I felt like writing something but I sat for like 30 minutes wondering what i could commit to and I decided that I couldn't commit to any singular idea so here's a hodgepodge of itty bitty drabbles that show my lack of commitment to one idea, but i guess now it covers slightly more ideas :) A bit of a midnight mind dump again
Ethos
Often, while sitting by the creek he enjoyed playing his piccolo at, he could not help but take a moment to dangle his fingers in the water, the gentle rapids pushing at his hand and shifting it. They had worn away at the rocks, the stones smooth and round no matter what form or shape the creek took, and he started to admire the process. It seemed that so many faeries only saw whittling away at the stone to be the right way to break it and erode it, reaching instantly for a tool to break it in half and destroy it, as if it were some entity in dire need of conquering. The creek was different, its placid movements steady and neutral. It domesticated the rock with humility, and he withdrew his hand to pick up a stone, his thumb running along its polished, tamed edge.
Water, however submissive, prevailed.
Steff
Sometimes, on her more pessimistic days, Steff didn't think people looked at her and saw her as anything more than the shy girl with the books, as if she had no capacity for change. Was she treated as the seasons, which altered year by year only to revert back to their original state, summarized by an outdated forecast that was, more than not, incorrect? Her seasons were not ephemeral, she tried to say, but many had no part in listening. It was difficult, people not accepting she had changed, for they often saw her in the same lens, painting her as meek - a person to protect. Perhaps, though, it was harder for her to see and accept that other people change too.
"""""
Ode to Raziel
Raziel, O keeper of mysteries and creator of the halflings,
Archangel of my blood, predecessor to my family Nephilim
Thou hath granted me a melodious fate to meddle with thine enemies
Slay thou my mind
The Clave stands as Pilate at thy crucifix, Yama in mirth,
Our Ba and Ka barred from afterlife, Osiris unwanting of angel blood,
Thy brethren draining River Styx, meaningless lives
I call on thee
For Carton's sacrifice is labeled fruitless in East of Eden,
We slay thy sly snake, those pitiful demon pawns,
Cursed with fruit of knowledge, thou art unmoved by Nachiketa's sacrifice,
O, grant me life's meaning
For if we are dust, how will our lives be verdurous,
As purpose is Atman without Brahman, stolen enlightenment,
The sun rises without care of demons or Nephilim alike,
What shall I become
Cole
Dried blood crusted his cheek where he wiped it from above his lip, staining his complexion, paler now with his fatigue and sickly nature. He had been careful to avoid anyone else in the Institute, for he did not want to be sent back to the Clave in such a state, but he did not think it would matter much anyway. He tried to force himself to care, but he found apathy was a symptom of his illness. Instead, he sat on the hard floorboards, his eyes trained on a book that he held delicately, skimming the words without really registering them. Tired, and plagued with a headache, the book closed, dangling from his hand and half-rested on the floor. He leaned back, his head rested against the wall as he willed the throb away and the world seemed to be silent, un-bothersome, empty even. And his eyes shifted to the ceiling to stare and his mind was stuck in silent neutrality and he could not quite hear the insistent knocking at his door.
Blake
"A fight?" Blakes eyes glimmered, his interest piqued. "Should I return to the Faerie? I have weapons."
"Ah, we've only come to tell you news, not invite you to join," the faerie sneered, his female companion seemingly amused. "The Knights don't want you to fight."
"That's ridiculous," he argued, frowning and he could not suppress a flicker of anger. "I'm an excellent fighter. Surely you need all the hands you can get for a fight against the Seelie."
"After your...excursion, you should understand why we're still evaluating your loyalty. We know you have a taste for Shadowhunter girls," the faerie girl laughed, reaching forward teasingly to brush a finger mockingly against his cheek, "So who's to say you're not consorting with the Seelie girls too, Malkoran?"
Blake recoiled, exhaling heavily to push away the urge to strike on instinct. "I dropped that family name long ago, and you will not call me by it again until you have anything useful to tell me."
"So sensitive. We'll update you on how the battle goes. Don't get into any trouble while we're gone," she continued, her eyes narrowing on him for a long second before she drew away, the other faerie trailing by her as they disappeared back into the throng of the Towns.
Jai
It seemed unfair, the blessing of privilege other people had and overlooked, their mouths running about first world problems when all he could think about was getting through the year, no, month without the landlord kicking him to the streets. He was tired, his glasses shielding his often exhausted gaze as he worked, still attentive to each customer, still the receiver of mindless jeers and jokes that he knew had no weight, but they were heavy nonetheless. If they knew half of what he dealt with, he still did not think they would care, neither did he want their pity. Was it too much to ask for a chance? It was silly to think that there was some endpoint of a comfortable life that sat at the top of the ladder but his hand was glued to the rungs.
It seemed as if the whole world was against people like him, for his blood did not do him well in such a purist land either. The Towns was a laundromat, separating the lights and the darks, the pure and the muddied while the 1% went to the dry cleaners and he was stuck pouring other people's drinks. That wasn't to say he wasn't grateful for each job he earned, but optimism often failed him. There had to be something better, but he wasn't sure he could always see it, no matter how many times he cleaned his glasses.
Cadyn
"You ever think about the future?"
"No, not really." Cadyn shook his head a little. "Why?"
Connor shrugged, inking runes onto a paper to help him remember. "Sometimes I think about when we're thirty and married and maybe parents-"
"Married? Parents?" Cadyn nearly choked on his spit. "Have you been bitten by something outrageously poisonous or absurd? You've never even had any interest in any girls and you're talking about marriage?"
"Just because I haven't pursued anything doesn't mean I haven't ever had any interests," Connor retorted, not angrily, but a little shocked. It was rare they ever found something to disagree on, much less something the other didn't know. "I just haven't, like, done anything about it because I feel like we take up enough of each other's times and that's more important."
Cadyn wrinkled his nose, finding his brother's interest odd for selfish reasons. "Ok-ay...Well, don't desert me..."
"I'm not going to." Connor sighed, suddenly uncomfortable. "Are you-"
"Upset? No." Cadyn went back to working on his papers from the Clave. Just disappointed.
"""""
Often, despite their similarities, it irked Cadyn that people always seemed to like his brother more. Connor was nicer, more personable, and easier to get along with, and Cadyn often perpetuated juvenile and obscene language, driving others they both might have liked away. Once, he had seen some girl flirting with his brother in Russia, and he'd told her off, harsher than he meant, but Connor was oblivious to it all so it didn't matter much anyway. He was never mad with his brother, no, but his protectiveness was palpable and it was only when they made it to New York that they realized they really never had any other friends. Connor didn't snap at people for no reason, nor did he keep his tongue sharp. People seemed to always address his brother first, and it was the first time Cadyn felt jealousy, because maybe if he died, people would only care that Connor would be sad.