11-23-2017, 02:08 PM
MAKE ME A HERCULES  / please don't feel pressured to match the length! tbh most of it's not that important except character-wise; the last few paragraphs are the only ones you actually need to read. trigger warning for (internal?) discussion about death, implied suicide, loss, very twisted and unhealthy framing of all of the above (his current state of mind is heavily influenced by past trauma; he's not in a good place right now). also, there's a brief moment where the narrator addresses the reader, as well as a lot of repetition.
People die every day.
Some of those people, they die in dignity. Maybe they gave their life to save others'. Maybe they died heroes, martyrs, champions of noble causes and knights of war, no matter how small or how peaceful. Maybe they died and it was the only fitting end, a neat little bow to wrap up many long years of accomplishment, of genius, of mastery, and of, ultimately, fulfillment. These people, they will have their deeds writ into the fabric of history. They will have their names declared to heart-sick, hungry masses, searching for hope in ambiguous times; or breathed reverently in darkened corners, defiant of the scorching light seeking only to burn. They will have their faces carved into memory, graffitied onto walls, captured in the delicate strokes of a brush. They will be rememberedâ€â€Âfor their service, their strength, their bravery, their words, their resilience, their persistence, their love. For thousands of things, and each one will have innumerable disciples singing praises 'til they too find themselves on the other side.
And yet others die in shame. He knows this, and not from books. Not from memoirs or biographies or letters written in secret from eras less kind to the poor souls living them. He knows this, because he's done it. Died, that isâ€â€Âshamefully so!â€â€Âand no picture you paint will ever make it worthy of anything but disdain.
Humor me for a moment: take a man, and give him what he needs. Give him what he deserves. Give him what he wants. Give him a clan of heroes, of builders, of makers. Give him a proud and passionate sister for him to adore. Give him a mother with the sacred strength of the Gods in her bones. Give him friends whose faith in him is stronger than the bonds between this universe. Give him a job he loves, offering aid to those in need with a kind smile and a word of comfort. Give him a mentor he idolizes and yearns to become. Give him a lover, kind and beautiful and brilliant. Take a man, and give him everything.
Now, take all of that away. Do it slowly, carefully, so that he does not see the ground beneath him crumble until he has hit the ground. Cast his loved ones into unfavorable light, have them find solace in others, or take them away completely. Turn his passions into rotted shells of what they once were, 'til they are nothing but macabre toys so far gone from the visions of compassion he once entertained. Little by little, pull him apart. Undo the foundations of his stability. Leave him aching for what's just out of reach, and take that away, too.
What do you get?
Fate, for some nebulous, inexplicable reason, brought him back to life, to a world somehow more unrecognizable than when he left it. The period between then and now was indescribable, in that it was purely horrifying and not one part of him was at ease at any given point during that time. Surprisingly, when one has been possessed by a malicious spirit seeking to fulfill a still-unclear goal that was not completed during life, one tends to find living in a hellscape brimming with ghosts uncomfortable (to say the least). But his stay there was briefâ€â€Âunremarkable, even. As with his return to the land of the living, he woke up, and he was elsewhere. A disorienting experience the first time, but the second time? He, understandably, chose to react with frustration and helpless rage. Death may have been dreary and dull, but at least he hadn't had to deal with this bullshit. Still, when his anger cleared and a modicum of level-headedness returned to him, he decided to keep moving. He wasn't keen on dying again.
The body he's in is still missing its left hind leg. A clouded leopard, and a small one, true to form, with less meat on its bones than would be considered healthy. The limp, he's used to. But adjusting to the shape of an ocelot was hard enough; if the universe wanted him back so badly, they could at least give him a serval body. Oddly enough (and he's familiar with powers, growing up with them all his life) he can't seem to sense the ocelot form, much less change into it. He guesses it's dead, perhaps. Maybe he's lost the ability to shapeshift. Well, it's not a huge loss. He hated the damn thing anyway; couldn't control it half the time.
This body is, he notes, younger than his near-four years of age (which isn't that old, by serval standards, though it's admittedly not young either). Perhaps only a few months out of adolescenceâ€â€Âan adult, but the kind of adult that has older adults simpering indulgently at you with unnecessary condescension. Dear Gods, will people think he's a moody teenager if he tells them to leave him alone and to mind their own business. He doesn't think he could stand that. The leg (or lack thereof) might garner some pity, though. Which could be a hundred times worse. This is why he prefers being alone. Justâ€â€Âhe never exactly learned to hunt or fight. Too busy learning the ways of a healer, he supposes. The thought puts a frown on his face, so he quickly sets it aside and keeps moving. Can't avoid anyone if there's no one to avoid, after all.
He stumbles into the scent-markings completely by accident. Not to the point where he's tresspassing, thankfully; he'd rather not deal with territorial assholes with control freak tendencies. But he's at a border, somewhere, wherever that is, and "somewhere" has a desolate city towering against the pale sky. He concludes fairly quickly that this is not a human-infested place (too overgrown; humans and nature don't get along), and that it is, in fact, judging by the various scents of different animals around, clan territory. Just what the doctor ordered, albeit reluctantly. Easing his strained, horrifically unfit muscles, he sits down and does what everyone generally does in these situations: wait.
People die every day.
Some of those people, they die in dignity. Maybe they gave their life to save others'. Maybe they died heroes, martyrs, champions of noble causes and knights of war, no matter how small or how peaceful. Maybe they died and it was the only fitting end, a neat little bow to wrap up many long years of accomplishment, of genius, of mastery, and of, ultimately, fulfillment. These people, they will have their deeds writ into the fabric of history. They will have their names declared to heart-sick, hungry masses, searching for hope in ambiguous times; or breathed reverently in darkened corners, defiant of the scorching light seeking only to burn. They will have their faces carved into memory, graffitied onto walls, captured in the delicate strokes of a brush. They will be rememberedâ€â€Âfor their service, their strength, their bravery, their words, their resilience, their persistence, their love. For thousands of things, and each one will have innumerable disciples singing praises 'til they too find themselves on the other side.
And yet others die in shame. He knows this, and not from books. Not from memoirs or biographies or letters written in secret from eras less kind to the poor souls living them. He knows this, because he's done it. Died, that isâ€â€Âshamefully so!â€â€Âand no picture you paint will ever make it worthy of anything but disdain.
Humor me for a moment: take a man, and give him what he needs. Give him what he deserves. Give him what he wants. Give him a clan of heroes, of builders, of makers. Give him a proud and passionate sister for him to adore. Give him a mother with the sacred strength of the Gods in her bones. Give him friends whose faith in him is stronger than the bonds between this universe. Give him a job he loves, offering aid to those in need with a kind smile and a word of comfort. Give him a mentor he idolizes and yearns to become. Give him a lover, kind and beautiful and brilliant. Take a man, and give him everything.
Now, take all of that away. Do it slowly, carefully, so that he does not see the ground beneath him crumble until he has hit the ground. Cast his loved ones into unfavorable light, have them find solace in others, or take them away completely. Turn his passions into rotted shells of what they once were, 'til they are nothing but macabre toys so far gone from the visions of compassion he once entertained. Little by little, pull him apart. Undo the foundations of his stability. Leave him aching for what's just out of reach, and take that away, too.
What do you get?
Fate, for some nebulous, inexplicable reason, brought him back to life, to a world somehow more unrecognizable than when he left it. The period between then and now was indescribable, in that it was purely horrifying and not one part of him was at ease at any given point during that time. Surprisingly, when one has been possessed by a malicious spirit seeking to fulfill a still-unclear goal that was not completed during life, one tends to find living in a hellscape brimming with ghosts uncomfortable (to say the least). But his stay there was briefâ€â€Âunremarkable, even. As with his return to the land of the living, he woke up, and he was elsewhere. A disorienting experience the first time, but the second time? He, understandably, chose to react with frustration and helpless rage. Death may have been dreary and dull, but at least he hadn't had to deal with this bullshit. Still, when his anger cleared and a modicum of level-headedness returned to him, he decided to keep moving. He wasn't keen on dying again.
The body he's in is still missing its left hind leg. A clouded leopard, and a small one, true to form, with less meat on its bones than would be considered healthy. The limp, he's used to. But adjusting to the shape of an ocelot was hard enough; if the universe wanted him back so badly, they could at least give him a serval body. Oddly enough (and he's familiar with powers, growing up with them all his life) he can't seem to sense the ocelot form, much less change into it. He guesses it's dead, perhaps. Maybe he's lost the ability to shapeshift. Well, it's not a huge loss. He hated the damn thing anyway; couldn't control it half the time.
This body is, he notes, younger than his near-four years of age (which isn't that old, by serval standards, though it's admittedly not young either). Perhaps only a few months out of adolescenceâ€â€Âan adult, but the kind of adult that has older adults simpering indulgently at you with unnecessary condescension. Dear Gods, will people think he's a moody teenager if he tells them to leave him alone and to mind their own business. He doesn't think he could stand that. The leg (or lack thereof) might garner some pity, though. Which could be a hundred times worse. This is why he prefers being alone. Justâ€â€Âhe never exactly learned to hunt or fight. Too busy learning the ways of a healer, he supposes. The thought puts a frown on his face, so he quickly sets it aside and keeps moving. Can't avoid anyone if there's no one to avoid, after all.
He stumbles into the scent-markings completely by accident. Not to the point where he's tresspassing, thankfully; he'd rather not deal with territorial assholes with control freak tendencies. But he's at a border, somewhere, wherever that is, and "somewhere" has a desolate city towering against the pale sky. He concludes fairly quickly that this is not a human-infested place (too overgrown; humans and nature don't get along), and that it is, in fact, judging by the various scents of different animals around, clan territory. Just what the doctor ordered, albeit reluctantly. Easing his strained, horrifically unfit muscles, he sits down and does what everyone generally does in these situations: wait.
