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 Sword thought about taking his time, about biding movements into slow, meticulous moments, about charting courses around glacial views until he could do nothing more than wind up here. Perhaps he’d awaken from the nightmare by then, find the tragedy etched in his bones as nothing more than figments and fiction, touches of scalding wounds from yesteryears, and on the hollowed edges of a passing glance, the Harpy would holler. Feathers of undaunted plumage would reign across the sky. Untamed beacons would unfold. Everything would be well. Everything would be fine. Everything would’ve been just as it was – wild and liberating, devious and mischievous.
But he’d learned long, long ago to cease mystifying his mind – and Kiada never returned. Gone like so many others from his past, present, and future, another ghost to rattle the chains of his soul, another phantom to haunt him, another life lost, and he couldn’t do one damned thing about it.
In too short of a moment, he was at Chulane’s door. Another doomed to be effected – already segmented and rooted in Kiada’s graces, and here he was, set to blow it apart. He hadn’t sent a letter ahead. He hadn’t told the man he was arriving. Maybe he wouldn’t be there, and this entire event could be avoided for another expanse. Zuriel snorted behind him, and because the monolith had never been a coward, he sighed, one long, lingering inhale and exhale, then raised his gloved hand to the door, and knocked.
why do things happen with no reason or rhyme? why does it feel like we're running out of time?
To say he was surprised would be an understatement. But as he opened the door to the man, he contained the emotion, letting a smile jump to his lips, a brow raise in curiosity and some confusion as well. He hadn't been expecting the man, nor the unicorn who followed him - quite the opposite.
He'd been expecting Kia, looking forward to seeing her again, to hug her, hold her, before venturing back to the Grounds with her for another handful of days before duties brought him back to Halo. It'd been what they discussed, what they planned, what they'd promised. Somewhere in there, a date in Torchline was also promised.
"…Deimos?" There was some delay, as he tried to gauge the reason for the man's presence, opening the door wide and stepping back to welcome him inside, offering a treat to Zuriel before stepping inside himself. "Y'here to make sure I'm keeping up with my training?" He set two glasses of water on the table before them, clutching at reasons, at explanations for why the General had come so far to find him, an obviously unsure smile touching his lips.
how do we keep going, through the dark? why are we here at all, lost in the dark?
He’d half-hoped the younger man wouldn’t be there. That he could extend this to another day of dread and trauma, of desolation and isolation. The notions were torn apart, amidst many other ripped pieces, as the door swung open, and revealed Chulane. Confused. Deimos hadn’t known how to send a warning, a foreboding essence, a way to head off the strife. “Chulane,” he nodded, taking the invitation to step inside. On an ordinary day, he’d study and scrutinize angles of buildings and settings of rooms, analyze threats and polish potential safeguards – but today wasn’t one of those, and he had to coincide, angle around the impending damnation.
He wasn’t the right for this. But he wouldn’t ask Amalia or Hotaru, or anyone else involved in the debacle. He hadn’t been there. Hadn’t seen it. Maybe that too was a measure of grace; that neither of them had to witness the Harpy going down into flames.
And not rising from them. No phoenix intervals any longer.
“Unfortunately, no.” He couldn’t even smile at the joke, lacquered and layered against the uncertainty, the nervous edges, the discomfort, the grief spiraling and surrounding, and soon to be embedded in this home. Zuriel wandered her way in too, biting delicately the treat she’d received, close by, sensing.
The Sword didn’t take the water, and didn’t know where to start. “You may want to sit. I do not bring good news.”
why do things happen with no reason or rhyme? why does it feel like we're running out of time?
Something was wrong. Everything about the situation was wrong, and he couldn't deny it any longer. Deimos entered; he didn't smile, didn't soften, didn't share anything but stoic seriousness. He felt his resolve tighten in response, felt himself let go of the niceties, the desire to allay the tension that had suddenly bloomed. There was no ignoring whatever it was Deimos had to bring, no denying him - clearly it was something that had to be said, had to be conveyed, and it was important, critical in fact, or else Chulane knew the man wouldn't have come, wouldn't have intruded, carrying the world on his shoulders bearing news that Chulane was not ready for.
How could he ever be ready for the blow that was to come?
The gentle touch of Zuriel's muzzle to his hand grounded him, as he realised just how far his mind had already taken the demeanour Deimos presented. Then, at the monolith of a man's next words, he felt his heart thundering louder in his chest, the pulse ringing in his ears. Felt the anxiety rise with the wave of tension, the warning given having a near instant reaction on him. The smile was gone, forgotten amongst a frown, a sense of desperation almost overwhelming him.
"Kiada?" He didn't sit - he couldn't, not when there couldn't be any other reason for the man's attendance here today, bearing bad news. He stepped closer to the Sword instead, ready to metaphorically bear his chest and take the blow full on, or so he thought. Was she hurt, disabled? Was she injured on her endeavour, with the magical healing available in this land unable to mend her completely?
"What is it? Where is she?" Why was he here, bringing bad news - what was the news? How bad was bad? He glanced to the door in a helpless moment, as if expecting to see her come in the Sword's wake, clinging to the hopeless hope that this was just a joke, crude and cruel and not very funny in the moment.
He couldn't, wouldn't entertain the truth until it was spoken by the other man. He had to cling to his hope, to his anchor, to the thought of her coming home to him--
--until it was proven without a doubt that that would never happen again.
how do we keep going, through the dark? why are we here at all, lost in the dark?
No matter how many rough intakes of air he motioned through his lungs, to steel, to forge, it scarcely touched the consternation and grief lodged in his throat, in his soul. That it was about to be marked, chiseled, and coiled upon another didn’t make it any easier; no passing of torches, no way to make things better, brighter. His jawline feathered, taut clenching as he strived to summon the portions of his voice to speak the outline of those words, to prevail in the retelling of devastating circumstances, without breaking apart himself. A nod first then, drummed along his skull, clawing its way out, summoned by habit and routine, the only thing he could warrant in the disarray.
Chulane didn’t sit, and Deimos didn’t want the world to drop out from beneath the younger man, and his eyes went briefly to Zuriel. She stood there, by the Attuned’s side, while the mustering of anguish burrowed deep in his soul, furrowed brows, and his stare went to the floor. The monolith only raised them back to Chulane when he’d managed to coil down the ether, the vestiges, the cinders, the burning, burning, burning tracks of torture from his limbs. Smothered, dissolved, for a few feral moments, while he ruined someone else’s life. “Kiada’s expedition went to a land full of lava. Apparently there was a god with glass embedded in him. While Loren tried to pull it out, Wessex, Hotaru, and Amalia shielded him. Kiada flew above to scout.” It sounded too much like a military report, like something laden with facts, but underneath were brewing tides of despair, of the finality, of how nothing seemed to go well anymore. How there was a gaping hole in his chest, and soon to be in Chulane’s.
“There was an eruption, and she was struck by magma. Amalia attempted to reach her, but could not. She fell.” Into lava, into all those things that had once resembled and ignited her; uncertain if it was fitting or more depressing. Gone, gone, gone, and the traces, filaments, left behind seethed, scathed, and fumed.
why do things happen with no reason or rhyme? why does it feel like we're running out of time?
The world came to a stop around him.
There was a moment, an instant, a juncture, where he didn't know, where his mind hadn't pieced it together yet, where Deimos hadn't spoken yet, where he still lived in a world where for all he knew, Kiada was alive, was coming home; where he'd see her smile again, hear her laugh, and kiss her goodnight. But even with the world standing still, it wasn't enough - it would never be enough.
This world was determined to be cruel, to be vicious, unyielding, It was determined to roll on, to exist with or without his presence, uncaring if it ruined him in the process. He hadn't believed it at first, hadn't appreciated what others told him of their experiences, hadn't considered that it could hit so close to home. But it didn't just hit close to home - it destroyed his home, devastated it, left nothing, literally nothing in its wake.
No, he denied it, as if the word could banish that which had already happened. No, his world was slipping away from him, shifting, tilting--
Something caught him, supported him; Zuriel's form close by, ready to catch his stumbling form. Somewhere, somewhen, Deimos had broken the news, and one day he would appreciate the man all the more for it, he would recognise and thank him, but right now?
No, he was pleading now, pleading with himself, with the world, with the Sword before him, shaking his head back and forth. "No," his voice cracked on the single word, as a shiver that had nothing to do with cold tremored through him. "She's meant to come home, we're meant to… to.." the words died almost as soon as they started, as his mind denied them too.
A shaky breath filled his lungs, and he was gasping for air, as realisation hit. A hand raised to his forehead, the other still leaning against the unicorn behind him. Kia, his mind cried out, his heart aching. "Kia," he breathed through a sob that finally rose up, through tears that made his eyes shimmer. "Kia.."
how do we keep going, through the dark? why are we here at all, lost in the dark?
Denial was heavy, a way for one’s mind to reject the notions of another being gone. Blessed moments before had been real and tangible, no forethought to what danger lurked underneath – something that should’ve been a more simplistic mission becoming a whirlwind of cataclysms. Deimos had already experienced those on multiple levels, no matter which world, which land, the contortions of the bristling uncertainties waxed and waned, then obliterated. A soul could try, could try, could try constantly, consistently, as this family so often did – and in the end, fortune wasn’t on their side. Kiada’s death traced over the foundations of things he’d known for what felt like eternities, but it didn’t make them any less crushing. A single wrong maneuver, a thought of flight, a basking glow of emblems that made her whole – and then nothing.
But the Sword was determined, full of grit, mettle, and disaster, and had no intention of leaving her to be forgotten in the midst and mist. She’d be more than a catacomb, a tomb he couldn’t visit. An entanglement of memories and reminders.
Chulane bobbled, Zuriel supported, and Deimos stood, head bowed, predisposed to mourning. To losing. To drifting along edges and fringes, to striving towards either a goal, or the darkness encroaching. “I know,” he murmured in response, quiet, forbearing, taking it all on his shoulders, down the length of his spine. They should’ve been destined for far, far more; chances and opportunities, ventures and chances. The world might not have been able to contain the Harpy – but she would’ve flourished just the same, given time, given patience, given hopes and motivations. The notion that none of it could come to fruition bit and clawed, and he clenched his jaw once more, fighting over the agony itself.
He wasn't certain upon what to do with Chulane’s sobs, tears, or agony. He didn’t know what to do with his. Move forward? Wallow? So he and the unicorn remained vigilant and silent, while the younger man contorted through the notions of a monumental figure lost.
why do things happen with no reason or rhyme? why does it feel like we're running out of time?
Kia, his heart pleaded. Great sobs rocked him, his breaths hitching, coming in soft gasps. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, painfully so - this wasn't fair. This wasn't fair, none of this was fair. Why? He wanted to scream, to shout, to break down and curl up into a ball and never come out again.
It hit him, over and over, and each time the lash of realisation struck his mind reacted a different way: denial, anger (rage), depression. All of them cycled again and again, as his thoughts spiralled all towards one definite point: Kiada was dead.
She fell, he'd said, he'd described it as best he could, leaving nothing out, painting an image in Chulane's mind as clear as if he'd been there himself. He tried to reason it out, to bargain with it in his mind: He'd known Kia, he'd seen her in all her forms, she was skilled in flight as she was on land. How could this happen?
And he clung to a memory, to words she herself had said to him that first day they had met - that when an attuned was shifted, they got a one-shot, a fatal blow did not kill but instead knocked them back to their human form, a chance to recover. But even as he replayed the scene Deimos had painted for him over and over and over again in his mind's eye, she fell, down and down, into magma, into lava, into a creature as hot as the Eirachi was cold.
"I don't-" he shook his head; he wasn't ready to speak, but he had to. "What.. I..-" a frustrated groan came out as he regained his balance and suddenly shifted, moving, pacing needing to do something while his mind tried to work it out.
"Auni," he said, suddenly, the thought coming out clearer than the others, as his movements took on a turn around the place. But he riveted back to Deimos now, hopelessness all over him, the thought of the luxere, unbonded, broken, alone, giving him a slightly crazed expression. "Where is Auni?" He had to know, had to cling to something, to try something - anything, to move on from this, the worst moment he'd ever known.
how do we keep going, through the dark? why are we here at all, lost in the dark?
The Sword and Reaper had long since learned about the lack of fairness in the world. How no matter what anyone did, how no matter how strong, determined, or audacious, it could still come back to bite, to seethe, to torment, to unravel. He’d lost battles, he’d lost families, he’d lost friends, he’d lost lives, even if he threw himself down as a shield in front of their stalwart features – they were still gone. It shouldn’t have occurred, all this misfortune, all this haphazard duplicity, all these facets of unforgiving life. But the atmosphere didn’t repent, and held no shame in what it took, what it snagged, what it stole from the living, and they were left to pick up the pieces, the shambles, the echoes, and the vestiges of whatever remained.
And he was so damn tired.
So he stood, wild and tall and exhausted, as Chulane paced, the restless energy coiling around them. It was something different from the overwhelming grief, but still forbearing in its misery, and he breathed into it, jaw clenching, holding bones and mettle and grit together when he had nothing else.
The reflection of the companion, lost and forlorn, hadn’t been vacant from his mind – just secondary, after informing Chulane of the devastation. What happened to companions when their bonds were severed, broken, and gone? If he hadn’t been on the journey with Kiada, where would he have wandered? Did they sink into the abyss too, to join their beloved brethren, or did they start again as humans strived and tried? A sigh, and he glanced away from the floor, to somewhere else in the room. “I do not know. I was hoping he was here.” In Halo, and not scorched in the flames.
why do things happen with no reason or rhyme? why does it feel like we're running out of time?
Broken, fractured, fragmented - his thoughts were scattered, his emotions even more so. Deimos stood before him, a monolith of strength, a tower, unmovable, steadfast, seemingly unshakable; he was everything Chulane wasn't in this moment. The vet couldn't stop moving, even when he turned to the man, pleading for knowledge of the companion, the luxere who might be the last connection to Kia either of them could have. When he did pause his pacing, his muscles still twitched, tremored and shook, and he resumed the motion of walking back and forth. He felt restricted, his chest felt tight - there wasn't enough room here, enough air to go around. What is going on? he asked, but to no avail - there was no answer, no Kia to voice the question to, no answer coloured by her voice to comfort him.
It was a sign of how frazzled, how shaken and adversely affected he was that he couldn't place the last location of the luxere immediately. Here? He questioned the question, before shaking his head. "No, no, she left him at the Grounds, I was checking in on him, we have t-to go," and suddenly he was moving to his room, to grab a bag, to stuff it with clothes - why did he need more clothes? - and he was bent over his bed, staring at nothing.
But it wasn't nothing, and he wasn't moving anymore, his attention captured, his focus fixated on that which she had left behind. Feathers, he saw, reaching for them with a shaking hand, through blurred vision. They weren't feathers from his avian shift, no, they didn't have any golden or brown streaks on them; but rather black and white, mottled, broad and long. "Kia-" and he was crying, sitting on the bed, holding onto the last physical part of her he had within his grasp.
how do we keep going, through the dark? why are we here at all, lost in the dark?
Oh, the Sword wished he was still immobile, unattainable, unreachable, impossible to scale, improbable to maim, rip, or tear apart, nonchalant, cold, and apathetic to the core. But he wasn’t, and everything still bled and slashed, tore right through his heart and soul. The mask now was frayed at best, remaining a tower because he couldn’t do much else – not in the wake of his grief, or Chulane’s.
That Auni wasn’t here pierced at him too. He hadn’t gone to Kiada’s home first, bypassing it with a look of immense torture and pain, before heading towards the portal. He hadn’t thought to pause there to glance around for the luxere, or to bombard his way into the structure, as they’d so often did with one another.
And now she wouldn’t again.
He swallowed down the tears threatening to snap back behind his eyes, a mighty, stoic breath intermingling – and he yearned to step out into the glacial expanse, to be liberated of anything but the startling, desolate exterior of the world around them. “I am sorry. I did not check there first.”
Hadn’t thought. Hadn’t done anything but move, to get away, away, away from the heartache and head straight into another one.
“Okay. We can go.” His eyes went to the unmoving Chulane, hand extended – the only strength he had left.
why do things happen with no reason or rhyme? why does it feel like we're running out of time?
His world was tilted, off-kilter, his emotions out of control. As he held onto the feather, he felt everything and nothing all at once - overwhelmed, ashamed, guilty, lost --
No, it's okay, he wanted to reassure Deimos, to explain that it made sense to not want to look in her house, the place was going to be their home together, so soon after hearing the news. It's okay, he wanted to say, but the words were not true, nothing was okay right now - nothing would feel okay for a long while.
He took his moments, the tears eventually subsiding with the Sword's gentle ushering. Reaching for the hand proffered, he left the feather on the bed - to find again, to remember again, to work through the emotions that would rise every time he saw it. Kia, he wanted to scream, to call for her, as if his voice could summon her.
"Let's go," he echoed softly; and so they left.
--
Fin - to be continued..
how do we keep going, through the dark? why are we here at all, lost in the dark?
