My Atlas is 6’2” with skin color baked by the sun, and hands cracked and calloused. His shoulders are broad… kind of required in his line of work: Holding up the world. A world filled with Chaos, war and confusion, yet he only finds joy in it. I stand before him in awe. His shoulders flexed, and knees bent ever so slightly, he holds a globe of gold and woe rides atop his back. He says nothing, just looks ahead his face undaunted and steadfast. He looks an odd mix of serious and lost in thought. A bit of harsh and soft blending on his face. The only true tell of his nature is in his eyes. A soft blue revealing not the anger of the sea, but the abundance and beauty instead. A soft heart hidden behind a stoic gaze, like the eye amidst the storm. He looks not down at me, but I know he senses my presence. He lets off not a smile, but something seems to change when I’m around.
I know I am next. The next to hold the globe upon my meager shoulders. For a moment I imagine the weight. It both dwarfs me, and invigorates me. Suddenly I see the globe catch the light. It shines so bright that it’s all I can see, all I can imagine. I struggle to see My Atlas through the painful glare; I see his face twisted with pain. Along his arms and back where the globe sits I can hear a faint crackling and see the skin begin to peel. The globe sears My Atlas and for an instant I fear he might fall.
In a moment of blind panic, I rush to him, hoping to lend him some aid. I throw both my hands to the globe and lift with all my might… But the globe will not move. My hands burn to the very bone as tears of pain and self-loathing roll down my face. Finally, I am overcome by weakness and fall to the ground. My tears blur my vision, my hands are seared, taking away any excitement I foolishly held about being next to hold the scalding ball of light.
While I wallow to myself, I feel something. A warm hand upon my shoulder, cracked and calloused, and just a tad bit burned. I look up to see my Atlas balancing the globe on one hand, a faint smile upon his lips. With his free hand he helps me to stand, and brushes the soot from my hands. His voice is soft, but strong as speaks to me the first words I’ve heard in years. “One Day,” he says. With a final fleeting smile, he assumes his position once more, shoulders broad, knees bent ever so slightly, and rolls the globe back into place upon his back.
Things I had never considered about Alderaan’s destruction until this very moment: this Things I was not prepared to start bawling over at midnight: also this, holy shit
I love how everyone in Skyrim plays up Falion of Morthal as this terrifying wizard who reanimates the dead, sucks the life out of people, and probably fucks corpses or something. Like, he’s universally hated to the point that innkeepers on the other side of the damn country will gossip about him like there’s not a war or murders or freaking dragons raising themselves from the dead that make more interesting news than freaking Falion.
And then you meet him and he’s just a tired dad who wants to be left alone to write his dissertation on vampire sociology and teach his adopted daughter magic tricks. The poor guy just wants to study his bones in peace. And occasionally make the dead chill out and keep them from running around. Like, my dudes, take a calm spell or something. Falion’s a bro.
I was like “yeah man! Give him a break! Then I remembered I did a piece about him and was super-not-chill with him XD
