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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
we're not kids anymore.
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@starlitikar
low activity writing blog for 𝐈𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬, inspired by marvel’s eternals & the mythic love for the wider marvel cinematic & comic universes. reinterpretations of 𝐜͟𝐞͟𝐥͟𝐞͟𝐬͟𝐭͟𝐢͟𝐚͟𝐥͟ 𝐢͟𝐧͟𝐟͟𝐥͟𝐮͟𝐞͟𝐧͟𝐜͟𝐞, & the complex morality of immortality in a mortal world. in addition to innovative worldbuilding that reimagines eternal life via a mythological and psychological lens, postings may explore heavenly mechanism, human faith, & the conflict between duty & desire.
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Rosa Chacel, from a diary entry featured in Diario, originally published in 1993
11:10 PM
uncertainty. sight that displayed irritation / anger that dwelled beneath the eyes of the storm. chaotic energy that crackles through the air around the scarlet witch, phalanges twitched, a daring motion of imagery 'pon mind to strike the individual before wanda. yet the presence he had articulated about, could it be chthon? a primordial entity, bestows magic 'pon the romani child, o'chosen vessel. [ HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE PICKED BY THE ELDER GOD, HIMSELF? ]
‘ there was a time back when i did not understand chaos magic itself, but now years later, here I am. becoming one of the magic that, chthon, himself, had given to me by touch when I was an infant. ’ phalanges danced, enticing the magic to dance betwixt gloved digits, never shifting her sight away from the other. for any help that she had endured, be it good or bad, wanda has the opportunity to control, to understand her powers. for it represents life [ & ] freedom, defying both the Grand Design [ & ] the Quiet Math of Creation.
‘ i had plenty of help, some good and some bad, what can you offer me that I don't already know? ’ curiosity, an interest in the what-if possibilities. yet there it was, a voice behind the back of her head: another fracture? Was another mental breakdown about to come [ & ] be unleashed again? no. she had hoped not.
ah, that name. the name chthon did not make him flinch. ancient names rarely did. the eternal being stood unmoved as the scarlet gnawed at the air between them, the sheer heat & probability collapsing into one another like a psalm spoken backwards. ikaris has watched the elder gods be born from quieter forces, watched them starve into their own being & seen them be buried beneath their own worship. “picked,” he repeated, almost with pity. the word tasted so human. gaze lifted; not to the sky, but throughout, as though scriptures were written behind the clouds & he alone was the one able to read the margins. “did you know how many have been chosen? celestials anointed worlds & called it balance. the elders carved their signature sinto bloodlines & called it destiny. i, i have stoood at the alters of both & i alone have watched them abandon their vessels the moment obedience sourced.” she misunderstands the design itself. creation was never meant ot be quiet. it was meant to be answered. chaos is not a sin. they fear it because it remembers a question they tried to erase. “what can i offer you?” a breath. a world seems to hold it with him. “not control. not absolution. not another voice pretending to be a god. i want to offer you a witness. someone who has seen the machinery behind fates & knows where the gears slip. this is where you stop pulling, not because you have to, but because you choose to live in what comes after. you are on the brink of authorship.”
Rainer Maria Rilke, from a poem titled "The Beauty Of You," featured in The Book of Hours
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11:10 PM Prisoners of memories
new years & the holiday season. it's a complicated relationship. it isn't really cold, but enstranged in a way only immortality can make it. he relishes the first time humans came up with the winter rituals, the bonfire built against the dark or the celebrations meant to prove they were not abandoned by the sun & looked upon the snowfall. the holiday isn't a nostalgia, it's an archaeology. a tradition layered & changed within time; the fires that came before nativity or the solstice myth before the beginning. but new years is even stranger. the logic & idea of a “fresh start” rings hollow to the eternal. for ikaris; time isn't a circle or a line. it's a tide, an ocean. it recedes, returns, collapses & reshapes. mortals celebrate survival. he measures it by celestial cycles. by how long a planet continues before its purpose is fulfilled.
“Arabesque” ≋ Daniel Adel ◆ Oil on Linen
The Timeline(s) of the Eternals
a love in the stars.
in the beginning, before cities of men; before the first light sparked in the void. ikaris beheld sersi with eyes that mirrored the light of that creation. she was the dawn upon a formless void. && he, an obedient creation to the will of the celestials, the creators. it was written in the stars alike adam & eve. the eternals who were duty-bound could yet be undone by the touch of a heart that knew mercy. beings ‘unable’ to evolve; yet touched by stars.
ikaris loved her as abraham loved an unseen god; an unwavering bond & faith, even when that faith demanded sacrifice; a temptation & salvation. she became his intercessor, a burning seraph. their love was not loud. it was not adorned with trumpets. it was in the stolen warmth of hands brushing against each other as they rebuilt cities that fell like jericho.
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.
. 𝐊𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒, 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙰𝚂𝚂.
It hurts the same as it did when it first happened.
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“does the sky really want to be black — stripped of life and colour, reduced to nothin’ despite the GRANDEUR of its vastness?” she counters, picking up the metaphor ikaris put down and unraveling its threads further, letting philosophy bloom where argument once stood. “or does the sky simply offer the stage upon which the stars can shine? i’ve always believed light and darkness are far closer than people think — really, they’re the two sides of the same coin, unable to exist without the other. bright things are easy to love, but darkness? it persists without praise just so light can exist at all. tell me, my dear ikaris, is that not just as noble and brave as anythin’ the light does, if not more?”
“observation duly noted. now, the million-dollar question remains: what to do with it?” she holds his gaze the way she holds her smiles: with tenderness. she’s content to let the question drift off into the air as a rhetorical flourish, but if the eternal chooses to answer, dazzler would be more than pleased to be illuminated by his view.
“oh, eros is just very… eros,” alison laughs, her funny bone struck clean by the dryness of ike’s delivery. “i can’t even argue against that with a straight face. light travels faster than sound, and some people seem brighter before they speak,” there’s no malice in her voice when she quips about the titan of limerence, only with the kind of mild exasperation she and ikaris share a tad too well. “with eros, however, there is no false’ advertisin’ ... what you see is exactly what you get. tragically.”
her ears perk up faster before the rest of her catches up. while her mind prepares to welcome ikaris’ message, her body makes ready for war in an instant. ike’s question, despite the oncoming dread of a threat yet to be seen, blesses her nerves with ephemeral relief; the relief that she’s not hearing things, the relief that then allows alison to act instead of merely react.
“oh, dear. impeccable timing,” she remarks wryly as cerulean fires ignite around her hands — small, concentrated blazes of light that lick and curl against her palms, a simple protective measure as she primes herself for defence. the luminary enables herself to hover slightly; attempting to steady herself on tremulous land would be a failed pursuit. while surveying the area for clues, her eyes find his again: “ten bucks says that’s a sentinel comin’ our way. should be a piece of cake to deal with those robotic, murderous PINHEADS… unless i’m terribly wrong and the only thing i’ll end up eatin’ is my own words.”
a sentinel, no this is something.. ikaris did not flinch at the azure weathering her alms. he'd witness suns grace beneath flares, the practice steadinnes beneath such bravado. even though the second the ground gave that simmering low, bone-deep groan. there's a chance in the eternals posture. a faint narrowing of eyes. a single breath held like a blade. the vibration in his ears as the street hummed again, a distortion rolled through the pavement like a heatwave torn out of chaos' ribcage.
“this is something older.” there's a shadow at first, at the far end of the block shuddering like a cat on the defensive; folding in on itself & then blooming outwards an anatomy that defied the structure of mortal & celestials. a mass of biometal, it's hide made of molten obsidian. multiple eye sblinked once across its own torso, each one shifting, primordial intelligence in its scan of the area. claws scraping the pavement like it was carving its claim into the planet.
a deviant. but it's older. so much older. one birthed in an age before language, when the celestials began sculpting life with sharper tools in their 7 days of creation. the creature screeched. a layered, discordant mix of several throats fighting over the right to mourn in a language lost in time.
“better start eating your words. i've killed it skind since before your sun finished forming the first solar storm. this is too much for you. this isn't a toy like your sentinels. this is what an eternal was made for.” it screeched once more, letting them know that it can hear them. that it can understand their language. evolved.
❛ uh huh — ❜ hellboy is only half listening. the smell of brine on the air, and that oppressive feeling of... magic not of the earth enveloped him in a nervous energy. he pulls the communicator out of his pocket, and finds that it is smashed and no longer working. figures. the tracker on his belt is also no longer flashing, which must mean it's lost connection. his ears prick up at the mention of not letting him go and alarms begin to sound off within him. maintaining a calm tone, hellboy addresses the being before him, ❛ i live in new york, buddy, all i want t'do is go home and take a long shower. but i get it... i get it. give me a second to think, yeah ? ❜
what he needs is information, and likely the only way to get it is to play along. within a matter of moments. everything had turned upside down. the current is above his head now, all he can do is try to swim to the surface. if new york isn't an option, then hellboy would have to figure out a different way out, ❛ how do we uh... go about figurin' out this cycle business? i don't see how i could fit into anythin' like that. ❜
alike an old cathedral door easing open & the desert hushes in reverence. ah, even the wind holds its breath. something other stirs beyond the dunes, ikaris speaks first;' his voice lacquered in the gravity of the cycle. he stares at hellboy the way prophets must have looked at omens. steady, unflinching, reading meaning where mortals see only coicidence. “in scripture, jonah did not choose the belly of the great beast.” he says, stepping forward until the sun burns a halo on his shoulders. “yet the storm dragged him down all the same. not a punishment but a revelaiton.”
there's a form knotting & unknotting as though deciding what shape best suits the pirkcle of brimstone beneath their feet. the way the air curdles, a wrongness that a demons footprint in aconsecrated ground. “your arrival woke it. the desert births no spirit unless summoned by anomaly or purpose. my eternals are unaware, unknown; but you remain to help me put the celestial back to sleep. arsihem the judge stirs.” this is a warning to the apocalypse, the light unfurls like the opening of ancient scrolls. “eson once scorched worlds for less than a shift such as this. if this spirit rose at ones feet, it's because the cosmos recognizes your lineage. so help me put the celestial back to his grave. my friends, ajak, sersi, thena, gilgamesh… they all saw this moment in the shimmer of a thousand stories. i refused to listen, to believe. their foresight combined pointed to this.”
