From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
The merriment faded; the beast felt it in the coil of his marrow, in the trepidation, consternation, and then reverence to follow. They weren’t his emotions, but hers, and his brows furrowed, caution and concentration embedded simultaneously, piercing eyes taking in the forms wandering out before them - ghost whales persisting in her wake. The connotation and title alone gave him pause – all the ones he’d ever known and seen had been very much alive and whole. They seemed to bend and maneuver just the same, only in bony structures and fragments, and his jaw clenched, wondering if they were meant to savor this another time, another place –
Except Amalia conjured another possibility. He breathed, pondered the rate of risk – but as birds, they could likely be high enough without much of an issue. The curiosity compelled and the calculations seared, between ruminations of proceeding or turning back, stoked by the possibilities, and incensed by other treacheries, devastations, ruins.
Her idea though would permit the inquiry and fascination – though he hadn’t known what it was as he grabbed hold of her fin, muffling some bizarre sentiment of laughter, because the situation itself was ridiculous, or the notions coming thereafter. But trust had been eternally instilled, and then there was speed, swiftness, allowing his muscles to coordinate along, feed into the quick actions.
And then they were airborne.
The Sword did laugh this time, along the inward connections of attuned reaches, taking flight with stretched out wings, instinctive plumes striking out into the air. Well done echoed and bounded, some deep rumble of a chuckle flowing through. The sea-salt spray foamed and waved underneath them now, and he swung out wide and above, aloft into the ethers, more power, more precision, turning back to wait, before they lingered above the leviathan.
Triumphs in the face of foolishness: these are the things she relishes, cherishes, the moments that keep her from falling astray, brought down by the darkness of so many failures. These are the things he has given her: light in a world so easily eclipsed by shadow, promise in a future where there are blue skies and sunshine more often than storms.
The skies are blue today; she breaks into them with feathers and talons, her body contorting smoothly into the small form of the owl and drifting on currents of an ocean breeze. Dwarfed but not eclipsed by the majestic golden eagle, Amalia keeps pace alongside him, her keen eyes similarly trained on the sea and the Leviathan below. A creature of bone and sinew without skin, of skeletal contortions and abyssal fathoms.
It is beautiful and terrible. It makes her breath freeze.
Look, Amalia calls through the bond, curving her wings to loop up around Deimos. Have you ever seen anything like it? It's... incredible.
Deimos once only had darkness; compelling and terrible, bewitching and eldritch, monumental and enticing, an embrace of the inevitable, seditious spirit residing in his bones, in his livelihood. So there was a part of him that understood the terrible rites of predators, their devouring, rapacious, ravenous entities, the craving of vehemence and violence, the revolution and contortions never quite ceasing. The power, the defiance, the aptitude to take and take and take before someone else did, before they could be unraveled, before they could be destroyed, before anything else was altered.
And he’d told her time and time again, through either the foolishness of their efforts, the mischief of their days speckled in halcyon auras, refusing, refuting tempestuous storms, that she provided another path. One with light instead of shadow and ruin, one with determination in steadfast efforts rather than blood, one with fortitude and might not constantly aimed towards annihilation. One with stars instead of all-consuming, hollowed sections, one with hope and faith and credence, instead of the crushing, vanquishing weight of the failures in his wake.
So he ignored the somber notes in his chest, the way he related to the dangerous creatures below their unfurled feathers, eyes cast upon their maneuvering forms as they dove beneath and rose again, likely hunting down their next meal. Other birds seemed to circle around them, perhaps deadly and devastating on their own. No, he answered honestly; if he were human there’d be a smile tucked on the edges of his mouth. She received a gruff rumble of amusement otherwise, an unfurling of movement from wings, ascending, then coasting, winding down and down, but never close enough to become another intended target. They'd had whales, but naught with bony fixtures and an unrelenting pursuit of the hunt. A volley of movement and motion conspired, before enacting and following hers, circling, looping, sharp and swift. Do you think they have any connection to the creature in the Sea of Glass? Leviathan, massive, made for the water? Or merely opposing figures, coincidences only in locations?
She drops again, following his pursuit, down and down to the surface of the sea where they might get a better view. A dangerous endeavor, but one she undertakes with trust in the man at her side. Were she to face any danger she would rather it be with him; how can she help but feel safe, with such a presence, with such a Sword?
The idea that this is a reflection of whatever lives beneath the ice is an interesting one. It could be, though it still seems smaller. The thing beneath the ice which she had sensed rather than seen had been more leviathan than even this creature, a presence with weight and grandeur even by its thoughts. I think it's more likely to be another tulmhainar - or something like it. A tulmhainar of ice and snow, carrying frozen seas instead of living ones. A fascinating idea, and not without its own merit and possibility.
A brief skimming over water, as if talons meant to grab at fish below the surface, before gliding upwards and around the monstrous beacons, things made of sinew and flesh and tissue just like them, only the tangible reaches of their marrow were visible to the naked eye. He rose in unison with the Shield, glimpses of flashing wings and pinnacles of concentration, listening to the particulars, to the responses to his inquiries. Not like whatever was under the reaches of ice then, and there was a solidified nod in his movements, but delving no further; because he wouldn’t know, lacking in the experience. They’d had monsters and heathens, fiends and false-gods – nearly everything here was new, foreign, and enigmatic. One moment known, and the rest scattered, a series of trials and circumstances; familiar in its ilk.
Another breath and he wound his way back into the sky, tracing filaments and ethers, vestiges and sea breezes. Chasing down ramparts and nothingness in between, content with leaving the ghost whales behind (and any other haunting measures, cataclysms that came with wraiths and phantoms), his piercing glance slid back over to her. An invitation to whatever suited, last chances of repose and tranquility before daunting wiles and soulless enterprises, the wake of opportunities eventually to slip out of reach. What next?
And then a furtive, amusing notion slipped its way into his mind, conjured across the bond. Remind me to tell you another gift Safrin gave us, because in between ceremonies, receptions, and the like, there hadn’t been ample amounts of time to drift and see.
They leave the behemoth to its own devices and dreams beneath the waves, skirting over the sun-baked sea as the creature dives again, down, down, down to worlds and fathoms the Shield has yet to penetrate. She watches with pangs of fascination and trepidation, afraid of that darkness and curious too. One day she will see it in full, experience the weight of pressing waters and peer into the sea.
Today, though, she will keep to the sky, safe in the golden eagle's wake.
The question of what now? isn't one she has a quick reply for, happy enough to continue like this until necessity draws them back to shore. Luckily new ideas seem to come to him easily enough; crying out delighted surprise, the owl loops down to press her claws gently and playfully to his back before alighting again. Why didn't you tell me? What is it?! she demands, curiosity piqued now, patience never one of her few virtues. The goddess has already given her so much; to think there is another gift nearly boggles the mind.
No rapt reply to the endless possibilities, and so he lingered in wait, between fragments of movement, wings bolstering, undulating, power and precision coursing through the wakes of their plumage. They soared over the body of water, along the sea, everything else potent beneath or above. He wasn’t fearful or apprehensive of it, born beside both, but certain in the press of its danger, of its bounty, of its eternal truth – they would never be grander or greater than it, just fortunate enough to peer into the brim of its depths, into the surface of its veneer; ashes and dust, figments and fragments.
The Sword expected the foundation of mischief to generate some response though, and wasn’t wholly bothered to hear the screech of surprise, the rapt curl and coil of her talons against his frame. An intangible snort flickered through, and he rose up from below her, intentionally striving to catch or snag at her form along his back, content to tease and taunt while they still had these instances, when the world wasn’t being set ablaze around them. Been a bit busy, distracted with weddings and things, and for a lengthy time he paused, as if that was the only information she’d receive; without his human form he couldn’t properly convey his snickers, his smirks, his laughter. Instead he’d let it reign in bounds and coils along the bond.
Then Deimos swooped downward, prone to pretenses of evasion, the chase, the melee, the rampage, skimming along the surface of the waves and currents, an intertwining of swift descents and cheeky maneuvers; drawing out the provoking, goading gambles. He had half an inclination to make her guess, predict, estimate the potentials. His gaze slipped to the angle of the sun, some time before he could properly show and divulge, Cheshire fixtures and noncompliance corresponding with Amalia’s impatient squawks and demands. Best seen at night.
She giggles mentally as he bumps against her, rising up to interrupt her teasing with his own, the endless delicate dance of foolishness one they adhere to well. Even in the midst of her impatience she takes pleasure in their foolishness, their folly and childish ways; Terribly sorry, someone wanted a reception, she replies in the same wry tone of faux exasperation, pulling at a loose feather before taking back to the skies.
She expects him to follow but instead he pulls away, dropping down to whisper over whitecaps, long wings extended in glorious silhouette, reflected in the sun. Distracted, briefly, from her curiosity, Amalia simply flies above, admiring his natural nature here, the way he seems to have been made for this place (for every place, if she's being honest- and somehow, for a place with her).
Then the taunt returns and brings with it mischief, petulance pushing through the bond. Pressing her wins in the owl dives, striving to once again find herself just over his figure before suddenly but gently dropping down, shifting as she does. A hollow-boned otter now, she grabs onto his shoulders, absolutely trusting him not to drop her or stumble in his flight. I'm not getting off until you tell me, the Shield announces firmly, clinging to his wings, laughter in her mental voice.
A visceral snort followed through, immersed in the tactics of their games, instilled from the beginning, after libraries and bakeries, after stone golems and shades of darkness. Giving into the ridiculousness was habitual, a comfort, a safety net, a sanctum, when there were so few elsewhere. Haunting measures would eventually be before them, but not here, not now, not beneath rushes of the sun and above rolling presses of the sea. Ignoring the quip that he was apparently the only one who wanted a reception, the eagle soared, an unrelenting piece of the backdrop. Did you have a good time? They’d both held apprehension of the same measures in those respects – not entirely at ease with attention placed on them – but they’d also been amongst friends and family.
So then he dove down, a continual expanse of adaptation and assimilation. Too many homes lost and gone, too many lives left behind, too many hours spent eroding or demolishing, until finally peeling away roots and striving to settle them elsewhere. Perhaps it was best now that he instilled them within people and not places, coming back to those he cherished.
With no notion of her admiring his presence, the Sword merely snickered at the taunts and the provocations, but it didn’t last. She upped the ante by suddenly dropping down upon him, not heavy, not overwhelming, but a surprise nonetheless; out of instinct he descended sharply, talons nearly touching the waves, before resounding once more into strength and fortitude. Not as distinctly graceful, wings extended in a rush to ensure he remained aloft, poised in the foundation, fortitude, of might in the follies. His rumble of laughter matched and beckoned, entangling with hers as they coasted above the surface of deep, piercing blue, purposefully disregarding her threat. You know I would carry you anywhere. She could cling, grasp, and hold, and he’d forge onward, off into the light, off into the darkness, wherever she yearned to go.
Did she have a good time? The best, Amalia replies, ardent and honest, the evening having been surprisingly enjoyable despite all her trepidation. How could it not, coming as it did upon the heels of such a wondrous event, a ceremony more magical than any she could dream? It had been the most beautiful, perfect day of her life, and she sends the certainty of that through the bond, radiating pleasure enough to hopefully drown out any lingering doubts. And then, with the slightest resurgence of tribulation, suddenly uncertain and anxious once more: Did you?
The ease with which he takes her upon his back is unsurprising, their bodies always finding one another, supportive and supported in alternate measures. And I you, she replies with a grin, clinging with nimble paws to the muscles of his shoulders and enjoying the sensation of being taken for a ride.
They continue in this way until evening falls, playing games and chasing shadows and exchanging happy words and ardor. She is content - more than - to linger in his orbit, ignoring responsibilities that gnaw like mice upon her mind. It isn't until dusk that she begins to prepare for the long trek back. They have stopped upon a floating island and are staring at the sky, eating the snacks she brought along, huddled together for comfort and warmth. "We should go see Sam," she murmurs against he husband's skin, coral lips pressed tenderly to the crook of his neck beneath his ear. "But I don't want to move."
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
An ease over misgivings and uncertainties, thriving on the sea-salt winds as he spiraled them around islands and shifts in currents; comfortable and composed, no longer so exposed to the venomous tendrils of consternation and trepidation. Yes, the crook of a smile that could’ve, would’ve, manifested were he in human deliberations; rendering the plague of her nerves unnecessary. The measure of the Sword’s efforts burrowed into their bonds, into their connections, strong and stalwart, steadfast and assured, claiming naught else but the bounty of his contentment. He’d had a wonderful time, something to savor, relish, and cherish in his memories as happier contortions in the coming days and hours, of long-lasting evenings of terror and fiends. Even if I did not win musical chairs. A deep chuckle followed and flickered, and the press of heartbeats intertwined in drumming accords as he flew on and on, as support was borne again and again.
--
The reel of twilight didn’t entirely cease their merriment, and certainly not their ardor, but the mischief waned as the world pressed back upon them. Eventually the realm would clamber back, would remind them of responsibilities, would seethe and sear down backbones; but not now, not as he passed the wine Weaver had given them, not when there was more to snag, have, and hold. Curled and coiled in amongst one another, Deimos could stay there for eternity and not be bothered, settled into the gentle lull of the waves, the rush of the whispers against his skin, the shudder through his spine.
He was in no rush to see Sam, when the guilt bit along his shoulders, when he wasn't certain how to amend it, when the end seemed so very near. Repose would be gone, the sanctity and sanctums blurred. He grunted something noncommittal, likely an agreement, as his piercing eyes flickered over the evening sky, as the world began to spin anew in a new light. So he searched and spied amidst their twilight coating, and after a few moments, found the most-familiar one in the sanctuary, in the hallowed cosmos, rising above. “There,” and the General pointed, directing her to the luminescent boundary, to the fringes of starlight and poise. “That is our gift.” A pause, to let her stare, to let her wonder, before he continued. “When we wear our rings, and find ourselves separated, no matter where we are, it will shine the brightest. So we know we are looking at the same figment.” The same glory in the sky; never entirely apart.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
Before the perfect moment is broken, there is to be one last surprise. Head still resting upon his shoulder Amalia follows Deimos' hand. Up to the heavens, up to the dark: starlight and cosmos, familiar sights for two wanderers and wonderers such as them. So it is that for a moment the Shield is both confused and contented, assuming that the gift is the sight of the heavens, or the experience of being beneath them together, or some other such. One star glitters brighter than the others, clustered in a constellation.
A star, it turns out, for them.
"Oh," she gasps, a note of rapture, the starlight glittering in her eyes. "Oh, it's..." Perfect need not be said aloud, nor any of the other apt descriptors: incredible, wondrous, generous, beautiful. So instead of speaking she falls to silence, squeezing eloquently on her husband's hand, eyes turned to the star. Another minute and they will leave, but for now she needs this moment and this memory.
Sword and Shield, forever entwined, alive and contented beneath the sky.
{fin}
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
