[ noah wyle, bisexual, cis male & he/him ] — a new age of heroes approaches, among those is MILES BLOOM, child of APOLLO. they have walked this earth for 54, living in NEW YORK, as a DOCTOR [INFECTIOLOGIST], until they came to the isle of olympus 3 years ago. they will carve their name in myth with their PERSISTENCE, CURIOSITY, DETERMINATION, but the fates know of their STUBBORNNESS, HUBRIS, SELFISHNESS that may immortalize them forever. the battles ahead will shape them into who they are destined to be, but will this cause the age of the gods to fall and the age of monsters to rise? only the fates know the truth and those prophecies have yet been uttered. let their heroism shine against the challenges ahead. godspeed, demigod!
[[MORE]]
REVELATION 6:2
And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.
every child is born amidst blood. water of the womb is never truly clear… but not every child is covered in their mother’s blood as miles bloom was; from his very first breath sickness followed.
his mother had many gods, his father had only one. miles had none.
the cruel fickle hands of fate were almost a taunt to the young man. puzzles with too many missing pieces. why do the leaves dry and fall, why do crops die, why do i feel this anger, this fear. why do people fall ill?
mrs bloom never recovered from the birth of her one and only son. her health was frail, and only grew moreso as the boy traded toys for schoolbooks. he was years away from saving his first patient when he made his first victim.
i heard you beggin’ for life / runnin’ out of medicine
poison and medicine can be one and the same if you’re not careful with the dose. many overdosed on the good doctor before he learned what his hands were capable of.
he was brilliant, always. he was under a spotlight, always. his discoveries made his seniors gape in wonder. he had a brilliant future… sickness was a mere consequence of life. death was a byproduct to be moved past.
was it too grand of him to imagine a world it was not so? a world plague could not touch…
he saw his mother wither, and with her any warmth left in his father. he saw people come and go, he met countless patients, he heard countless cries.
his eyes were needed everywhere. he was a sleepwalker for longer than he cared to remember, here and then there–everywhere. stumbling through halls, concluding research and overseeing students who would never amount to half as he already had.
it lasted for too long, it would’ve went on for longer if not for a single man. a single chance encounter. a single patient whose unraveling tortured him so.
no one had to know strings were pulled, no one should care that he ignored protocol and played god. no one discovered his late night visits ended with a racing heart beneath one of his hand and cum covering the other. no one had to know he’d lick it up away from his eyes.
no one seemed to care that his presence was like gravity for the trial results. where he went a trail followed, any recovery came with a price, every hospital he entered left with a higher rate of contagion. he was too good at seeing patterns to not notice that one.
oath of pestilence paladin • the horseman of pestilence • cassandra railly
there was irony in being right. there was a danger in getting away from all that made you feel alive. there was a cold victory in seeing virus spreading faster under his thumb.
there was no release in warning of plague to uncaring ears. there was no success in realizing a world without sickness was a world without him. there was renewed grief in realizing his father was right; he’d been the parasite to siphon his mother’s life from the womb.
there was little catharsis to wrecking his own lab, to ruining years of research and watch his name go up in flames… there was little to keep him tethered to a sickened dying world he made spin faster and faster towards annihilation.
there was no hope. no hope at all, not even in hearing the name of one of his mother’s gods. there was little absolution, far too much rage, a name to blame.
apollo…
why be healer when he was pestilence? why bless when he could curse?
why would his father forsake him and his mother?
why would the end lead back to the beginning… and make him choose again between what was best for him and what was right? if he should learn to wield his father’s plagues, to harm and not only heal… why should he not let himself bring health and ruin, to take apart and back together, to sink into the only one who’d ever made his mind still. the only one who truly made him feel godly. and if sickness reared its head, well, who else but doctor miles bloom could take him back to health.
bloody hands, lab coats, microscopes, handwritten notes in medicine journals, coffee cups on a work counter, morning sun through open blinds, cold hands on naked skin, marked veins, perfect aim, bone crushing weariness, swimming against the current, oblivion in a touch
