Archetype: the Magician

A person who is skilled in magic; sorcerer

Visionary, catalyst, manipulative, charmer

 

He could feel the power running through his vein. How good he felt! It was like hot chocolate run through it, warming him from inside as if one thousand suns were burning in the core of his body.

And yet it was the only one of the numerous feeling that filled every corner of his being. The most magnificent of all, the one that he could find it next to his soul, was the satisfaction of being right. The high feeling of being superior to everyone else, the feeling of not letting it go.

Everyone told him throughout the duration of his life that he cannot do it, that he cannot achieve victory. All his life someone told him that he was wrong and that the laws of nature and magic cannot be bent to one’s will.

It was a difficult task, it felt as if he had to climb a mountain made out of sand. It was not an impossible task, all the young magician needed to do was to be patient. To learn, observe, connect the dots and reinvent the maze of life. All he had to do was to keep his eyes open and not shy away from any evidence, no matter where he found it.

The rise of the army of the dead, the souls thought to be lost to the living world forever tugged at his skin like a million bees tried to escape through his skin. He had won, he managed to give life back to those who lost it.

World was beautiful. Why did he have to listen to the priests that made a dream of the afterlife? The life they already lived mattered, and they wanted them to not live the present for a promised land.

Why did he have to listen to the Kings and Queens who liked to have the power for themselves and keep the little delights and wonders of everyday life away from the common man? They played their power games and cared for no one else except the illusion of superiority.

Why did he have to be either the villain or the damsel in distress for the Heroes to feel self –righteous and needed? He could lead his own life without anyone else telling him how to live it.

The Magician laughed over the pool of rain and sweat gathering at his feet. All would be happy. He, his wife, the people who had lost someone who loved more than their lives. The dead came back to life and all would rejoice. Justice was given to the poor souls and those who missed them.

Justice would be given and that would be enough for him.

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Archetype: the Hero

A man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities

Brave, noble headstrong, naïve, self-righteous

The man was about to strike one last time, the final strike. He was close now to the end of this bitter story. And what an end it was, worth to be sung across the seas and repeated till the end of days.

He raised his heavy sword high above his head. It never felt heavier before that rainy night. Memories, expiriences and guilt of love were materials that could make a man’s hand difficult to move, difficult to do what he had to do.

All those years he had spent trying to understand the man kneeling in front of him slowed him down for a second. The Hero never truly understand the depths of his friend’s heart, but he loved him. All those feelings were spend in the air now, he would never have a chance to try and understand him.

The Hero knew that his victory over the magician would be sung among the women and it would make their hearts cry. It was fitting after all he had cried bitter tears in his souls as well. He loved the magician as his own brother even though he never comprehended his motives, so different from his own. It pained him to do the deed, but someone had to put an end to his reign of terror.

The Hero wished he could travel back in time, to make him change his mind, to convince him that knowledge was not all that there was in the world, that sometimes, the magic can turn black and hurt people. He let his hand fall down and his sword to go through his old brother’s head.

As the Magician’s head rolled down to the wet street, the Hero let his tears trickle down his face. He had robbed him of his life, his dreams, his greater achievement. The Hero knew that he was a brilliant man, but he could not save him anymore.

His enemy’s blood was spreading on the wet floor, mixing with the rain. He knew that on the same way the blood was wasted away, the undead horrors he had unleashed were scattered in the air.

Only his death would bring the Kingdom salvation.

Only his death would redeem him for all he did.

Only his death could tear the Hero’s sanity to pieces.

But this was his role; to do the right thing no matter the personal consequences. He really hoped they will sing his deed till the end of time because he had sacrificed a lot to be brave, right and protect the weak.

 

 

AN: Listen also this awesome mix

I am not a nice person

I am not a nice person. I feel bad about it but it is the truth.

I want the city to burn down, so I can feel free. I want people to suffer with me, feel bad when I feel bad.  I want to tell them all the mean things I think of them and let my words cut them deeper than words, bleed their emotions out. I want my crush to be happy, with me or else be alone and lonely as I am.

I want to be a Dark Queen that rules an empire full of my minions, I want to be the crazy doctor that finds how to make zombies, I want to be the dragon that kills the prince and steals the princess, I want to be the crazy cat lady that screws with everyones mind. I want to rule the world with iron and fire.

I am not a nice person, and I want to be free.

I have a meaness inside me, real as an organ. – Gillian Flynn, Dark Places

Archetype: The Rebel

A person who refuses allegiance to, resists, or rises in arms against the government or ruler of his or her country. Also a person who resists any authority, control, or tradition; Foolish, bratty, valiant, headstrong.

Before going out of the room, she straightened her head and back. She cleaned a bit her clothes and moved her small package under her jacket. Then she joined the masses on the street as if she was a part of them, as if she was a part of the common people. As if she was not carrying the only thing that could destroy the Queen.

While she was moving around, she felt like she was going to die. She felt like the small package waited as much as the whole world. Was it so hot today that made her sweat like a pig? Or was it the anxiety that made the sweat look like pearls on her face?

She was worried she would not be able to reach her destination without drawing any attention. She was afraid she would not be there on time. Every guard scared her; were there always so many of them? She thought that the shiny weapons were mocking her: We will taste your flesh and drink your blood. You cannot hide from us.

She continued walking around till she found the place she wanted to reach. Her breath quickened and without wanting to, the same happened to her pace. She wanted to break to a run, but then she felt a strong hand touch her shoulder and her heart stopped.

As she turned to face the guard, her stomach turned into a thousand snakes moving round and round. The Resistance will fail, and it is all my fault. The guard looked her into the eye, searching for something. His friend was checking a drawing on an old paper. She tried to remain calm.

How long did they look at her? One second? Two minutes? Three hours? She would never be able to tell. She stood still as a statue, with her eyes fixed on the ground. The guards liked the people to keep it low, to show respect. They thought they were ruling, just because they were the Queen’s guard. But finally they left her. When they disappeared in the corner, she covered the rest of the distance running. What a marvellous rebel she made.

AN: Inspired by the Archetype: The Rebel playlist on 8tracks. You may find the tracklist here. Or listen here. Italics are for thoughts. 

Archetype: The princess

Princess is a regal rank and the feminine equivalent of prince. Most often, the term has been used for the consort of a prince or for the daughters of a king or sovereign prince.

Gentle, brave, pure, daring, innocent

I am a boring person that has never gained anything here. These were the thoughts in her mind. Those were her words, and she was right. Because what was she? A princess, a high born lady. She was just lucky to be born within the royal chamber and not out of it.

Who was she? A princess. The youngest daughter of the King and Queen. She was beautiful, and well dressed and perfect manners. But so were all her sisters. They were perfect little dolls, ready to decorate some prince’s court.

She did not want to be like this. She wanted to be someone, to do something, to be strong as the man pulling the mail wagon, or as brave as the knight that guards her father. She wanted to be as clever as the clerk in the chapel of the palace, she wanted to be as adventurous as the sailors that arrive every day at the city ports. She wanted to be someone who she wanted to be, someone who she decided and not what others had told her.

She would change and be the hero of her own story. The question was though who did she want to be? And more importantly, could she become who she wanted to? Did she have what she needed to? The princess had to find out for herself. She had to take the leap and start the journey to find herself.

She wanted and had to change. But what if she could not do it? Then what?

I will always be a boring princess.

Archetype: the fallen

having dropped or come down from a higher place, from an upright position, or from a higher level, degree, amount, quality, value, number, etc.; degraded or immoral.; (of a woman) having lost her chastity.; overthrown, destroyed, or conquered; dead.

The Black Queen moved closer to the window. The day was foggy and cold; she couldn’t see the dead trees bellow her. The weather matched her mood; cold and angry. She had reached that point where the flames of her anger had been burned out and now its ashes turned into ice. Her anger did not fuel everything fuel moment anymore, but rather had made her breathing slow and painful. She had lost and anger made her bitter.

The Black Queen was beautiful and powerful. Or at least she was both till a younger princess stepped inside her castle. She could do a lot of things while she reigned, she was resourceful and full of energy. She could feed a thousand people out of her hand for a hundred days if she wanted to. She could expand her territory by a single snap of her fingers. She could weave the most unexpected plans and make her enemies suffer; everyone dreaded her, fear was connected with her name. She ruled with an iron fist and covered up her actions with honeyed words. Everyone loved her and hated, and they despaired about that. She was the best Queen this Queendom ever needed.

But she had to come along and make her fall. The fall was fast but not without a fight. The Black Queen liked to think that her fallen was that of a shooting star. It was bright and warm; all across the seas people could admire her last efforts to keep her Queendom from the hands of the little foolish woman. She had put up an angry fight, hot and strong, equal to the bright and plentiful years of her reign. She was called the Black Queen, and now that she fell she felt for the first time like that. The drop from her high throne had killed and she was afraid to admit it even to herself. She was afraid to admit that she hoped she could learn to fly; she could whisper it only to herself. Not that it mattered anymore; there was no one there for her to tell her secret anymore. She felt small and tired. During her nineteen years rule, the Black Queen never felt like that. Now melancholy was in heart, and the weather matched her mood so well.

The Black Queen could not see the ground, but she wondered, how far away it was? She had tried to learn to fly and she failed. She had fallen from higher up, and the fall had left her broken and disgraced. Maybe, this time she could fly, she could learn to survive in a different world than the one she was used to. She pushed open the window and sat on the cold marble ledge. Maybe she could learn to fly and go and sit on the dead trees of the garden. There she could start a new Queendom, where all the birds would bow to her and she would take care of them. She would important again and no one would ever think that she was degraded. She would be perfect again, shining and hot. She would be the Queen of the birds.

Maybe she had learned to fly after all.

AN: Inspired by the 8track mix “Archetype: The Fallen” by selenne. Check it out here.