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!
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Patterns; Deimos could work in methods, sequences, of the past – requiring little thought beyond the application of his task, almost routine, almost habitual, almost certain - and it was all he could rely upon now. Muscle memory honed from a mischief, a favor, a token of appreciation once sheltered in secrets and silliness, something to savor and recall when everything else was in shambles, a mess, a mockery of everything they’d sought to accomplish. Lives extinguished, gone in a flash of doors or darkness, drenching down souls who’d only sought to shield, to protect, to ensure those souls remained.
His movements weren’t quite the same as before – though he tugged his cart filled with herbs, buds, and flowers he’d dug out of the ground, fields, and woods, this time it was pulled by teeth, by fangs, by massive hound maneuvers across fields, tracks, and paths. An alteration in their stances from before – purposefully attempting for something amusing, rather than burdened with the melancholy of the past weeks. A step forward, instead of constantly reeling backwards into the burdens.
A long howl extended from his throat as he coasted by doors, announcing his presence along the afternoon sun, expecting her to be somewhere in the confines of the bakery, absorbed in her work. The Sword likely should’ve been, but his attention had been elsewhere, dragged and mired and moored through misery, and he preferred this to any other actions at the moment. There weren’t any contented strides or savage paces to his fervency, just the need for movement, the need to do something other than collecting his nonchalance, or wallowing, brooding, into the ether.
He dropped the line along the cart, and then perused around the garden, pondering the best places for the miniscule flora he’d snagged. He wouldn’t know the names or uses well (had asked someone with far more knowledge of herbs), but presumed Amalia would: lilac, chives, basil, thyme, and other assortments. Eventually, the hound came to a specific area, and paw began to dig into the freshly-thawed earth, claws angled in precision.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
Amalia greets the dog with a bright smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
It isn't that she's unhappy, seeing him here with a sled full of herbs. Quite the opposite - Deimos remains a bright spot in her life, one of the few things that keep her feeling centered and grounded. As the world careens and crashes around them at least he remains, their bond as constant and as strong as ever. In him she finds shelter, safety, security.
But it doesn't keep the world around her from spinning out of control.
She emerges from the back door wearing a new green scarf, her usual red one having been destroyed in the Spire. Shoeless with padded leopard feet, the Shield steps lightly out into the wet earth, avoiding patches of melting snow as she makes her way to Deimos. "What's all this?" she wonders brightly, bending down to scratch behind his ears before moving to inspect the herbs and spices.
They delight her, the scent of them a promise of something good and reborn. Lifting up a nursery basil, she turns that not-quite-smiling gaze back upon her husband. "What did I do to deserve this?" Not that there has to be anything, but it is a pleasant surprise. These days pleasant surprises are by far the rarer type they recieve.
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
They were unraveling strands now, barely holding it all together – he knew by her eyes, by the bonds, by the compassion worn, by the effects rendered. A shared entanglement of heartache, dashed hopes, and broken, embittered things, lifetimes of regret completed again in one singular week, because the world hastened that they couldn’t have, grasp, or clench more than inches. But the Sword knew he had the Shield, and while they both wanted to break and shatter, to come completely apart at the seams, they were also lifelines and tethers, sanctums and sanctuaries, someone to lean upon, while the world kept descending straight into horrors and oblivion. You have me he declared in the coils of his existence, in the feral, sketched lines of prowess and predilection, in strength and honor and whatever bitter soul he had left. You have me he announced with mere movement and motion alone, as piercing gazes swept and locked and wished for more, for them, than the remnants of LongNight.
The beast tilted his head at the scratches behind his ears, tradition murmuring through the connection and accord, ignoring the fact that they might not have followed suit on this particular one last year. There’d been other circumstances, other multitudes, other mayhems.
The second inquiry coiled a snort for a rebuttal, before hastening towards another patch of thawed earth, claws slipping into their confines; he was calmer with action, with movement, with motion, something to do other than drown. An apology settled somewhere, and then he brushed it aside – she wouldn’t care for a wake of his rue and regret for breaking in the halls, and he didn’t want to relive it. Fishing for compliments? He teased instead, backing away from the freshly dug hole, teeth reaching for a bulb of lilac.
He dropped it within the void, lacking in finesse. Without you, I would still be in that Temple; aiming for an earlier, secondary grave, waiting for the world to come slaughter him again.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
Tradition indeed, even if it's one that was skipped over last year - but then, that year there were other things, distractions to adhere to, quests to hold. And this year?
Well. Better not to think about it. Better to flirt and plant flowers and smile than to let the shadows in. Better not to acknowledge the trauma, because what good has staring down the darkness ever done for them?
She follows him toward the thawing ground, the bulb of basil still in hand. Claws make light work of the earth and Amalia kneels beside him, pressing the young plant into the earth before covering it again. Sitting back on her heels the Shield glances over to the Sword, a shattered expression crossing her face before the earnest smile returns.
"I'll always drag you out of things." Leaning over Amalia pushes her shoulder into the dog, willfully burying down fears and doubts that choke into her throat, the chorus of what if, what if howling around her mind. There's a desperation beneath the glibness when she speaks again. "Besides- it's too beautiful a day to talk like that, Deimos. Please."
Rising up, Amalia goes to collect a nursery sage. Inhaling sharply, the thing clutched in trembling fingers, she keeps her back to him as she speaks. "I've been thinking... maybe it's time to take that honeymoon. Get away from here for a while. Kiada can watch the shop, and... and I think it would be good. For both of us."
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Reaper had gazed into darkness for nearly his entire life – knew its shape, knew its fathoms, knew its depths as well as his own flesh, blood, and bones. Familiar, an old friend, when the hollowed reaches called out, when the void took shape, when feral instincts came over the nonchalance. The Sword had done much the same, save for the rays of light peeking through, for the sun and stars shining, pouring along, giving him chances, opportunities, to see there were other reaches worth living for; more so than violence and vehemence, more so than vengeance and irreverence.
But it was difficult to face the skies, heavens, and cosmos again, after being surrounded by horrors and afflictions.
They would come out of it, as they always did, worse for wear, morose, melancholy, and worn, tired, misshapen. Time would mend and stitch over old scars, knot and gnarl them near faded ones of yesteryear, and they’d try to assemble something out of the broken messes. The piercing slate of his eyes could see it was hard again for her too, and one had to wonder when they would cease trying altogether.
Not now; tempting as it was. Her promise echoed and unfurled, the earnest smile painted over fragments, and he yearned so badly to fix it. Amalia’s words bounded over him again and he turned silent once more for her sake, no rebuttal in his mind. Nothing but claws working through the earth, nothing but the attempt to remember days not so damned, not so draining. The work was refreshing in its own way – permitting him to think of naught more but the shift of dirt in between claws and paws, muscles honed and harpooned, put to action instead of mulling.
His teeth had snagged hold of another bloom, some thyme, slowly lowering it into the hole, when her breath sharpened. Glancing up out of concern, Deimos didn’t expect these particular phrases; of getting away, some escape, some deliverance, some liberation from the constant bombardment of disaster and ruin. The hound sat down, otherwise very still, but the considerations didn’t take long. Yes. We should. Planning and plotting began immediately, customary machinations, out of the smoke and fumes of oblivion, savoring something meant to be greater. I can find someone to watch the guild and barracks.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
She can feel him processing her request, doesn't need to turn and look to know the process behind those blue eyes. A breath held in anticipation, fear of a rebuttal - it isn't time, there's too much to do, there's too many to mourn, things are too dark - and then exhaled in a plume of relief, the first thing like a genuine smile brightening her face.
Turning back to look at him, the Shield nearly cries, tears of relief and hope pressing unbidden behind her eyes. "Yes!" she agrees with his decision, not knowing or caring who will stand as guard of their broken pieces, their shadowed halls and haunted pasts. "I could even close the bakery. Especially since Fiat Lux-"
Well. Honestly, the Shield has no idea if Fiat Lux is happening or not, and right now she doesn't particularly care.
Moving now away from the cart Amalia settles into the damp earth, pressing unabashedly against her husband's warm, soft side. Running fingers idly through the thick hair of the dog, the girl allows herself to daydream, to imagine what might be. "We can sleep on the beach and watch the sun come up. And swim out to the horizon. And not see anyone at all."
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Sword had never been one to shirk his responsibilities to anyone else; partially because of the weight he put on his shoulders, and partially because it emphasized his modicum of control. But in this aftermath, of tragedies and torments, of seemingly never-ending debacles, he was too exhausted, too worn, too fatigued to care. They’d put enough effort in, and it hadn’t gotten them anywhere. They’d planned. They’d orchestrated. Even with their hearts and souls poured into the predicaments, it scarcely mattered. The world still fell apart.
And the beast knew he was at a breaking point; endured and endured and endured until he simply couldn’t any longer. Amalia couldn’t be much better off. They both presided in pretenses, but the veneers were thin, cracking, fumbling, and tearing.
Even Fiat Lux seemed like a distant haze, and he hid the flinch resounding through his figure. There’d been content memories there, ones they’d made, and he wouldn’t give credit to anyone else. There’d also been horrifying, terrifying poignancy, that seemed to wax and wane with every season (temples fallen and paralysis). If they missed it this year, he didn’t care either. The connotations of death ran rampant everywhere, and he was so tired of it all.
She pressed into his wake and his great hound skull leaned in, shoved against her shoulder while his mouth held another herb. The effects she detailed sounded far more divine than anything he could surmise, concoct, or imagine. Just have one another, a wondrous consideration – save for a few, he didn’t particularly care if he saw anyone else for another few months (and sometimes eternities). They’d earned that much.
Purposefully maneuvering against her, a light tease, he dropped the herb into another hollowed void, before orchestrating another tangent and target. Kiada brought a boyfriend back with her.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
"Yes." It sounds divine, this world of their joint creation which she doubts shall ever come to pass but clings to now with a clawed tenacity, the foolish stubbornness for which the Shield is known. Leaning into the shared shoulder she allows herself to dream of the sun, of tanned skin and silver scars and freedom from expectations or failures.
Deimos drops another herb and Amalia begins to bury it down, pressing the earth gently around the stems with a practiced tenderness from years of gardening alongside Evie and her mother. She has always lacked the magic of her sister and mother, but there's still something comforting about having fingers covered in dirt. Focused in on her work, it takes her a moment to process Deimos' playful remark.
"She what?!"
Reeling back the Shield fixes Deimos with a stunned, incredulous smile. "A boyfriend? She was gone for less than a season! Did you meet him?" She knows her protectiveness of the other woman is foolish, that she is no older or wiser, but still. Kiada is a daughter to her husband, so she is a daughter to the girl.
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
It would be difficult to break away from responsibilities for a time – the guilt might eat at him for not being here - but then again, if anyone begrudged them of taking moments for themselves, perhaps the offenders would be willing to step up for a change. And while not a dreamer by any means, the notions of faith instilled made his heart less decrepit and decayed. By sheer determination, grit, mettle, and will he’d simply strive for those opportunities.
His paws scraped into the earth again, dirt under claws, the weight of movement and motion a worthy distraction (and then again – something like raw amusement, threatening to brim and brew over the armaments of everything else). Slightly at Kiada’s expense, and any pending taunting, the beast snorted, hallowed enough to sound like a barking laugh. The Harpy had always snagged what she wanted – sometimes without a need for any long-lasting plots.
Twice. Another feral, dog-like shrug wound its way through his shoulders, while he grabbed hold of some chives, shaking them around in his fanged grasp, listening to the fronds whip around in the wind. Chulane is Attuned, met him first while he was a leopard. A slight canine arch coiled along his brow, indicating similarities between Shield and Kiada’s chosen. Then when they came through the portal. Seemed decent. Holds a council position in Halo.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
Met twice and yet here is Amalia, the very last to know. Huffing slightly (but really- where had she been? What had she been doing? What else did she miss?) the Shield shakes her head, taking the chives from Deimos and depositing them in the dirt. That he's a leopard as well soothes her nerves slightly, the bright ember of Attuned kinship kindling fondly in her breast.
But then there is the second part, and her spirits waver again. "He lives in Halo?" Of course he does- he has a council position. Still Amalia's fingers tremble with a sudden, painful dread. Halo is dangerous, Halo is far, and what if she never sees the Harpy again? Or what if something happens and there is nothing she can do, no way to protect her, doomed to lose another one she loves?
She can feel her heart rate rising, her breath catching. Inhaling deeply, Amalia tries to push away her fear, to bury it below the earth with the roots of the young chive. "We should have them for dinner before we leave," she murmurs shakily, turning to Deimos with a weak smile. "Make sure he's good enough for Kia."
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
He’d only met the other man by chance; a stalking, howling interval unwinding, unfurling, along the piercing edges of boundaries, a midnight run only ceased by unknown beasts. The cretin tilted his head in inquiry at her huff, uncertain about its parameters, and sidestepped around to dig a hole further away, permitting the silt and soil to fly out behind him, a little more wicked, a little more mischief, in the otherwise doldrum and melancholic haze.
Her question likely didn’t have to be answered – an immediate obstacle between Kiada and Chulane, but he did so anyway, blunt and forthright. Yes. It would be a dilemma they’d have to work out together; though another sinking dread began to crawl through his spine at the notion of the Harpy going to Halo. To live there permanently? The mountains called – but they weren’t his - not Basin auroras, not bliss, not intriguing – just treacherous and poignant in their haunting eaves. His jaw clenched tightly over a set of thyme, before dislodging it into the designated void. Nothing to do be done about the apprehension settling in again – a wait and see process.
His glance, piercing and puncturing, riveted back to her, and the lightest of snorts followed. I said the same. Kiada offered her house when they were ready. After suffering, after grief, after the attempts at recovering, moving forward, onward, from the latest onslaught and terror.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
It is good to hear they think the same, the same anxieties, the same protective lacquer spread liberally over fractured souls. She has risen from the damp ground by the time he makes his reply, his snort returned with a crooked smile and a wry lift of her brow. "I doubt they'll ever be ready," she counters sardonically, picking up a bulb of mint and inspecting the leaves. "But then, life rarely waits for you to be ready."
Wistful now, she trails off, burying her nose in the leaves. The sharp and soothing scent washes through her, clouding into her thoughts: a good thing, for her mind again teeters close to spiraling into the abyss. The earthy aroma is grounding, settling. It cannot replace what she has lost, but it helps to remind her what she has.
Turning back to where Deimos works the Shield hovers, not yet kneeling, the bulb clutched in her hand. "How... How was she? When you told her?" Her voice is soft and hesitant, reluctant to broach this subject and threaten the fragile peace but needing desperately to know.
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Ready signified steps towards resolve, towards healing, towards grief not overwhelming, not overbearing, every movement they made. And though life hardly scattered those opportunities for them, the Sword would know and understand such notions from any life lived, carving out a semblance for a family dinner wasn’t as heavy as the multitudes of other layers and lacquer they’d sculpted. The beast took another bundle of chives in his great maw, and maneuvered towards the outer boundaries of the garden, making no effort to rebuff or reply – the sentiments dragging too hard into further ruminations, and he preferred movement to sinking any further.
The familiar pattern of digging settled into his soul, utilizing the barest hints of barbarity as claws sought purchase and tugged upon loosening soil, something potent, something powerful, something he could strike upon when there was naught else. It ebbed at his frustration, at his agony, and permitted him to tear into the earth with little else to show but a vacant hole; the herb following in soon after.
As he brushed the dirt back over, her words flickered over again, and he paused for a moment, mulling, presiding. Upset. And far more than he’d ever thought she would be, considering the webbing and entanglement of histories, of worlds collided, apart, frenetic, and something brutally unforgiving. I do not believe they reconciled well. Both had tried at his insistence, but it hadn’t seemed to have mattered – and now, in some bitter, rancorous press, it was entirely too late.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
there is a color that shines through your skin
Like the moon on the wind
Upset. She supposes she expected nothing less, but it still hurts to hear it, empathy for her adopted charge tugging at her heart. At least it does not sound as though she blames the Sword for what happened: a welcome relief, and not a surprise, given her own adamant belief that Deimos bears no guilt for this latest tragedy. Sighing softly, the Shield walks back toward where the hellhound works, still standing with the mint between her hands.
"I should talk to her." Absently she plucks a leaf from the young plant, rolling fingers over it to bring out the aroma. "Not that- I'm sure you-" With another sigh the girl settles back onto her knees, pressing fingers into soft earth to dig a hole of her own. "My mother and I never... we weren't close, when she died. I know how hard it can be, I guess."
Glancing back at Deimos from beneath a curtain of golden hair, the Shield adds in a softer voice. "If... if she wants to see me. Do you think she will?"
the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask
And the rings round your eyes
