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!
In the pre-dawn hours Amalia sits beside her newly planted flower, exhausted and drained of anything but a quiet and brittle determination, titanium soul stretched thin and ironed out until there is little left but the fingerprints of a grasping, hurting child. The confrontation with her goddess used every scrap of strength she has; the planting of the rose exhausted the remainder of her reserves, until she is nothing, nothing but dust, nothing but ashes, nothing but the flickering and smoldering remnants of what used to be a fire.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Amalia leans against the wall of the shrine, Jyoti curled in her lap, a soothing song sung into the space where her hope and happiness used to live. Half leopardess, her skin is covered with fur, ears sprouting form her golden hair, a tail wrapped around them both, evidence of her insecurity obvious in the form.
The last of the stars are fading away, and are no more tears left for her to cry. Soon people will begin to come to the bakery in search of her and find it shuttered and closed, no smell of fresh bread in the oven, no lights on in the shop. Today Amalia is not a baker, not a fighter, not a shield. She is a broken girl with a shattered heart, too tired for any more pain.
In the grim, grey light of early morning, she comes bearing a singular rose, swaddled carefully damp cloth within a small leather bag. The bloom stands out of the opening, bits of flower very briefly visible as Wessex’s cloak moves with each step. The Ascended has heard rumors of the planters being attacked, so she makes sure to venture out while the sun is still down, while she’s still one of the strongest ones walking about. She meant to go out into the Fields, to find a secluded place where the rose is unlikely to be found and destroyed, but the sound of weeping catches Wessex’s attention - surprisingly loud against the stillness of the Deepfrost morning.
Jyoti and Amalia come into focus and when the Ascended Queen marks the baker as the one who’s crying, she has to make a decision. Continue on, pass by Safrin’s shrine, and see what happens, if anything can be mended between them or, leave the young woman to her grief and accept the fact that they’re probably going to be enemies forever. Someone else might have said good riddance and taken another path, but in the interest of trying to be bright in such dark times, Wessex steels her spine and opens her heart, taking the rose gingerly in hand so that her task is obvious.
Perhaps they can begin there.
“Amalia?” Wessex says quietly as she approaches, wanting to ask what’s wrong (the answer will undoubtedly be ’YOU’) or are you all right? (again, the obvious answer is ’NO.’), but finds that the words turn to dust in her mouth and anything else she might say to temper the woman’s feelings towards here is insufficient. There is only Wessex, standing at a respectful distance, her rose, and a look of deep concern - if Amalia can see it.
There is a time when she considers staying here, letting the day pass her by and forgetting the weight of the world. She could roll her responsibilities off her shoulders, leave behind the bakery, the government- all of it. She could stay here, or better, run into the woods, find a way across the river and escape the life she no longer knows how to live.
She will do none of these things, but she could.
She isn't crying by the time Wessex finds her, but the evidence of her distress is obvious on her face, tear tracks tripping over angular cheeks, the white of her eyes bloodshot and red. The voice that says her name is a familiar one, and without looking up Amalia knows who stands there, her body stiffening before relaxing, too tired to put up a fight. This will hurt too, she knows: she has not spoken to Wessex since that day at the cataracts, since the woman she once thought to be her last tie to family essentially disowned her under those trees. Has she come now to gloat at the defeat of all that Amalia holds most sacred, the mockery the Voice has made of her goddess, the successful spread of a wretched disease? A season ago Amalia would not have thought it possible, would have staunchly defended the older woman, believing her heart to be in the right place.
Today? Today she is too tired to defend anyone, too beaten down to see the good in people. Today Amalia is empty of optimism, and Wessex's presence is just one more wound on a hide already littered with lacerations and never given time to scar.
Turning her face up to the woman, Amalia does not try to hide her weariness, does not mask her expression or affect an awkward smile. She is tired and it shows in the dullness of her eyes, the flat expression of her voice, the hollowness of her cheeks. "Hello, Wessex," the Shield says softly, Jyoti shifting in her lap.
What we have here is a classic case of not listening; Wessex heard condemnation for her choices and Amalia heard disowning, when in fact, they’d both just been… what, afraid? Hurt? Faced with a rapidly changing world and unsure of their places in it, because it didn’t line up with their long-established perception of themselves and the world they’re supposed to live in?
If Wessex - not the Queen, not the Wraith - knew what Amalia thought she was here to do, or even what she felt at the woman’s appearance, it would cut her to the core, send her reeling back into the barely-there morning. It’s good that she doesn’t. It’s good that they can’t read thoughts.
All she sees is weariness and exhaustion; a common look amongst the Hallowed Grounds these days. If she could age, or wear and tear, it might be seen in her too. But there is only the face that will never age. Lines that speak of experience and hardship, but never defeat. Eyes that have cried too many tears and yet still woke in the morning. A smile that hardened under Caido’s unpredictable sun. What does she say to that kind of look on that kind of face?
“Are you cold?” comes out rather foolishly, for she can see the fur-on-skin and knows the leopard is as equipped to ward off the winter as she is. But it’s more than that. The Queen’s free hand goes to the edges of her cloak in an unspoken offer. Here, have mine.
Have my cookie, have my pebble, have my flower crown.
Her expression stays uncharacteristically neutral as she waits for the woman to reply, waiting for condemnation or abandonment, for onslaught or attack. Amalia has changed dramatically in the past year, the past season, the past week- in this night, even, and the girl who looks at her one time mentor is a different one from the shy baker who kept against her grandmother's shadow, too afraid to reach for stars.
The Amalia that sits before Wessex now has touched the stars, been burnt for her efforts.
Wessex looks the same. The observation almost amuses the girl - would, if she was currently capable of amusement. The lines, the age, the way she stands, all painfully familiar to the Shield. Everything changes, but Wessex never will, because Wessex has made a change too great for Amalia to comprehend, a change she will never agree with or understand, the change to never change.
Not in ways Amalia can see. Once, she might have been privy to the other ways, but these days there are walls between them, built from pain and steel. Is she cold? "I don't think so," the girl replies, looking down at herself with something like surprise, as though she did not register the fur which grows from her skin. "Are you?" A stupid question: of course she is not. Wessex has moved beyond feeling cold. She is bigger than that, now.
Wessex is a Queen now, the Queen, high above her in status and importance, a vassal of a corrupt god, and Amalia? Amalia has not heard from her, has not been asked to help. Amalia has fallen behind, been left where she belongs: a small child with nothing to contribute except repeat failure and more disappointment, an island in the storm. Wessex is finding her place in the world, and Amalia is more lost than ever, her heart given to a cause she may have to betray to save the thing she loves the most, to protect that which she holds most dear.
But there are still things she can protect, still things she can do. Maybe Wessex no longer loves her, but a piece of the girl will always adore the wraith, cling to and cherish their family ties. There is a movement of fur as the slender baker seems to wake up, shaking some of the defeat from her shoulders, blinking the crusted tears from her lashes. Tilting her face up to the woman, the girl regards her with eyes too tired to dance or make a game. "Would you kill me, Wessex? If the Voice asked?"
Physically, Wessex will stay the same, yes, unless her upgrades alter her. Mentally, however, the woman is in the midst of a large change. Her role in the community demands it. Her goddess demands it. She demands it of herself. It’s too bad she can’t have a blinking neon sign above her, advertising all the change she’s going through and will likely continue to go through. Will she ever be as kind as Amalia? No,probably she will not. But already she has tempered outbursts, become outwardly more compassionate and understanding and less prone to throwing up her hands and walking away.
Maybe one day Amalia will be able to see what Wessex is trying to become.
Maybe today, the former babysitter can try again. At least her charge isn’t cold. That’s… something. She shakes her head and says quietly, “No,” she will never be cold (in the traditional sense of the word) again.
The Ascended glances down at the rose in her hand and looks for a place to plant it. Frozen earth is won’t stop her claws from digging a nice little hole for the plant, it just needs a protected place. So she doesn’t see Amalia’s change until the girl speaks and draws her attention. What? Wessex blinks, a look of alarm flashing across her stunned features. “No.” she says with the conviction of someone who is speaking the complete and utter truth. “No, Amalia, never. You’re fa-”
Her throat closes around the word. Someone else? Yes. Someone she didn’t care about? If there was a reason to do it then yes - Wessex would kill them. But Amalia? There are few things she would stand up to her Lady about. Amalia would be one of them. Which begs the question would the Goddess tell Wessex to kill? Seems silly to lessen the options when at this point, beggars can’t really be choosers and it seems like they need whomever they can get. No, the Voice wants to convert every single one of them and Amalia would be beloved, Wessex thinks. To steal the Shield of Safrin out from under the Old God’s nose? It would probably never happen, but just because it’s never been done before... to quote the Lady, herself.
“Why do you ask?” comes finally, heavily. She almost doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to go down this road again.
She doesn't have to say the whole word for Amalia to know it's there, caught behind the Ascended's teeth. Family- and for the first time the baker looks at her, really looks at her, a little bit of life returning to her face.Family, the last either of them has, they the few who remember what life was like in the days when they were young and careless, who knew each other before it all changed. Wessex knew her mother; Amalia always thought she saw a little of the stern woman in her babysitter. Both with sharp edges and soft cores, both a little outcast, both strict and driven and diligent and stubborn.
Amalia is stubborn, too, and proud, and wounded too easily, her skin paper thin. It is these shared qualities that doomed her relationship with her mother, that separated them in those last months of Rishima's life. One fight, one argument, and a hundred cruel words, both too stubborn to reconcile. The Grounds lost their medic to illness, but Amalia lost her mother to misunderstandings and pride.
She'll lose Wessex the same way if she isn't careful.
There are tears behind her eyes, a conflicted flash of emotion in her voice, something between fondness and remorse. "Yeah. We are." Pulling her knees up to her chest the girl places her chin on her knees, watching as Wessex plants a flower for a god she does not believe in, to combat a cause she helped to champion. She thinks of Roana, of the threats and warnings and justification for murderous intent. Yet here is Wessex, the Ascended Queen, doing what she can to help the blighted despite her goddess being the cause. This is goodness. This is right.
This is what she wants to protect.
"Someone... came to me. With a warning. That they intend to kill Ascendeds, if the Voice will not lift the blight." She does not say Roana's name: Wessex may not want to kill her, but she highly doubts the soldier's safety. "I told them they can't. That I would find a way to stop them. That Mort wouldn't want this. But... I wanted to warn you, Wessex, because I don't think she'll stop."
At least they can agree on one thing, and if that one thing can supersede all the other bullshit that life throws at them, maybe… just maybe they can get through all of it. Despite Gods and wars and Blight and the Fae and whatever else is beyond the Greatwood. Maybe these two women and their deep-seated, decades-long affection for each other will allow them to survive. She’s glad they don’t have to argue about that fact.
Something in Wessex relaxes when she sees the change in Amalia’s face. She smiles and nods in quiet agreement and would very much like to offer the girl a hug, but her hands are filthy with frozen soil and she’s in the middle of transplanting a delicate flower. Once that task is done (the roots gingerly laid in, the dirt swept back into the hole and pressed gently in to keep the flower upright), the Queen sits back on her heels again, cleaning the bits of black earth off her claws.
At least what the baker has to say isn’t new and shocking. Her face twists into a grimace and her head bobs slowly up and down. “Remi sent me a letter with the news that someone - a woman - had threatened Sam. Something to do with The Voice and the Old Gods. His description made me think of someone in particular… “ And here she pauses because if she gets it, this will be the confirmation she needs to actually do something about it. The process of elimination was actually quite simple: there’s only one other woman in the Hallowed Grounds she’s ever seen wearing armor. And based on her own actions a year ago, she can understand why that woman might not like the Ascended. Oops. There's also a reason Remi might not know who it was - after all, it was his wedding the woman wore it to. The alchemist might have been a little preoccupied then.
“Was it Roana?” she asks the Shield flatly. No point in dancing around the subject.
Amalia wishes Wessex would hug her, dirty hands and all. Instead she contents herself with her own thin arms, wrapping her knees close to her chest as though making a shield against the world and all the things that lie within she cannot bear to face. At least this relationship may not have to be one of them, anymore.
It surprises her that Wessex already knows, though that surprise turns to anger as the Queen explains that Roana has already threatened Sam. "She said she'd wait," the baker growls, clawed hands balling into fists. "That she would give me a chance to speak to Mort, because there's no way this can be what he wants." Of course Roana had been lying. Of course it all had been a ruse. And here is Amalia, stupid enough to believe it, to trust the soldier at her word when the woman has proven again and again that she follows her own agenda, others be damned.
At least Roana's betrayal saves her from the sting of guilt as Wessex says her name, for the Shield knows she's a terrible liar, that the confirmation is all over her face. Her eyes snapping up to meet the Ascended's, Amalia chews nervously on her lip, a little panicked, a little unsure. "She has children, Wessex" the baker whispers, praying the Wraith will understand. She told the Queen so she would be on guard, not so she would hunt the soldier, trading life for life. "Give me a chance to talk to her again, before you... react. Let me try to change her mind. Please."
Oh, yes, she’s well aware of Roana’s children. And lucky for the Outlander woman (and herself, and everyone involved), they fall under the umbrella of her promise to Loren. She doesn’t hurt children. She won’t threaten, won’t use them to get to Roana, won’t do whatever it is that Amalia seems to be scared she’ll do, and the way it comes out, the way it is so unclear as to whether it’s a plea for the Queen to be merciful or instant regret at telling her – it sends a dark flash across her eyes. “I’m not going to hurt them, Amalia. Or her.” She can’t. She has a whole queendom to answer to, now.
The Wessex that sits before her isn’t the old Wessex. Old perceptions and prejudices die hard, but sooner or later the Shield will have to see that, won’t she?
With her talons clean, she retracts them and wiggles her fingers, clenching and unclenching her fists while she stares at her hands. Hands that have dealt a lot of unhappiness and violence but now must be raised in defense. And there are doubts… Wessex does not have the same faith in the Old Gods that Amalia has. Oh, to have that much faith! Her gaze lifts to the younger woman and there is worry in them, disbelief and an open honesty long absent from her person. “What if it is his will? Or what if he doesn’t show? The Gods are notoriously bad this time of year, you know that. And with the Blight?”
And if it’s Mort’s will… what will Amalia do? Stand with Roana?
The Queen’s earlier words echo in her head. I’ll show up. Until I have to defend myself against you.”
What if that time is coming? And what if it’s sooner than either of them think?
Amalia recoils a little at the ferocity in Wessex's tone, the momentary light of familial shadowed a moment by the return of darkness in the woman's eyes. Dropping her head, the baker sighs, withdrawing further into herself, bloodshot eyes dropping back to the roses that sit beside the shrine. "Okay." She does not have the energy to argue, and besides, Wessex is a queen now. Decisions like this, responsibilities, the weight of the world- they belong to the Ascended, not the Shield.
She is just a child, after all. A mortal, ignorant, insignificant, small. Safrin's words are a noose around her neck, one that tightens despite the respite offered by the rose (a rose which is now nothing but dust). Amalia has never been more fragile than she is in this moment, sitting between two women she loves and admired, and endlessly, effortlessly, failing them both.
The Wraith's voice draws her eyes back up, distant again as they meet her gaze, meet the dangerous question that Amalia has not been willing to answer, even in her own heart. If it is the will of Mort that Ascended should die, then who is the baker to stand in the way? And if she does let it happen, if she does not raise her voice to stop it, is she any better than whoever it is that it chosen to wield the blade?
"I don't know." the girl replies softly, dropping her head again, unable to meet Wessex's gaze. She does not say the thing she wants to - then I will have to find another way - because who is she to claim she can manage this, to even pronounce an intention of asking Mort for guidance? She has been defeated tonight, her good intentions cast aside, and oh, but she is tired. "But I... I will never stop looking for another way. And I will never be part of that. Of... of killing. You have to know that, Wessex."
The weight of their very small world, yes, it hangs on her shoulders; monstrously heavy sometimes, but all the lighter with small victories like this: people she loves coming to her, confiding in her again, trusting (even if it isn’t total trust) that she will do the right thing.
How she’s gone from sword for hire to fucking do-gooder with a tentative hold on her temper is anyone’s guess. Sheer will power, maybe. Or divine intervention. It isn’t quite chameleonic, she can’t change the shape of herself to be what others want her to be (a female version of Ronin, perhaps), but it is adaptive. And if nothing else, Wessex has always adapted in order to survive, whether it’s soothing out some of her sharper, rougher edges, or embracing the power her Lady gives her.
Amalia, for all her gentleness, could do well to embrace the power the Old Gods have given her. It is not for nothing.
She sighs and closes her eyes, reverting to an old gesture of putting her hands to her brow. “What I meant is - why did you say it like that? Like I might do something bad to them instead of something more appropriate.” Like she’s the old Wessex, and the old Wessex has violence filling her to the very brim some days. Like she might be a loose canon, despite the past season of leading. Like with Ronin incapacitated, she might… what? Be acting? Putting on a massive facade? Or like she’s no better than Roana? This - this has to be talked out, tired as they are. It went so poorly last time, it turned into something else entirely. Maybe this time will be different.
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” the Wraith says to the Shield’s promise, also unwilling to press whether that extended to standing idly by and letting someone try and kill them, or if it was just opposition to the action itself. But there’s just one niggling little thing, and it makes her wince to say it. “Even if… Safrin told you to?”
Why do you say it like that? Amalia stares down at the rose, a little confused, chewing on her lip and unsure how to reply. She has always known Wessex to be somewhat rash, protective and defensive and quick to action. The knowledge that someone poses a threat to the Ascended, well, if anything were to set the woman off she would suspect it to be that. Certainly she reacted poorly enough to the girl disagreeing with the choice to Ascend, let alone the threat of conflict if the baker ever stood against her.
But maybe being a queen has changed things, or maybe it is the burden of family that makes the Shield bear more of her ire. Whatever it is, Amalia wants a break so desperately she considers backtracking, hiding from the truth. "I guess... I don't know what would be appropriate. I would expect anyone to be angry, at news like that. I would be angry, if someone threatened my family, but I'm not as strong as you." She shrugs again, helplessly, always helpless in front of Wessex. All she wants is the woman's love and respect, yet the Queen's eyes always feel distant when they look at the girl.
Not unlike her mother's had.
Even if Safrin told you to? Amalia winces, but not because she expects it shall ever come to what Wessex fears. No, Wessex has no idea how painful that question is for Amalia to hear, especially today, especially after she was given the charge of taking the goddess' life should she fail to recover from the Blight. Would she kill, if Safrin told her to? She does not know, and she hopes she never has to find out.
Looking up at Wessex with a face that harbors no shade of doubt, the girl finds it easy to reply. "Safrin wouldn't ask that. And besides, I made a promise to Vi. To always protect Life, and never make the step over to Death." The step that Roana is currently taking, that Amalia does not know if she can stop.
“Jail time. Arrest,” she says quietly. There is some middle ground between freedom and death. They’ve got a place to house a criminal, might as well use it. And who knows, it might even keep the woman safe. Letting a little more emotion out, Wessex fairly growls, “I am angry. Furious. At her, the Gods, The Voice, the storms, the Fae -” she stops herself with a strangled choke-laugh, something that might border on the edge of hysteria if they could see how tightly she’s wound. “But I’m not -” No, her lips close again, sealing them up tight. Try again. “It’s not just me, anymore. Before Zariah, I could have died - again - and it wouldn’t have mattered to very many people. Now I have responsibilities. People to answer to. LongNight -”
And, well - it still might not matter to many. But the fact remains that the Wessex who sits before Amalia now is not the Wessex she knew when she was a child, or the Wessex she found at the Cataracts. Just as Amalia is no longer a girl, nor ignorant of the cruelties of the world.
It’s all very complicated. While the Queen is observant and able to read emotions, she isn’t exactly emotionally intelligent (or maybe she just doesn’t care), and struggles to put things nicely. Vulnerability has never served her well. People are shit and they abuse trust. Wessex doesn’t know who she can tell things to, so it’s better if she just doesn’t admit anything at all, keeps it all close to her chest, because eventually, one day, she will tell the wrong thing to the wrong person and it will fuck shit up. If she manages to hold on to her crown, there might be dissertations written about the complexity of Wessex’s reign and how she balanced being an Ascended while her Goddess wreaked havoc on the Old God’s favorites. If. A very big if in there.
At least Amalia can promise her good news. Wessex smiles when she hears it, scoots forward a bit to change her position and cross her legs in front of her. “Good. It’s a path I don’t want for you. Purposefully causing death changes a person.” And there are so many hardened people in the world already - they don’t need her to be one. The Wessexes of the world need good things, sweet things, gentle things, and kind people to remind them that they don’t always have to be wrecking balls.
