—whisper to her friends about war. you sit on wooden steps—not stone, never stone in the after—and dig your nails into your shins. war, forever burning bright, sits at your back with the skies and the sword's edge. you lean to feel the shift in his breath, to remember that with everything lost, war remains.

she let the war in, your mother says in words tinted with war-weak drink. she lets war sleep on the same floor as her children, she confesses, like a wolf amongst sheep. you dig your nails deeper. war, his forehead against your back, sighs.

you know war best, cradle to the here and now. he wipes your tears with too-soft hands until you miss the swords and bows like the air inside your lungs. he brushes your sister's hair, listens to your brother with intent. war holds it together in the cracked marble that you've all become. war, warm and familiar, holds on tight.

when you start to wear your mother's old dresses, outgrowing your own, when you start to paint your lips a new shade of red, war's reflection almost cracks the fragile glass of your composure. he watches, looming, bearing the crimson skies like a gift rather than the curse it grew to be. his eyes—blue still, too blue for england clouds and england air—carry even more, a looking glass for worlds long closed to you and him. the curve of his smile makes you ache for string and wood, makes your fingers crave the weight of pulling it all taut. his shoulders are broad, his hands calloused again.

over your shoulder, your mirror shows a sword stained beyond repair. you ache with the wish for the battlefield. you fear it as you always did, even when you called it home. war, a rag in hand and shoulders straight, hums in tune with the memory of arrows loosened from your gentle hands.

you leave before the blood can reach your polished shoes.

——susan pevensie learns of ares, of atlas, of war on a horse. she weeps for the brother she finds in them.

ben jones (jason hughes) in midsomer murders season nine

h of h playbook | anne carson (insp, insp, and insp)

The Dawn Kingdom Falls

She smiled at the sky, raindrops falling on her face through the dying rays of dusk. They rolled across her skin, soaking the tattered and bloodstained clothes she wore, hitting the dusty ground beneath her feet.

The cloven crown in her hands bled red, cracked and filthy. It's weight against her fingers was one of the few sensations she could feel, hours of furious battle having rendered them numb.

Her smile twisted, salty raindrops mixing with the others on her lashes. Everything around her was silent and unmoving, the sound of her breathing was like bells in her ears.

The sun shone brightly through the clouds pouring down on her, attempting to wash away the pain and sorrow drowning the young princess. Somehow, through it all, she could feel the warmth.

They'd said she would fail, that her kingdom was doomed to fall at his feet. She challenged them, made clear her intention to fight to the last. What is death, the princess told them, oh so passionately, compared to a life in chains?

Now, only she did not become acquainted with the welcoming hands of death. Around her, all the men and women who followed her so valiantly were lying, broken and slaughtered.

Through the dust she could see him, the one who brought everything down. His eyes glinted, the sword at his side gleaming silver. The line of red dripping from it's edge left a river in his wake.

The young warrior princess knew how this ended. It happened to her father, her mother, her brother, now her. It stung she could not have died alongside her soldiers, rather than left until last. Even in death, separated from her people.

She stared determinedly at the sky, watching the light fade. The darker it became, the harder the rain fell. Soon, she was drenched, still clutching her shattered crown.

"I suppose it's true, what they say," he said calmly, raising the point of his blade, "some legends, they turn to gold; others, they turn to dust. Can you guess which one you shall be, Princess?"

His words dug deep, but in the gathering darkness, on a battlefield of destruction and death, the laughter of a girl rang out loud and clear.

With eyes of sparking blue, she looked him in the face, grinning and unafraid. "You are a fool, if you believe you will be dressed in gold in the words of history."

"I am the conqueror, the dragonheart, I am unstoppable! Your kingdom has crumbled, like all the others," he snarled, his thin face flushing red beneath the black helmet, "they will remember me for centuries!"

The princess laughed again, standing up from her place on the ground. "They will. But that gold will tarnish, it will fade and be forgotten. The legacy you have made for yourself is bloody and savage; when they tell the story of today, we will be the victors."

Now, he laughed. The sound used to make her smile, like no one else could. The prince she had loved died long ago, and this shell would not ruin her memories of that boy.

"Your kingdom is mine, your people are dead, and you are going to die in the dirt," he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

She grit her teeth, letting the golden crown hit the ground. Dust rose from it, pooling around her ankles. "Like I said, death is kinder than a life in chains. You may have defeated my armies, but you never defeated our spirit. We have fallen with hearts full of love for this land, in defiance of all you stand for. One day, when our story is told, they will sing of our valour! They will know how we spat in your face! They will know how your downfall started at the doorstep of our kingdom."

The blade fell before she could blink, just as the last light of the sun sank below the horizon, and her land was plunged into darkness. But she died with a smile on her face, a smile for a secret only she knew.

The Prince of Night would fall, and the architect of his demise was hidden away, far over the mountains. Her hair, like raven's wings, and her eyes, like sapphires. She wore a crown of golden thorns, and someday her father would feel it's bite.