From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
The Penumbra rolls her shoulders in a light shrug at his comment with a quiet hum of laughter. “Probably.” She adds. Tembovu had been a bit more controlling than she was used to, but him in comparison to the Prince was like breathing easy. It’s only now that she has Bastien that she can truly compare the differences, and embrace the freeness of her spirit. And it was a welcome wake up call.
But she moves from her spot to sit across from him again for the story to be relayed, to learn more about who he was before she arrived. She didn’t think many got this opportunity and she was here for it, with eyes that sparkle with a small amount of greed and wonder. And when he says Mauja’s name, Rexanna grows nostalgic, a smile crossing her features. “Oh, Mauja.” She comments with a small smile at the memory of the freckled man, the closeness he had with Tembovu, and the hands he seemed to have everywhere.
But she draws quiet again to listen, a brow lifting. As he mentions their refuge had been the Steppe, a frown crosses the corners of her lips as she takes a sip from her drink. She recalls the chilled, howling winds, without the protection of the Basin to guide against the rogue storms. “Why did you stay in the Steppe? Couldn’t you have just gone to the Basin and asked for help?” She pauses thoughtfully, having never known the full history of the Basin. “I suppose Dragon’s Throat too, though that was awfully hot.” She didn’t know which she preferred, the chill or the burn.
Not like she could feel them anymore, anyway.
“And wasn’t there… the Falls? Where was Mirage from?” She pelts him with questions, wondering and learning and curious. Infinitely curious.
It was odd, bizarre, to liken a story across lifetimes, hardly ever told – either by those who’d been stifled and massed into it, or passed along like legends by those who hadn’t participated, but heard, generations breathing in awe of the multitude, of the triumphs, or the failures. Deimos had never been one to elaborate either, lost in silence, in his own melancholy, in his own brooding factions, to bother with the trivialties of yesteryear, or the ongoing suffering he’d never quite moved away from. Helovia was a distant world, but mistakes were repeated, history had an orchestra, a conductor, and even in the lightest of his smiles at the mention of Mauja, another king eclipsed in ice, made him ponder if he was entrenched again in something he couldn’t fight his way out of, if there was a beckoning echo of destruction eternally slanted along his brow, naught he could ever escape, if he wanted to be liberated from its graceful, sweeping arch of ruin and demolition.
At her inquiries and questions though, he remembered not everyone had been subject to the histories and hatred, vitriol and vehemence, between kingdoms. The genesis of such animosities had started along these intervals and points, the positioning of comrades and adversaries, the raising of hackles, the grinding of teeth, mettle and metal scraping against skin. “The Basin did not exist yet,” he intoned with a slight grin, a tease, a taunt, an arch to his brow again, while he stretched his arms across the table. Created, within their gilded hue, were markers, one each to represent particular sovereignties, little pieces on an imagined chessboard – sliding them along the enamel so she could see. The World’s Edge was a miniature plateau with rocky cliffs, an indentation of glass in its corner, the Windtossed Foothills with its valleys before it’d become the Hidden Falls, and the Dragon’s Throat, ramparts with red, red, red. He maneuvered them in clusters, showing the Edge surrounded – the final piece concocted was a onyx and gold dragon, and while not the most accurate representation of Mirage and her Qian, perhaps it was enough to justify the measures and means. “There was no help. Mirage’s group had allied themselves with the other kingdoms,” and here he tapped on the Throat, moving it before the Edge. “They had troops from the Dragon’s Throat and the Windtossed Foothills. The Hidden Falls were reformed from the Foothills, some time after.” And there, after he’d hastened the pieces around, it was clear the Edge had no chance, no opportunity at all, no matter how hard they’d fought, outnumbered, outfought. His eyes simply looked on them in less of a smirk, more of a drawn line, a frown, days where death and death and death brandished from his fingertips, and no one could touch him, no one at all.
And still he’d roared, howled, and lacerated, until dust settled and the outcome was clear.
“I am not certain where Mirage came from. Only that she wished to reign where the Moon Goddess resided.” He’d never asked. He’d never cared in particular; their hatred had fed ongoing plots and attempts for seasons thereafter – it didn’t matter in the end, where she’d wandered in from, and only what she’d committed upon her arrival.
The revelation hits and for a moment she sits and stares at Deimos wide eyed. A time where the Basin hadn’t existed, when she had always believed the mountains had been carved there just for them, for someone to wield the power of the north. And she remains silent more as she leans forward to watch the table as he makes little figurines, so reminiscent and nostalgic, yet of a time long before she arrived. And she listens like the ever diligent student, learning and waiting.
He quickly explains with the figurines that there wasn’t any help, showing them surrounded, and she curses softly to herself as her brows furrow and she sets the glass down. Her sapphire gaze slips up with clear confusion written across her face. “So you sought refuge in the Steppes.” She reiterates, head shifting until her focus lands back on the makeshift war table map before the two of them.
“So what happened then?” She asks quietly, eyes flickering up to see. Had they just stumbled across the Basin from surviving in a place nobody had dared to before? What had brought it to them?
Perhaps, in some way, the mountains had always been there, waiting for them, triumphant and glorious, but they hadn’t earned their power, their strength, or their power yet. Perhaps they’d been tied and tethered in a restless bounty, imploring the world to show them those who were capable, even when the odds were against them, even when they’d be damned, doomed, and condemned, failures along the cliffs – but maybe, not in the snow. Or perhaps it’d been sheer, dumb luck, the hands of the God of Time merely striking over their sanction because they’d been there (but he could recall, those first infernal moments, when they breathed in Siberian air and the deity had asked what they wanted, and Deimos’ only word had been land). His hands were busy again, shifting players back to their appropriate stations and battlefields, the dragon to her roost along glass and cliffs, the Dragon’s Throat to its desert dunes, and the Foothills to its wide open plains, a glow centered in his palm again, to create the final addition. Out of favoritism, he ensured this one was the most striking, tall peaks with ivory snowcaps, emblems of winter scattered on its horizon, a blaze of aurora hues pressing at the summit. “We wreaked havoc.” His brow furrowed, uncertain if his tone should’ve carried a hint of pride, or a slender definition of remorse; if he was guilty at all, of any transgressions he committed. In the end, it had helped to secure their foothold. His tones were quieter though, muffled behind hints of another time, when he was less and more and everything in between, when death was the only thing he knew or understood. “Bitter and spiteful, we attempted to raid other pariahs and kingdoms. We were a band of outcasts with vengeance on our minds.”
The Reaper’s grasp was light as he moved the Basin piece to the north of their tabletop map. “Then one day, the God of Time came to us. Asked us what we wanted.” Why us? he could’ve asked, he could’ve inquired, he could’ve queried, but like the rest, they’d been too avaricious, too greedy, too mercenary, too hungry, too starved for something, anything to make them whole again. “He gave us the Aurora Basin.”
His brows furrowed, and his hands swept back, away from the figures, eyes maneuvering back to Rexanna; the avid listener. He wondered how much of their history she really knew, if someone had passed down the tale, if it really mattered anymore; if they were just strung along by legends and follies, if a broken, shadowed world could be reflected here. “But we were not satisfied.” It held an ominous tone, but that’s what they had been – fractious and rancorous, striving to make their presences known, their voices heard, their abhorrence feared.
“At the time, I was made General for my fighting prowess from the battle. A few others were given ranks, and wanted the world to see what they were capable of.” Here, here, in those moments, were perhaps some of his greatest shames: not the deaths he’d ensured, not the breaths he’d toppled, not the battles he’d forged and witnessed fall apart, but humiliation, embarrassment, at not being enough, at not being able to save himself. “One of our thieves abducted Mirage.” A heavy price, a heavy burden, a prisoner meant to rankle everyone’s senses, the dragon taken from her ledge. He couldn’t have been worth nearly as much. “In retaliation, they took me.”
There’s a familiar smile that crosses her pale face as he mentions that they wreaked havoc. Though the look on his face is nearly a mix of something akin to confusion – unsure if he should be proud or concerned over the events that had taken place. But she watches regardless, listening, a band of outcasts keen on revenge and righting the wrongs that had been done to them. She was familiar with that, she had raged like a storm for much of the same.
And she nods, watching the board before them as he moves the Basin piece into place and her brows lift. And her eyes drift up to the Reaper’s face with a hint of surprise. “Oh.” She pauses, uncertain how to continue – a million questions on the tip of her tongue. So she settles for silence during the story, allowing him and letting him tell it – sitting on the edge of her seat with every new revelation.
Though she grows confused when he mentions they weren’t satisfied. Her head tilts slightly as she bites on the inside of her cheek a small amount. She doesn’t know what it would have been like – to be a band of outcasts, thrown out of their home by invaders, only to be gifted a piece and be unsatisfied with the result. But she’s sure that eventually they came to terms with it – it had felt as so when she stepped through the icy tundra that had been her home.
He mentions that he was a General, and she nods, eyes drifting up to his face. “Who was ruling at the time?” She asks softly, wondering if she knew the names, heard the stories. But the question falls from her mind the minute a smile crosses her face as the mention of Thieves stealing Mirage. And for a moment she shares in the pride of what it must have felt like. It fades immediately when he mentions they had taken him instead.
“Deimos.” She nearly whispers as her brows furrow and she searches his face. “For how long?”
They were greedy and rapacious – and it was something he’d always known, down the back of his throat, in the enamel of his chest, in the brink of his breath, in the feral delusions of his aspirations. The Basin had been a battered, embittered group from the beginning, intending to avenge for everything that had been wronged and waged upon them – yearning to make the world fear their rebuttal and retribution. Perhaps for a time it worked. Maybe they were like gnats, annoying, irritating, the plague that refused to die off, returning with newfound pestilence at each new season. They’d been avaricious claws and ravenous, hungry beasts, laced and lanced with ventures, with expositions, with demonstrations of their might; and more often than not, it bit them in the backside, swatted against when they should’ve expected it. Blistered refugees and barbaric intricacies, intervals of the rancorous and bitter, and he’d willingly participated in the acts, gathering information, subverting tactics, fighting, protecting, and guarding, training new recruits for the future. The rest was about pilfering, nagging, gnawing; small, petulant, bratty conjectures, until they stepped too far and it was too late.
“Psyche ruled, though Mauja was in and out,” he shrugged, forgoing and forgetting traces of when the freckled beast had meandered within and tread lightly again, sometimes wandering for months at a time, leaving the DarkEmpress to pick up the pieces (with relish, with hate, with menace, with the scorched maliciousness they all fed off of). Sometimes the names and faces were unknown to him, once so familiar, and now so brutally gone, the legends and stories trickling away from him in separated lifetimes – hollowed and carved out, like he was missing bits and pieces.
He watched for her reaction – the pride of a Thief evident at his inclusion of Mirage’s capture, the way they must’ve all felt when they made a successful abduction, when they procured valuable trinkets, when they overheard important information. Then he witnessed it fall at his mention, at his shame, at his arrogance and stupidity and ineptitude, his brows furrowing, eyes falling, glancing at the figures still settled on the table, unmoving now. “For several weeks. They wanted a prisoner exchange.” His jaw clenched, pondering why he’d brought this up, why it mattered now; maybe to insinuate he was as stupid then as he was presently – desperate to become stronger, mightier, rattling at the cages. “But I did not want it to be so easy. I attempted to escape.” Lace - tied with Lace; an annoyance, an irritation, a guard with spider webs and beneficence, everything Deimos had hated, detested, in those untamed, savage, nefarious inclinations. “It did not matter. I could not manage it.” He sighed, toyed with the frosty summit figurine, maneuvering it back and forth between his fingers. “Psyche came and they brokered a deal – Mirage was safe in the Edge again and I was back in the Basin.” Like a fool; less General, more idiot.
She hears and ponders it, not knowing who Psyche was but recalling some stories long and hidden down dusty trails. Mauja, however, at least brings a picture to mind. And she wonders what changed with the freckled man from the Basin to the Edge, and how he had changed as a person. Was he different from how Deimos had interacted? Different from the man she remembered herself? Still, she nods in understanding even if she didn’t entirely. Was it similar to when Thranduil ruled alongside Deimos, a hidden thief in the night, in and out much the same. Did Mauja have a purpose like that?
The questions drift from her mind as she focuses in on Deimos’ capture, a frown crossing her pale face as she studies his own. How he had been trapped as a prisoner for several weeks. And gods how she could relate. She wonders if she’d ever told Deimos in their previous life the trials she had faced in Halyven. How similar their stories were at points, how hewn they had become from the rock face of the mountain peaks. How the fire within them were much the same, friends and soldiers for something more.
But where Rexanna had escaped her prison, Deimos had not, and her frown deepens as he maneuvers the piece in his hand. She wants to reach out and touch him, to comfort, yet she refrains. She knows him, knows the way he doesn’t like comfort in such a way. And so she chooses to do it with words when his tale comes to a pause. “It’s not your fault for being captured.” She tells him, because she had wished someone had told her the same about her own. And she gives him a small smile at the thought to try and lighten the mood. “And you had come back home.” She offers, because nothing screamed home to her more than the comfort of those winter peaks.
“I was a prisoner too, in Halyven. Forced to stay in the dungeon of my ex husband for six months I think.” She sighs heavily, reaching down to pick up the edge’s piece, transforming it with her transmutation magic into a castle with black and red walls from flame and blood, a menacing tower that came to jagged points. “It is not easy.” Her gaze slips from the piece to his face, to the same icy gaze she remembers. “What did you do after you came back?” She asks, though she’s willing to expand on her own previous experiences if he desired.
Trials shaped, bent, and swayed; tribulations sculpted, carved, and harpooned, and before his capture, the confidence, the arrogance, inside the Reaper had been a vicious thing. He’d been unattainable, unreachable, a monolith amongst the peaks, intimidating and blistering, barbaric and twisted, conforming to the savage shadows, where the light couldn’t reach and no one else wanted to, no one else would dare. Until they had. Until claws had snagged, until powers had been depleted, until he’d fought and fought and fought and the snares had still been there, choking and binding, until he’d been nothing more than a pawn. It’d been insulting, degrading, and a grinding notion in the back of his skull: unworthy, not enough, continuing on until his dying days, where he strived, where he lingered, where he poised and positioned them to some matter of repose after war and melees – but in the end, as he crashed and burned below rainfalls, rivers, and rime, he’d only been an echo. A passing of ash and bone. He glanced up as she spoke, hands off the figurines, back to his glass, sipping down the alcohol so memories didn’t become quite so suffocating, so there were no longer ropes along his throat, but daggers of his own machinations. It’s not your fault echoed and bounded, and while it was generous of her to try and lend some comfort, to his already condemned sphere, he simply shook his head, mouth masking a smirk. “I should have been more cautious, more aware.” Taken completely by surprise, like some juvenile soldier, like some rank, ridiculous infant, not a battle-hardened beast; but he’d learned from that lesson, had become all the more nefarious and barbaric. You will not have me blistered from his veins, and no one touched him again. “That is true. There was always the Basin.” Home, home, home, meaning so many things between oceans and peaks, never certain which one was more true.
He considered her, a tilt of his head again, much like a cat in study, in repose, because she’d been a prisoner, locked away in doldrums and dungeons by more heathens (and there were always plenty; a surrounding force of avaricious aspirants). The Reaper’s gaze lingered on her motions again as she altered the Edge – no longer cliffs surrounded by water, but a castle, a fortress, crimson and onyx, blood, blood, blood, ichor on fringes. “How did you escape?” He pondered – because Rexanna had always been clever, always been astute, capable of managing things with ruses and schemes far better than he. His sword managed most of the time; his calculations cold-blooded, etched and sketched with how to best someone in a brutal, barbaric, twisted foundation, how to scald, how to ruin, how to ensure their next breath was the last.
It is not easy; an understatement. Nothing had been in Helovia – though there were moments, scattered amidst ice and snow, that hadn’t been burdened by greed or ineptitude. Few.
“Psyche still allowed me to continue as General,” which, maybe she shouldn’t have, in the grand scheme of things, if he’d been idiotic and ignorant enough to get himself captured. “We grew in number, spread ourselves out, built up our world. Wreaked more havoc.” An indulgent chuckle escaped, but then it was gone in a flash. “Then we were repaid in our efforts, when the other kingdoms started trying to steal the children.” The Basin was not innocent in any regard, that much he would always admit, but the kids had never been at fault. He could recall racing through darkness and slashing at night, attempting to keep strangers and thieves and fiends away, exhausted, enraged, a manifested adversary to anyone and everyone who tried.
It was definitely a learning experience, and from the way he speaks she wonders if perhaps it was the last time he had been captured. A rebellious heart, venomous voice, a promise and a threat of violence for those who deigned to take what wasn’t theirs. And she watches as he recollects that they had the Basin, that it was always home, and she nods in agreement. The Penumbra would always consider the mountains her home, her place for truly living, and he had made that possible for her.
Her gaze levels on him from the trinket she had made and she contemplates the best way to answer. “I was put into a cage and brought to Halyven to watch them burn my city, my castle. Only, a cannon went rogue, and I took the chance while the guards were stunned to break out and vanish among the chaos.” She tells him with a small smile. She didn’t know if it had worked, didn’t think it was going to until it had. “I was almost captured again, but the day they nearly caught me I fell into here a year ago now.” She gives him a slight nod and smile, raising the trinket to him to see if he recalls.
The day they had both arrived, both slipped into the Rathskeller a fury and mix of confusion and loss.
But her brows lift in mock surprise as he mentions they had wreaked more havoc, she couldn’t imagine it any other way. There was a score to settle, and she knew as well as anyone that to make a name for yourself you had to do things you wouldn’t normally in the name of vengeance and showing your strength. But her brows furrow as he mentions they began to steal children.
Such innocence, and for a moment she considers Kianzo — another lost, stolen child. “What did you do then?” She asks in quiet surprise.
Up until these fleeting moments – it had been the last time they’d had the Reaper in their clutches, in their grasp, because by then he’d finally begun to understand the game. Everyone was at risk, from the youngest to the oldest, from the smallest to the largest, available targets, where there were weaknesses, where there were flaws, where there were pieces another kingdom could latch onto, tear apart, skin and bone. So he and the others had begun their disastrous campaigns of thwarting, of antagonizing, of coming unraveled and defiant, of ensuring they weren’t the only ones undone – vicious and noxious, brutal and terrible, a defining catalyst in his life. Be mightier. Be braver. Be stronger. Be treacherous. Be conniving. Take them apart before they could do the same to him, to any of his people. It’d been one of the many unsaid promises and vows clutched in his chest, expressed only in savage swings, in the lacerating exchanges, in the vehement tactics unhinged from his deadly, nefarious soul. Predilections had been sworn, vengeance was a conviction, and it was how he’d always lived; persistence, endurance, fortitude, and menace.
Rexanna’s story seemed one of chance, one of opportunities, grabbing hold of what she could in a terrible situation: similar to anything else she’d ever committed herself too. It was a complex pattern, a ritual, a line in her schisms, in her pathways: the same now, thwarting Zariah and any other machinations upon her by finding another option available. Where Deimos would have been a barbarous, ruthless machine in the face of impending dangers, Rexanna chose to outwit – and perhaps that was why they’d always worked well together, opposing sides of coins but capable of melding, of molding, intervals and plans together. Saved once by cannon-fire, then chance, slipping into portals-
and right back to his infernal existence.
Had he ever told her how grateful he was for her?
He laughed a little, a light chuckle brought on by the alcohol and memories not spattered in blood. “You have always prevailed,” and he rose his glass again, another toast to parting fools and blades.
The warrior watched her reaction about the children, because it had been a grueling, exhausting stand against constant bombardment – fatigue settling in after attack after attack, onslaught after onslaught, desperation crawling into their bones and marrow between every volley. She implored him to continue, and there was another incitement in the words, in the upcoming notions and experiences. “Both the Edge and Throat were involved in the abduction attempts. Despite our best efforts, they ended up with two.” His eyes narrowed, the only sign of frustration, as he began maneuvering pieces again. “Our next plan was to invade both of them.” To let the world know we were done. He took hold of the Foothills token and altered it into the mountainous region, so there were two, one set to conquer glass and cliffs, the other intending to bombard draconic roots. It must’ve sounded foolish, to split their numbers apart – but something they’d risked for the sake of their sovereignty, for the juveniles lost and scattered. “We required a monarch to lead each charge.” His finger tapped on the Basin marker before the roaring waters. “Illynx was made Queen and went to the Edge,” and then he roamed to the other guarding the crimson monolith. “Psyche and I went to the Throat.”
They were two sides of the same coin, and they always had been. Since the moment they had met and she told him she wanted a purpose, to become someone to gather information, to inform and sneak and slip through all the cracks of the world around them. She had told him she had hoped to provide some use for him, and he in turn had asked her what qualities she had possessed. Little did she know it would blossom into something lore, something akin to a longtime friendship, companionship, a shoulder to lean on. And when poised with the question, upon meeting the Reaper for the first time, she had told him ‘a charming face, earn trust, and destroy the unfortunate soul to have wronged her.
And he had made her what she’d always been. A shadow, a thief, an unexpected informant dressed in silks and gold — one foot in the shadow, only now she had two.
And she lifts her glass to a man she’d claim her brother if anyone ever asked, because that’s how she feels. Protect, fight, have each other’s backs. A complete force to be reckoned with. “As have you!” She says with a small smile and nod before downing another bit of the liquid that should be affecting her but isn’t.
But then, with the children, she finds the smile faltering — shifting and becoming something akin to a deep frown when he mentions they had gotten two. The plan was listed out, but it made sense to her. Strike them both so when word spreads there’s no way to respond to the both of them. And she gives him an inquisitive look as he mentions he went to the Throat, yet another set of monarchs she didn’t recall. All she had known of the Basin was the man before her and that woman… Ophelia, before she had left.
Her head tilts with it, the lingering pauses to make her wonder and think, and she lets her gaze settle on Deimos again. “Were you successful?”
It had become a habit, a routine, to meet new recruits and members at the borders – intimidating King with his icy composition and bold aspirations, with his deadly invocations and savage outlook – to ask them about their talents, the roles they wished to play. Some boasted of their fighting abilities, unsheathed their swords, spoke of their capacity for onslaughts and terror. Others had warranted their trust and measures into healing, presiding over weakened forms until they were assuaged, soothed, and ready for the fight again. There’d even been a few who had not a clue about their own capabilities, longing for some sort of sign, some hint, some direction, and he’d tried to point them in any, allow them to learn, to prosper and hoist themselves where their curiosity struck. Rexanna had been amongst those who knew exactly what they craved, and he’d surveyed her, then granted her the opportunity to move forward.
She’d done it – placed herself in shadows, between cloaks and daggers, haunted and lingered, poignant smiles tracing over foundations and figures, snagging and igniting them with information. He’d been grateful, he’d been honored, he’d been content. So he’d guarded her when she required it, so he’d aided and abetted and allowed her to grow and seethe. Brothers and sisters and makeshift families in arms, in munitions, in fortifications, fire, and snow – mountains in their blood and bones, peaks in their marrow, summits in their veins; measures incapable of being erased. They were solidified dominions, beneath callous waves and dominating forces, a threat to anyone who stood in their way.
Just as it should've been.
His eyes widened slightly at her proclamation, swallowing down the unease, the tremor in his throat, the burning in the back of his skull. Had he prevailed? Or had he simply mired along in his own ruins, moving forward when there was nowhere else to go? “With every mistake along the way,” he added, a twisted smile indented on the corners of his mouth, a sigh flickering back into the story.
Another failure to recall – the Basin not at its best, bristling and incensed, in the splendor of mania, menace, and malice.
Deimos shook his head. “In some regards. While battles were won, overall, the invasions were a disaster. Despite our efforts, some did not hasten to our commands, or some did not finish their battles. We lost again.” And it had always frustrated him, to understand and know that they’d had a chance, but the opportunities were squandered and squashed by ineptitude, ignorance, and foolishness. He’d taken the mishaps upon himself – shamed and embarrassed and contemptuous. “So, as General, when we returned home, I called several out on their mishaps.” And here was where he wasn’t proud of himself, where foundations and fortifications fell apart and found themselves whittled into something new – and he’d stood aside, watched as shards and shields began to fall. “Two of which were Psyche and Ulrik.” The DarkEmpress, who’d brought them all to the forefront of dominion and supremacy, who ensured they’d risen from the bottom to the top – and the Engineer, whose surly, curt demeanor transposed aloud in hatred and vehemence. “Ulrik chastised Psyche for her efforts, and I stood by, defending neither.” Rexanna would likely comprehend the way he’d become a statue, watching, waiting, surveying, sometimes too late to do anything but become another damned witness, the machinations in place. “When their outrage had settled, Psyche gave her crown to Ulrik.” Out of frustration? Out of upheaval? One last touch of sedition? Maybe the asp had yearned for him to feel the same weight upon his shoulders, all the lingering doubts, all the overbearing stigmas and pitfalls. A sigh flickered through him, the depths of his piercing stare downcast, fingers sketching back over the Basin figurines, moving them back to the designated north. “Then he gave it to me.”
She had known what she was good at, and Deimos had seen it too — had given her the opportunity to prove herself and rewarded her when she did well. And she went from a lowly sneak to the Thief, charging up the ranks with determination in her heart, conspiring and learning and growing. At least until she had shifted gears, a regret she’s claimed more than once, of putting aside the brilliant mind of hers in place for reading and bearing children for men who couldn’t seem to care less. When had she become so dull, a flickering flame dulled into nothing?
She asks him what happened next, what happened to the children and the wars waged to retrieve them. And for a moment she’s hopeful. Until it’s dashed with the way he speaks. And a frown finds her face once more when he tells her they had lost. Again. She’s sure it burns on his tongue to say it, and she lifts her glass to her mouth to take another small sip as if she can feel the flame beneath, feel it burn down her throat, even though nothing happens. And she regards him when he mentions that he’d called them out on the mishaps and mistakes, and she nods.
Yet the names that fall from his lips, she’s heard of one of them. “Ulrik, the one who made the sentinels, right?” She asks with a light tilt to her head, those giant towering machines that stood watch over the Basin for as long as she had been there. She wonders if they’re still there, cast into darkness with crumbling rusty pieces. She tries to imagine the man, the fighting, with Deimos in between ever the watchful guardian himself. Saying nothing and letting it happen, seeing what could come of it. And she can picture it vividly almost as though it had been painted before her.
Her brows raise when he tells her that Ulrik had been the one to give the crown to him, and she gives him a slight quirk of a smile. “And that’s how you became King of the North.” She says with ease, a raised eyebrow before it falls and she looks to his hewn face. “What happened with the children?” She asks quietly, wondering if things had changed when he became the ruler, when he could call the shots.
The Basin’s history was lined with loss and defeats. For as many victories as they could muster, there were more devastations and annihilations moored within. The mountains had their claws ripped apart and off so many times that the frequency was almost expected amongst conquests; condemnation even in their greatest successes. They were hollowed, hallowed ventures, always drawn in the pits and pendulums, in the rise and fall, in crushing blows and feral grasps, yearning to prove themselves amongst kingdoms and sovereigns, so no one bothered, no one tampered with them again. There was the fiendish inclination that no invasions had ever reached their lands, between the savage interludes along borders, the monoliths and their crimson eyes, their power, their prestige, their predilections – all conducted elsewhere, all haunting interludes brought back to their seething empire. Then the peaks were carved into niches and desperation, longing for some sort of nefarious salvation in the rocks and crag, in the ice and snow, in the wolves and rivers.
He waited for some sort of sculpting nuance, a backlash because he’d been the observer in Psyche’s downfall, the guilt that had plagued down his spine years later – when he’d seen the DarkEmpress changed and altered (sickened, weakened, something else altogether, not the asp, not the viper, not the storm, not the mercurial, tempestuous woman who’d made them her soldiers), when he’d met her daughter and apologized for the nature of his throne.
Lost again, lost again, lost again; a dirge in his mind, a song they always managed to grumble, growl, croon, and hiss, in the dark shadows of the summits.
Her curiosity seemed to meld towards Ulrik though, and his engineering prowess. “Yes,” he nodded, memories spiraling back over the twin monsters, blackguards with magic stored in their frames, treacherous and dangerous to anyone who dared trespass upon the aurora’s terrain. How many had he met outside their gaze? How many had tried to serpentine their way in? How many had he warned, warned, and warned, before granting them an opportunity for death, the magic flowing through his veins and out towards theirs? “The Engineer was vital to the Basin. When he left,” after another dramatic meeting, when he’d passed crowns to those influential, and he’d managed to somehow offend Ulrik in his decisions. Another comrade lost. “The monoliths crumbled. We did not have the ability to fix them. Not without him.” So he imagined them rusty beside their glaciers, parts fallen on the ground, disintegrating just like everything else.
And that’s how became King of the North; no pomp and circumstance, no ceremony, naught but a tossed crown and a nod of his head, acceptance of one of the greatest weights he’d ever bear, an icy throne, a bitter scepter, a distorted, desolated sovereign carved into rime. “I went to Mirage and we formed a peace treaty.” Which sounded so strange, coming from his mouth, from his actions, but after their languishing, embittered defeat, he didn’t have much else to offer. A truce, a ceasefire. A means to an end. “The children were returned,” he mulled this over. Sacre, hadn’t it been? One of D’art’s boys? “Though one opted to stay.” Perhaps he’d found his new confines better – the Reaper had never asked.
