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!
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The first night of the week had been spent amongst the happy people of Torchline; watching them drink and cavort and flirt and yes - even one or two pairs fucking. She needed some gaiety before sending herself back into the hell hole that is the Hollowed Ground during LongNight. She needed to remember that there was a world outside that bubble, and she needed to not beat herself up for being unable to fight the Monsters this year.
Ah, but even the best laid plans of mice and men so often go awry.
Carrying a small bag of necessities, including her restraints and the shadow-cloak, Wessex bids goodbye to Loki, telling her to go find Haai and that she’ll be back soon. The little dragonling knows something is wrong, but no matter how much she croons or pesters, the Wraith will not say. Only that she loves the little brat and she’ll be back soon.
Then the Wraith visualizes the altar in the Temple and hopes that no one’s made their bed where she intends to appear, blinking out of sight before her companion’s eyes and appearing in the Temple proper almost immediately after. Taking a minute to apologize to the nearest person for startling them, the Wraith takes a couple of steps into an empty space and waits to flag down someone familiar so they can tell her what’s happened in the last day and a half.
Mabel had minimal feelings on the matter, except for the disappointment in not being able to pick the Queen’s mind for ideas, for plots, for motions, before her untimely demise. From a Natural’s standpoint, the stipulations had been rather absurd. Everyone knew better than to go out into the evening, into the monster’s claws and footholds. The door becoming a weapon had been surprising, an estimation she hadn’t given over to the other gods, but something to consider in repercussions and circumstances.
A sudden appearance to her left made her jump out of her sewing, dropping the knitting down upon the floor, and picking it up rather hastily before she looked foolish. Raising her head again, she noted someone familiar – Wessex – and her jaw ceased to drop so substantially. “How – how did you get in?” Her gaze swept away, in directions towards down hallways and foyers. “The door-,” and then she wasn’t certain what else to say, eyes rounded in stunned conflagrations.
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She must have missed Mabel the first time she looked around, perhaps thrown off by the knitting or that she's not yet used to searching for her or her twin.
Shaking her head a fraction to clear the cobwebs, Wessex leans closer and offers a small smile and a conspiratorial look as she murmurs quietly. "Doors can't keep me out. Or in." And since that idea might alarm some, she keeps her voice down.
But there's something about the way Mabel says the door. Following her gaze down to the bigger slabs of wood, the barrier between them and the monsters, all that was supposed to protect them, along with stone cut walls and blacked out windows. But it all seems fine from this side, so she turns back with a slightly confused look. "what about it… ?" is sent quietly back, wondering if the girl was just amazed and that's all, or if there's something else?
A fascinating trick and turn, to be sure – and the girl would’ve yearned to dive in automatically to the duplicitous measures Wessex had somehow managed to garner and hold (how being the foremost inquiry, but perhaps she simply wasn’t at that stage of life yet). The slightest of smiles rendered along the edge of her mouth, a reminder of her youth, permanent or not.
But then it receded, gone, in the essence of the following question, her hands nervously going to the crocheting needles, unwinding the yarn she’d already managed to tangle while everything had fallen from her lap. “The Queen went outside.” A shrug to her shoulders, the uncertainty of why lingering in the hushed footfalls, in the somber essence pervading through the halls. The girl wasn’t entirely heartless, but cold, nonchalant, unforgiving when errors reigned so supreme. “Tried to bring back another Ascended boy?” Because she hadn’t known who, too fresh, too new, to all the outsiders in their wake. “She must've touched the door.” A solemn shake to her head followed, ensued, and then her knitting began again, a breath taken when it didn’t have to be. Maybe Mabel was simply giving herself a moment. “They both died.”
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The answer she receives is utterly shocking, indigestible, a slow unraveling that still doesn't answer her question about the door. Wessex manages to stay quiet, her eyes and clenched fists the only major betrayal of her rising emotions. A boy, a boy, an Ascended boy - Goddess, that can only be Clem. She wants to claw the rising scream out of her throats stifling it, turning it into an untruth. How many times had she told him?
Of course Rex would go after him, of course she would. Had her sister heeded the warning about the door? Did they keep her out? Does it even matter how it happened?
They died.
They're dead.
Not coming back.
In time the demigoddess will come to see the silver lining, the light it will inevitably cast Safrin in. And Wessex will use it violently, will sow large swathes of dissension in her wake for it, will burn and strike and mangle for this misdeed in the darkest of hours, all supposed moral high ground eroding from beneath the Old Gods fluid-soaked feet. But for now- for now she is stricken with grief as she looks at Mabel but no longer sees the girl. There is no catharsis, nothing to heave out of her, no physical system to rebel and quake and cry out - and it would be foolish to, right now.
"The door?" she manages to eke out from her clenched and wringing body. "Why so you keep mentioning the door?" Even in her grief, she has not missed that the girl didnt say the monsters got them. The monsters she can swallow, the monsters is normal. But she keeps saying the door.
Mabel must’ve looked utterly chilling in the wakes of these spiraling matters, but she hadn’t known them – these charred bodies, these broken pieces of Ascended flesh and fluid. Were she a little more aware, less ignorant, she likely would’ve been alongside their perilous fixtures. The girl wasn’t immune to grief, had been surrounded by its force lately, and could ground herself, in her sewing needles, in the familiar air of despondency all around them.
But she wasn’t sure how much plainer she could be to Wessex – if something wasn’t clicking in the rush of news and information. But the youth didn’t have much more to give, never privy to Outlander fanfare and plans (usually ignored; to be quite frank, as they were usually idiotic and not thought all the way through – the door just one of many delusional attempts). “Wasn’t it made to repel the monsters?” So she hoped that the Wraith could connect the dots – the aspects Mabel was uncertain of, but growing clearer and clearer by the moment.
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Wessex nods. Yes, the door was made to repel monsters - she’d read the plaques on LongNight eve, and it was a bit of a shock. She hadn’t known Sam had donated fluid (probably because she’d have counselled against it) to protect a door. The irony of that action versus a permanent solution wasn’t lost on her then; his part in this won’t be lost now, either, as she begins to think it through.
Safrin - Sam - Repel the Monsters
Safrin - Ascended Fluid - Monsters Safrin -
Something else roars to life in her, fury eclipsing sorrow as her eyes narrow to slits and her lips curl. “Safrin. Safrin did this. Somehow. And Sam made it possible.” The exact mechanisms don’t matter. And the Council - full of Old God supporters - had made it possible. Ever the weapon, her mind begins to whirl towards revenge, towards things she could do and set up during this week, where she alone has the freedom of mobility and speech. The Wraith seems to focus again on Mabel, wondering how her acting skill are.
Mabel was, fortunately or unfortunately, entirely unaware of the background, behind the scenes drama. Too fresh, too new, she and her sibling hadn’t been privy to any of the ongoing sagas throughout their Ascended family – and perhaps rightfully so. So the only thing she could justify was a widening of her gaze as she watched the slightest play of emotions run through Wessex’s features – sorrow railroaded over with something akin to fury – and if it wasn’t so menacing it might’ve been an awe-inspiring thing to look upon. Her fingers tightened over her sewing needles, a reflex, a habit, absorbing the information: the weight of petty heralds and deities, the pinnacles and triumphs of goddesses.
A question spiraled back to her and she felt slightly more at ease; a minute amount, nothing more, nothing less. She concentrated on ensuing another stitch in the seam of some hat, it looked rather malformed now, something she would’ve made for her brothers or sisters, if they were still alive. Her eyes went back to the Wraith, face utterly devoid of emotion, suppressing, stuffing everything back down. “Evie Wordsworth.” At least it was a Natural again.
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Evie.
A small boon for them - perhaps the best alternative if the ruler couldn’t be an Ascended. Wessex nods again as her thoughts dance around and then formulate, her expression shifting from fury to cold calculation. Part of her regrets what she is going to ask of the girls and part of her finds it a fitting induction. “Right,” the Wraith begins decisively. “I’m hoping you and Evelyn can do something for us, but it’s okay if you can’t. Or don’t want to.”
She asks, suggests, nudges in a certain direction, rather than commands. Sometimes she is General and sometimes she is an eye in the sky, putting the puzzles pieces of their family together in different combinations. “If you’re up for it, it would beneficial to try and get Evie on our side. Play on her kindness and empathy and your ages by telling her you recently Ascended and now that you’ve seen what Safrin and the Old Gods can do, that you’re scared. Get her to promise aloud to protect you. Us if at all possible.” Raising a brow at the direction to manipulate, Wessex waits for either acceptance or rejection.
They were uniquely suited to getting that done, though she would certainly understand if they thought such acting or lying (is it, though?) beyond their skill sets. She has her own target in the Temple, if he’s around.
An opportunity unraveled, unveiled, unfurled from the despondency, and Mabel was still, silent, in its grasp. For a child who’d always strived to help, no matter how dire the situation had been on their farm, who’d always strived to institute some degree of thought, scheming, calculating, or otherwise, this was a notion she could sink her teeth into. She and Evelyn could institute action, rather than sit back and watch everything fall apart, their words soundless echoes against the derision of parents, against the foul decisions of Old God nooses. Her fingers had long since ceased their knitting, enraptured with the chance to sneak, manipulate, and deceive. “We can try.” No promises, vows, or assurances that their attempts would work, because even if she’d been on earth for a short amount of time, she’d known better than to harpoon false bravado into the air. Instead, the Wraith would receive a nod, a confirmation, a sliding of her machinations rolling around a duplicitous skull.
Then she rounded her gaze back towards Wessex, the knitting needles placed firmly and soundly in her lap; inquisition resting heavily on her teeth. “What are you going to do?” Partially curious to see if the twins were to be trusted with pertinent information (or shoved off to the side, only privy to their outlined notes), and other precisions in this outfitted hellhole. What other steps would be taken into the fold?
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“That’s all I ask.” And it is, really. Making any attempt, even showing their faces, will be better than sitting back and waiting to see what happens.
The Ascended can no longer afford to sit back and play nice.
Wessex returns the nod in thanks, managing to tack on a grim smile. “Thank you.” That they - or she, as the Wraith has yet to determine if they are always going to be a pair or if they will act separately. Does it even matter? - are even willing to try elevates them. Preparing to rise and tend to her own tasks, the blonde is surprised at the question, but after pausing for a moment decides to answer truthfully. “Multiple things. Strike at Safrin’s shrine, if I can. Work on Clem’s friend Dante, if he’s in the Temple, and let the others know what’s happened.”
Biting against the inside of her lip, Wessex continues solemnly. “This might be the beginning of a war.”
Mabel hadn’t been a child of war; but had grown up on the stories of it, on the bubble, on the waging infidels of gods, on fairy tales and legends – yearning to cut her own teeth on knives and swords, but hardly certain of when, where, or how to go about it. She’d be eternally willing to do her part, but worried, in the back of her mind, about all the others. About her sister. About this family she knew hardly anything about, on worlds she’d passed through, left behind, on a land filled with their endless supporters, and them, the Brightened individuals, born to see the light. “Are we ready for that?” Or did it matter? Striking at shrines – to anger them? Turning others – to gain numbers? Her hand gripped hold of one sewing needle tightly, only capable of wielding it.
Maybe she just didn’t want to lose them all again –
A pause, and a reflection, a memory, of her lost siblings, of the babes who had no choice in the bitterness, in the rancor, in the hollowed bits of hell rising to the surface. Left to die, left to fend for themselves, left to become wolves or lambs; what about the innocent? “What are you going to do for the ones caught up in it?”
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“No,” Wessex admits with a shake of her head. Without the same kind of numbers they’d never be - but that, too, was in the works. Maybe, hopefully. If only she could clone herself and do all the work at once. “But I’m not sure what else to call that door. It’s targeted. Unexpected. Deadly.” She’s distracted by a clenched fist around a knitting needle and wonders if the girl is capable of thrusting it through someone’s eye - but no, that’s too much to ask of anyone but herself.
“Would you have me do something different?” It’s by no means a challenge, but she is curious to find out how this young mind works. The Wraith knows the value of waiting for the right time, but she also knows the value of taking an opportunity when it presents itself. There are ways, she thinks - justifications - but then all war is one shoddy justification of shitty actions, isn’t it?
It sucks for everyone, though she imagines this one would be different because they don’t have a home to attack. They’re spread out, which makes them both vulnerable and strong. “How do you mean?” Wessex asks in a request for clarification. She looks a little confused at the question. All the former queen can think about is that the people didn’t want her before. What obligation does she have to them now, unless they profess themselves friendly towards the Ascended?
No, they weren’t ready – for anything on this scale, of this magnitude. Her fingers tightened around the needle, and she sat upright in her chair, ramrod straight while her thoughts whirled. Why Wessex would cater to her notions was beyond the girl’s means, but she wanted to provide something to the cause. The whole thing sounded deadly, foolish, and stupid: they were so small in number in comparison. Maybe some would survive – and for what? To be picked off again in more minute numbers? To rise like phoenixes? To be diminished, depleted, destroyed, when another opportunity came the Old Gods’ way? Her brows furrowed together, the uncertainty coiled behind her teeth, because she had no experience in this at all – she’d worked the land with her family, and had never plotted against the world. “If we’re not ready, then why are we going towards this?” Her lips came together, fangs sliding over them as she spoke again. “Or could we think smaller - but hit them where it would hurt.” Like the shrines, dismantling piece by piece (but then couldn’t they just be rebuilt?). Like twisting and turning their loved ones into Ascended, into brightened spheres of glory, liberation, and absolution. “Could we endure the repercussions? Wouldn’t it just decimate us further?” She hemmed and hawed, back and forth; uncertain of the charred remains in this game.
And maybe Wessex didn’t understand her last comment because she’d been allowed, permitted, to choose for herself for a long time. No one and nothing stood in her way. For a long while, Mabel and Evelyn had no option to wander towards their goddess, not until her parents had diminished and ensured the rest of her siblings perished right alongside them. Just like the terror at Fiat Lux, villagers, including so many kids, slaughtered by the onslaught. “I’m thinking of children, of innocents, of the ones who get caught up in this shit all the time, and have no say in it whatsoever.” Like her brothers, her sisters, left to waste, to wither, to decay, to die because their parents were too stupid to do anything other than bow their heads and pray to gods who didn’t care to listen.
