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!
"It was... Very green." Amalia has already drifted away from the jacket, her hesitant footsteps carrying her toward a rack of scarves. A stormy grey one catches her eye, and she thinks briefly of the red she lost a year ago. "There weren't- things didn't grow well, back home. But the Oasis was always surrounded by green, and the water was always blue. We swam in it in summer, and Safrin would take the dreamfish to protect us in LongNight."
Now she notices Sera's return with the blue-green blouse. It's pretty, far moreso than anything Amalia would ever pick for herself, and as she takes it from the Artificer's hand a jolt of girlish enthusiasm flickers up her spine. Blushing fiercely, Amalia moves toward the changing room, both anxious and excited. "What's LongNight like here?" she asks as the curtain falls behind her. "I've only ever spent it in the Grounds."
Very green is a note that Sera keeps in mind as she peruses her options that are laid out. And when she returns, listening to the story of what the Oasis was like, she finds a smile blossoming in nostalgia for a place she’s never been, simply by the way Amalia has described it. “It sounds beautiful.” She offers Amalia with a softness to her tone, holding up the blue-green blouse when she returns, scanning Amalia’s face for the reaction.
It’s better than she expected, spying the slight blush as the Archangel grabs the blouse from her hands and moves toward the fitting room. “It’s beautiful. My family always treated it as a quiet time to get together and catch up on the year’s events. Lots of food and late wake up calls, perusing the shops when they’re open and simply indulging.” She offers Amalia, finding a seat on a stool within the outside of the fitting room where she can wait for Amalia’s return.
“I certainly hope you can find some relaxation this LongNight.” From what Sera can gather, Amalia will need all the relaxation she can get.
The description of LongNight that Sera gives contrasts achingly with Amalia’s own experience. She pauses in her undressing to listen, mystified by this concept of a peaceful, warm, and family-filled LongNight. Food and shops and indulgence and being outside without the aching, constant fear of death- “That sounds… wonderful. And strange.” shaking her head, she continues changing into the blouse, a fierce envy blooming in her breast.
As for relaxing? From behind the curtain Amalia laughs, shaking her head as she pulls down the shirt. “With what Gideon has planned - and what’s going to happen in the Grounds- my friends-” A heavy sigh permeates the fabric that separates them. Her voice is soft when she speaks again, almost inaudible, heavy and dark. “I wish… I could have been there. To help. I know they’re Ascended, but…”
Pushing that thought aside with the curtain, Amalia emerges for Sera to expect. Her arms are crossed self-consciously over her chest as she looks at the floor near Sera’s feet, smiling bashfully and trying not to fidget too much. ”What, uh… what do you think?”
A huff of a laugh leaves Sera at Amalia’s admission of her own LongNight traditions sounding wonderful and strange. “Oh, I’m sure.” She comments with a softer smile gracing her face. Part of her wonders what she might be like had she grown up in the treachery of the Grounds. That part of her often shuts up long enough to realize how lucky she is to grow up here, to become the Artificer for the Order, and to have a strong purpose within it – even if it didn’t equate to the demi-god before her.
Sera finds a space to wait for Amalia to try on the blouse, and she’s idly inspecting a recent scrape on her hand with some distaste when the Archangel’s words hit and her gaze lifts to the curtain that separates them. “If they’re Ascended then they likely made their choice, yes?” She asks, internally baffled at how they could still be considered friends. But Sera was old fashioned, so much so, that the thought of Abandoned and Ascended made her skin crawl.
She doesn’t voice these thoughts, though, thinking it for the best.
So instead, when the curtain draws, Sera’s face is soft and bright as she regards Amalia even if the other woman won’t look at her. “Ooooooh!” She chimes, standing and immediately bounding over toward the woman, checking the fit with a wide grin, seeing what spots gave way for movement and which kept restrictive. “This is beautiful Amalia.” She says wistfully, dragging over one of the full body mirrors and setting it up in front of her, as she steps behind her to peer around the woman’s shoulder (two inches of height makes all the difference, really), to peer at her. “Most importantly, though, what do you think?”
Her hackles raise - literally - at Sera’s innocent comment on the Ascended having a choice, but she’s learned better than to espouse the rhetoric that they are victims as well. At least, not on a day like this, surprisingly pleasant and full of potential for genuine friendship in a foreign space. Inhaling deeply, she wills the fur on the back of her neck to stand down, the claws that press against her palms to retract. She says nothing but offers a noncommittal hum that the Artificer may or may not hear, steeling herself before stepping out from behind the comforting isolation of the curtained room.
The mirror, the reaction, the woman hovering at her shoulder- it’s all a little overwhelming, and Amalia can already feel the leopard fur threatening to rise again. Oh, it’s pleasant - the shirt is beautiful and Sera is buoyant - but it reminds her too much of moments lost, of things she will never again have. It should have been Evie standing beside her, advising her on clothes. But Evie will never be allowed her, or Kia, or Adam, or Deimos, or any of the countless others that Amalia has come so keenly to love.
She looks at the woman in the mirror, dressed in green and white with flowers in her hair, and finds she cannot breathe.
She’s pulling off the shirt before she realizes, shaking hands trying not to tear the delicate fabric as she rips it, shameless, from her body. She doesn’t stop to find her own blouse, doesn’t stop for anything except to murmur, over and over, ”Sorry, I’m sorry, I, I can’t, I’m sorry.” Leopard fur sprouts beneath her breastband, with lilac scales interspersed around her spine; the Archangel’s head is crowned in horns as she pushes her way out of the small shop and into the night. It’s dark, and the impending storm means most people have gone inside. Wind whipping through Amalia’s hair, the not-Shield throws herself against a lamp post, inhaling great gulps of cold air while her vision shifts and spins.
Sera, too involved with focusing on what to pair the blouse with, doesn’t notice the way Amalia’s fur stands on end. It’s possibly better that way, to be honest. That way she doesn’t end up saying anything else that might be taken the wrong way. But Seraphina doesn’t know any better, has always grown up knowing that the Ascended were a scourge on their world, and up until a few years ago they had been hidden away in the bubble of the Grounds while the Order had worked tirelessly on the bench just in case they became a part of the starting team.
And here they were.
She finds something else to pair it with, turning back to Amalia with a grin that falters immediately. Because Amalia is leaving, the shirt taken off and departing through the fitting room to the outside of the store. Her dark brows draw in immediate concern, the Artificer grabbing the blouse and offering a quiet nod to the shop keep before she’s jogging out of the store to find the Archangel in the night.
“Hey… Hey, it’s okay Amalia. What can I do to help?” She says, using the ability she’s learned from Lena on calming those who are scared. A hand is outstretched, reaching for Amalia’s shoulder, tentatively, to offer some sort of settling and steady tether should the Archangel wish it.
For a brief and terrifying minute Amalia sees nothing of where she is. Then Sera's hand is on her shoulder, a tether to this world and its reality, and the Angel comes spinning back to the present from where her brain had sought to throw her into a gathering storm. The shaking of her slender body slowly starts to subside; her breaths grow even, deeper, calmer, as she closes her eyes and tries to count, to center herself in this world. In, two, three, four, out, two, three...
"I'm s-sorry," Amalia murmurs softly, eyes still closed as bright spots dance over her cheeks, shame and shock written in her face. "I don't- sometimes I, I remember things and they become too much and I-" Breaking off with a shake of her head, the girl pulls carefully away, straightening and taking a shuddering breath. "You reminded me of someone. Someone I... I probably won't see again. And it made me think about all the other people I won't see again, because they can't ever come here, and I can't leave, and it just.... just sucks, y'know?"
She shakes her head with a mirthless chuckle, running slender fingers through her tawny hair. "I'm... not very good at this whole shopping thing. Or having friends. I'm sorry."
She’ll wait for however long it takes until the Archangel can breathe again, until her words ring out however softly they may be, before Sera’s concern glances across her face at the intensity of what Amalia has just gone through. “You have nothing to apologize for.” She says gently, as easily as she can, letting the ex-Shield of Safrin step away from her for her own space.
“I… If I’m being honest, I don’t know… But all I’ve ever known is here. I’m sure I’d be the same if I were taken away from my home and told to live somewhere else.” Her thin shoulder rises and falls in a shrug, trying to be as encouraging as she can be. “I think you’re doing just fine at this friends thing.” She also adds, offering a soft smile to bloom across her face.
“But if you want, we don’t have to shop. We can go back to my place and you can bake and maybe try to take your mind off of it?” She doesn’t know if that would help, but something lingers in Sera’s mind that perhaps giving her something comfortable to do might help Amalia cope with it a bit better.
The quiet constancy of Sera at her back goes a long way to calming Amalia down, though unprocessed grief still courses through her, radiant and electric in its ferocity. She keeps her red-rimmed eyes on the road ahead, another shaky laugh almost escaping her lips. Friends- are they that? Is she doing well? The color on her cheek shifts and changes, less frantic now and more quietly pleased, shy and hopeful and a little afraid. "You make it easy," is the soft response, her alto tones warm with appreciation.
Baking in a home sounds wonderful. This time Amalia's smile is genuine, only the edges of sorrow still written over her lips. "I- only if you don't mind," she murmurs, rubbing a hand over her wrist and turning bright, hopeful dark eyes to the other woman. "I have some ingredients in my rooms we can grab? I've been wanting to try some of the native flavors- is there anything you especially like?"
The shift in the Archangel is notable, and Sera smiles softly back at her newfound friend, trying to offer whatever support she can to the woman. Eventually, however, the smile blossoms more genuine and Sera relaxes a large fraction, shaking her head. “I don’t mind at all.” She assures Amalia, in case the woman worried about intruding or stepping on toes. The Artificer looks forward to it, if she’s being honest.
“Alright, one trip to your rooms and we’ll head to mine.” She chimes with a grin and offers her elbow for Amalia to lace hers through so they might walk back together. “I like all of them, so feel free to experiment with whatever you want. You are the professional, after all.” And it’s as easy as that – arm in arm, spending the rest of the day with the warm scents of food and eating far too much and drinking too much tea.
