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!
05-31-2021, 01:31 AM (This post was last modified: 05-31-2021, 05:49 AM by Aurelia.)
Aurelia
over the riots above all the noise
The scent of rain and smoke still lingers in the air, or maybe it's just stuck to her clothes. She's returned far later than she meant to, spent the waning hours of the day pacing the streets for one cause or another. The doorknob is hard to turn, though not by any fault of its own.
She enters the shop slowly. Pent-up breath releases upon finding that things seem okay. But the deep and shadowy furrow of her brow remains. As much as she'd love to give way to her aching exhaustion, her mind won't let her rest. Stress clenches her teeth, snakes through her muscles, pinches her bones together.
Upon realizing that Milo is there, she stops short. Her eyes glue to him where he's busied himself with making nets. They tangle down around him, and if she didn't know better this would feel so normal. "You're awake..." she's not expecting her voice to sound as hoarse, as void of all the emotions storming through her.
Her lips part but she doesn't hardly know what to say. Back to the Slagveld, the entirety of that chaos? To Jack? To Seren or Adam? Even as she tries to search for a place to begin, the only words that really want to surface are 'I'm a failure'. Her chin trembles and her gaze immediately plummets to the floorboards between them.
He’d taken some naps here and there – but ultimately, the sleep had been restless, fitful, full of tossing and turning and trying his very best to remain alert enough in case someone came barging into the shop. He’d managed it a few times, jolting awake with the sound of people outside milling about. And he’d spent some time making some food, working on some new adjustments to the pack that he often carried, before deciding to stick with the same old same in the form of nets and how to better make them.
It was a past time, you see, one that has him alert enough to realize when Aurelia’s home, when she walks in through that door with a different face but all the same ticks, all the same tone to her voice, despite the exhaustion that lingers in her bones. And Milo finds himself half tangled in the nets, half not as he immediately disregards the very thing he was working on as soon as her hoarse voice is slipping toward him through the air.
All of his attention goes to her, Milo’s bronze gaze softening a fraction, the briefest edge of a smile that curls on his face, arms opening for her to come and give him a hug and fall apart if she needed that. “’Course ‘m awake. Had t’make sure y’came home tonight.” Because if she hadn’t, he’d be roaming the streets for that invisible attacker, waiting until he found her – praying he found her.
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
For everything she'd tried to change within herself, for all the pain she wanted to leave behind, it all had come flooding back and she's not even sure that she resurrected a wall to keep it at bay. Did she really want to be different, or was it just something she said to make herself feel better? Was she instead still battling the ghosts of her past, things she had thought she was getting over?
I'm a failure. The thought keeps pushing, wants to be let out, wants to be heard, the weight of it understood and felt. His eyes on her, his open arms, it's just enough pressure to make her crack. Yet she's rooted to the spot, staring up at him. Her eyes glisten and brim with tears. There's a pain building within her mouth that makes it difficult to speak. Her jaw rolls to try to release the tension and her voice finds its way into the hollow space between them. It's pained all the more by it.
"I'm sorry-" sorry that she can't be what she's promised, can't be what he needs or wants. Her breath comes in shallow waves that heave through her lungs and trying to fight it only makes it worse. "I'm a fuckup. I'm not any different than I was before," she shakes her head with the bitter truth, "I don't know if I can be, especially after this."
Her lips press shut and that aching pain returns. She can feel the veins in her neck strain to contain her anguish. "I tried... but I'm still sofuckingangry, Milo, and I-" she sucks in a shaking breath and, with the release, a silent sob tremors through her in spite of the thread of strength she tries to cling to. She fails at that, too. "No matter what I choose, it's always wrong."
She doesn’t move toward him, not toward his open arms. And they begin to falter a fraction, arms trembling before they lower and his red brows pitch together in a pinch that pulls on some wrinkles on his forehead. Her apology doesn’t make sense to him, it has him pausing, eyes focused on her intensely even as she tries to find the ability to explain it to him, he doesn’t know what comparisons it is she’s drawing.
And then it clicks. His arms dropping so that he might push himself up from the place he’s sitting, to untangle the nets from around him so that he can step over toward her – to get into her space, trying to figure out what had gone wrong aside from well… The obvious. “Y’killed a unicorn, not… Not someone with magic, though?” He airs, pausing because he doesn’t know if she had or hadn’t, doesn’t know what had all gone wrong aside from what she’d told him the night of.
He steps toward her now, arms opening again to pull her into his embrace – even if she’s still as a pillar, he tugs on her hard to get her to crumble into his arms. “’Relia… Listen.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, feeling sturdy despite the way she tries to throw him. “Y’came from a tough place. ‘n Caido hasn’ been easy for ya either, but… Wasn’t like this. Like I told ya before, yer gonna make mistakes ‘n shit’s gonna be hard, but… That’s life… Right?” It has to be, otherwise he’d likely have a much easier life if he didn’t constantly fuck things up too.
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
05-31-2021, 07:21 AM (This post was last modified: 05-31-2021, 07:23 AM by Aurelia.)
Aurelia
over the riots above all the noise
"No but, what I felt..." she brings a hand up to the side of her face as her eyes sink shut and tears trail down. She knows it all too well, that darkness within herself that doesn't have anything to do with being Abandoned or not. "It was the same, Milo," her voice is unsteady, fractured, disappointed. So is she, exhaustion and emotion doing all that they can to pull her down. "I wanted to hurt them and it didn't matter how." Maybe she's digging her hole deeper, but it doesn't matter. It's the truth and she won't keep it hidden away, not from him. She might be able to shoulder past the others, but Milo? No.
It's a good thing he's closing the distance because she doesn't know how much longer she can stand to carry the weight alone. He draws her into his chest and she doesn't have any fight left in her for the moment. She buries herself in the shelter he gives her, hiding her face and pressing her hands in against him.
She listens, silent but for the muffled crying that's unleashed on him like a river. She couldn't explain it herself but he's made her feel far too vulnerable now to be able to hold any of it back. For a few minutes, she absorbs the things he's said, letting the words sink in even if they don't really make it through to her yet.
"I thought I was past it," she says into the fabric of his shirt. Her cheek moves to rest against his chest so her face is no longer covered but so she also doesn't have to look at him. "But I'm not, Milo, not at all," her hands squeeze tight around him, "I still have all this hate and blame... and nowhere for it to go." So it coils within her, waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed, to sink its teeth into anyone that would dare tempt it. It's frightening, how deep that pit within her goes, how dark it feels.
A breath of air sucks in through her flaring nostrils. "The fire brought everything back, and all I could think about was what happened to my father. How painful it must have been, and... I lost it. I wanted them to feel that pain." Her hands quiver and her teeth grit as some of that same fury comes crawling back. She wanted them to feel regret for their actions, for the senselessness within them. What had it even been for?
It was the same. Seems to repeat in his mind, lips shifting into a slight frown. But he’d already chosen her over all of it. So he steps toward her, enveloping her in his arms, tight and snug and Milo presses his cheek against the crown of her dark hair, uncaring of how his shirt becomes damp with her tears – his hands smoothing over her skin in soft, slow circles of comfort, the only thing he knows how to do. If there’s a bit of healing with it to continue to fix her ailments and exhaustion physically, he pretends as if he doesn’t notice.
Silence overtakes them, because Milo doesn’t know what to say to make it easier. All he can do is sit there and let her speak her mind, finding the words within his own to offer in the hopes it helps. So when she offers her honesty to him, he clings to her tighter, hands running up and down her spine as if it might help alleviate her fears. “That makes sense, ‘Relia.” He murmurs softly into her hair, lifting his head to press his lips where his cheek had just rested. “Some sorta trauma response, ‘course y’d slip.” His voice is muffled from where it’s pressed against her hair.
But then he’s pulling his head away a fraction, drawing her in tighter to his chest. “Y’ve done so good fer a while now. Yer gonna have yer slip ups. They’re gonna b’scary. But I believe in ya. I believe y’can do it.” Get back to that better part of her, even despite the mistakes. He has to. Because if he doesn’t and she spirals and she leaves what else does he have?
Nothing.
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
06-01-2021, 07:05 PM (This post was last modified: 06-01-2021, 07:06 PM by Aurelia.)
Aurelia
over the riots above all the noise
He holds her tight and her chest heaves with release against his own, each honest truth a labor. They're all burdens taken off her mind, too. To be able to tell him these deeper, darker thoughts that haunt and claw at her conscious. Things she would probably not tell another person - or, at least, very few. To finally not have to pretend, or hold back, or avert her gaze and attention because it's too much to handle. Although still-fresh tears continue to stream down, they don't taste so bitter. It feels like healing, or maybe that's Milo doing everything he can to alleviate her pain and stress. She's almost aware that he's using his own abilities, but she doesn't pay it much attention. If she did, she might tell him to stop, and she doesn't really want him to.
Of course she'd slip, he tells her, and she squeezes her eyes shut as a shuddering breath hollows out her lungs. But he believes in her, and her pale eyes open again in spite of the way it feels sore and puffy and there's such a protest in that small action. "At least one of us does," she says softly, lips twisting remorsefully at the implication.
She steels, her muscles hardening, and she tries to push back. It's not to spiral away and leave him but enough to be able to try to look at him through the blurriness that blots her vision. Shakily, she fights the impulse to let her fingers turn away from him and gnaw at her palms. Instead, they smooth over his arms, needing to steady herself with him still. Her gaze pleads up at him for something she doesn't know how to verbalize, shuddering across the features of his face she's come to know and love so well. It's now that she finds it within herself to force back her tears, though they already stain her face and there is no taking back the ones that have already fallen.
"I know who did it," she says, simply, tersely, because forging out across all the details might reignite her fury or draw her back into the despair, "but I still don't understand why. Sunjata will, probably... she's his ex, after all..." the last part is uttered with a bitterness she can't temper. Her gaze suddenly flutters away on broken wings, "I feel so useless, Milo. I wish I could have done more, or that things could've been done differently. But I've felt this my whole life, over and over and over," she flinches, "I'm so tired of regret... and the guilt." She wishes it hadn't happened at all - like many other terrible things - but they both know that's not possible and so here they stand in the aftermath.
She collapses into him and he wraps his arms tighter around her, as if he held on tight enough that he might be able to be the glue that kept her pieces together. That was what he was good at, consoling and understanding, because even if he hadn’t had a big life of crazy huge things, he did have a life of getting into trouble and getting out of it.
He only withdraws when her head lifts, when that seafoam gaze finds his, searching for something but he doesn’t know what. He tries to give her all the soft edges he can, all the cushions and pillows within him that she might be able to fall onto with all her hard, sharp, jagged pieces where she won’t hurt him.
Brows pinch together, the smuggler nibbling at his lower lip, head tilting slightly as he nods. “Sounds messy.” He murmurs softly, trailing off as she continues and her gaze slips from him and his arms draw her tighter into his chest. “What else could y’ve done, ‘Relia?” He prods gently. “Realistically.” Because he knows she’d say all these outlandish things that simply weren’t feasible.
“Y’couldn’t have kept it from happenin’ in the first place. Couldn’t have known what was goin’ on. Couldn’t have fought back more… Y’would’ve died.” It’s nearly a whisper. “Y’did what y’could. I think that’s somethin’ worth bein’ proud of.”
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
In this moment it’s impossible to lean away from his comforts, from the warmth in his arms as he pulls her away from the nightmare in her head. Trying to part the dark clouds, purify the muddy water. It’s a hard effort she makes to numb herself to the smoke that sticks to the walls of her lungs, blackening and corrupting; the unpleasant embers in her belly that crackle still as if ready to consume her in flames at any moment.
She relents instead to the sound of his voice. Held tightly in his embrace, she's forced to focus on him and the present. What he’s just said to her is more than just a good point, it’s the truth. It’s not lost on her, either. Regardless, she is stubborn and it's all too hard to admit the defeat. The best she can do is remain silent, not that she would want to argue with him. She knows he's right.
Sucking in a sharp breath, she rests her forehead against his shoulder and lets the air go in a long sigh. The muscles in her back shift to relax with it. She leans into him more gently now; no longer throwing herself into her agony or trying to resolve against his soft edges. She reaches for his neck with a knowing hand, not needing to look, not able to yet. Her trembling is steadied only when her fingers can feel warm skin beneath the collar of his shirt. Normally, she might've let this be it. She might've let her body speak its own language and spell out all the depths she’d dare not speak aloud. And for a little while, it seems like that's what she'll do.
But those walls that keep her emotions at bay have broken down. ”I'm sorry, Milo,” her cracked voice breaks the silence. Her head lifts to incline her chin toward him. She meets his gaze to search for something overwhelmed; battered and harmed by her oh-so-heavy existence. ”I’m sorry you had to be the one to pick up the pieces,” her lips form a quivering frown, brows shifting toward concern and regret. Her gaze slowly fills with tears again, although these ones aren’t for herself. Her fingers make their way up the column of his neck, cherishing every inch it takes to be able to smooth her thumb over his cheek, pressing a gentle dimple there.
”But I’m so glad you were there... I wouldn't have made it if it weren't for you. Milo, all I kept thinking was that I just... I just wanted to see your face again. Be here with you again. I didn't want to leave you here, at all, especially after what you'd done for me,” she chokes back a sob, "I thought that if I found out more, it would make things better." But it didn't.
He relaxes the moment he feels the shift in her, feels his words get through to her. There’s a tension to his jaw that he hadn’t realized had been there until he swallows hard, lets the sensation course through him as she runs her hands along him, smoothing over the tense lines of his muscles, the veins in his neck that are tight and sharp with all the worry over the last day or so. And he breathes out in relief, too, leaning into the touch and caress of her fingertips and the way she melts against him.
Her apology is met with silence at first, his gaze finding hers. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know whether to tell her it’s okay even though he knows it isn’t. He doesn’t know whether to say that it didn’t matter. Instead, he shakes his head lightly to her, offering her a soft smile as he leans down to press a kiss to her nose, his hands wrapping around her middle and connecting in the small of her back as he tugs her closer.
“I agreed t’this, ‘Relia. I agreed t’be with you. All th’good ‘n all th’bad.” He says instead, giving her side a soft squeeze as he takes a deep breath, tries to let it course through him. “’Sides, we can’t both be gettin’ into trouble, can we?” This is a tease, aimed at making the air lighter, even if his gaze is serious as he clears his throat and pauses to chew on his lower lip, trying to take it a bit more seriously.
And after what feels like a long few seconds, Milo speaks. “I forgive ya. ‘n I love ya. Don’ forget that.”
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
The tough lines etched across his shoulders and extending out through his jaw don't go unnoticed, and she does her best to smooth them over, but she knows it isn't okay. She can remember vividly the look on his face when he'd found her, when she'd dumped everything onto his shoulders, and then left just as soon as everything seemed to be okay. It wasn't what she wanted, she hopes he believes that.
His silence is met with patient understanding; she isn't apologizing just to patch things together again and pretend it never happened. Her head inclines to the side a bit when he starts to gently shake his own. Only, the kiss pressed to her nose irons out any worry in her gut that he might decide no, this is too much. She settles into his arms with the small yet meaningful assurance, and the ones that follow.
She can't help but to smile, even if it's not something that reaches very far past the cloud of darkness they've been surrounded by. Her eyelids sink lower and a short breath expels from her lungs with the whisper of a laugh in it. She shakes her head and then lifts it, to gently bump his nose with hers even as he tries to sober. It's a little thing, but it brings her comfort anyway.
Her gaze flutters back open to meet his eyes as he speaks again, though, and the smile is lost but not in such a bad way this time. "I won't," she promises, gently closing the gap between them as her hand guides his jaw closer, "I love you," and she leans in kiss to his lips, letting her lips reinforce the meaning of her words.
She doesn't linger for very long, cutting it perhaps a little too short, but she eases down from the kiss in spite of herself and parts from him without force. "Gods, I need a shower," she sighs raggedly, bringing attention to her half-dead appearance. Her hair's knotted, her clothes smell burnt and they look burnt, and she could certainly use something that feels... cleansing.
She makes her way towards the bathroom with steps that are sore and aching. "Milo?" She pauses and looks back over her shoulder at him. "Come in with me," she says, and there's a gentle edge to her tone. She's not coming back up from this sea of shit without him, not willing to leave him behind in it for a second. Not even for a shower, and truthfully she really doesn't want to be alone right now.
If he can help her grow lighter in her soul with any way necessary, he’s willing to do it. He’s willing to push himself to the brink time and time again for her, here to pick up the pieces and heal her when she needs it, to be an ear for her in spite of everything. So when she has that soft breath that leaves her, the edge of a laugh in it, it relaxes him further and he nuzzles against her nose gently with his own after she bumps it.
A low hum leaves his throat in agreement, before she’s guiding his jaw with her hand, their lips meeting and Milo wishes he could make it last an eternity but knowing that it’s not in either of their best interests right now. Because she needs a shower, probably some food, a bunch of water and maybe some booze to handle everything that’s happened the last day. And he’s willing to be there with her through it all.
She pulls away and brings up the shower, and Milo nods, smiling after her and letting it glimmer in his gaze, with adoration and a gentleness that has him breathing easier. There’s a nod, a scrunch of his nose in his playfulness that takes over soon after. “Y’do.” He agrees, quite chipperly, reaching up to pinch his nose in a jesting manner, until she grows a bit more serious on her trek to the bathroom.
The offer is met with a moment of hesitance, Milo letting the hint of surprise cross his face. Because she’d always preferred to be alone when she was going through things and he’d tried to give her both space and his accompaniment whenever she requested it. So now? Now with the offer of joining her, his body moves before his brain can catch up completely, slipping toward her to wrap his arms around her from behind, to walk with her toward the bathroom where the shower sat within. “’Course I’ll come in with ya, ‘Relia.” He murmurs, unable to keep the smile from his lips.
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
06-04-2021, 04:21 AM (This post was last modified: 06-04-2021, 04:23 AM by Aurelia.)
Aurelia
over the riots above all the noise
At first the look on his face is confusing, that scrunch of his nose and the spark of playfulness. She's relieved to see it there, though she doesn't really know why it's there until he makes that little comment of his. Her brows flatten with the opposite of amusement and she narrows her eyes at him with a playfully soured pout. As she walks away, she shakes her head to herself, letting the light of it ease all the hardened parts of her heart.
There's compassion in her next words, as if it's extended offer. The last time she'd taken a shower when her emotions were like this, heightened and lowered and alive and shut down all at once, it hadn't helped. It had been an escape, and she wanted less of those. She wanted to heal and pull herself back from it all, and she wanted him there with her through every moment of it - not just the parts where she nearly died in his arms. He deserved to heal from it, too, even if his wounds weren't so clearly visible as hers.
He accepts the offer and her gaze simmers with warmth as she waits for him there in the doorway. As he reaches his arms around her, she welcomes him. One of her hands reaches down to gently take his, pulling it up to her cheek. Tiny kisses caress the ridges of his knuckles before she closes her eyes to breathe him in. "Thank you," she hums softly. When her eyes reopen, she moves away to turn the water on, though her fingers remain within his. Giving it a moment to heat up, she faces him again.
She blinks down towards the tattered hems of her shirt and pointedly lets go of his hand. She breathes out a long sigh, as if bracing herself for the feeling of freedom from shedding such war-torn garments. First are the pants, as she pushes them down firmly, finding herself more and more eager to be out of these soot-stained clothes. But as she discards them, her eyes catch sight of something that traces down along the top of her thighs. Like veins, almost, but not.
Her brows furrow as she fumbles to undo her shirt, and what she finds beneath it casts a dark shadow across her face. In shapes that curl and protrude cruelly across her skin, fresh scars line the length of her torso. She scarcely knows where they begin, but they spread out in all directions like the branches of a tree. If that tree were dead. She says nothing, drenched in a silent shock. She can only try to swallow the knot that's in her throat as she stares down at her devastated skin, gaze wandering down her arms where she thought that had been all.
He goes willingly with the offer she extends, slipping into the room with her, pressing his cheek against her head when she kisses his knuckles and thanks him, though he isn’t sure why. He doesn’t ask, simply content to be there with her to help her pick up her pieces while he soothes the jagged edges of his own worry. He’s nearly restless when she pulls away to turn on the water of the shower, even if his hand still remains in hers, and it only grows into a louder buzzing of his mind when she removes her hand completely.
Her pants come off first and Milo’s standing in a bit of his own shock – not moving toward his own clothes but simply staring, watching her with curiosity as she fumbles for her shirt next, the soot stained and ruined clothes finding a heap on the floor to leave her in her scarred form, Milo stepping forward to crowd in her space as she remains silent – eyes following the branches of a tree that flicker around her skin, tugging tight in places and smoothing out in others.
There’s a soft exhale as he reaches up to run his hand along the one that trails along her torso, a slow crawl, careful to make sure they don’t hurt her. And as if to break up the tension she might find, his other hand rises to her jaw, gaze tearing away from the scars to focus on her pale green gaze. “Lightnin’.” Milo breathes, a hint of his own quiet fears of storms and lightning strikes being swallowed down quickly in favor for trying to make it easier for her. “’Spose y’match the Governor now, huh?” He attempts to offer her a smile, though it doesn’t meet his eyes, before he’s pushing past that topic to focus on something else entirely.
“D’they hurt? D’ya need more healing?” He asks, forgetting he’s still fully clothed with how his hands begin to glow, to hover above the expanse of her scarred skin.
as long as we don't die, this is gonna be one hell of a story
