felled in the night

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

She takes the plate, but she doesn’t leave the stool just yet. Not until he’s finished cooking his will she start eating her own. Manners, and all that. But her smile grows wider for a split second as he agrees with her, about flying. The freedom, the ability to just go without having to walk and drift, to look above the boughs of the trees and live by the way the winds changed, feeling the currents beneath the edges of tilted primaries.

But of course, the smile fades as he mentions Safrin had been blighted still – and perhaps, she wonders, if that’s why it had taken a darker turn. Would she, in her blighted state, cared to save him if he couldn’t pull the wings from his body, the attuned to his mind? She, herself, wouldn’t have cared at all in her blighted state. And it’s that quiet realization that has her quiet as she mentions her own shrine visit, following to the table and lifting a fork to break into the yolk of the egg, picking up the bread leftover from the bakery to dip into it.

His comment on him being faster, does cross a smile across her face as she shrugs. “Semantics.” Her brow raises slightly in a silent suggestion before she focuses on the egg and the bread a bit more when his question reaches her. “Well, it came to me and Auni. Sat on my shoulders like a shawl.” She begins, eyes lifting up to scan along his face. “I asked it if there was any way I could see Ru’in again, or hear him, or feel him.” Here’s where her gaze drops to the ring that Deimos had made her, still securely set on her finger.

“Ludo told me there wasn’t… Because Ru’in’s soul didn’t go to them.” There’s a small frown. “Ludo does not know where he is. It wants me to find him.” Her eyes lift up, almost as if she can imagine the look on his face but needing to see it in person as the information hits.

“During Longnight.”

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA

Deimos

The silence drifted again, his calculating mind unleashing and brimming, a brewing sensation and accord between the dimmed smiles and the unspoken barbs, the nettles and thorns pressing in. Perhaps it was wise of Kiada not to mention that neither deity nor her would’ve cared if he’d fallen through the sky, no wings unfurled, no feathers extended, gone within an instant of hitting the ground, forsaken again. That mention and sentiment might’ve been more damning than being attacked and assaulted; somewhere along the lines, no one cared if he died once more. But left untouched and unfettered, the beast simply ate, content for the moment while Machiavellian antics ran rampant, waiting for the finer points and details of the Harpy’s latest venture.

Ludo sitting on her shoulders like a shawl earned her an arched brow but naught else – he’d only seen the deity on their crusade along foreign snow monsters and entangled, bizarre greed, but he could feel her eyes watching him, waiting for some semblance of a reaction. There was more to come, as if she was easing into the subject, and something along his jaw tightened, pondering what pending doom and damnation hovered and harpooned over their makeshift gathering. He managed a softer sigh on her notion of seeing Ru’in once more, the boy lost twice; to view, to hear, to feel, and Deimos wondered if he would have ever done the same, begging, pleading, to stand amongst and beside the rain one more moment. But he’d been too incensed, too enraged, too irreverent; they’d never bothered to aid Huyana in her dying days, why would they have resurrected her? He took the losses in his bones and in his marrow, burying and scalding them amongst all the others, so the ghosts never truly left him. Perhaps it was the same, and Ru’in never truly left her.

His gaze followed hers, to the ring, to what felt like lifetimes before, amidst lantern light and bronze foxes.

The strange, eerie, enigmatic twist of her next details were intriguing – because where would his soul have gone? Why hadn’t it gone amidst all the others destroyed, discarded, and withered? Why didn’t it journey and crusade beside those felled in the yesteryears? And if Ludo didn’t know where the boy’s entity was –

Ah, and there was the catch. Wants me to find him; during LongNight.”

Out of practice, he schooled his features into careful pretenses, a vision of nonchalance while his skull, while his cranium, was anything but. There were a multitude of things he could’ve said or done in those flickering moments, but the first was a sigh, long and slow and drawn, as if striving to overcome the struggle in his blood. His overprotective nature, especially for those he considered family, reared its barbaric qualities almost immediately, quietly brooding and seething behind his eyes, behind his teeth, behind all the other calculations and plots. Perhaps now he understood exactly how she felt when he and Amalia continued drifting down into the Spire, in danger’s clutches and claws and incapable of doing anything about it but watching from afar. “Alone?” Was all he managed to muster, ignoring his food for the moment while waiting for other semblance of an answer – nonchalance and reticence clutching over his seams. All of it seemed stupid and foolish.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

Oh, she knows that it’s not what the Reaper turned Sword wants to hear. But she has to tell him, because if she doesn’t and something happens? There’s only her to blame, but she knows that he’d end up blaming himself in the end. Something about not being able to tell him her plans, not being able to be opened up to. And so, here she is, explaining the task she’s been given, waiting to see if she has to point out the obvious. That if he denies her this, she finds it’s completely unfair.

After all, the feeling he will get is exactly how she feels when Amalia and him dart off into the night. And she wonders, if he refuses to mention it when he does speak, because he knows how directly unfair that would be. So when he asks her if she’s going alone, she shakes her head no. “No. Jigano will be with me.” She says lightly, breathing air into the room, pausing to eat her breakfast despite watching him. And she pauses further, letting the information sink. “He has Ludo's lantern. It's what we'll need to draw Ru'in out. And I’ve already talked to Jigano about it. He has agreed to come.” A hum of thought.

“I made it through Longnight once before. I can do it again.” It’s a quiet admission, of when she went and retrieved Auni. Of when Isla had Died and come back to life in the form of a unicorn very similar to Zuriel. She can do this, she just needs him to trust her.

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA

Deimos

There were some days it wouldn’t take much for the Reaper to re-emerge; noble Sword gone, the coldblooded malevolence, the breadth and rush of revolution, the seething, fiendish maelstroms echoing and reverberating savagery, argent domination from the piercing fervor of the mountains lacquered into his soul. He kept the smoldering havoc tampered down now, but could feel it thriving, immersed, boiling, and brewing in the simmering pinnacles of his veins, unwinding motions tempting, predacious, raptorial decadence. It was when any of his own were threatened, when any of his family or friends faced orchestrations in barbarous, ruthless, remorseless turns; yearning to layer his own perennial villainy into the exploits, willing to resort to any treacherous considerations, a frigid, bedlam-immersed insurrection. How many times had he done it in Helovia, reaching down to procure his sword, unleashing hell and violence against those who’d dared to harm those he’d sworn to protect. He smothered, he drowned, he choked with the weight of it in the present, in the age-old procedures, routines, and Machiavellian chords, those dastardly promises, those savage, predacious vows.

Deimos’ breaths were well controlled as he listened, because he wasn’t going to be a hypocrite, wasn’t going to lecture or chide on her motivations, on her intentions to head straight into disaster. How many times had he done the same – willingly putting himself in ominous reaches, multiple times, to ensure safety, to strive for destruction of plants – so he bit his tongue on the insurrection haunting his skull. It was well meant, in his primordial beliefs: he didn’t want her hurt, he didn’t want her bludgeoned, he didn’t want her tossed into all those violent tides the way the rest of them had been; decimated and demolished, haunting eaves and poignant days still drenched and drained over the hides. He knew she was strong. He knew she was capable. But his nature favored stalwart guards and rampant, diabolical insurrection – and he fought it, fought it, fought it, staring down at his food while she spoke of Jigano.

Because Jigano had once led them into the Fae woods, for them to be captured. Because Jigano and he had fought over returning to the Spire. Because Jigano was going to be her protector, and it rankled, it itched, it scorned.

He couldn’t name why it burnt; the theories mauling and molding licentious credence back into his throat, into his lungs, because somewhere or somehow he was going to have to either make amends with the Sage or summon another conversation neither wanted to repeat. Would Ludo’s Lantern keep them away from the monsters? From any other looming threats? Or were they being sent out to the slaughter?

The monolith bit back a retort about last year’s LongNight, when she’d crossed her way across the grounds and gained a luxere, but others died in the process. He’d forgotten the shape of his breath, the fissures of inhaling and exhaling, under such an infinite control and composure. The smiles were gone. The grins had vanished. Even his appetite had disappeared amongst the potential for more disaster and ruin, when they’d just gotten her back. “Is there anything you need?” He asked instead, his eyes leaving his plate and untouched breakfast, following her stare, pondering if there were weapons he could make her so they weren’t sitting ducks. Because he was useless, useless, useless, in the face of these efforts.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

Somewhere deep down, the Harpy knows it isn’t what Deimos wants to hear. Knows it’s not the event he wants her to do, to partake in, despite how much it means. There’s too many uncertainties, too many to count. But she’s confident, with Ludo and the vow, that she can do this. Despite the blight and everything, she’s mentally prepared. She thinks she is, anyway.

So when he asks her if she needs anything, she finishes her breakfast quietly, contemplating. “Some more armor? Maybe a weapon or two?” She asks quietly, gaze finally lifting to look at the strong panes of his face. “Ludo doesn’t know what took his soul. I asked if there were any specific kinds of weapons I should use, but we don’t know. I want to be prepared.” She sighs lightly, getting up from the table to rinse her plate off in the sink before she turns toward Deimos again.

“To slay him, is to save him.” She tells him quietly. A motto, what Ludo had told her, her beacon in the night when the blight became too much.

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA

Deimos

Frustrations were paramount, but he did his best to hide it, behind walls, behind shields, behind fortifications and ramparts he’d dragged over the surface of his face. A portion of them belonged to the sentiments and ruminations not quite left behind in Helovia: when the world had challenged his kingdom and he’d challenged it in return, bidding his worst against enemies, chasing down adversaries, running them aground with bestial, barbaric shades, garbed in apathy, awaiting the moment he could assault and siege upon those who’d goaded, who’d challenged, who’d scalded his kin. In Caido there were other rules, other strategies, other ruses, and he kept lingering on the outside, puzzling his way through them, risking, risking, risking as if it were the only strategy he could fathom and understand.

There were no doubts about Kiada. He believed in her capabilities, in her strength, in her courage (since the day he first met; tiny fire child belonging to the ice and snow), but he also remembered the strain of last year’s LongNight, the loitering rounds of death, the constant, unwinding treachery lurking in the distance. She didn’t ask him to travel with her though, didn’t crave his help, didn’t beg him to join in the dangerous tides. Instead, the request immersed in armor and weaponry, things and artifacts he could make within an instant, his breath funneling and fissuring in a long, inaudible sigh.

He placed his plate down on the table, unconsumed, too devoured and swallowed by the mercurial sways and alterations. With his hands free, with his silence tethered, he listened as his palms glowed – the gilded efforts contemplating and orchestrating the depths of munitions all over again. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, but it was better than falling into those denizens of nothingness, tied and tethered in his ineffectual attempts. The Sword had already conjured a dagger and shield for her in the past; so this time he polished and perfected a lengthy rapier, room for distance in an impending fight, light, hilt adorned in tiny flames, passing it over to her with little fanfare or ceremony, before following through on another. This one was a smaller weapon, a kopis, maintaining its long, cutting edge with a thrusting ability, a recurved distribution of weight – etched and scattered with snowflakes at the bottom, tucked and hidden away. When that too was completed, he extended it forward again, before working on the armor.

All the while, he’d been quiet, strung straight back into his tendencies to yield along bulwarks and palisades, pretending to concentrate when reality simply ensued a battle between ire and exasperation. The last portion to her speech though made his head swing back up, the deep fathoms of his eyes narrowed. “You have to slay him?” As if the boy dying twice hadn’t been enough – she was being asked to maim and murder his soul one more time? How was that supposed to bring him back? Or was that the point – that he wouldn’t be? It would just be an act of enigmatic, shattering kindness, a way to send him to the grave for the final hour.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

He is quieter than normal, and she can tell as she tells him of the things she needs. He shifts his plate, and begins while he listens to her, and she continues on, pretending the elephant in the room isn’t there. But it is, she hasn’t asked for him to come with her, despite asking for help with it. He crafted the items she will bring, he created the armor she will wear, and she is focused enough in that task to not want to have to worry about him too.

It’s like a double edged sword, both endlessly, needlessly, wishing to protect one another. But when does protection shift toward suffocation?

She is young, yes. But her flame is only brighter by the day, from the blight that wreaked havoc on her soul and mind. She feels more and more like herself, like the child of shadows and fire, of ice and mountains, rising and rising like a phoenix over the shadowed, haunted eyes of the Rift. She can do this.

She gladly takes the weapons he makes her, inspecting them with an appreciative eye, until the next set of words gives him pause and he lifts his gaze to her. “Yes.” She says almost sadly, but determined. “Ludo doesn’t know if he will be himself… or in something else. But it’s the only way to set his soul free.” She says lightly, despite the entire conversation being incredibly dark. “After everything… I can at least give him this.” A quiet admission as she runs her fingers along the snowy detailing of the second weapon.

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA

Deimos

The monolith never had intentions of being suffocating towards kin. Perhaps he’d draw intimidating lines and asphyxiating prowess along enemies’ reaches and inclinations, but not to those trusted, not to those guarded. He wasn’t always so overbearing and sheltering – once let them all thrive and burst from the seams of their chilling world, encouraging them to conquer, to pummel, to unleash their broadening havoc upon the rest of the void – in the name of icy banners and elements, in the shadows of their mountains and unattainable horizon. But then he’d lost, he’d lost, he’d lost, anyone and everyone, through his own death and then another burdensome cycle of beasts encased in flame, then diminished to shadows and dust, to sepulchers and tombs, to sinking steps and then nothing at all. It inspired a fear in him that never used to exist: terror, anxiety, and trepidation for those beloved, and it was why, in these moments, he said nothing. Were he to permit a loosening of his jaw, he would implore some double-standard, some hypocritical oath, some lowly stature he didn’t want to stand upon.

So in his hushed ramparts, in his quiet acceptance, he brandished some semblance of freedom that truly wasn’t his to give or prosper – and instead, maybe a tarnished confidence that she’d be able to do it. She was strong. She was capable. She was fire. She was belligerence.

Deimos just didn’t want her gone, vanished and vanquished.

The Harpy was braver still to amplify her efforts into Ludo’s quest, and he tilted his head towards her for a series of seconds, looking up briefly between knotting chainmail and armor for her shoulders in the gilded, hallowed light. “I understand,” was all he could surmise, his eyes narrowing as he stared at patchworks of iron and metal, pondering if he’d be able to segment such a feat, if he could cool his blood long enough to become someone so detached, someone so apathetic, that ghosts of his brethren would be extinguished by his own hands, by his own blade. Could he have felled Huyana? Could he have bludgeoned his father, his mother, or any other constituent? Or would he have fallen to his knees on such a promise, inept and ineffectual, not daring to watch them fall to pieces again? “You will.” It was confidence in her, a broken piece in the tension, his stare not going to her, not now, not when he was stitching stalwart enterprises meant to protect and shield.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

A sigh of relief, for the flames that burn in her soul (that always have been since before she was even born) are ignited. Not suffocated by protection, not wavered. Bolstered, by the quiet acceptance of the Reaper turned Sword. It would be hard, she knows this. But she appreciates his ability to let her do this, because even if he doesn’t – she will find a way.

But there’s nothing about this interaction that makes her think he won’t let her. He is helping her, making her weapons she scans over and appreciates the craftsmanship to them, to the armor with intricate interlocking chainmail just on the off chance they’re taken by surprise. And she pushes herself from the edge of the sink to roam toward him, then, eyes shadowed and downcast despite his quiet resolve.

He believes in her.

And that’s really all she needs.

So she remains quiet for a few moments longer, watching the magic at work. He doesn’t look at her, and she doesn’t blame him. So instead, she gnaws on the inside of her lip as one arm reaches for her shoulder, resting easily across her chest as she watches it, before wondering when Deimos might ask for her to try it on. So while he works, she focuses on different topics, now that the sad terrible one is out of the way. “What does it feel like?” She asks quietly. “Does it feel like the magic of Helovia? Or is it different?”

Because gods the girl missed her flames.

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA

Deimos

The heathen tied his concentration into creation, hands a steady, gilded glow, prospering attention into those particular folds and links to avoid the antagonistic recollections billowing behind his brow. Perhaps Kiada realized this, how taut and drawn he was, tethered, looped, and chained by his own, sometimes ridiculous, values. So he listened again and again, as she meandered along safer topics, and he understood what she was doing, obliged it so they wouldn’t have to keep marking and tracing over thinner lines in the sand, dust, and dirt. “It is different,” he surmised, lifting his eyes to catch hers for an instant, before riveting back to the armor. “My life drain felt more potent there.” Like death and desecration, like demolition and disaster, a constant, undermining theme to his movements, a poetic justice to everything he yearned to destroy. These necromantic features weren't quite the same - demonstrative and powerful, but with more limitations to their eldritch incantations. “But I could not touch anyone either.” He shrugged, acting as if it hadn’t been even more fringes and borders to a desolate, isolated world, tucking and blending himself into more shadows, into more infernos, where they couldn’t bend, yield, or turn into him, where they couldn’t place themselves in his path, where they were safer. Except here – here he can bend and fold and embrace just as much as the rest of them. He didn’t mention the whirlwind of his heart in those sacred seconds; she could likely surmise it for herself.

Do you miss them? was a cold inquiry in the back of his mind; the ghost of flames riddled along her back, dancing upon her spine - once haughty little lions or grand, elephantine spectacles. He gave the question no voice.

“Creation is strange to me too. Like the opposite of anything I have ever done.” Which inspired a laugh, a chuckle, erupting from his throat. It was true – he’d been war and munitions and assaults for so long, it was a bizarre insinuation to suddenly delve into making things instead of rendering them obsolete, broken, and maimed. “It is effective and useful though.” On those notes, he lifted the chainmail before him, before her, for further inspection, tilting his head, but unable to concoct any further without ensuring they were fitted to her form. Deimos extended the armor outwards, towards her waiting hands, portions meant to cover shoulders, collarbone, and torso, ending hopefully somewhere below her navel – presuming she didn’t want something heavy, something to burden or weigh her down during the onslaught of LongNight. “Try it?” Then he could make adjustments or anything else she required.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

It’s a feigned attempt to change the subject, to something more comfortable. Where there’s little to no lines to cross, no dark tunnels to burrow down into, to wallow in sadness and what if’s an uncertainty. And even if he notices what she’s trying to do, he makes no comment on it. Instead, he answers her, and her brows raise in silent question as he tells her it’s different. How different, she wonders, before the Sword tells her just how different it is.

His life drain felt more potent in Helovia. But at the cost that nobody could touch him, and she frowns with the information before a secluded memory hits her. And she gives the Sword a wry smile, head tilting as she goes to stand before him and watch his creation continue. “I might have heard a rumor that my mother touched you once.” She tilts her head with a light teasing smile, trying to lighten the air, the tension. A story her mother had told her, during a painting session, where she had managed to plant a small spot of paint on him and get away with it.

But if he asked her if she missed her own, she’d agree in an instant. She misses the flames, the tornadoes, even the armor that pierced and collapsed into her spine. She’s thankful when he continues on about creation, and she gives him a slight knowing look. “I’m sure. Instead of tearing things down you can build. I imagine it’s nice to have that… Separation, that balance?” She tilts her head lightly. “It’s like… My vulture form is nice in comparison to the Caracal one. It’s smaller, more agile. But I think the caracal one can deal a bit more of a punch.” She contemplates, despite it being different.

Each has its uses.

She stands then, when he asks her to try it, and she approaches the chainmail armor he has made for her. Giving him a grateful look, she begins with his help, to place the armor along her. It’s light enough to move, to be protected, and something about it almost makes her feel as though she’s preparing for war. Her throat tightens, memories of gods and monsters, of creatures in the night with glowing eyes chasing down burrows and tunnels of darkness with only her fire to guide her way.

The pieces link and connect perfectly, and she manages a shaky breath as the armor fits like a glove. The metal and chainmail glinting in the light as she turns to inspect it before letting her soft icy gaze linger on Deimos with a half smile. “How do I look?” She asks him, shakily and surprisingly nervous now that the armor is on.

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA

Deimos

“To none of her benefit,” he snorted, the memory all but a distant haze now. Those minor, insignificant moments, that in smoking, molten milliseconds, had caused him to withdraw even further, cold, cold, cold, desperate to contort and control the necromancy, the fervent plunge of death in his veins. He’d separated himself from them for their safety, and they’d pressed, especially Rexanna, sometimes simply to see if they could. Whether or not it had been cruel didn’t seem to matter – for either side – because now he had no options, couldn’t yield or get away from them if he’d tried.

And he didn’t – finally immersed in some token of family, not by blood, but all the bonds joining them together.

Her comparison to building instead of tearing things down gave him pause; because that’s where his life had been at some point, ghastly and barbaric, intent on destruction and mayhem, what he’d been trained and honed to do, to orchestrate, to defy. Blades had been the end all, be all, the might, the prowess, the unhinged ruin, ghastly irreverence in the shape of emboldened reveries, tides swept for glory, for triumph, for desecration. “It is,” he agreed. Another change and alteration in him, to not have to automatically render consignments of oblivion, to slash a scythe, to raise Reaper inclinations and bouts of hell; other considerations and options left to his calloused palms. “We can appreciate the versatility.” He managed another smile, before the call of armor heightened, and he was left to linger, loiter, and wait while she tried it on.

Deimos’ eyes didn’t miss the way her throat tightened, but failed to ask about the nuances behind it. There were a number of things one experienced when placing chainmail and metal across their frames – preparation, for the pending assaults, for the warring sieges, for the inevitably of another pressing their ilk, their munitions, against one’s form. But then there was the rush too, the fervent energy of chaotic foils and fervor, accustomed tempests rising along storms, along gazes, along footfalls and paths of demolition. He understood every rampart, every fortification, every notion of the sensation – had felt them too when and where the armor lingered, other ghosts of the battlefield. “Ready,” he announced. Ready for whatever came her way; as she so often was, a fury, a ferocity, for the rest of the world to watch and bear witness. “Do you need anything else?”

i rule the stars, not the other way around

it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name

but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —

“Has anything really in the end been to her benefit?” Kiada shoots back, amused at the memory and its correct history. At least some things she had heard from her mother’s past were true, and she wonders somewhere deep within, how many more stories the Penumbra might have. But that’s for a later date, way later when she decides she should seek the woman out again.

But they talk of magic, of changes in their persons, the balance it gives and the versatility that can be so incredibly beneficial. And she nods with that small amount of information, having nothing else to add before they try on armor. But she does give him a gentle smile in response to his own, so deeply glad to see it. And as she fits the armor on, and it fits like a glove, she poises a question to him, turning and giving him a bright smile despite the tightness of her throat.

The realness of what’s yet to come.

But she swallows it down like the good soldier she is, that might smile shifting toward something slightly daring. “That flight.” She offers him with a determined nod. Then, she shrugs out of the armor and sets it nicely on the table for her to grab later, ensuring that Auni and Zuriel can entertain one another, before she gives him another daring look before heading toward the door.

— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind

KIADA