#thursdy

built of the earth, born of the divine    (    carefully shaped by the hands of anu    &    aruru, a beast made of clay    )    left to wander the earth with only the barest strings of purpose. the chains of heaven; meant to return a demigod to their own pantheon. how foolish that command was, for something which had no sense of self, had no understanding of the world around it but for the chiming melody of a priestess’ voice in their ear    (    charmed into a human guise, made in her image    ).    how little they truly understood even then    (    oh, but their purpose was now known having since been granted something similar to a soul    —    a piece of knowledge tightly grasped blooming into full understanding    ).    they had wished to walk amongst humanity. for that, they know, they had died.

their body was not their own, their existence not their choice. 

it was interesting how, then, they had ended up here. further still born of a false war    &    left against all odds within the throne, should they not have been summoned for a purpose   ?    a discrepancy against the rest    (    demigods    &    kings, the easy way with which all walked along the earth in light of its creatures    ).    they were born to notice the divine, not learn that of mortality, it should never have made it into their essence.

all of which is why that before them was so much more noticeable. the base components, of course, were easy enough    —    the simplistic gaze of that which knows little else could make out the form of a man sitting quietly on a bench. enkidu was not made of the same pieces that confined humanity into its pockets of understanding    (    those driven by magic to fix that, reach a new plane, uninteresting to them    ).    no, instead they saw the slumped form of something much grander; shuffling between images    &    burning with the same divinity only granted by gods. the crackle of energy in the air easy enough to distinguish from the cries of the earth below    (    barefoot in the cold wind of autumn, shock of summer a bright mark against the dull chill of reds    &    browns    &    the smell of decay; the earth claims all but they were no longer cursed to bear such    ).    the distant clash of thunder bringing a smile to their lips.

quiet steps, careful in their approach with bright gaze peering past the shell to the expanse beyond. oh, enkidu knew of the other careful creations of the universe, partaken in the magic the divine wrought    (    a weapon, the carefully formed dirt turned sentience not the same as divinity shoved into something which can barely confine it    ).    gently their fingers touched the arm of the bench; white fabric blown in the wind, the echo of the earth in their chest. 

there is brimstone echoing through tranquility, bright swaths of stained glass painting a disconcerting picture throughout the stone    &    wood trappings    —    much the same as any other worn boots had traversed in his years    (    children tucked away under the pastors watch, creeping into the crypts below, holy ground as safe as it became dangerous    ).    snippets of the darkness twisting in the corners, reaching for something. salvation    ?    depravity    ?    a source of familiarity. there is grief here    (    is there not always    ?    lost souls seeking redemption at the hands of ignorant idols, claiming lives with little care    ),    faded into the walls in a tapestry of lost crusades. how foolish to believe such a place would hold any answers; foolhardy belief in the divine caring for the mortal.    (    again, there is blood on his hands, under his nails up his arms painted down the aisles its own harrowing beauty before reality snaps back into focus    ).

they should not have saved him. the echo hurts. 

it was always funny how such choices came back to prove haunting; how looking in a mirror    &    finding old eyes brought about more anxieties then climbing out of his own, desecrated grave    (    staring into it with the single minded focus of one who should not be. what's dead should stay dead a mantra long lost    ).    previous trips backwards    —    forwards    —    round    &    round the fractured structure of here    &    now    &    then. visions of the past matched visions of the future as punishment demanding his head as a solution    (    it was always the winchesters stirring up trouble, how many more horrors did they cause then they ended    ?    ).    mental laughter    !    was it ever really about the unique “purity” of his soul or was that a lie, too. there was nothing righteous left here, complimenting a structure that reeked of “divine intervention." now the question was just who. it's not like this is a first. 

but was the hunters own time a better option    ?    the banging crescendo of bloodlust pounding in his skull a battle march hard to ignore    (    but here there was no blade in hand to provide sirens song, a solid hold in brittle bone to grab onto    ).    ghost of a touch along the holy to match disillusions bitter eyeroll. he should never have come here. 

turning to head right back out that door    (    to find answers, surely, from someone. there was no place without even the semblance of a formal head    ).    heaven, hell, all that in between    —    if it hadn’t mattered then why would it matter now    ?    dean had told them to leave him alone    (    bloody blade but inches away but a warning. a promise    ?    he didn't know anymore. bodies scattered a picture perfect image of cruelty     ).    perhaps this was a better option, to stay    &    serve out whatever time bored immortality crafted for another chapter. somewhere to live out the last years of clear cut sanity before the curse wore out what little of him was left. 

a flash of green catching on a sight teasing at memory, frown long hardened on his face; shock of black atop a splash of tan.    (    I'm the one that will have to watch you murder the world    ).    the burning anger surging in the hunters gut as much a warning as any    —    fingers curled into a fist as his side    (    bloody memory of a loose hand on his wrist, fury in bruised knuckles    &    blood stained faces; fight back    )    to match the low thrum of action the mark sang. teetering on the edge of compulsion. you should have killed me when you had the chance. 

it was a few steps forward, one step back. 

bone weary at the sight of the angel perched in a pew within a house of god    —    a sight not seen in years    (    no, not since before the leviathan, before purgatory    &    abaddon    &    death's quiet warning. always before    ).    is this where she had driven him    ?    that bird on his shoulder, tempting the angel back to the host. the voices of the chaotic fallen hovering in life's peripherals    ?    back to following the ill understood commands of an absent father    (    the discordant clash of a symphony in pieces    );    dean couldn't even find himself surprised. it has been but days ago green was painted in black, mortality a fickle notion to a knight    (    the smooth grip of a handle grasped with a low buzzing thrill in the hunt    ).    humans felt to much    —    demons felt to little.

at war with himself, in the end. 

demands bubbling up past the anger    &    the hurt, betrayal    (    in a way, just let him go    ).    partial understanding in the limitations of stolen grace doing nothing to pause the echo of his steps    —    send me back home    (    was it stolen grace or but another squabble amongst bitter siblings in a race to regain their wings    ?    ),    send us back home    (    what did it matter    ).    whisper in the quiet sway of fabric    &    the low burn of candles    —    why did you even bring me here    ?    —    voice in his head snorting at the sheer thought of that angel even having the will to get back up; tattered feathers on shredded wings    (    someone always to blame. was it not his own fault such a creature now stood chained    &    discarded from its home    ).    dull noise climbing the walls coming to a standstill, arms crossed with heavy gaze resting on the other    (    don't follow me, next time I won't miss    ).

Welcome back to lovely Isola Radiale, Castiel!

You will be housed in APARTMENT 310!

You will retain everything you were given in your previous stay.

Enjoy your stay!

Welcome to Eversanctum, Castiel.

You awaken in the Grove with a key to cabin 05 clutched in your hand.

You have retained the ability to fly.

Upon checking out your room, you’ll find your angel-blade inside.

You are safe here, Saved One.

Welcome back to scenic Isola Radiale, Castiel!

You will be housed in TOWNOUSE 217.

You will retain everything you had in your previous stay.

PLEASE NOTE: Because you were removed in an activity check, you have one week to make three in-character posts or else you will be considered inactive once more.

quiet was, for a long time, something he had sought after with a driven purpose    (    normalcy, freedom. are they not one    &    the same    ?    ).    over    &    over running    (    always running    )    from the faces    &    expectations around him to seek a different outcome. what the demigod had learned was there was no running    —    a prophecy is a potent, unyielding thing. there was no escaping such a destiny; the curse of such a burden he often ignored. carefully he rolled the pen between his hands with a mild sense of wonder    (    zoë's image not visible in this sky, her story never one to be shared    ).    how long had it been since he had last held this blade    ?    falling falling falling; the rush of blood pounding away with screams of rage    &    the roar of thunder, unsteady on the wrath of the earth below.

he would toss the thing but, just like it used to, riptide always came back.

it was almost terrifying to think of everything else that came with this.....    gift. a horrifying sense of unpredictability    (    he could feel it now, louder. the brush of magic calling to him. how the dirt beneath his sneakers felt so much more tangible then ever before    —    unsure if there was ever a way to be prepared for such an oncoming storm    ).

huffed breath, dragging a hand through his hair    (    trying to ignore the careful way it shook; the demigod wasn’t sure if he was ready for the inevitable. feeling the full force of his father’s legacy pounding in his veins    ).    even with everything else this city had been good for at least one thing. the freedom to explore the type of normalcy he had long dreamed of otherwise unobtainable    (    but in a lost way. he was, still, alone    ),    even if it left percy feeling jittery with the unpredictability. the years had worn a different person into his bones, he was no longer the hero gifted such an important item.    &    yet, fingers sliding along riptide’s cap    (    a dare to check, to see if the blade still softly glowed bronze in the dying light. if the magic which crafted its sorrowful curse was still there    ).    with a sudden mask of anger the pen was thrown as far as possible. the spike of rage leaving him panting; turning on his heel    (    sneakers digging into the sand    —    what was it they had said    ?    the predictable place to seek a son of the sea god was always near the water    —    as the waves behind started to crash harder against the shore    )    before making his way down the beach. the sword would be back in his pocket before he got far, anyway.

          [    ⤜    injury / hurt prompts    !!    *:･ﾟ✧     ]

@thursdy​​​​    ╱      “ hey, you can talk to me. ”

it is with those words that dean can’t stand to look at the angel anymore    (    passing thought of how little this was deserved, how horrible this test was. for what else could it be    ?    placed into a world where the angel was still so unburdened    &    he was proof that castiel’s every choice wasn't worth it    ).    the silence might as well be a cry, a plea for help, the desperate wish of the dead. the hunter turned away    (    can’t look at his face, demons are supposed to lie    !    the very touch of you corrupts. when castiel first laid a hand on you in hell he was lost    —    the burning sear of the mark proof he should have been left there, how it all circles back    )    with mouth set in a hard frown. the words barely a whisper in his mind; eyes locked onto clenched fists    (    a choked sob pushed back where it will never see the light of day    ).    parody of what he most wanted    &    what he couldn't have wrapped into a phrase so loaded it was comical    —    dean didn't know which was worse.     ❝     no, I don't think I should.     ❞     you're not you, not the one I know not the one who's fallen    &    risen    &    stumbled for years    (    following dean's own broken example    ).    words spoken in prayers, hushed    &    pleading in the dead of night. it almost felt like cheating, an easy way to break the universe. to spill all the secrets found within gaps earth never accounted for; heaven    &    hell    &    purgatory alike. this castiel made it feel worse then anything those back home could have said. a picture perfect image of how much the claims ring true.     ❝     I’m the one who should be offering, anyway. not like anything you say at this point could be surprising.     ❞     deep breath in, slowly letting it out before turning back to the angel    (    his angel, was it not    ?    seraph turned guardian standing with the strength of heaven’s might instead of the fallen desperation of lost grace    ).     ❝     you don’t understand cas,    &    I’m pretty sure it would be wrong of me to even try    &    explain. there are things that have happened I’m not sure you are ready to know    &    I certainly don’t think I will plan to share.     ❞     no, because some of those were his. dirty fingers grasped onto that coat, the relief in seeing him alive    (    over    &    over    &    over. what had they done to deserve this    ?    )    easily tempering the anger in the lies    &    deceit.

@thursdy​ said:  ‘ tell me one truth and one lie. ’