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!
Bastien had begun to find that going to Azrael's room in a morning was becoming rather exciting indeed, because in the last couple of weeks his child had been growing at a rapid rate: while on the one hand it made him a little sad to lose the tiny, easy to hold baby, he did also find the idea of having a child he could speak to and begin to show the world thrilling (he just wished Rex was there to see it).
Getting up at sunrise he got dressed in something light and flowy, fitting to the season, then went into their room, cracking open the door. Maybe neither of them needed to sleep, but he had thought it was good to get them into the same routine as most humans in the world. When they were older they could choose to stay up, but for now bedtime was absolutely a part of their lives.
"Good morning, Azrael." He said as he came into the room, going to sit on the side of their bed and smiling at his child. They had been beginning to make noises somewhat like words recently, so he'd been trying his best to speak to them as often as he could. "Did you sleep well?"
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
‘Bedtime’ is one of their favorite times. If only because since they don’t sleep, they spend the time they have alone to fiddle with toys – taking them apart, fitting them back together in new ways or simply the same. This time, they have a little toy made of hard material that is one of their favorites to tear apart and put back together. Part of the toy is missing at the moment, having fallen out of the bed – so when Bastien opens the door, Azrael’s face is focused on the floor, staring longingly at the missing piece of the toy.
“Hi papa.” Azrael says, dark gaze lifting from the toy to their father as he slips through the door. As for sleeping well? Their hand extends, pointing with a dire need to retrieve said piece of toy from the floor, lips forming a line. “It drop.” As if that might be the best way to explain how their night had gone.
Azrael's speech really was coming on amazingly, Bastien smiling wide at being called 'papa': it wasn't too long ago he'd not wanted children at all, but hearing the name filled his heart with love and pride he had not known possible. Following their gaze, he looked down to the toy part on the floor and leaned to pick it up, turning it over in his hand and looking at it.
"Have you been taking your toys apart again, piccolo?" He asked fondly but with a 'tsk' at the beginning, going to hand them the piece. "You know, I must get our friend Deimos to make you something that is designed to be taken apart and put back together, with how much you seem to love it."
Bastien hoped, privately, that their early interest in this kind of thing meant he could have a future sculptor on his hands: he certainly would start giving them clay soon to see what would happen. "I was wondering, Azrael, if you wanted to come downstairs and help me and Pittore make some new paint. You can crush the flowers." A job any child would enjoy, he thought: smashing a bunch of colourful things into a bowl.
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
Have they been taking their toys apart? Absolutely. Still, a sheepish little grin crosses their face – head lowering to their chest as if they’re playfully trying to hide it when Bastien picks up the piece of the toy. “I fix it!” They chime, pushing the toy up toward Bastien so he might be able to see it – the way the toy had pieces fit in other places, how it had become something entirely new. It wasn’t exactly anything at all, but tinkering was what they loved to do even at this age.
Instead, a wide grin spreads across their face at the prospect of toys made for taking apart and be put back together. But their attention span is not entirely there, not as Bastien asks whether they’d like to go downstairs and help crush flowers, their head bobbing with quiet excitement, toy discarded among the blankets of their bed. “I want to do that, papa.” They agree, shifting in the bed a bit to try and climb down out of it.
Already thinking of ways they might get the pieces everywhere, what kind of colors might come around from smashing a variety of the colorful blooms.
"I wasn't aware it had been broken, but let me see." Bastien said gently, reaching to take the strange abomination of toy parts from his child and turning it over in his hands as if it were a treasured artefact - which it very much was. "Ah, I see, I see. You have made it better. I thought that this could do with going there myself, actually." He gave it back to them with a proud, amused smile on his face, his heart glad that Azrael had already found a creative pursuit of sorts.
And as if his pride could grow any more, they were thrilled about the prospect of making paints. Reaching to help them out of bed, he helped them dress (no one was wearing pajamas all day in this family) and they headed downstairs, stopping at the portrait of Rexanna that hung in the hall: one of his favourites, a soft moment in the morning sun, her wearing one of her characteristic golden dresses and smiling at him. Lifting Azrael up as he had done every morning since they'd arrived home, he gently said: "Say good morning to mama, Azrael."
Hopefully, wherever she was, she appreciated it.
When Rexanna had been properly greeted, they went into the studio, where Pittore lay sleeping in his favourite little sack (Bastien had offered to get him a bed, but he seemed to want to sleep in potato sacks and potato sacks alone) on the table. With a smile, Bastien looked to Azrael, some mischief in his eyes: "Do you want to wake our lazy friend up?"
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
They’re ecstatic when Bastien takes the toy to inspect it, a wide grin crossing their face as they wait for the consensus. And when Bastien tells them they’ve made it better, Azrael positively beams with happiness at the compliment. But the toy is disregarded as soon as Bastien is helping them out of the bed – dressing them in flowing clothes, airy and easy for toddlers to work with especially given their insistence at getting into everything.
Heading downstairs, however, they pause along with Bastien – their head lifting to view the painting of their mother, clinging to Bastien when he goes to lift them so they might say good morning as they usually do to her. “Morning mama.” Azrael says, a small hand lifting to wave a hello and offer a wide grin to their mother, imagining that she’d be able to see it somewhere.
And then they’re in the studio, and Azrael spies Pittore fast asleep on the table when Bastien questions if they want to wake him up. There’s an overexaggerated bob of their head, unsteadily walking forward before small hands land on the potato sack, trying to push and prod awake. “Torreeeyyy!” They chime, giving him another small prod.
Rather than a mournful tradition, Bastien liked to think of saying hello to Rexanna's portrait as a good moment, a pleasant chance for Azrael to involve themselves in their past; he had to admit he'd begun to play into more than he'd meant to as well. As the toddler turned and ran into the studio, he looked back and gave the picture a wink and a smile, whispering: "Love you, Rex."
Turning just in time to see Pittore clamber out of his sack with a series of little grunts and annoyed mutterings, Bastien grinned at his little family. "Now now, Azrael is just excited for us to begin. You can't spend all day asleep, Pittore." With a little 'tsk tsk', he went to the cupboards to bring out pigments and bowls, mixing agents, everything needed to create paints: he laid them out on the table one after the other, then looked to Azrael and after a 'hmm', fetched a little apron to tie around them.
"Can't have you messying your outfit with paint." He said, tying off a neat knot then lifting them into a seat before some petals in a mortar and pestle, bright red and needing to be crushed and dried. "While me and Pittore do the mixing, you can crush this. Remember: press down, then tuuuurn the pestle." He mimed the correct wrist action in the air before Azrael.
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
A hiccup of a laugh slips from their throat as Pittore mutters his disapproval – Azrael turning back to look at their father, a childish grin of glee spread across their face. “Yeah, Pittore.” A chimed agreement before they’re padding their way toward Bastien. They look into the bowls and the other items around, turning back to Bastien when he arrives with the apron, their little arms flinging up into the air to help slip the apron on. “Okay, papa.” They say, despite the fact they’d really prefer to make a mess of everything.
Their arms remain up when Bastien places them into a chair, looking at the table that’s their level now, and the mortar and pestle before them. Small chubby hands reach for the stone pestle, brows furrowing as they try to follow Bastien’s instructions, pressing down with both hands and spinning it to crush the petals. They’d practiced this before, but they soon find out it’s far more challenging than anticipated. Their tongue pokes out as they try to poke at the petals with the pestle again, peering into the bowl as they go to spin it again.
It takes a while but eventually they spot a bit of red, a gleeful grin spreading across their face. “Papa look! Red!” They point the end of the pestle toward Bastien, pride glimmering across their face as it drips with a bit of the red hue.
While Azrael happily went about crushing petals, Bastien and Pittore began the trickier work, mixing pre-dried pigments with gum and gel to make paint, making sure to get the ratios correct for each colour and testing the consistency with a brush, testing swipes on an old, half-covered canvas to see how they were coming out. It was fiddly, methodical work and Bastien and his companion were quickly absorbed.
"Hmmm?" He looked over to see Azrael holding out their pestle and while he was happy to see the pigment, he was less happy to see it dripping on the table. Gently he moved to push Azrael's hand back to the bowl. "Very good, but be sure to be careful. These petals are very expensive. I've entrusted you with a very important task, you see, and you must be sure not to waste anything." Bastien's voice was soft; he did not believe in yelling at a child, only explaining.
As they continued to work, he spoke up again; as much as he could, he had been trying to pepper in education in Azrael's every day, teaching them about the world around them bit by bit. "So Azrael, have you noticed anything interesting happening outside the door recently? I know you sit there for quite some time after lunch watching the people; I used to do the same as a child."
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
They don’t expect their father to get so into the process that he doesn’t notice as Azrael makes a small amount of a mess. So when it’s revealed, the grin that spreads across their face is genuine, not faltering for a moment under the praise and simultaneous corrections made to their work. Their focus returns to the bowl, amber gaze lingering on the smooshed petals within. “No drip.” They confirm, sticking the pestle back in the bowl and crushing the petals more, this time careful enough that their brows furrow together and they’re meticulous about trying not to make a mess.
They’re so focused this time that when Bastien begins to speak, they continue to crush the petals and think about the question a few times. “Dec…Decorations?” They question, lifting their gaze to their father and pausing in their crushing of the petals, lips pouting slightly. “There’s lots of flowers.” They confirm with an overexaggerated bob of their head before turning back to the bowl and working further.
Bastien couldn't help but smile at Azrael's face of hard, newfound concentration; he had worried prior to their birth he would have a child that did not care for indoor, hobby pursuits, that he would have had to reign them in from going out in the sun and deal with endless tantrums. This child, truly his, seemed to be totally fine with creative work and study; he found himself very excited for what he might be able to teach them in the future.
"Oh, yes, for Fiat Lux." Scraping paint into a small bottle as he spoke, Bastien didn't look at Azrael. "Are you excited? Your first festival. There will be flowers, food, dancing...maybe even some games. I went with your mother a couple of times." A sad, nostalgic smile crossed his face, the memory of the dance they had shared coming to mind. "I wish you could have known her, even if just for a moment...she loved you so."
Realising he'd dipped far too much into the solemn and serious for a conversation with a toddler, Bastien cleared his throat and shook his head. "Ah, sorry. Would you like to make a flower crown for Fiat Lux?"
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
They’re so focused on the bowl that they nearly miss half of what Bastien says. They pick up on Fiat Lux, attempting to remember it for later when it might be useful. For now, though, they wonder what kind of games could be played, what kind of dancing there would be, what kind of music would be played and if it would be different from the sounds they’ve heard played along the halls of their home. “Oh.” They claim simply, crushing more of the petals until they look like they’re about done.
“I will know her papa.” They say quietly, looking up from the bowl to their father, honey brown eyes ringed with that sapphire blue of Rexanna’s gaze before it had been ripped from her that fateful LongNight.
Azrael picks up the mortar and pestle now, making their way to Bastien to hand it to him and see if it’s crushed to satisfaction before a wide grin spreads across their face. “Yeah! I wanna make a flower crown!”
Sometimes it amused him, what captured his child's imagination and what didn't; a marvellous festival with food and dancing earned an 'oh', but sometimes a small puzzle on the lid of a box would fascinate them for hours at a time. "Oh indeed. It will be fun; I've heard they're letting Ascended come to visit, this year." Bastien had not yet gotten into explaining the various issues and prejudices surrounding the different races of Caido, hoped he wouldn't need to for a few more precious seasons, but knew that Azrael had to notice some of it.
Of course, Azrael was not a normal child, and sometimes he got reminded of it very suddenly and intensely indeed, such as when they gave him their intense stare and said what they did. Unsure of what to say for a moment, Bastien just nodded, then quietly added: "...I hope not for a while, all the same."
Taking the finished petals from Azrael, Bastien looked down into the bowl. "Well, we certainly will - and what a wonderful job you have made of this! I must use it in a portrait of you once we have made it into a new paint. Well done, Azrael." Proudly, he ruffled their hair, a fond smile on his face.
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
Their brows furrow, gaze snapping over to Bastien with interest. “Why couldn’t we go before, papa?” They ask, their voice holding all the curiosity as to why they hadn’t been able to go in the years prior. Of course, Azrael won’t understand, they haven’t gotten that far in their understanding of things yet.
But they meet their father’s gaze, an acknowledgement running through them before the seriousness breaks as they wobble their way over to Bastien to hand off the bowl. They duck their head a bit, a grin spreading across their face as Bastien ruffles their hair, before they’re moving to sit up in the chair again. “Do I have to sit still for a really long time?” They ask, recalling how long Bastien would sit in place to focus on painting a still life portrait of flowers or fruits.
They bounce their feet along the foot rest of the chair they sit on, before clasping their hands together. “What kinda flowers can we use?”
