tell the ones you love, you love them

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

A deep nod of her head is given to his thanks – though he doesn’t have to thank her. If anything, she should be thanking him, for everything that he’s done for her, everything that he’s been for her. A father, someone to help keep her together every time the world fell apart. He had been there for her through it all, and yet… And yet, the only thing that stopped her from being there for him was death.

Completely unintentionally, of course.

She squeezes his hand back, leaning forward and removing one hand from the clasp so she can reach up to run it along his cheek, to try and exude some of the warmth she might have had for him once before. But she doesn’t, the hand that touches his cheek is cold, but it’s there. Even as the fire and embers sprout through her internally. And its with a shock to her system that she realizes all of this, the implications of what it meant for a war that was brewing.

And if Amalia was a demigod now, well…

Gods, that complicated so much.

Luckily for her, he’s willing to figure it out with her. As he always was. And it’s a soft fanged smile that meets his face as she nods – agreement made easily. One thing at a time. She’d only just come back to life, after all. Still, hearing him say he loves her has a glittering sheen growing in her eyes, her smile warbling a bit as she ducks her head and nods. “I love you too.” She says softly, her voice wavering momentarily as she tries to recover – tries to embody that idea of being strong that she always had to.

But he releases her and she settles back in her chair, an internal and mental warmth spreading through her as she draws her legs up on the chair. “Different, but fine.” She says, brows furrowing slightly. “It was… Dark and peaceful, after I died.” The end of the sentence is hushed, her eyes focused on his boots before they lift to his face. “I heard a voice that told me to follow it… And I did, because I wasn’t ready to go yet. I chose this… So I could come back.” She mulls it over, chewing on the inside of her cheek before her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “I feel stronger… But I miss my shifts and I miss Auni. It’s like… When Khairi left and I came here. It’s hollow.” Her brows pinch together before she shakes her head, to pull her out of her stupor. “I’m glad to be alive, though. I’m glad to be here.”

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

There’d been times where he hadn’t been there for her – but that had come from death as well. Perishing amongst the mountains, falling, falling, falling, a form given all it’d had until it simply couldn’t anymore. He hadn’t been able to cease the specious, surreptitious void of Kisamoa and Kaos, to warn her away, to insinuate some level of judgement and sagacity before she’d been claimed by the deceitful false-god. Learning experiences, curves, bends, angles, edges, and then brutality; but that could be said the same for here too. Resurrected and reborn, renewed and revitalized, forced to grow again in twisting durations and recalling spines. Juxtapositions and parallels, similar and comparable, even amidst the ambiguity.

Her hand wasn’t warm on his cheek, but it didn’t really matter. The sentiment was there, and he regarded it with a fond, affectionate smile, half-angled in juvenile predilections lost and found again. And they pulled away but didn’t at the same time – still present, still alive, still tangible, but conspiring things, cherished and loved and conflicted.

Kiada’s journey hadn’t been unlike his own death – though he couldn’t remember much of anything except darkness. He’d been expecting some level of hell, fire and brimstone and disaster, torture for the years of his life where he rendered sin after sin in his protective efforts.

Instead he’d been spit back out. Try again, perhaps the world had called. Still more to do, maybe the earth had shaken and shattered. Not your time yet, son, his father had offered, in a damned hallucination, while he waited for death to come take him again.

But she’d heard a voice, and followed. Followed, followed, followed the very one they’d thought to conquer, to destroy, to defeat. Chose it, so she could return. So she could be with them.

A clever ruse and trick by the Voice – to raise up those they’d lost. To make it all that much more complicated and difficult. To have more of her own staring from the other side. Something in his heart sunk, and he didn’t say it. Didn’t breathe it. Didn’t wish it.

Would he have done the same?

How many times had they clawed their way to the surface, broken out of demolition’s grasp? How many times had they felled another, so that they might seek another day? “Many of you chose life. And that is nothing to be ashamed of.” In case she was; he wasn’t sure. There were no emotions to be felt between them now; all having to be read across features, faces, and voice. His eyes remained focused, tied, to her, striving to extract the notions while leaving his reeling sentiments in place. Perhaps the worst part of all was that he couldn’t talk to Amalia about it. About the things they’d shared and the lives altered now. About what they were going to do – because he didn’t have a clue. “I am glad you are back.” For whatever it was worth, for whatever this was. Stronger, with things missed. Gone. Vacant. Something else due to fill the space.

He tilted his head a fragment, maneuvered his boots across the floor, slid them along the wooden armaments as he altered positions, sat up straighter in his chair, then placed an elbow along the table. “Chulane has Auni. He bonded to him when we went to go find him.” After you had died didn’t make it through the speech, the inflection there clear anyway.

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

They had chosen life. They’d chosen to return, to finish their unfinished business in a world that seemed to constantly be at odds of whether they lived and won, died and failed. And now she was here – returned, relieved and haunted, awaiting to hear what the next hammer to fall may be. It seems that the next hammer is war. It’s enough to clench her jaw, to have her waiting and wondering whether or not it had been a good choice.

Oh, but it had been. Because she was here with Deimos and she’s sure Chulane is still here… She would have felt him, right? If he had not been?

“I’m not ashamed.” She hums softly, a decisive nod of her head given. She isn’t ashamed of what she’s become so she could become stronger – it was always her after all, was it not?

She had followed Kisamoa under the guise of becoming stronger.

She had followed and helped Kaos in order to protect herself, to grant her and the world she found herself in, life.

Honestly, it would be quite unlike her to not take up the offer given.

Regardless, her attention remains on Deimos as he shuffles how he sits and she tucks her legs up underneath her, nodding before she reaches up to run her fingers along Zuriel’s cheek again. “I’m glad to be back.” She says softly, offering a softer smile toward him.

He informs her of Auni and Chulane, the latter making her gaze shudder and shadow – so eternally grateful that Chulane still had a piece of her even after her death. “How has he been?” It’s quieter, sadder but curious. He was next on her list once she got her bearings, understood what was happening and what was going on.

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

There was always something they were running towards, away from, or sitting along intermission; waiting for the next haunted, poignant cue. Perhaps it’d be war. Or something else in the midst, another tremor, another terror, another unholy void they’d need to face while other modicums shuffled and granted their wares. He wasn’t even certain what to do with this one – let alone the hordes of others lingering to take their places. Life had alternating pathways and they kept taking one, with no idea of where it’d roam, go; a constant cycle and revolution.

Like here, like now. Like souls reaching for another opportunity, under a different goddess.

And she was not ashamed. So he ceased in those modes, taking the time, the moment, to be less of the apprehensive, dread-filled General, and more of the Sword, a sigh flickering through his chest, eyes going to Zuriel – content – a soft smile lingering in the corner of his mouth again.

Then there was Chulane, and while his head threatened to hang again, he didn’t allow it. “He had a rough time initially.” They all had; but he wouldn’t betray the man’s story, of standing along the edge of lava and wondering what it would be like to join her in death and damnation, of taking another step and letting it all unfurl in embers, cinders, and then nothing. She would be able to see for herself. Figure out her own impressions. Learn to re-stablish foundations rattled, rocked, and marred by moments completely out of their control. “He has been quiet. Kept himself busy with the ningos.” A pause, a tilt of his head. “You should go see him.” Perhaps he’d hoarded her too long for himself, when there were more who needed her.

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

A frown immediately crosses her face when Deimos begins to speak of Chulane, her head tilting a bit as she tries to recall the last time they had spoken. She had told him not to worry, if she recalls correctly. And gods how wrong she had been. They hadn’t even said they loved one another beforehand. She only hopes the sentiment is received, is still true, because she doesn’t know what exactly she’ll do other than power through as she always has.

It got exhausting after a while.

She tucks her fingers under her legs, the ones drawn up beneath her as she nods in agreement and understanding, a softer edge to the frown that crosses her face. “He wasn’t… There, at the Festival. Do you think he’ll believe it’s really me?” So much had changed. She’d traded the fangs and shifts for fangs of another kind, of a body that no longer bled scarlet, of a body that was no longer warm. “What do I say?” This is quieter, more hushed, the full fear of her being rejected crossing over her face in such a way that Deimos would read through easily.

Eventually, though, her gaze lifts to look at Deimos, her dark brows pinching together. “What if… What if he doesn’t want me like this?” Her mind is almost moving a thousand miles a second, the idea of his rejections, of whether he’d consider her an abomination like so many she’d heard speak of the Ascended before.

What then?

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

It was difficult to know when fickle instances became last moments. Especially in this world, with repose shattering into tempestuous edges within the blink of an eye, taking sanctuary, shelter, and love for what they could, when they could. Perhaps that was why there’d been those phrases of telling the ones they cherished exactly how they felt – each and every time – so it wasn’t forgotten, so it wasn’t amiss. So when everything fell apart there were still those pieces remaining, even when the nuances and notions were scattered behind. His semblances were worn, torn, and fragile now; people he’d held in his heart abandoning or leaving, dying or desecrating, which was why, after so god damned long, he seemed to finally understand what all those meanings about attachments, endearments, and beloved things meant.

He watched as she tucked herself away, curling and coiling into something else. This too was Kiada, the Harpy, the more breakable instances, where it wasn’t all fire and ice. Her words struck him in the insecurities, the edges they harbored and harpooned the most, and he tilted his head, expression striving to soften into something quieter, not the piercing gaze, not the haunted man. “Do you believe Chulane would deny you?” He’d never known the Attuned beast to do any such thing; especially not to her.

As for what to say? Deimos’ experience with relationships was nothing to extend advice upon. The girl in the rain had died, and Amalia had left him, and there were hardly any other matters in between except for friends who disappeared, and those he chose as family, gone before he could ever really express how much they meant to him. Another sigh followed, and he leaned forward now, back to forearms on knees, swallowing down the length of bile threatening to overwhelm. “I think you tell him what happened, and go from there. What more could he ask of you?” It hadn’t been her fault – falling into fire, consumed by flames, and she bore no shame in crawling into her resurrection.

But maybe the truly heartbreaking inquiry settled into the air, and no amount of contentment from Zuriel or comfort from him would really mend that hollowed entanglement except for Chulane. He’d never been enough for anyone either; no matter how many times he’d changed or eroded. And the feelings clawed back, deep in his heart, scratching and bleeding at the enamel he tried so desperately to place upon it day after day. “He has seemed very accepting. Even in this ridiculous world.” The words didn’t grate, but they wanted to – reflections of his own learning, of his own hardships, reaching over the breaking points, the hushed rumbles in his chest for her and her alone. “But if not, then you will find someone who does.” A half-smile curled in the corner of his mouth, trying to rest there, steady and sure. “I will always be here.” A force, a sanctuary, monolithic figures and familial devotion – an all-encompassing refuge if she needed one.

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

His gaze focuses on her, but it isn’t sharp or narrowed, it’s softer – a more inquisitive question lingering in the shadows there, soon to be uttered in the idea that Chulane may reject her. She’s silent for a brief moment, chewing on the inside of her lip as she curls away internally, uncertain. “Maybe.” Comes the quiet uttering, the anxiety and insecurity slipping out. What if she’d come back too wrong to work it out with him? What if she’d complicated things far too much this way?

She can’t help but to draw silent again, watching him and yet not watching, as he leans forward and his forearms rest on his knees. Her gaze focuses on him, wanting to duck her head behind her drawn up legs that she wraps her arms around. But she doesn’t, and instead she nods. It is all she could offer, it is all she could do. “Okay.” She pauses, brows pinching together slightly before she shakes her head slightly, as if to pull herself out of a trance. “I will.” Comes the agreement, a bit more steel hidden in the undertones of her light voice.

But the anxieties are still there, because she’s asking him if Chulane would even accept her like this, her mind blocking the fact that he’d willingly offered Neron a bite simply to help the ex-Warden survive. And really… That should have told her everything she needed to know about it, but she’d come back too anxious, too worried and bewildered at everything.

Too overwhelmed.

So she unfolds from the chair, moving to stand now and cross the distance between she and Deimos, reaching out to push herself into his embrace again. “I always have you.” She says softly, though with relief. He would accept her either way. As he always had, in mountains such as these when she’d been no older than a preteen, out fighting the world and recruiting.

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

He waited; not like the predator, not like all the beasts lurking in the midst of his soul, but as the dutiful, vigilant expanse, watching as the anxiety pooled, quelled, and then diminished, slightly, the steel finding its way back home. Deimos hadn’t gained these misgivings upon his own resurrection (scores of others would find their way in though); loved and lost all over again, patterns and familiarity to the weight of the world, to the lengths of his sojourns, to the calamities wrought once more. The release of her particular burden, of these singular worries and apprehensions, could only come from Chulane. The Sword would be here regardless, an eternal promise, a vow, an assurance, he could mend and meld with little fanfare – just the way it’d always been. A rock, a stone, a boulder, a monolith, a mountain.

Then she was before him, requiring the safety and sanctity he’d proffered, and the beast opened his arms, wrapped her in his embrace. Real, tangible, whole, even if she was cold; a conviction for himself too, needed and required just as much. She wasn’t going anywhere right now, save for out into the evening to discuss matters with Chulane. She wasn’t dead. And that had to be enough. He’d ask no more of her.

Tucking her into his shoulder, where brawn and formidability rested, his chest rumbled, voice extending a distraction, a deterrent, away from the anxieties. “Would you like to see the rest of the barracks? We fixed them up.” Or would that be too much as well – reminders of days not spent like this, but within the Grounds, their lives whole, not so pierced, not so punctured, not so damaged?

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

He embraces her, tucking her into his shoulder – into a familiar place that soothes all her worries and frustrations as if it were nothing more than fog on a window. He’d be there for her, whenever she needed him to be, whenever things would inevitably fall apart, whenever she would need a guiding light to follow to find her way back home.

And he offers her a similar idea of that, the guiding light, in the idea of looking at the barracks and seeing what had grown in the time she had been gone. She squeezes him, arms around him tightening as her head bobs against his shoulder. “I would love that.” She murmurs softly, remaining in the embrace briefly, before she pulls away after a few heartbeats – as if she could count them, but she can’t and has to guess, waiting for the moment to feel right.

Eventually she does, pulling away from him so he can stand, while she tears a hand through her long dark hair, fashioning it into a quick and easy braid. And after smoothing out her shirt, hands antsy and looking for things to do, does she look back up at him with a put back together smile. “Where to first on this tour?”

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

Sometimes they were stranded things, and no matter the strength, no matter the persistence, they still ended up out amidst the stark, cold air, the brutal, barbaric land. Maybe that’s what had twisted and turned them so many lifetimes and years ago, the chilling voids wrapped around their hearts, their lungs, their souls, for when the rest of the world no longer needed them. There they scraped and clawed, broke over the surface a hundred times, staying, enduring, fortifying over and over again; finding one another in those haggard shells and chipped away thresholds. They knew what scorn felt like, how contempt contorted from within, how day after day, night after night, wrath could eat away and they’d forget who they were.

But not now – not when there were so many other opportunities, so many lives coiled and curled into one unending figment. Where the Reaper began and the Sword ended might remain to be seen, but both offered the Harpy a place in the shelter he’d composed for himself, for however long she needed. Kiada would be free to come back and forth, to prosper her deliverance, her strength, out into the press of the world, and then if she needed to return, his presence was there – steady, certain, sure.

So for those moments he allowed her in, until she’d had enough – and then released, into the wild, into the salt of the earth.

Except as arms slipped away, they were still in the front parlor of the barracks, neither ready to face whatever moments would, could, come strangling outside the doors. She’d be able to see the long table they sat and now stood beside, for planning, for plotting, for scheming, the maps adorning the wall – one of Halo he’d managed to acquire, one of the Hollowed Grounds he’d contorted himself. His desk was situated before the stairs leading to his apartment, nothing adorning the surface save for pens, paper, notes taken from earlier – any personal items remained in his own quarters. Then there was the hearth, the rugs, and the hall – to which he meandered now, waiting for her to follow. “Armory?”

Zuriel opted for her place beside the fire again with a short snort, and then the Sword took his memorized routes, a leisurely stroll by the candlelight fixated in the darkening corridors; not something either of them needed. The first door he came to opened beneath his turning of the knob, into a wider, more massive section, and once he lit the torch within, could be noted with shelving, with hooks, with adornments of weaponry in every size, shape, and serrated or blunted, edge imaginable. He leaned against the frame, permitting her to inspect, chisel her way along the foundations, a little proud of their accomplishments. “You can have whatever you need.” In case she’d forgotten, in case she required something, uncertain what lanced already in her new form.

He’d only just realized she’d never asked about him being here in Halo, serving as their General now. Perhaps it’d been expected, something inevitable in their sojourns, ever since they’d spied it from the annals of a tome in an underground library, and she’d thought nothing of it. Maybe she didn’t want the story, or it was to be saved for another time. And after all of this, there was a possibility it held no significance - they were in the mountains, in vestiges of old and new.

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

She looks around the area, takes in the barracks and how Deimos had made it a home. And perhaps s he hasn’t asked why he was here of all things because of what he’d said of what occurred with Amalia. Perhaps she hasn’t asked because the Grounds had been a bit lackluster in comparison. Perhaps she hasn’t asked because the mountains were where they belonged, where they thrived, were home in every sense of the words.

She thinks about Zariah for a brief moment, wondering whether or not she remained around here and if that had any impact in deciding the fate of whether he stayed in Halo or not. At the end of it, though, she figures it doesn’t matter. Not really. She follows him as he takes the lead, much like a lost puppy searching for a place to stay, a place or something to call her own.

She supposes that’s not entirely wrong. He, much like Chulane and Amalia, were her home.

Her head bobs in agreement at the mention of the armory, following the path Deimos takes, her eyes taking in all the adornments and rooms, the torches that light up the space and glint off of the edges of weapons. “You’ve been busy.” She comments with a quiet breathy ‘wow’ type of sound leaving her throat.

Kiada breaks apart from him, stepping forward into the armory, peering at the weapons with a clever eye. And when he says she could have whatever she needed, she considers it – stepping down display after display. “Do you remember those… Throwing knives you made me?” She asks, glancing over her shoulder toward him with a fanged smile. “Perhaps I could snag these…” Picking up a pair of them from the end, she turns to him positively pleased.

“I didn’t get anything really… good for offense when I came back.” She pauses to gnaw on the inside of her cheek, to nibble at her lower lip before she finally lets her iceberg gaze land back on him again. “She did give me armor, though.”

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

The vestiges and edges of the weaponry were a settling image; something innate, inherent, born from multiple lifetimes. And while others might have seen them as dangerous, as treacherous, as hollowed lethality, they’ve been ground, carved, and calloused over his palms since he was old enough to bear the arms and understand their complexities. To value the extension of his limbs, to solidify what they meant for opponents, for hunting, for adversaries, for skills he’d entangle and whittle into anything and everything. Leaning upon the doorframe, he gazed out over their ilk, the serrated glory, the potential for defense, sieges, and assaults, admiring them for their worth, before snorting at her exclamation.

He’d always been busy. It kept him from sinking down into the reaches of agony, of not looking in, of not glancing or seeing the drowning pulses coming to reach over his heart and lungs and soul. He’d been told repeatedly to take it easy when recovering from their afflictions and ignored that too. “When am I not?” Here he arched a brow, but chuckled; permitted the sound to reverberate over the structure of the room, instead of being consumed by some numbing ache. Not today. Not now.

The monolith’s eyes trailed after her, pondering which she’d pick, which stuck out to her, which steel surged in her ichor now. He nodded at the memory of the throwing knives, one of the many gifts he’d prospered to her, and much like the armor, presumed had been long since lost in the flames. So another pair caught and tugged at her, and there was nothing to refuse. “Then they are yours.” Certainly not as adorned as the ones he’d given her – but that likely didn’t matter. She’d make them her own in some way or another.

Deimos looked down at her at the mention of offensive figments, a she in the ruffling of tones that nearly sent him clenching his jaw; the smile dissipating, a feral sigh waxing and waning in his lungs. The Voice. His arms crossed over his chest, and he breathed a very sharp inhale, fighting off a multitude of mutinous, seditious, revolutionary notions and nuances. And he knew he had to accept it, to furrow down all the other clawing, snapping proportions, but they still reeled. Still punctured. Still pierced. “Did she.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even anything more than a broken statement, something to fill in the void. If she wanted to share further, it’d be up to her.

He turned, suddenly stifled and restless, off the aperture, and back out, crossing down another hallway that led out and beyond. “Come see the training grounds.”

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS

do not fear the dark, wolf cub, for when the sun leaves the world,

A true statement, she’d always found Deimos creating something, busy and throwing his nose into his work, into pushing away everything else for distractions. She doesn’t blame him, she understands what it’s like. She’d have done the same - had done the same, after Ru’in and her failed quest for Ludo. She supposes she doesn’t have to do that quest anymore – the idea of Ludo speaking to her now falling away like dirt in the wind.

Poor Ru’in, though.

She pushes aside those thoughts as she finds the throwing knives, collecting them in pale and cool fingers, glancing back to Deimos curiously. He grants them to her, and her hand tightens around their handles, focusing on the solid mass of them in her hands, the weights of them, trying to remember what it was like to throw them.

As for armor, however, his tone changes – she gets why, but it’s still cold to her, and she tucks the throwing knives away, turns her head away from him to focus on the rest of the armory, reaching for that part of her that had been altered, like a switch to be pressed on. And from her spine, beneath her clothes down to her wrists, a hard and light armor spreads along her skin, turning her pale scarred upper half into shining metal. She pulls the sleeve back from her arms to show him the glimmer, before she turns that switch again and it melds away.

So she follows him, his restlessness, toward the hallways and out and beyond. As soon as she spies the large area, she can’t help the soft smile that crosses her face. “Looks bigger than the one in the Grounds.” She comments softly, hoping to reach some sort of ease of conversation again.

the world fears you

KIADA

i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty

He watched as her skin changed, altered, the sheen of armor, of metallic structures bent and coiled over flesh. Something tugged at his heart, and he didn’t know how or what to name it – something akin to sadness, to pieces and portions he never thought she’d be. It wasn’t right to hold them in his chest, over scars and enamel, over lungs and ribs, but he wouldn’t extend it out into the open, where it wasn’t wanted, where it wasn’t needed, where everything still seemed like such a mess. Could he be grateful for her existence, and still confused, conflicted, by how she’d become anew again? And was that how things would always be now? Acceptance, acceptance, acceptance, but with the pang of other nuances and notions? With the ominous, foreboding twist and turns of the future sticking, clawing, at his veins? At their voids?

And the Sword didn’t know what to say to the Harpy, not now, not when the fringes were so very open and fragile. The puncturing slate of his eyes went to the silvern structure once more, and the monolith nodded, an understanding (if it was even that), the uncertainty threatening to wrap around his throat and suffocate his soul. “Do you like it?” Was all he could fathom and formulate as they began to stride down the hall; because maybe that was all that mattered. Her perception. It was her figure. Her soul. Her presence. And perhaps his thoughts on it didn’t really hold any weight. Any merit. Anything at all.

He maneuvered out of her way, permitted her an opportunity to survey the wide-open expanse – the cloak of evening not dispelling the edges and fringes of its massive undertaking, of its prowess, of its potential. There might’ve been a segment of pride looming in his half-smile, but he wasn’t an arrogant entity, so it didn’t rest there long. Beneath the flicker of fires, of the braziers, the reflection of targets silhouetted against the snow and stone, the marble countenance of where they lunged and fought, of where they endured and persisted, where they chose to amplify mettle and grit. “It had taken a heavy hit from last Deepfrost. Took some time to fix it up.” The climbing wall, a massive sheet of ice rounded at the edges for multiple purposes (to run up and down its slope, while others amplified muscle strength and fortitude from scaling the other side), stood stalwart on the outer fringes, with everything else nestled in between. “Hopefully the efforts will be worthwhile.”

or your stubbornness?

DEIMOS