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!
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Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
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At least she takes his cheek in stride, though something in Clem warms at her ill-concealed amusement. It had been a losing battle, but one that he had endeavored to fight, to try and get his drugged up mother to smile during her withdrawals. Clem had always known he'd never make her as happy as the Ether did, but he had tried so hard. Rexanna isn't his mother, but it's rewarding all the same to see that she doesn't intend to push him away.
Her imposed boundaries are easily enough accepted with an eyeroll and a concealed smile. "Fine, I won't hunt down the monsters as soon as I step outside." Not that monsters were something that particularly intrigued Clemente. He quite liked living, thanks. Especially with how hard he'd fought to keep himself that way.
He's not sure what the Underground is. At first he thinks she's just being blunt and saying he'd like what's under the ground. Like, yeah, duh? That's what he just said? But he can kinda sense the 'capital U Underground' in her tone. Maybe it's a place? But tunnels definitely seem interesting, maybe he can get her to take him there. Or at least give him some directions.
At least she finally deigns to give him a task, which is all he really needs to get started on paying her back. No matter what she claims about not needing to, he can't feel comfortable in this house until he at least tries. When she mentions him staying elsewhere, Clemente stiffens and his shoulders hike up defensively. "Can't we just stay here together?" he asks gruffly, if only to conceal the way his voice shakes with intimidation at the idea of going to a manor full of fancy people he doesn't know.
Despite only knowing the young man for a brief moment, Rexanna finds herself increasingly protective of the boy as the night wears on. And the humor, the relaxing, Clemente gives is enough to relax her too. And she finds the conversation coming so easily that she can’t seem to stop the smile that blossoms on her face as he rolls his eyes. Ah, teenagers. “Good.” She jests back to him with a light chime of laughter, imagining now is the time the parent would typically waggle their fingers at their children.
But he isn’t hers, and so she refrains. Content with the sarcasm and playfulness the boy inspires within her.
But after she lays out the tasks he can help with, he asks if they could stay here, and there’s a light frown that finds her face at that comment. “It’s too dangerous.” She admits quietly, glancing to him from the side as she rests her head on the palm of her hand, raking her nails and fingers through the dark hair. “We’re safer in numbers, and besides… We’ll likely be where Wessex is. Wouldn’t you rather be protected by the Wraith than in this little shabby place?” She tries to bring the humor back, but there is a small amount of fear within her that he won’t take it as seriously as she needs him to.
“Then when it’s over, we can come back here.” She gives a light nod, as though it’s reason enough.
It's tempting to stick his tongue out at her, but instead he just smiles and huffs into the blankets that are swaddling him. Even without the sensation of the softness on his skin or the warmth that it helps create, it's a comfort. A natural sensation, one that calls back to a type of being a newborn, cradled close and safe against a mother's chest. It's strange to be here, to trust in this woman, but the more that time goes on the more comfortable he feels. Even if it means letting down his walls a little, letting her closer and closer, where she can stick her knife so easily between his ribs. Because everyone carries knives. Everyone knows the dangers of the world, and why would they not arm themselves when faced with that darkness?
It sobers him a little, but Clem can't help how he feels uncomfortable anyway when she urges that they can't stay there. He can't help but clench his hands around this new safe space, terrified of having it ripped away from him so soon. Out there, in that other house, is danger. Strangers. It's already a risk to trust Rexanna, to trust this place. And while he's not underestimating the monsters she speaks about, the tension he can read in her so clearly, Clemente is just so afraid of the inherent instability of this world. He is utterly reliant upon Rexanna, and that's a weakness he can already barely afford.
He doesn't answer for some time, staring intently down at the blankets. The idea of Wessex, the Wraith, is a powerful motif. But he is also afraid of the power she wields, of the devastation it can cause if it is ever pointed his way. "Okay," he says meekly, still unable to meet her eyes. "But we can come back here right? Together?" There's a deep vulnerability to his quiet words, one he would normally conceal but can't in this moment where he's being presented such an intense scenario. "Can I meet the Queen before LongNight? What if they dun' want me there?" What if they kicked him out for the monsters because he annoyed them? Even Rexanna couldn't go against the Queen's decree, surely.
He seems relatively unconvinced, but she puts on a face just to soothe his worries. Everything would be fine, she would be sure of it. And with it, the growth of her Ascended family. He has nothing to worry about, as far as she’s aware or concerned. So she lays out the rules she’s placed, eyeing him curiously while she offers up the idea of meeting Wessex as a way to make him relax, to see how it wouldn’t be quite so bad.
Luckily, he takes the bait a small amount, and she smiles gently to his meek reply. He won’t meet her eyes though, and she crosses one leg over the other as she settles in the chair and looks to him with a raised brow. “Yes. You’ll need to meet Bastien as well.” She says lightly, easily with a small smile. “He’s dramatic but harmless, don’t worry.” There’s a flicker of love in her smile when she says it, by no means a dig at her husband, but she smiles easily to the boy in order to relieve any worries.
But Bastien would need to know where she’s spending her time, if she’s to be here.
But there’s another question that drifts up to the surface, bubbling and billowing out, and she lets her gaze wander over his boyish face with a soft smile. “Of course. I think she’d love to meet you too.” She says softly, before she addresses the other concerns. “They’ll want you there, trust me. They’ll love you.” She assures, a brilliant fanged grin sent his way.
It feels strange to put his trust in someone again, after so many years with only the barest connections of alliance to the other orphans and homeless. 'Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' was about the extent of his trust abilities from then. It would take quite a while for her to win him over fully, but she had already done so much for him. Calming and educating him, taking him into her home, offering to keep him safe during a dangerous stretch of time in this land. It's more than anyone else has done for him, except perhaps Dante.
The thought of his best friend makes him ache in a way his body can no longer feel, but which still hurts all over. Instead he focuses on a different name, one that makes him crinkle his brows and think hard about their past conversations. He had learned so much in the short time they'd had together. Had Bastien been mentioned? Either way he can at least tell that he's precious to her, with the way she smiles and speaks so fondly of him. "Is he your husband?" he clarifies, trying to make the connection. He's not particularly enthused about meeting the man. Or any man really, with all he's had to endure at their hands. But if Rexanna is married to him, maybe he can't be that terrible.
Though Clem doubts that they'll love him - doubts that Rexanna is even tolerating him more than necessary to ease the burden of her need to help any kind of child - he smiles crookedly at the woman and nods a little. "If you don't get sicka me by then," he grins, flaunting his white teeth to hide the shadow of fear in his eyes. His own mother hadn't wanted him, why would she?
Casually, she watches him as she speaks, wondering if she’ll get much of a reaction. But the way he’s cocooned up on her sofa, wrapped up in plenty of blankets despite not needing the warmth, has her wishing she could hug him tight enough to keep is worries and fears away. It’s a new world, but she had been lucky when she dropped in, having found Deimos as her first person. And it had been easy after that, having someone to trust immediately.
But even she had been wary.
She hopes he can open up to her, feel more comfortable around her. After all, she doesn’t want or require anything from him. She hopes he’ll understand that, one day. At the mention of Bastien, however, her head tilts slightly, sending a dark curtain of hair to the side as she smiles. “Yep.” She offers, flashing the shining golden rings along her finger, eyes drifting to follow it.
The funny part, to Rexanna at least, is that when it comes to who’s the most dangerous out of the two of them, she’s absolutely one hundred percent certain it’s her rather than her husband. But she doesn’t alleviate his worries, instead, she knows he’ll find that out soon enough. And it’ll be easier then, when he realizes he has more people in his corner.
She gives him a wry smile in response to his own grin, head still cocked as she snorts with a laugh that wrinkles her nose. And she leans forward to him with a quizzical look. “Oh I’ve endured worse, trust me.” She winks, body shifting in a way that reveals the brand once more though it’s unintentional. And if he looks close enough, he’ll see a small amount of scarring on her arms, on her sides that are visible when the fabric lifts just enough.
If Clemente could read Rexanna's thoughts, he would hasten to comfort her. Tell her that she had already done so much for him just by finding him, for being there and bringing him somewhere safe. He suspects she doesn't know how important a gesture that is for the streetkid. A home was a place of safety, relaxation, and to invite someone in - to invite him in - is a gesture that he will never forget. Nobody else had ever done that. He'd never even been allowed to sleep over with the streetgirls when he'd visit their studio room. He may be slow to trust, to warm up, but she has already done so much to prove that she may be worth it.
Hazel eyes follow the glint of metal on her fingers, intrigued and captivated. Part of him whispers their worth in his mind, and he stubbornly shakes it away. No. He would never betray her trust like that. Especially if he didn't have to worry about stealing in order to afford blood to continue living. Which is another strange adjustment that he will have to get used to, but one that he's eager for at least.
Rexanna's words only force his eyes to linger longer on the dark (scar? brand?) on her neck that he had noticed previously. He knows he shouldn't ask, but Clemente hadn't been introduced to many manners before his parents either died or became catatonic. And the curiosity is killing him. "What, uh...what caused that? That mark?" He knows that he should be fair and talk about his own past if she answers, but if she asks he doesn't think he'll withhold it from her. He gets the feeling she won't necessarily judge him for his past circumstances.
She watches his eyes drift to the rings on her fingers while her own eyes do the same. But when her gaze flits back upwards toward his face, to try and guestimate what it is he thinks of it, she’s taken a small amount back by surprise at his question. It’s not the question that surprises her in the least, after all, more people had been far more tactless about their questions than he has been, and she leans back just enough to brush her hair aside to reveal the full brand, the full “C” shape etched into the collarbone.
“My ex-husband from my previous world caused it.” She explains, figuring it’s the least she can do. And besides, it’s not a secret anymore. Her eyes land on him while she gets settled in to explain it all, finding no hardship with it, if it’ll get her answers to her own questions about his home. “Can you keep a secret?” She asks with a bright grin, before she leans forward a small amount again and spreads her hands wide. “I was given to the prince of another land to marry to join our countries together and cease a war.” There’s a lot more back beneath the layers of that statement, but she passes over it.
“But I wasn’t exactly… One hundred percent royal, so they were incredibly upset about it all. And I had no idea my own heritage when they found out. Turns out it was true, and my husband – the Prince, who’s name is Calstron – threw me in the dungeons. Gave me this brand in case I ran, for everyone in both countries to know who’s property I was.” Her voice grows a little bit sour by the end of it, but she trudges on.
“The “C” stands for Calstron, for the Crown. Charlatan. Captive.” She finally says, contemplative. “But none of that matters now, and I think I’m rather fond of it. Reminds me of where I’ve been and what I’ve survived.” She shrugs, looking back to him with a soft smile. "So tell me about you and your home world."
09-25-2019, 07:46 AM (This post was last modified: 09-25-2019, 07:47 AM by Clemente.)
Clemente
Her frankness is startling, and he frowns deeply when she immediately mentions that it came form her ex-husband. But when she asks if he can keep a secret, his head bobbles rapidly, because he can. Clemente is wonderful at such things like secret keeping. He is easily overlooked, talented at disappearing into the woodwork, hearing things not meant for his little ears.
She speaks at a sedate pace, confident and calm in the throes of her own story. Clem is left enraptured, staring unblinking at her as she paints a story for him, inviting him into her tragic past. It stirs something in him to realize that much like Mom, she had been hurt too. Unfairly. By a man. It sours his gut, makes him scowl hatefully at the ground as he listens to her continue on. It's a story he has seen played out over and over, and it only makes him feel angrier and more helpless every time he's proven right. Every time he realizes anew that just like when he was a child, there's nothing he can do to protect the women around him.
The fact that she is able to move past the scar's origins only makes him lift his eyes to stare at her in awe. It's a display of emotional strength that endears him to her. But just as he had suspected, she asks about his own history, and Clem curls tighter into himself, bringing his feet up onto the couch and wrapping the blankets tighter like a shield against the memories he's going to invoke. "Uh well...I mean my mom had me really young, with a real shitty dude. We weren't well off in the first place, had a dingy little apartment, but things were okay for a lil' while. But then my father started getting into to some shady business deals, started taking his anger out on mom, hittin' her and stuff. Hittin' me when I'd try to stop him." He tightens around himself again, scowl returning even as his eyes dampen a little. "He was shot in the street when I was uh, ten I think? And things were good after that, for a little while. Mom had a job, I did too to help her out y'know? And it was just the two of us." That had usually involved pickpocketing and doing smaller errands for the better shops in town, but Clem hesitates to say, not wanting to make himself seem like a bad person in front of Rexanna.
Clearing his throat, his hands dig into his arms until the barely-there whisper of pressure grounds him where pain once would have. A bad habit he has yet to break. "Then Mom got addicted to Ether. A drug the humans that hated us - not that there were a lot but yeah - they spread it through the underground. Mom got real addicted, and she kinda just...went away. I had to drop outta school and work full time, steal, just to keep us in the green with her dealer and the owner of the apartment." His tone goes a little dead here, eyes staring off into the middle distance, seeing things that only he can recall. His mother's vacant stare, the smear of color on her nose, the terrifying pounding of collectors on their door. "She started hookin' to get her fix, but when they stopped comin' round for her, she sold me to 'em next." An uncomfortable shrug here, having spent so many years excusing his mother for this particular sin. "So I took over her corner, started hookin' too. But then she...she overdosed, and I came home and she was dead in our bed." Clem's voice wavers here, tears building until his gaze is blurred. But he simply waits them out, swallowing roughly a few times until the silence feels less like a stifling pillow over his face.
"I had to call the police, so she wouldn't just...rot there. And then I ran. They would've put me in a home for kids otherwise, and that's as good as bein' dead. So I started livin' on the streets. Made a best friend who kept me alive with his blood when he shouldnta, struck up some deals with the streetgirls, made it for a few years. And then I ended up here," he laughs, voice rough, and when he blinks the tears streak down his cheeks silently. Clem lifts a corner of one blanket to rub them away, angry at their betrayal. Smiles crooked and broken at Rexanna, and puts on his bravest face. "Not as cool as bein' married to a prince though."
She’s pleased when she captures his gaze, when her story invokes such interest. But it’s nothing compared to what spills out of his mouth. And she listens at first, a soft smile on her lips that slowly begins to fade as the story gets darker and darker and darker, while he wraps himself tighter as if he can squeeze himself out of his own existence. And her heart yearns for him, to comfort, to hold, to quell in the worries he has.
A small amount of anger at the man, the boys father, brims at first – soon replaced with a small amount of relief that they had gotten away from it.
But then, he speaks of the drugs, and the humans, and her dark brows inch toward one another in concern as his tone goes dead and he seems to stare at something that’s not there. And she takes a moment to contemplate drifting over to his edge, to embrace, to hold, to comfort. And while he continues on, she waits to see just how bad it gets before she takes any action.
And it gets so much worse. By now, a frown replaces the soft smile originally on her lips, thoughts drifting back to the term he had given her – realizing what it means now, and seeing the young boy before her, and had she still had her previous lungs, she would’ve exhaled a small whoosh of a sigh of sadness for the boy that had experienced so much in such a short amount of time. At least Rexanna had about ten years on the boy. This? This was terrible.
The concern only grows further when he mentions he’d returned home one day to find his mother dead, and she folds her arms across her chest briefly. He mentions calling the police, another term she doesn’t understand, but she nods along in feigned understanding if only to not make him recall it further. But she can see the shine in his eyes as he attempts to joke, and she stands from her seat across from him to join him on the couch, pulling the blankets nice and tight around him, to cocoon him better than he could do himself.
To coddle.
To hold.
And then she leans in, uncertain of what to say – if anything is good enough to say for something so terrible. And instead, with a small amount of shine to her own eyes, she attempts to pull him in for a tight hug, to hold him tight to her chest while she offers her own crookedly fanged smile back to him, whether he can see it or not. “Princes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.” She attempts to joke, but her voice wavers slightly. “Noble pricks, are more like it.” She adds on.
Though it's harder than hell to talk about his life, something he's only really done once with Dante, he can at least appreciate Rexanna's silence. That she is clearly upset by the words running off his tongue is a weird, backwards comfort. Like a validation that maybe he hadn't been playing it up, that life had really been shitty to him. Clemente had spent so long just trying to get by, trying to make the best of things. It had warped his view a little of what was normal, what was right.
When he's finished, or at least close to, his eyes still brimming with tears too stubborn to dry up, Rexanna finally moves. The movement snaps his gaze to her instinctively, years of defensiveness and sneaking around keeping his attention firmly fixed on any potential targets. But he knows she doesn't want to hurt him, and when she sits beside him, arms coming up to embrace him, Clem...lets her.
At first he's stiff, unfamiliar with the physical touch for what little he can feel it, but then he folds inward, making himself as small as possible and turning his head into the cool crook of her neck. The tears slide faster then, but there are no sobs, no hitching breaths, because he has no need for it anymore. It's sure to wet her blouse, and he will feel guilty about it later, but for now he simply cries out the unfairness of his life into her skin and listens to her soft attempt at comfort. In this they are the same. This pervasive doubt, awkwardness, and he laughs pitifully in her grasp.
"Don' tell Wessex that then," he jokes, though Clem's voice is still weak and watery. He pulls back reluctantly, only to clean his cheeks with the blanket, afraid - or ashamed - to meet her beautiful eyes. "Sorry 'bout your shirt," he whispers, though he lingers in her embrace, drinking it up like a man rescued after years in the desert.
Part of her is surprised when he lets her hold him, but she doesn’t show it. Instead, she buries it deep within her as she holds him tight to her – his head finding comfort in the side of her neck. And while she can’t feel much, she can feel the slight dampness to her shirt while the boy deals with his emotions. But she doesn’t mind, keeping him close to her while she explains about princes and noble pricks, a pale hand reaching up to brush soothing circles along his back.
“Oh she knows.” She replies wryly with a small smile. Her and Wessex had that conversation once before, and it was mostly her explaining to the Ascended Queen that noble men specifically were complete royal assholes, though she knows that with power comes some form of arrogance. She’d had it, once. But she’d tried hard to swallow it down, to remain true to her roots, so to speak. And it had worked, for a time, before she truly become nobody again.
As he apologizes about her shirt, she continues the soothing circles along his back for a brief moment, contemplating. “Oh this old thing?” She manages, pausing briefly to keep him close while she runs her hands along the shirt he wears, transmuting it just enough to make it soft, fluffy, clean, and bright in comparison to what it had been when he had when he walked in. “There’s bigger things to deal with than a wet shirt.” She adds after a moment, waiting to see if he’s noticed what she’s done.
Every moment cradled in Rexanna's arms simultaneously feels like a hundred years, and the blink of an eye. He is starved for the contact, the care that emanates from her even he if can scarcely feel the pressure of her arms around him. Clem relishes in each dragging moment, and yet it's not enough, seeming to fly by before he's ready to pull away. If he could ever be ready to pull away. The soothing strokes upon his back are similarly distant, faded, but they slow his tears and instead he simply curls into her for the comfort of her embrace.
A wet giggle escapes at the notion that Rexanna had verbally desecrated royalty in front of the Queen. But he was glad that Wessex hadn't done anything drastic, like called for her head or something, like one of those old fairytales. "How did she take it?" he grins, turning his head to glance at Rexanna's profile from her shoulder, reluctant to actually pull away.
But he must, and when he does, apologies flowing steadily from his mouth, Clemente is certainly not prepared for Rexanna's show of magic. He gapes at it, eyes wide and round, and without thinking reaches out to grasp at the new material. It's definitely different, and his huge gaze flickers from his hand to Rexanna's face and back again, mouth hanging. "That was so cool!!" he cries, tugging on the fabric like it holds the secret to such tricks. "Can you do that for me?!" Of course he instantly feels bad to ask it, unsure what it takes out of Rexanna to perform such things, but he's absolutely exuberant with the idea of commonplace magic.
She’s so content when he lets her keep him in her arms. She wishes that she could protect him from everything, from his past, from himself, from the future – but she knows she can’t. So she settles in just the feeling of this moment, holding tight and dear to it as she can, while his tears slow and she cradles him gently, letting him curl into her and do whatever it is he needs to feel safe. Because Caido isn’t safe. So if she can give him this, she wants to.
The laugh from him when she mentions she told Wessex surprises her a small amount, and she tilts her head against his own as he turns to look at her profile, a soft snort leaving her in response. “Well, she wasn’t noble born, so I think she’s aware in a roundabout sense as to how awful rulers can be. So she took it in stride.” She assures him, pulling away just enough to give him a light wink before pulling him into her embrace again.
But he pulls away, and as he does so, her magic flows from her fingers into his clothes, softening the fabric and cleaning it up. She watches him gape at it, before turning his attention to her, and she smiles easily to him at his open mouthed reaction. “I have magic remember?” She jests to him playfully, reaching out for the clothes that he wears and doing the same. Fluffy, soft, clean. “There.” She says lightly.
And after a moment, a thought hits her, and she pulls away to cup her hand before a reddish glow begins to form in the center of it, and a small bracelet lined with black chains sits within her palm. On the very top of it, the center of the entire bracelet, sits an eclipse – shiny, gold, bright. A little token, as if to remember her by for when he goes off to do whatever he wishes to do. He can look at it and think of her and the safety of home and the comfort of it all. “Here. Wear this too.”
