“Unlike myself, my sire was not a great lover of words. His art was war, and now the history books hail him as one of the world’s fiercest warriors, a fine king, a destroyer of worlds and, somehow, the builder of them too. That was the way of his life. History’s relationship with my father is complicated because he broke and shaped society with equal ease and determination. If there is anything of my father in me, then, it is my ability to destroy as easily as I create. In my younger years, it was a part of myself that I loathed. Older now, and wiser, I have come to understand that it is a necessary balance, the spark that sits at the heart of me, the driving force behind the story you now find at your hands, bound in countless tomes for your reading pleasure.
An Alexandrian librarian gifted me with a love of books and study, taught me to read and write, passed down the ancient, noble art of observation and chronicle. And one other thing. True tomes, Nizam told me, require a special composition: only the most durable calfskin leather, dried and cured till soft but firm, for the cover; fine paper, malleable but not too thin, able to withstand the press of a quill’s point and hold the ink’s bleed; sturdy binding, done with hands and heart and imbued with the sacred knowledge that the final piece will contain a story and nothing is more precious. Were Nizam alive now, he might think that I have forgotten most of the lessons he so painstakingly taught me. Perhaps, though, he would be pleased to know that his secret formula of making books to hold stories is one I have carried through more centuries than I care to count.
In short: this place feels like an oasis, a safe harbour, a home after months of none.
Longer: I have a history with shared spaces I refuse to apologise for; white women are a lot of unpaid work; I was not meant for such things as tools but I am determined, evidenced by the building of several pieces of furniture and being proud despite how much my body hurt, and for how long afterwards; holistic experiences of life and the soaring misery and glorious joy of the human experience are the only way forward and I don’t understand those who choose the soulless banality of not doing that; imagine not caring about someone’s backstory – it could never be me; the big windows let in a lot of light, which makes me happy because the nights have been dark for days; I don’t feel like just a visitor here anymore and am ready to claim this city as my own (which means knowing shortcuts); the mattress we purchased is one of the most comfortable surfaces I have ever laid my body down on; he is so much happier, I think, I can see it in the line of his shoulders, which sank and loosened; there is a fine line between happiness and contentment and most days it’s both, here in this quiet little haven.
Reconciling myself to the fact that I am the Ravenclawiest of all Ravenclaws.
Happy 20th anniversary beloveds <3
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Gabriel doesn’t speak to him for weeks.
The truth is, Michael doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. Except, the silent treatment begins after Uriel’s birthday party and there’s a lot of the night that Michael cannot remember. And he’s anxious because Uriel texted him the next day with vague allusions to the Lord’s chosen doing unspeakable, drunken things.
Gabriel keeps saying nothing, ducks sideways when he sees Michael coming down the corridor and ignores the many texts and missed calls. Acts like they haven’t worked together for years, gone on many a-mission, fucking saved people side by side. Gabriel doesn’t even glance his way, ever.
That’s why Michael is fucking flabbergasted to find Gabe in his office, sitting in his chair and incongruous, all soft blue leather and copper studding against the neutral decor, feet on the table, the sole of one boot adorned with a smear of ash from a recently crushed cigarette (angels are not supposed to goddamned smoke). Michael veers between hyperventilating and the fucking unholy heat clenching in his stomach.