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!
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
When it became clear that Amun’s hand wasn’t healing at all, he’d stared at it for a long while, eyes distant. Finally, he sighed and placed his hand in a sling. Then he waited for night to fall, before gathering his walking stick and setting out. His first stop had been the military barracks, but it was empty. Next, he swung by Amalia's bakery.
He was very relieved to spot Deimos there, since the potter didn't know where the General lived. "Hey. How's Amalia." The Ascended came to a halt in front of the other man. "Also, I need a favor." Reaching up, Amun released his hand from its sling, then held it out, the crushed appendage clearly in terrible shape. "I need you to cut off my hand."
Unaware, uncaring, or utterly indifferent towards the timeframe, the beast had worked long hours into the evening, this time in the bakery with his stacks of timber and his long slats of incline-aspirations. He’d started from within, contemplating anywhere steps remained, placing the ramp portions beside them, hammer and nail diligent in their assaults, silencing the sighs, the anguish, the despair rampaging down through his chest and in the canals, the chambers, of his heart. He neglected the basement for now, uncertain just how often Amalia would need to wander down into its midst – no need for rebellious meetings for ages, or for digging, burrowing into the ground, finding channels and tunnels for disastrous intentions. It seemed like lifetimes ago, warring against one another, against a common foe, before people had split off, before reigns were incomplete notions, before ruminations didn’t matter anymore.
Deimos swallowed it all down in his stony silence, turning and twisting, eyeing the rest of the containments, pondering where to put specific bars to help her balance while lifting things out of ovens, while spreading dough across counters. Suddenly everything seemed overwhelming, and he wandered out into the midnight, twilight air, thinking to get to the front steps before maneuvering back home.
Bent and kneeling on the ground, Zuriel nearby, he could hear approaching footsteps, raising his head briefly to ascertain Amun coming out of the dark. It was as if someone had orchestrated a constant string of visitors to ensure he wasn’t alone – ambiguous to what that meant or entailed.
The man’s first inquiry sliced and bit and tore, so his features remained a nonchalant slate, rendered somewhere between reserve and despair, pretenses and walls at the ready. “Paralyzed from the waist down.” Time might mend it, time might shelter it, time might alter it, but for the present, it still scarred, wounded, and hurt. Then he moved on, as if it didn’t truly matter, and the General’s brows furrowed – more favors in the face of desecration and terror, and he was about to tell several people to go take a long walk off a –
His eyes caught the crushed hand in the little light from his nearby lantern. Mangled. Distorted. Destroyed. Another victim of the Temple’s onslaught; but incapable of feeling the rendered pain. Reminders of LongNight echoed and chafed; Rexanna’s chest impaled. Reminders of sanctuaries crumbled, though obviously unnecessary, blistering in his mind: Amalia’s legs beneath rocks and rubble, numbed and pierced. “You could not go to the Voice?” He’d gone, despite not wishing for it at all, with the Penumbra and Loren to have her fully repaired.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
At the news about Amalia, Amun grimaced. ”Shit. I’m sorry.” He took a step forward, dropping his hand. ”If either of you need anything, just let me know.” Though his voice was quiet, his concern for the baker was evident.
When Deimos asked about The Voice, the potter scoffed. ”You couldn’t go to Safrin to ask her to heal Amalia?” The retort left his lips without thinking, and he sighed. ”I’m sorry. That was entirely uncalled for.” Setting the walking stick to lean against the stones of the bakery, he rubbed his right wrist. ”I asked The Voice for healing. She didn’t answer.” There was an aggrieved undercurrent in the potter’s voice, and he pressed his lips together.
Then he held his injured hand out again. ”So. Will you help me or not?"
Sorry; likely to be just the start of a series of apologies and regrets from everyone either involved or simply discovering the news, and his head bent down once more, the hammer in his hands yearning to beat against the timber, the ground, or a skull. He nodded, incapable of finding any other words, besides a thank you, but he didn’t know what they needed except time, acceptance, and anything else nestled in between.
His previous comment about the Voice hadn’t meant to bristle or scoff; had only mentioned the option from experiences. He rose back to his full height on the dominion, on the snide, scoffing interval thereafter, a strong desire to snap someone’s neck pulsing between his hands. Had Amun not granted a swift apology, the Sword might’ve done just that – been done with the entire charade, with everyone’s demands upon them, with the constant, enduring cycle of this and that, requirements, obligations, pulled lines in alternating directions. “There has not been enough time.” A grumble, a clenching of his jaw, as if his teeth or tongue couldn’t bear for the words to come out. “When she is stable, perhaps.” Even then, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps Safrin couldn’t do anything. Maybe she wouldn’t even answer; too busy even for her Shield. The notion sparked something along his spine, and it hurt.
Or because he’d be the one asking. Not enough. Hadn’t the world told him that time and time again?
Ah, so there was the notion for the vitriol thereafter – Amun had already tried. Deimos shrugged, for lack of a better reaction past the stony reserves and sculpted reticence; too far gone in his own embittered undercurrents.
The Sword’s glance fixated back upon the broken, beaten hand once more, incapable of orchestrating any other movements, no longer the working digits of careful, tissued construction. On a sigh, his answer formed and resounded, dropping his hammer for the freedom of utilizing another tool. “Yes. You will want a prosthetic after?” Then he shared a glance with Zuriel, and the unicorn came over, her own piercing stare landing upon the battered limb. Figuring Amalia wouldn’t want blood (Ascended life force or not) near stairs or ramps, Deimos grabbed his lantern, swinging along to the back, where gardens were lain and growing, granting a gesture indicating for the man to follow.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun was silent for a while after Deimos spoke. Finally, the potter nodded. "Well. Until then, I'll be around if you need me." There was an apologetic tone in his words, though he didn't repeat the words.
As the General offered a prosthetic, the Ascended's eyebrows rose. "What is a prosthetic?" Confusion evident in his tone and expression, he stared at the other man. Still, Amun followed Deimos into the garden. The potter glanced around at the plants, eyes taking in their state before he turned to face the General. Once again, the Ascended held out the mangled hand for the other man and his unicorn to take care of.
Another nod, acceptance that others were willing to assist (but the Sword wasn’t sure in what – what more could they do? What else was to be done, taken, save for time and patience?). The confusion thereafter though, at the mention of prosthetics, was fair – Deimos had presumed other worlds, other drifting individuals, had seen the same things. “An artificial limb.” A hand in place for the one he intended to lose: several of those who’d survived invasions, wars, battles, had required amputation, and as a soldier he’d dragged them to the white tents, witnessed them months later with different assortments and accoutrements. Replacements – never quite the same as one’s own flesh, tissue, marrow, and bone, but more than the disappeared, vacant loss. Perhaps it didn’t matter to Amun though, the way he continued to hold out the mangled portions.
All he could think of were Amalia’s battered legs.
There wasn’t an audible click of his teeth coming back together, jaw locked, brows furrowed, hanging the lantern on a hook outside the back door, one hand merely drawing Amun’s destroyed one into the light. Zuriel approached, lingering in the shadows, waiting, while he grabbed hold of a sword nearly always clasped to his back, heavier than most, recently sharpened and honed. “Ready?”
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun roused himself, slightly, a bit of life and light and mischief coming back to his eyes. Grinning faintly at Deimos, the potter lifted his injured hand. ”Huh. Neat. Artificial how? What is it made of, exactly, and how does it work?” The questions sounded surprisingly like idle conversation, but his eyes bore into the General's features.
As the other man took the Ascended's right arm, he shrugged, then nodded. "Yup. Chop away. Sooner done, sooner I get out of your long hair." Zuriel might've thought herself hidden, but the darkness held no secrets from Amun. His eyes sought her out, and he gave her a cautious nod. Then his gaze swept across the garden, looking anywhere but at Deimos.
He wasn’t surprised Amun continued to talk despite the Sword’s need for concentration, drawing them over to a smaller rock he could place the hand upon, ensure close proximity, sharpness, a keen weight into his arms and muscles. The inquiries made sense anyway, given the amount of harm about to come his way. “I could probably make it out of any material, within reason.” Was this guy the sort to want something constructed entirely of gold? The distraction and image might’ve conjured a snort, if his mood was better, if the world was brighter. “It is a replacement limb, made to look like your hand. Depending on what you want, I can ensure some digits can open, close, and hold.” It wouldn’t be the Voice’s technology, likely far more suitable for this sort of exchange, but he could proffer as much as possible. If it didn’t work, he could remake it, or perhaps Amun could return to his goddess later on.
Chop away ensued, and Zuriel hovered nearby once more, a stance away, and on the airs of previous diversions, while he lifted his blade, while it sang and snapped through the air, intending to slash and cut through bone, muscle, tissue, flesh, or whatever else made up an Ascended’s form, the Sword spoke. “Can you tell me what happened at the Temple?” He considered Amun fairly impartial, someone who must’ve experienced the chaotic sway, before portions fell, and crushed. The unicorn maneuvered forward, her healing abilities at the ready once everything was severed and ravaged.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun’s brow furrowed in concentration, eyes flicking about the garden unconsciously. ”Whatever will give me the most functionality, and won’t be easily damaged.” Turning his head, he nodded at Deimos. ”I’ll trust you to know what that is.” Then the potter looked away once more.
The blade fell, and though he could feel the fluid leaking out at an almost alarming rate, there was no pain. Thankfully, Zuriel's healing stemmed the worst of it.
The General's question caught the Ascended off guard. He was silent for a long while, gaze distant. "That Ronin dude went crazy, mad with grief I assume, started blasting the Temple with something I've never seen before. It burned, though, and did quite a bit of damage. We tried reasoning with him, but he wouldn't listen. Amalia was knocked out early, so Wessex took her outside." Pausing, he took a deep breath even though he didn't need to. "The Voice came and did some damage to Ronin, but it wasn't enough. Finally, Safrin showed up, and Ronin attacked her."
He lowered his head, staring at the floor. "That was the final straw. There was a blinding flash, and then the ceiling fell in. Amalia must've woken up, because she was suddenly there, and there was a glow around her, holding the rocks at bay temporarily. The Voice came again, to teleport me, Wessex, and Samuel out. Jigano got out in time. Amalia...didn't." The last word was said softly.
Another nod, registering and pondering over the best substances and matter to use, while his palsm first manifested some wrapping material, bandages meant to soak up the life fluid. Behind his eyes he could recall, remember, the way Rexanna’s had still pulsed, a form of bleeding, over tables during LongNight’s reign, winding it around the stump while Zuriel healed, mended, and tended, her concentration bound along the vibrant, blue glow of her horn. He left the hand where it remained, mangled and lifeless; Amun could decide what he’d want to do with it.
Then the sword was wiped down, tucked away, and he could bend, manipulate, and contort a new limb amongst the folds of darkness and eerie lantern light, head tilted to listen to the details of the event, to where he could place his anger, to where he could rage or understand.
For some reason he hadn’t expected Ronin. The carnage at the fields had been a blurred, hazy series of events, echoes of screams bounding through festivities and lighthearted music, everything a discordant, warped image until reality sunk and tarnished, slashed and tore. The Fallen Star, despite ongoing trauma, disasters, and ruin, had always seemed calm, somewhat composed – another one of those stalwart, steadfast individuals.
But then again, the form of his daughter had been still amongst the crowd striving to save Remi.
Mad with grief; and suddenly he understood. Deimos could have just as easily slid into those parameters, done in, withstanding enough of the damage, the sorrow, the hurt, the anguish, loss after loss after loss, to be consumed and devoured by abhorrence and contempt. Sometimes it hadn’t even taken that much; and he truly hadn’t in this round because there’d been too many others to accomplish, to try, to attempt, while smothered, choked, and weighted down by the strangling torment. While metallic features began to materialize between his hands, the familiar glow puncturing through the dark haze of evening, his brows furrowed, mind whirling to imagine the happenstances. The Temple being blasted over and over again. Individuals trying to invoke reason, a man incapable, too drowned in misery and agony to be bothered with listening. Amalia knocked out (fighting down a snap of fury, a grind of his ivories), Wessex taking her outside. The Voice incapable of stopping the Fallen Star. Safrin being attacked by one of her own. Absolute chaos.
And Amalia, to no one’s surprise, trying to hold it all at bay.
He might’ve been proud had the circumstances been different. Instead he was silent, stewing, brewing, brooding beneath the information, the sketched outline of the Voice arriving to snag at her own, Jigano getting out in time (without the Shield? Was this one more example of his liberation and deliverance over hers? He stored it to process, to ponder, to wonder in the growing vividness), and Amalia crushed in the wake of shattered remnants. A sigh billowed out as he finished his work on the newly-furnished hand: dark and metallic, lightweight, titanium-ensued and plated, similar to bone, the digits, the fingers, jointed to enable actual use instead of something for display. “Thank you.” For telling him. For not honing in on hatred and vehemence as some of the others might have. For allowing the Sword an opportunity to delve deeper into situations and incidents.
Then he raised the prosthetic for inspection. “Will this be efficient?”
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
It was hard to tell what Deimos thought of Amun’s tale, both because the General said absolutely nothing and because the potter wasn’t watching the other man. Although there was no pain, there was something too painful to consider watching the amputation.
At Deimos' gratitude, the Ascended finally looked over. "Seems like the least he could do." He waved the stump around as explanation.
Looking at the prosthetic, Amun reached out for it, hoping to take it from the General's hands. "I assume so." The potter peered more closely at it. "How do I attach it? And how do I use it?" He looked up from the prosthetic to listen to the other man's response.
Despite the lack of humor surrounding the latest misfortunes, the simple action of the hand moving around issued a snort from the Sword, but not much more – as if he hadn’t meant for the sound to even escape from his stoic form. Perhaps the limb had assisted in the bedlam, in the chaos, in the rush of melees and destruction – some grave honor in the depiction of its damaged ligaments and forlorn existence.
While Amun took and inspected the artificial limb, Zuriel watched, her portion complete as Deimos unwound the wrapping again, checking over the trickle of life force, replacing with fresh bandages and ample padding. He glanced over at the inquiry, raising the man’s arm so he could bear witness while the Sword took back the prosthetic for the demonstration. Gently, for all his size and capable brutality, he slid the end, cuffed with its own softened lining, over the bandages, tinkering back and forth with the fit. Then for its use, he modeled movements on quiet rumbles. “Like this,” showcasing the digits, the grasps, the grips. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would be better than naught at all.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun watched Deimos' demonstration of how the prosthetic worked very closely. Once the potter was sure he knew how it worked, he nodded. "I think I got it." Reaching out, he took the metal hand from the General. Then the Ascended slid it into place onto his wrist carefully.
Testing it out, his moved it as he'd seen the other man doing. However, Amun couldn't help but sigh as he realized that even with the prosthetic, his movements were still quite impared. Forcing himself to grin at Deimos, the potter let both hands drop. 'Thanks, big guy. I owe you one. And...tell Amalia I'm here for her, yeah?"
Quieted and hushed once more, weapons and accoutrements put away, just standing amidst lantern light along bakery gardens, he waited, watched, as Amun contemplated the prothesis for himself. The sigh billowing thereafter only kindled the notion it wasn’t quite enough – brows furrowing slightly in the darkness, pondering if there was a way he should’ve built it better, more adept at the finesse of weaponry than the skill it would require to hone a limb sufficiently. His jaw clenched in the broadening silence, pondering if some other axe was to fall, not believing the grin – he’d likely be the same way (and hadn’t he almost lost an arm once – eyes casting briefly to Zuriel before flickering away). “You are welcome,” a nod, harpooned and divulged into other notions and spirals, the reminders burning somewhere in the back of his mind. “I will.” Then they could both shift back into their corresponding rituals – finishing wherever or whatever they’d started.
