to anyone who might care

Maea

You think killing is hard?
Try healing something. That is hard.

Maea took her time as she traveled up from Jack Tar Landing. Flowerbirth progressed the melting of snow and budding of leaves a little more each day, and in some sheltered groves there were indeed flowers blooming among the grasses. Birdsong accompanied her everywhere she went, singing of home and hope and new beginnings. Travelling past the Peekabo rise, up along the Levinsward and across the bone bridges, she was reminded over and over again of how familiar yet foreign her homeland had become. The winding rivers, the multitude of islands where once fields had been, the scattered ruins and foundations of farms whose tenants she couldn't quite recall the names of - it all whispered to her still, of times long gone. The idea of leaving this all behind for Torchline's evergreen paradise was heart wrenching. Especially painful was it when she took a detour past her childhood home. The remnants of the house looked even more bedraggled than last Leafchange, and though the orchard looked to be blooming soon, Maea could see the signs of decline in the trees. The way the branches grew wild, how last year's harvest had been left largely to rot amid the roots, spreading disease in the form of brown dots on leaves and fruit both. No one had turned sheep out to graze the fields, no one had gone with pigs to search for acorns and walnut, and where her grandmother's garden had been, only weeds grew in abundance. 

Coming home was a bittersweet feeling. Ophelia wasn't there, so the cottage echoed empty and cold, with a scent of damp lingering in the walls. Her spare clothes, neatly folded into a cedar chest, retained the folds even after Maea hung them up to air out, and the scent of wood and mothballs seemed a permanent feature now.
How long had she been gone, really? Was it more than a few weeks? It felt like an age, and like yesterday, and as she sat down by her desk to pen a letter for Danta, she found it hard to keep track of time. 

It was a simple letter in the end, expressing her regret over what happened between her and Asta, requesting a chance to meet him so that they could, to put it simply, talk. If it was possible, at a time and place of his choosing... Preferably she would have explained more, but that felt like the cheap and easy way out. And above all, she was done making excuses for herself. 

To her surprise, she actually received a reply before the day was over. Bracing herself, she threw on a cloak against the chill evening wind and made the long trek into the Inner Quarter. It felt like a different city from the one she had left. Most of the snow was gone from the streets, and flowers were appearing in garden beds and pots. The wind smelled sweetly of cooked meals and wood smoke, as people were returning home and settling in for dinner behind lit windows. 

As for Maea, she turned her steps towards the Temple. Walking up the stairs, she pushed one of the side doors open and slipped inside, bracing for whatever storm that might be raging inside.

You can break something in two seconds
But it can take forever to fix it

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

If there is a storm inside the Temple, then Danta waits for her directly in the eye of it. He has warned Charlie in advance that he might owe her some new decor by the time the night is through, which is far, far more warning than anyone else is like to get from the Maverick. And now he stands before the firebowl he'd constructed in Dygra's name - one of the first things he'd done upon coming to the Grounds, in fact - with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyes on the dancing flames.

Danta, much to the surprise of anyone watching him leave the Dusklight that evening, looks surprisingly put together; dark pants and a charcoal shirt tucked into them, polished boots, blonde hair pulled up into a sleek tail with a number of silver bands and chains adorning the pale crystal of his horns.

If you'd asked him a few days ago what he might have done should he come face to face with Maea again, he'd have been able to tell you. One day ago and he'd have changed his mind. Two hours ago? Different yet again. And now he's entirely unsure what will come of their encounter, only that he's promised Astaroth that there will only be words - and he'd hate to have to lie to the man later.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

Maea

You think killing is hard?
Try healing something. That is hard.

Moths had taken over her insides. The way they raged, one had to wonder if they were normal, dusty night fliers or something more vicious entirely, something with teeth and razor wings. They fed on her anxiety, draining the blood from her face and forced her spine ramrod straight - because if she didn't keep her chin up and her shoulders back, she would start to crumble.
Maea didn't feel like she had any right to do that. By rights she should be on the floor, crawling her way to Danta's feet. No, to Asta's feet, to be trampled into the dirt or stepped over and forgotten, at the mercy of his rage. The only reason why she hadn't asked to meet him instead, was that she once again had no right to.

Dead moths began dropping to the pit of her gut as she approached the Maverick. Her footsteps were quiet on the worn tiles, the whisper of her dark skirt a hiss like serpent's - she felt like one, callous and cruel where she'd once dreamed of unicorn softness and grace - and before she had quite come within arm's reach, she stopped. Bowed low, and waited silently to be acknowledged. During the long walk into the city she had turned words over in her mind, again and again and again, searching for the right things to say... and found, in the end, that she'd said quite enough already.

It was late in the coming, but perhaps any lesson learned was better than none.

You can break something in two seconds
But it can take forever to fix it

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

You wanted to talk, Danta almost says, so talk. He spots the flicker of darkness in his peripheral vision, letting it settle where it will, and only when it doesn't break the silence first does his gaze lift from the fire and across to where Maea stands. He doesn't turn to face her, not properly, cold eyes holding her gaze even as his fingers reach in to sample the warmth of the flames. Fine. He'll start.

"When we spoke at Longnight," he says, his voice soft as silk on a razor, "you preached about what was right and what was necessary. You told me," and gods he tries to keep the mirthless laugh from escaping his lips, "you told me you had never tormented anyone who couldn't defend themselves."

And now he turns to her, head tilted, the shadows cast by the fire cutting against his jawline and cheekbones. "So why did you hurt my friend?"

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

Maea

You think killing is hard?
Try healing something. That is hard.

She flinched at the tone. Too soft, too sharp; Danta didn't need any daggers to make her bleed, and quite possibly his words inflicted far more pain than any weapon could, anyway.
Why was a good question. There were a thousand explanations, a hundred angles from where to begin, and she fumbled in silence for something - anything - that felt most true amidst all the ugly truths.

"... I lost myself," was the only answer that came out, in the end. "In my frantic attempts to avoid becoming something I didn't want to be, I failed to notice that I was doing all the things I hate. I projected my fears onto others. I shut out anyone who tried to help. And above all, I blinded myself to any view other than my own, deluding myself into thinking I was trying to help, when in reality all I did was forcing my version of 'good' onto him." Quiet yet clear, Maea kept her eyes on the ground near the soles of his shoes. No excuses, she had sworn to herself. No ifs, no buts, no well-meaning intentions. The only thing that mattered here was that she had hurt someone she'd been thinking of as a friend.

"Even when I genuinely thought I was trying to help, or offer a settlement... all I ended up doing was forcing manipulation onto him. I have - " her voice broke off, crackling with self-loathing, "I have never been so sick at my own actions. and I realize that 'sorry' is not going to fix anything. Even so, I am, truly, so sorry for all that I have done."

You can break something in two seconds
But it can take forever to fix it

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

He doesn't expect the sorry to be the thing that has wisps of flame curling through the air around him, Danta huffing out a short sigh in an effort to keep the fire contained to the bowl flickering at his waist. "You are telling me," he says, "that the state of that man in the Dusklight right now is thanks to your version of good?" His fists clench, the Maverick biting at the inside of his cheek and turning back to the heat and light as if it might offer him more than Maea's explanations thus far have.

"Of all of us here in the Grounds, I thought he would have been safe with you," he says with a scoff. "Where was that gentleness you lord over us, Maea? He needed kindness and compassion and empathy, but instead he got you." For all the labels she's tarred them with, Danta thinks that perhaps the pale Ancient has succeeded in being more monstrous than they are by far, and if his words flay at her skin, good. He intends them to.

"And then you have the nerve to ask him to make you his responsibility? You're always sorry, Maea, but you never fucking change. At least you know what you get with the rest of us."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

Maea

You think killing is hard?
Try healing something. That is hard.

It did flay. Carving slices out of all the layers she had built up around herself over the past year, until the rotten core lay exposed. There selfishness and power hunger and judgement crawled like maggots in putrid flesh, oozing with self-righteousness and forged niceness as a layer to cover up a cold indifference that forgot to consider anyone else before she leaped to action, to conclusion, to finish a sentence before someone else had a chance to.

And there she was, that wretched thing from her nightmares. Drunk on her own power as she slammed a panicked man to the ground, callous in her detached interest as she waited to see how many more times he would get back up before giving in. Satisfied to let someone else deal with the problem she had become, when it hurt too much to touch it herself. It would be nice to have someone by her side, after all, who could just poke her when she strayed and added another layer of defense against her own tendencies, so that if something went wrong she could just blame him.
If all of these things were subconscious tendencies, so what? They had spilled over now, escaped into the physical world and turned her into - yes, a monster. The kind of cruel that she had washed her hands off of so dramatically.

"You are right. That's what I wanted to be... the kind of safe that could actually help him. I want to change. This kind of person... I don't want to be like this anymore. I want to make amends if he would let me. Though I know I have no right to ask, and honestly don't know how. Either way... any punishment he or you would pass for causing harm to him, I will accept it."

You can break something in two seconds
But it can take forever to fix it

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

It's a wonder that Danta hasn't gotten drunk before this. Whether or not that's a good thing, though, is entirely up to interpretation, because apparently being stone cold sober doesn't make him less cutting or emotional when given the right fuel to throw on his internal fires. "That is entirely up to him," he says, as to whether Astaroth would want to let her make amends. "But if he does, it won't be in the Dusklight, or anywhere near The Last Whisper. You aren't welcome there any more, Maea, and I won't be held responsible for the things that happen if you decide to set foot down there regardless."

He won't be held responsible for the things Asta chooses to do either, whether that's to Maea or in general as a result of all that happened out at Jack Tar. "I'm not here to be your saviour or your guardian angel. And if I hadn't promised I would only talk to you tonight, this would have been a much shorter conversation." Already straightening up as if ready to leave, Danta does, at least, have one parting remark for her.

"If you do want someone to be responsible for you though, I'll step in," he says. "Because if I catch you acting that way in my region again, I'll throw you in jail myself. And I'll be turning a blind eye to anyone who comes tapping at your cell door in the middle of the night."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

Maea

You think killing is hard?
Try healing something. That is hard.

Stricken by a banishment she hadn't expected would hit as hard as it did, Maea bowed low for a second time, accepting the judgement. Even while reeling, she was astounded that it wasn't worse than this. Not sure what she had been dreading - a flogging maybe, a beatdown to replace every single bruise inflicted on Asta on her own body, a cage to rot in for untold number of seasons - it hadn't been this.
Of course, the victim had yet to speak on the matter. And the worst part of his punishment might very well be the wait before retribution came.

"I understand. I will not enter the Last Whisper or the Dusklight again. If Asta wishes to, I will meet him anywhere or do anything he asks for - he need but send a note. Thank you, for agreeing to meet me. I am grateful, and I swear I will do everything in my power to ensure this never happens again." And she would never again thrust the offer of ending her life onto anyone else ever again. Not a friend, not an enemy - no one.

If ever she felt that hopelessly low again, she'd muster up the guts to do it herself.

You can break something in two seconds
But it can take forever to fix it

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

A muscle feathers in Danta's jaw - perhaps because he'd expected the argument that usually follows encounters like this with Maea, and with only agreement on offer, he's all wound up with nowhere to go. Still, an outcome is an outcome, and though Maea doesn't voice it, she's absolutely right - the worst is yet to come. Whether that's in the form of what Astaroth decides to do, or even just who he decides to be outside the Inner Quarter, Danta doubts that the pale Ancient will have a good night's sleep in the weeks that follow this conversation.

If she even decides to stick around in the Hollowed Grounds again.

Brushing off the ash that stains his fingers from the fire bowl, Danta turns on heel away from Maea to take his leave. "I thought I knew you, you know," he mutters as he departs. "I didn't expect to be so disappointed."

~FIN

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //