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!
While Morgan was a professional person and believed very much that relationships forged in political interest ought to stay surface-level, she had found herself thinking of the General every so often, with a fondness one might reserve for a potential friend more than a strategic ally. With a couple of less-busy-than-normal days coming up in her schedule, she decided to make a trip to the Grounds.
Carrying with her a bag containing some bottles of alcohol (a local speciality, made from the scarce resources found in Halo and highly praised by the citizens) she hoped that Deimos wouldn't find it completely mortifying that she was dropping by on a social call. It was only when she actually reached Sanctuary that Morgan realised a rather big issue with her plan: she had no idea where to find Deimos in a casual setting, and interrupting him at work for drinks was not ideal at all.
Standing somewhat lost in the Sanctuary streets, Morgan was considering just going back home when she caught sight of Deimos walking to a corner and disappearing around it; without giving herself a chance consider she quickly approached, calling from behind: "General?"
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Today he was following wraiths.
They wafted around in elemental threads, and like a cat he was drawn to their ethers, floating before his eyes and dragging him out of the darkness. He thought he recognized some, fellow warriors from a time long, long ago. If he could catch them, maybe he could talk to them, hear them again, see if they were well and truly dead. If he was too, and had just never known it.
His head was raised as he turned the corner, and didn’t bother glancing around at the people scattered nearby. A call resounded from behind, and he whipped around – wasn’t he the General? – and promptly bashed his cranium off the side of the building. It could’ve been the distraction. It could’ve been the vertigo.
A low rumble, maybe a growl, stirred in his chest. The pain ricocheted and bounded, and he lifted his hand instinctually, blinking rather baffled, bewildered, and stupefied as his fingers came away already soaked in blood.
A shrug resumed, as the ichor ran rampant down the side of his face, and then his piercing, off-in-the-clouds gaze rendered back to someone he recognized. “Warden.” His eyes lifted, skirting along the air around her. “You have ghosts around you.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos seemed to notice her and was turning, when he suddenly hit his head very hard against the wall; Morgan flinched in sympathetic pain, not expecting seeing the strong and collected man make such a mistake, and rushed forwards, ignoring whatever it was he said about ghosts: probably he had a concussion, and she didn't have the time to decipher it.
"You're bleeding. Let me take you to a safe place. I have bandages in my bag." Always carried them for her own scrapes and misfortunes, which were frequent in the mountains. Not quite bold enough to hold onto his arm she walked close next to him, hands hovering awkwardly over him as she prepared for the man to fall (he seemed..out of it. It wasn't impossible).
"Where do you live, General? Can I take you home?" Morgan asked, not having expected to play the role of caregiver but naturally falling into it when she had to.
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The Warden was there before him, and he narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brows, trying to fathom why. Were they in Halo? Had he wandered too far again? But as his gaze traced after ghosts, distinct outlines of those who’d died before him, around him, after him, the thoughts seemed to fall away, mind struggling to catch up with the bizarre multitudes, factions, and patterns pervading webbed dominions. “A safe place? Where is it safe?” From pain and onslaughts? From terror and horror? From his own wretched fate? Had he missed such a world, after all this time?
He moved forward, meandering along cobblestones, down paths that were familiar, presuming she was following along. “Zuriel can get it.” Except Zuriel wasn’t there, the unicorn off at his house, missing this certain moment where he’d escaped her careful watch and struck out in the delirium, in the vertigo. She might’ve been looking for him now, and it was only a matter of time. Then the beast stumbled over his own feet, and chuckled, uttered a deep laugh, while the blood seeped and crawled down into his beard.
“Home? No. I do not want to go home.” He sidestepped, sideways, away from the insinuation, as if it were a prison. Along the eternal emptiness, where it was hollow instead of hallowed; like he’d begun again and was lonely in the genesis – tired, tired, tired of losing. “I am thirsty.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
It really was quite the dramatic change, to go from knowing Deimos as a professional General to seeing him now confused, clearly out of his mind; unsure how to answer his question Morgan simply shook her head, hoping the lack of a response wouldn't make things worse. Still not quite touching him, she continued to guide him down the street, watching carefully to make sure his feet landed where they needed to and he wasn't leaning one way or another too badly.
"Zuriel...your unicorn. Yes." She remembered, and looked about for the man's companion: no where to be seen. "..Do you know where Zuriel is?"
She was beginning to feel very lost in this situation indeed, as the General informed her he didn't want to go home. At least 'thirsty' was a problem she could solve. "Oh, well--" Digging in her bag, Morgan brought out a waterskin and passed it to Deimos. "Look, let's..." Looking around them, she finally settled on an alcove with a bench: not quite the quiet solitude she'd wanted to calm him in, but better than the middle of the street. "Let's sit there, and I'll look at your head. Alright?"
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He looked up and up and up now – not caring where he went, frame once so controlled, contained, and composed suddenly like a gangly figure, uncertain of where his feet were. His attention was entirely on the floating orbs twisting around the domiciles and market stalls around them, following flickering notions, recognizing sins and iniquities, smoking fumes and plumes of the past – and he would’ve reached, would’ve chased, had a voice not called him back.
Piercing, confused gaze slid back to the Warden, and then a very impish, boyish, juvenile sort of grin spread over his features. It spoke of mischief, of triumph, of urchin qualities, lowering his voice to a whisper, to a conspiracy he’d conspired in the midst of moments. “I escaped her.” Very proud of his accomplishments, and continuing to ignore the blood spiraling down his face, staining the collar of his tunic, he wrinkled his nose, disapproving of the next notion. “She will find me soon though.” And then he’d be in trouble.
Morgan’s efforts didn’t completely unravel; distracted again by the waterskin, hands wrapping around the object, partially dragged along to a bench, and sitting compliantly, trying to decipher if he wanted the water or not.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
It was odd to see such a boyish grin on a grown man, but even more so when that man was the General, who had up until this point been an emblem of stoic maturity. The whisper too - it all confirmed that something was deeply wrong, and Morgan couldn't help the obvious concern in her wide eyed stare. "...Well, we should stay in one place to help her." She said quietly, as if talking to a naughty child.
At least she managed to get him sat on the bench. Shuffling through her things, she brought out a small medical kit and from within it produced a cotton pad and some alcohol. Dousing the pad, she lifted it to Deimos' head, gently reaching to turn his chin so she could look. "...This will sting. Can I clean the wound?"
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The indication that Morgan wasn’t amused, or intending to keep up with the ruse made the smile fall away, into some residual, perpetual frown, then drawn altogether back into his impassive emblems. Resigned to some fate, he quieted and stilled entirely, gaze not settling on the Warden, but all other aspects nearby; the floating orbs, the distinct ghosts, the wraiths, phantoms, and disasters coiling through the air. Maybe they’d come for blood too. Maybe they just enjoyed haunting him. Maybe he was supposed to be seeing something other than those distinct nightmares, staring him right in the face.
Always there. Always present. Always just in the corner of his eyes, in the depths of his haze. If he stopped moving, they’d catch him.
Remind him. Destroy him.
While she shuffled through her supplies, he thought about sidling away. Running. Rampaging. Restlessly toiling down the streets until they couldn’t find him. Until he could face them again. Until, until, until –
Distracted by his delirious plotting, he hadn’t noticed her pulling out the alcohol, the pad, until it was already there, his chin lifted. Morgan would likely notice his head pulsed, pervaded, with fever; heat exuding, molten and infernal.
A stinging notion didn’t bother him. He’d suffered far worse fates. “Yes.” Then his stare lowered, briefly, ashamed, fingers still toying on the waterskin, when a familiar snort echoed from around cobblestones. One glance told him Zuriel wasn’t happy, and no amount of effort could be made to look small, insignificant, and sheepish within the space on the bench. Trapped.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
It was odd to see the General adopt a face not unlike that of a sulking child, but at least he seemed amiable to her treating his wound, which Morgan was sure was not helping any confusion in his mind; she had seen head blows cause great differences in soldiers before, knew her own father had spent a year once out of commission after such a hit.
Pouring the alcohol to soak the pad she raised it up to his forehead, wiping away some of the excess blood from around the impact itself before she touched the pad to the open cut, where it would sting; she took care to be gentle, only doing what she had to to get a good look at the damage. Not too much: a skin wound, for the most part, something that bled a lot but would thankfully, not have lasting damage.
It was when she put her hand on his forehead to try and change the angle that she felt just how warm he was; his skin was clammy, sweaty - she leaned back and looked him over again, just in time for the grunt behind them to introduce Zuriel. For the moment only giving the unicorn a glance, she continued to wipe the blood from Deimos' face as she asked: "Are you feeling unwell, General? Too warm, perhaps?"
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
A staring match began, between the Sword and the unicorn. The mare looked greatly perturbed in her ilk, a furrowed brow, pinned ears, and anger lacquered from her form in waves; he could see them, cast in crimson tides, angled over his ghosts until they rippled across and sunk into his chest. For his part, he attempted to look contrite and ashamed, but the equine bought none of it, and angled towards Morgan, striving to see just what Deimos had gotten himself into.
The Warden had done well, and the patient sat otherwise very still while the world burned and seethed against his skin. His breathing felt hoarse and unrefined, chest heaving to fight off onslaughts of delirium, eyes skimming over the ramparts, the town he’d come to understand and know, and saw none of it. The streets held no meaning. The walls were closing in, and he was about to let them.
Her voice kept cutting through though, and he shifted in her hold, confused eyes piercing back on her. “Yes. And cold.” No amount of heat seemed to be enough, and he was tempted to start a damned fire to curl up before, to be left to his own devices in the middle of cobblestones. “I do not think I want water.” And he went to hand the untouched canteen to her, because the very notion sickened him further.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Morgan managed to clean away most of the blood from Deimo's face and neck: that on his clothes would have to be dealt with later, hopefully by himself or his wife (she believed he had mentioned a wife; Gods, she wished that woman was here now to help). Reaching around in the bag again she brought out some bandages and a pad, absorbent and soft enough to not be too uncomfortable. Gently holding it against his cut, she wound the bandages around his head and tied them off, making a somewhat goofy looking, but effective, covering.
Hot and cold? He was definitely ill. Morgan sighed and looked back to Zuriel, not knowing what to do; desperately she asked the unicorn: "Can you help me guide him back home? Is his wife there, perhaps? She must be better equipped than I for looking after the General in this state."
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He’d gone relatively mute in the bandaging process; not the first nor the last that he’d likely sport some ridiculous-looking, but no less effective, threshold. It was all he could do to remain upright, the immobility something rooted deep in his sanction and soul, no other contemplations contorting, save for the ongoing struggle and plight in his mind.
Too hot, too cold, too confused, too addled, the conversation surrounding him seemed like he wasn’t even there. Maybe that was true, and he was mere pieces now, ash and dust and soot, the way he always should’ve been. An echo, a fringe, a vestige, nothing more than shadows and wraiths, following after his phantoms until his tomb etched itself into mountainsides, and his bones turned cold.
He bowed his head then, resting on the canteen she hadn’t taken, not watching Zuriel’s reaction to the question. For her part, the unicorn became obviously irritated, pinning her ears at the mention of the situation. She began to shake her head, either in disapproval or refusal, before his tones echoed, but were sent to the ground, where he continued to stare. “No. Amalia is not there.” He didn’t know where, other than chasing after stars, leaving him behind.
He wasn’t worth staying on earth for, after all. That much had always been obvious. “She is sick too.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Zuriel's response wasn't much help; Morgan turned to Deimos as he spoke, sighing and furrowing her brow as she tried to think of what to do. There was no way she could leave the General to the mercy of the streets, unicorn or no; that said, if he wouldn't lead her to his house or anyone better suited to be his carer, she had no idea where to take him for safety.
"That's a shame. ....There is an infirmary in your temple, right?" She asked, the idea dawning with some relief: a beacon of hope. "Should I take you there? They might be able to care for your sickness and you could get some rest, General." Standing, Morgan held out a hand for Deimos to lift himself up with, hoping that he'd be willing to go with her (and that Zuriel would come too).
Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He wasn’t surprised Morgan wanted to drop him off somewhere. Mostly everyone seemed determined to wipe their hands of him; and there was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, as some deluded reality began to warp and take hold. Maybe they really did. Maybe he truly was as worthless, as useless, as ineffectual as he felt, and the ineptitude curled off of him in waves. Maybe there were beacons and sirens and alarms wailing off and ricocheting around him, bounding off his senses, his blood, that told the world he wasn’t worth anything at all.
The beast hung his head and nodded. Quieted and smothered, tired and dreadful, he permitted himself to be led along the streets by both unicorn and Warden, until he they came along the Temple walls. He shuddered at its sights, at its memories, but went within, a wave of his hand granted to the Halo sovereign, before retiring into another version of his own hell.
{FIN}
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
