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!
Eventually the ceremony was over and it was time for the decorations to come down...and after that, Bastien supposed it was time for his life to move on. That idea was so terrifying he almost considered, as he sat listening to whoever else spoke with his eyes glassy and unfocused staring at the wall, never doing it at all. Leaving the Sanctuary as a shrine to Rexanna and spending his days on his knees, singing her praises.
It was very tempting indeed: if he didn't have Azrael, he probably would have done just that. But when Bastien looked over to his child, their child, he knew had to push through it. It was no life, to exist in your mother's shadow; the decorations had to come down.
He couldn't do it alone though. While he was slightly embarrassed about his breakdown during the funeral, he knew he'd have to ask the help of someone who had attended and as people began to file out, he felt himself going to reach for Deimos. Perhaps it was the man's stoicism, his silence and apparent strength in these times...it was comforting, in a way that everyone elses empathetic tears often weren't. As much as he still had to fight down voices inside himself saying Deimos was to blame, he couldn't think of anyone else that seemed strong enough in the moment to help him with his task.
"Deimos -- stay for a while and help me restore the studio? I cannot handle the task alone." He asked, lightly touching the man's elbow as he had gotten up. It was embarrassing to have to ask for this, to have to let his vulnerability show to get it, but there was no other way.
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
The Sword had managed to keep his composure through the funeral – reverting to primordial, stoic emblems, forced, fake nonchalance, his despair rendered inward, across a blackened, scarred heart and other lacerated sinew. The temptation to escape immediately after was all the more present every time he looked up, Rexanna’s paintings and poignancy an instant reminder of legacies she’d left behind, and the monumental mistakes he’d enacted. So he’d kept himself composed, biding his sojourns back to his own silent pit of despair, head down, eyes on nothing at all but the floor.
Until the departure had been nearly enacted, the door so close, and Bastien found his tall frame in the sea of people. Deimos turned his skull, and withheld a sigh, uncertain of what more he could do that wouldn’t segment another barrage of cataclysms, mayhem, and irreverence. Perhaps Bastien wanted to punch him again.
For some reason, the words that followed weren’t expected, and a single brow quirked upward, breaking the reticent veneer. Another penance perhaps, but not even remotely close to redemption, and he’d be haunted by the Penumbra every step of the way, on this area filled with her likenesses, her artifacts, her essence. The beast stifled a sigh, a sorrow-filled reverberation, and nodded, clamoring to the silence as he moved ahead, uncertain of where to start as the rest of the funeral procession filed out. “Where do you want things?”
Bastien could see Deimos hold back a sigh and well, this was not a job anyone would really want; still, he thankfully agreed. With a not-really-there forced smile of gratitude, he waited until everyone else was gone (giving the customary, also-forced 'thank you for coming' to the few that stopped) then looked over at the room himself. The laid out chairs, the ornate stars and the damn portrait staring at them both.
If Rexanna herself was watching, had she liked it? He wished he could ask her.
"I...am going to put away the painting and the ashes. Could you possibly start by stacking the chairs?" He asked, struggling to not let his voice shake but somehow managing. Without waiting for an answer he walked to the end of the room and gently lifted the painting off the alter. "You know...I painted this a couple of weeks ago." He said as he held it before him, eyes searching over the canvas as if looking for an answer his past self had left. "We never know what we have until it is gone. I lost everything once...and I suppose I will have to pull myself back now as I did then, but...what when it all crumbles again?" His hands shook; he took a breath and turned, going to put the painting in a stack of frames in the corner. "Sorry. Rambling seems to come to me a lot right now."
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
His eyes refused to go to the portrait – he couldn’t endure some all-knowing look upon her face right now, some justifiable snicker, or a semblance of betrayal. He could imagine it too clearly for himself, and so his jaw clenched, his brooding fixtures remained, and he went to adhere to Bastien’s task.
Stacking chairs wasn’t any hindrance, but the motion, movements, and something resembling a goal, however minuscule, was better than an alternative. Hands grasped the seating venues and placed them upon one another, maneuvering them along to a corner of the room, repeating the process when the stacks became too high. It would’ve been routine work and nothing but some ashen memories to swallow him whole, but Bastien insisted on conversation – not Deimos’ forte.
We never know what we have until it is gone stung down his shoulder blades and up through his spine, because the monolith had lost a great number of people, places, and things, and couldn’t ever regard something as infinite. It was why he grasped and held and clenched and tried to hang onto the undulations of time – but he’d yet to master or conquer those elements. “Then you get up and keep going,” reverberated on a deep rumble; perhaps the only thing he’d ever managed to do efficiently – to rise again after falling; an accomplishment that became more and more difficult each moment it had to be rendered. Sometimes it was easier to be the ashes and soot, rather than the incited embers. "Rexanna always did."
Bastien truly wasn't sure if he was expecting Deimos to actually respond to what he was saying: he was speaking out into the air and whether or not someone was actually there, he was likely going to be doing it for the next several months. When the short reply did come he was walking to pick up the ashes in their box, hands lingering around it as if lifting it from the table would be some huge step.
"..You're right, though I'd like to believe she'd have shed at least a tear for me." He joked, but didn't laugh; he picked up the ashes.
Going to put them on the stairs for the time being so he could move them upstairs later, he came back into the room and leaned against the wall for a moment, looking at all the chairs stacked up against the wall successfully and nodding. "These things on the ceiling, next. They aren't to keep, so you can be as rough as you need to to get them down." Bastien himself began to reach up and pull down the paper stars and blue fabrics, perhaps a little harder than he had to.
Pausing with crumpled golden paper in his hands, he looked over as if a thought had just occurred. "..You knew her long before I did. Could you...I don't know. Do you have something you want to share about her? I know you are not the talking type, but...I am desperate for all of her I never got to see right now. I will miss so much."
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
Oh, Rexanna likely would have shed a tear for a fallen beloved; but Deimos didn’t feed into it, didn’t cater to the notion. Instead, he swallowed down whatever bile had formed in his throat, finishing up on the chairs, eyes following the traces of artwork, paper lanterns, stars, representations of what she’d been, along the ceiling. He had no notion of tearing them apart, even if Bastien had given the go ahead, and opted to coax the air incantations from his being.
They stirred and whipped along, vibrant and curling, coiling over the finery, and he followed the wayward path, catching the ones falling gracefully down. No crumpling, he placed them across his palms, while Bastien spoke, and some amount of dread formed in his neck.
Of days from before, of lifetimes ago, of mountains, summits, gilded traces and things, worlds away from here and now. He’d perished before, and then she’d done the same to him now, and the cyclical ache coiled in his lungs. The Sword had half an inclination to not say anything at all, to give into Bastien’s accord of not the talking type to the fullest extent.
But all he had left now of the Penumbra were the stories. “She was a Thief in the Aurora Basin, a kingdom of Helovia.” A start, while he manifested the air, billowing across the remains, gaze focused and honed on the objects fluttering and cascading.
To anyone looking from the outside, they might have expected Deimos, the warrior, to carelessly rip down the decorations and for Bastien, the artist, to treat them with care, but it seemed the opposite was the case. To Bastien, who was feeling incredibly disillusioned with the space he had created now that Rexanna was not in it, it was therapeutic to beat it all up a little, let the pretty details know just what he thought of them.
Had Deimos decided not to tell the tales he wouldn't have begrudged the man. They were all tired and depressed and probably had better things to do than wallow in misery; thankfully it seemed Deimos was willing to give him this indulgence.
He nodded to the introduction, knowing that much already. "Yes, she told me that much. ...Though, now that I think of it, I don't know what it was she was stealing, for the most part."
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
In another time or moment, he might’ve ripped them all down and apart. But this was Rexanna’s space, her sanctuary, her venue; not his training grounds, with weapons and machinery made to decimate, made to pulverize, made to destroy. He’d already done enough damage, and had no inclination of mucking it up any further, even if they were just pieces and portions of décor. The rest fluttered and flew, and he collected them in his grasp, placing them neatly in a pile, for Bastien to have or discard.
Maybe talking about her would make things easier, but it was work to make it his jaw unclench, for it all not to sink down the back of his throat, or absorb in his skull, honing the memories and machinations for himself. But he craved another task instead of merely talking, hoping for a direction.
So his gaze went elsewhere, over the other necessities, while his voice rumbled, and perhaps the barest hint of a smirk gathered in one corner of his mouth, fondness for the Penumbra unfurling through the turmoil and grief. “She gathered information, items, or people for us.” Individuals with wisdom and sagacity, things they could utilize for upcoming warfare, or merely to eliminate some irritating members of other societies. “Or protected those who were at risk of being stolen.”
Bastien took the decorations that he and Deimos had gathered and put them to one side next to the stack of paintings; they would be burnt later, but after the almost reverent way the other man had taken them down, he felt guilty so obviously putting them in a trash pile right away. Perhaps he could keep a couple of the stars, he thought, as he looked down at it: in a book somewhere, flattened until he could handle looking at them again.
"People...?" Despite himself, he was curious enough about that to ask it as he would about any other story, looking up with a frown. "If you're stealing a person...isn't that kidnapping? Tsk, Rexanna." Bastien aimed this last chastising towards the paintings, as if she was hiding within them.
Going to the table which had held her ashes and painting, he went to hold one side of it and nodded to the other, indicating for Deimos to come and help him move it: there were more that needed to be put back too, pushed along the back wall. "Do go on, though. Did you think her good at this work?" He asked as they lifted it, finding having something to speak about made it easier to get through the minutes.
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
Abductions had been more like limited time-frames for their captives more than anything else; and he’d know, considering he’d been amongst the chained and tethered at one point. He held back the snort at the makeshift chastising, following Bastien’s movements towards the table that once held her ashes, the painting, and maintaining his semblance of calm. “Political prisoners. Usually when we were preparing for war.” When they were assembling incitement, stoking irreverence, bending through agent provocateur wakes, enacting vengeance. Or when someone was particularly irritating, needing to be plucked out of the ether and sent into a cave, to be ignored or discarded.
He lifted his end of the table with ease, palms grasping, muscles lifting, intending to follow along towards the back wall. Rexanna’s successes had been numerous, saving him ample time and pain in not having to maim, lacerate, and tear the world apart solely on his own. “Yes. She was very good.” Their Thieves had been the best; and even if he wasn’t heavily biased, he’d always believe the same. He presumed Bastien would be able to imagine it; Rexanna's coaxing mannerisms, hidden machinations and maneuvers, the cloaks and daggers beneath the weight of her role. His brows furrowed, pressed together for a moment, considering. “The only moment I was ever disappointed in her was when she left.”
"Ah...I heard there was certainly a lot of war." From what Rexanna had told him, Bastien had gotten the impression the places she had come from had been in constant and never-ending political and military strife, moreso than anywhere else he'd heard of or been, even Caido. Perhaps that was why she had been so apt at democracy and so brave, now that he thought of it: maybe she'd seen it all.
Bastien was not a believer in not speaking ill of the dead (if the dead were assholes, let them know about it, he said), but to shift gears into Deimos' disappointment with Rex did make him pause for a moment: he decided to ask more in the end though, figuring anything that kept the story going was something that delayed the inevitable and awful moment where he was alone. "And how was it that she left? My...timelines for her life before are a little muddled, it always seemed very complicated. I've heard of children, husbands, wars, plots...you know..."
The ghost of the laughing smile he had once had passed his face as he went to move the second table. "For a time, I thought you had been the father of her twins. I'm not sure where the misconception arose."
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
War after war after war; an accurate assessment that earned Bastien a shrug. A committed movement that barely expressed the hardships, the brutality, the glory, the triumph, and the losses – but they’d played their parts, executed their roles, mastered the endless barrage of assault after assault.
He maneuvered the table, and wandered for the next one, reaching and waiting for Bastien to follow through on the same accord, placing footfalls and strides into action – only lifting his head to briefly arch a brow, and then have the piercing slate land on the supplies once more. “She wanted to be with the twins’ father.” Here he made the slightest of grimaces – never having been impressed with Tembovu, even when the man’s stature had been above his own. Character went a long way in saying something about a person - and the moment the elephantine beast had rushed straight into the Basin, Deimos had developed a visceral dislike. “He was the King of another kingdom.” Then he shrugged; as if it all made sense then and there – sacrificing her titles and roles to be with the elephant cretin and his harem. The rest of the tale he remained unaware of, save for bits and pieces Kiada might have told him of their time within the World’s Edge; the Reaper had died not long after.
But the next set of statements caused his gaze to widen, completely, utterly baffled, jaw dropping a segment before he brought it back up – stupefied for a moment. Then he released a loud snort, something that could’ve been the beginning of a laugh, were they in different, alternative circumstances. “Absolutely not.”
Oh, Bastien knew now about the twin's father and all the Kingdoms and so on; it was still a complex and sordid tale he didn't want to dwell too long on, but Rexanna had told him enough that it had stuck in his head. "You know...before I came here, most of my acquaintances didn't have two of anything, most lived on the streets. So many of you come from histories were it seems like you were rubbing elbows with Kings every week. Do you ever miss that...glamour? If, of course, you ever considered it that." It was a point made slowly and with several pauses, Bastien's usual easy-flowing philosophical wonderings not coming to his tongue as easily.
With the tables back in place, the studio was beginning to look far more like it's normal self. Only thing to do now was to restore what had been on the tables before: Bastien went to a corner and pulled a sheet off a pile of boxes, which he gestured to Deimos needed to go atop the tables: he could sort them out later.
The reaction to his old assumption actually did draw out from him the first laugh he'd had in the nebulous time since Rexanna had died. "Still, it's clear you meant a lot to her. She spoke fondly of you."
If we should be arrested before we sleep I'll see you outside in a few days or in a few weeks
Different worlds, different paradigms, different factions and fractions; the Voice had snagged them from all corners of realms and possibilities, and it was bizarre to think of other notions when Deimos had only known Isilme and Helovia: invasions, skirmishes, battles, assaults, sieges, plotting, recruiting, and war. He missed some portions of it – his eyes lifting to the ceiling briefly, as if considering the parameters – but not the sovereignty, not the weight of the crown. “I miss different aspects, like the mountains or the battles. But there was no glamour.” No splendor, no dignified reach – they’d been thirsty, hungry, greedy, and avaricious, plunging headlong into melees and irreverence with either forethought or impulsivity.
He inhaled another steadying breath, glance coming back down towards the sheet, unveiling boxes, and the monolith maneuvered near them, bending down to snag a box at a time, not bothering to ask what they contained.
His eyes drew downward again after Bastien’s laugh; the primordial crawl of shame reeling across his nape. The rumble following was quieter, contemplative, placing the box down upon a table. “I did not have many friends,” which it probably wouldn’t take long for the Ascended to surmise; on multiple occasions, here in Caido, the heathen had been shocked and bewildered by the amount of accepting individuals. “But she was among the best of them.”
