it takes a fool to remain sane

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

On days where the clouds lay heavy, even a ghost might enjoy some daylight. Even though it was wan and pale, and the sun merely a bleak disc somewhere beyond the drifting fog, it was a nice change.

That... was all the positivity Maea was able to muster. Mud clung to her boots as she trudged through the swamp, going nowhere. Without a destination in mind, every step was taken in drudgery, out of habit and because standing still in this place had proven dangerous. A fortunate thing, really, that neither sleep nor rest was needed when slumber might cover a face with pale white klaws that drained your essences away.

Everything was deadly. Everything that came here would die.

Perhaps that was why she had decided it was a good place to linger.

When a thin drizzle began to fall, she paused under the relative shelter of a tree. The damp did not really bother her, but she liked to pretend that by pulling the dark hood back and letting droplets roll down her cheek, she would look like she was crying. No one would ever see, of course, but... it was nice to pretend.

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

The heat is finally beginning to break. The last dregs of summer like sugar that refused to dissolve in a cup of tea. Sweet and lingering, but inevitably doomed to be washed away. Renewed by his reunion with Phoebe and equally troubled by his meeting with Gideon, Harper has resorted once more to wandering. It is easier now with wings to carry him - the lands fall away beneath him as he flies, aimless and indulgent in the sky. Until the rain begins to fall.

He waits to land at first, wanting to learn how to fly in the downfall, but eventually he is forced down through the canopy and back to human form. Except when he does, he realizes he is not alone. The paleness of the woman is impossible to miss amidst the grey and green, but as he turns to greet her all words die in his throat, withering away as if the sun still hung high and scorching overhead. Harper never forgets a face. It was beaten into him as a terrified child undergoing the worst kind of conditioning. And when you take away the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable…it must be true.

Maea is alive.

Stumbling closer, Harper reaches a hand halfway before pausing. Is he sick again? Hallucinating?

“Maea?” Tremulous, both hopeful and scared to be wrong as it escapes his throat.

Harper

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

The drizzle was no more than a whisper upon leaves, through marshy grasses, tingling into stagnant pools with a sound more felt than heard. Even a gore-crow's silken wings might be swallowed up by such a sound, if only the listener had paid attention.

Even so, for all that it was a surprise to be addressed in the middle of nowhere, her reaction was slow. Sluggish, even, with the gradual opening of closed lids to reveal a pair of eyes that held no more color than the drifting fog. As Maea turned her head away from the veiled sky, the motion was that of a dolls. She had always been small, always had an air of something porcelain and frail about her, but the absolute stillness of her now only enhanced that impression.

She did not inhale with surprise. Nor did she blink, more than to reflexively protect eyes from dripping water.

"Ah... Harper. What a surprise." Dead voice. Dead eyes. Whatever this man thought he saw... was but a ghost of a memory of something that had once been alive. It was hard to tell whether the pause was due to lack of recognition, or interest.

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

Her reaction does nothing to assure him he is of sound mind. Why it would choose to show him Maea however is confusing - for all he had been her friend, had mourned her when she died, he cannot conceive of why he would have visions of her after all this time.

When she speaks, he shudders, the creaking emptiness of her voice more sorrowful than frightening. Harper tentatively approaches, dark brows drawn and expression soft and concerned. Even if this may not be real, he cannot help the need to comfort, to heal.

“Maea. I have missed you. But…what…how?” There’s a helplessness to his face and the tone he uses when he speaks. The words won’t come, struggling to utter what he already has.

Harper

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

Unmoving, she merely watched him draw nearer. There was no tension in her, neither from threat or fear or unease, but there was no real welcome either. Harper might as well have been the rain for all that she seemed to care - a talkative raincloud with a lot of free time on its hands.

The slight twitch of an eyebrow could have been surprise. "... have you. That's is... nice. I suppose. Would not have thought you'd notice much." It was not as if they were close.

A shrub somewhere close shuddered under the weight of accumulated water. Cascading droplets pattered against the damp ground, a thousand thrumming fingertips on slackened drumskins. Maea pulled a strand of soggy hair behind an ear, in a gesture that had survived even death.

"The Voice," she replied simply. As if that was all the explanation he would need to grasp the absurdity of the situation.

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

The rainwater clings to his curls, but the lukewarm nature of their pathways does not seem to register as he lingers on the outskirts of her gravity. Reluctant to intrude upon that which he had once respected when she lived. Blue eyes soften at her wispy words, far away and unaffected. His hand twitches impotently at his side with the desire to reach, to pull.

“We were friends. The length of time we had doesn’t change that.” Perhaps his own surety will fill the space where her own should be. Void and cold. Forgotten. Her doubt will not make him waver in the memories of her that sustain him.

Her answer should perhaps not be so unexpected, and yet Harper flinches slightly all the same. The Voice. Of course. Gideon’s words ring in his head like a haunting death knell. “Oh,” he utters softly, dumbly. The patter of rain against leaves and rotted logs is a chorus of what-ifs and another-life’s. It doesn’t stop him from moving closer into her space. “You don’t seem happy, Maea.” Why?

Harper

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

Again she blinked. The motion was infrequent, more indicative of emotional stirrings than any real need for it. The closer he came, the less lifelike she appeared. No effort was made to bring ribcage to rise and fall in a mimicry of breath, nor did pulses beat blood beneath that arsenic skin. If her complexion was pale before it was only ashen now, because whatever fluids ran through her veins no longer made her blush at the intrusion of a man into her personal space.

"A nice sentiment," she remarked dryly. "You might be surprised to know that it's a rare one." If her words smacked of bitterness, it was nothing against the slow smile that curled the corners of her lips. Never reaching the eyes, it twitched and was gone again - a spasm of some wry amusement.

"Oh," she agreed. "And what should I be happy about? The lovely weather?" Holding out a hand, she watched droplets bead against a palm both puckered and scarred, as from some intense heat. "You don't seem all that cheerful yourself."

If he was, why come out here all on his own?

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

Gideon’s words are impossible to ignore as his eyes slowly rove the valleys of a body that no longer exudes life in the way it once had. Inhuman. Distorted. A vessel for a power mad woman playing god.

A friend.

Distinctions he can’t make, and yet can’t afford not to. She stands as testament to his doubt. The one Ascended who could make him waver, his attachment no longer a string tying them together but a noose that tightens slowly with every brittle word that passes cold lips.

“Surprised yes. I am sure there are others who have missed you so much more than me.” Had she simply not sought them out? And if so, why? What calls to her here, in this cold empty wasteland?

Blue eyes are pulled to the twisted flesh of her palm, watching the water as it slowly begins to gather. Harper slowly reaches out, giving Maea a chance to pull away, and places his hand gently upon her own. Aches with the knowledge that she won’t be able to feel it. “I would have been happier, had you seemed like you wanted to return. But how can I be happy, when I see how sad you seem?” She can exude her apathy, but Harper only sees a horrible sorrow that makes his own worthless human heart squeeze with empathy he can’t afford.

Harper

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

Maea's hand twitched, as the pressure of Harper's touch registered. Flinching, near to withdraw... but she did not. No more warmth leaked from his palm than cold seeped into her bones from the rain, and perhaps that was why she did not move away.

Hazy eyes that might have been gray, or blue, or perhaps the palest shade of lavender met his gaze, and her expression softened a little. With pity, for the foolish optimism he still harbored. "The ones I cared to see the most were not best pleased that I returned," she informed him, bitterness warring with an indifference so carefully schooled it was a brick wall. "They, unlike you, were very keen to move on and forget. It is hard to forget ghosts that come back to stand on your doorstep."

Letting her hand fall back to her side, the semblence of a young woman twitched a shoulder in the barest shrug. Maea looked out over the swamp, away from this person who claimed to be a friend.

"Again... what am I to be happy about? Return to... what, exactly? The gods I betrayed? The friends who will only see a monster when looking at me? They would not be wrong, but I am not exactly keen to experience it anyway."

She almost sounded amused.

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

The flesh is warped and wrinkled beneath his fingertips, and when she does not move to push him away or withdraw, his other hand comes to gently cup the back of her hand to allow his fingertips to trace the whorls of her skin that had once been preternaturally smooth. “What happened?” It’s a whisper, a secret just between the two of them, and Harper aches to think she has been hurt already, so soon after her revival. Is this what being Ascended means? He can’t help but assume the worst.

As his eyes reluctantly drag upward to meet the milky iridescence of her irises, the ache only claws it’s way deeper into his bones. “Then they didn’t deserve to know you as you were, to have your love then or now.” Despite the muted tone there’s a ferocity to the words, flinty steel flashing in cobalt eyes. Changed she may be into something Harper struggles to accept, he would never greet her with anything less than relief. Even now he is grateful for the opportunity to speak to her, a chance he’d lost when she died. Goodbyes seem wrong now, but at least he has the chance.

Harper reluctantly lets her hand fall away from between his own, which rest limp and uncertain at his sides. “So then you wish not to be Ascended?” The words are spoken slowly, like cooled molasses, uncertain as he tries to parse her words. “Maybe if they knew, they would try to help you?” As a spy if nothing else. Harper has little hope that she could be otherwise changed back, or it surely would have been achieved by now. The tepid water on his cheeks feels like tears, but he is too hollow to cry.

Harper

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

In another life, words like those would have made her weep with relief. With gratitude, in the knowledge that at least one person still thought her deserving of anything. Only water rolled down her cheeks today, but it was nice to pretend that she was not too hollow to cry.

It was nice, too, to pretend that this was more than a chance meeting, and empty words.

"'Deserving' has very little to do with love," Maea murmured. Eyes flitted down to watch the fingers trace the palm of her hand. It did not tickle, nor feel like much of anything. Too bad. In another life she might have blushed to be treated so gently by a man like Harper. She did not answer his question, though.

"Mh, no. Don't do that to yourself. There was very much a choice involved, and I knew what I was doing. Thought I did, at least."

Stepping back to lean against the truck of the tree, Maea folded her arms across the chest and gazed steadily at the young man. Considering, at first, until with a shrug she seemed to reach some sort of decision. Talking did not hurt.
"What do you know, about death in Caido?"

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

A soft hum precedes any response as his fingers curl uselessly into his palms, restless. “Maybe. But it doesn’t make them good people either, to abandon someone who returned to them against all odds. And you deserve better than that.” An act of devotion that deserved to be recognized and appreciated, long before her changed state was ever taken into account.

A slow shake of Harper’s head, almost contemplative, denies her words. Damp curls cling to his cheeks and temples, raindrops resting on his lashes, making him look far younger and more vulnerable than his years. “People make mistakes. Good intentions weigh more than the act - especially when the only person it hurts is yourself.” The fact that she had changed her mind, had doubts that she fully knew the consequences when she made her choice, only makes him more firmly believe it.

Moving closer to be better sheltered by the pitiful summer-shed boughs overhead, Harper’s face twists into a purse or consideration. “Not as much as I’d like. Ludo was not cruel to me when I asked questions about death here, but it was not kind either. It only told me that I could never be reunited with the people I knew and lost in my original world.” Something he has only recently come to terms with. A grieving process that he could not rush. “Souls go to Mort to be at rest. That’s all I know.” He is a follower of Safrin after all, not Ludo. More focused on life than death.

Harper

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

Noticing the restlessness, the working palm, Maea made no move to relieve Harper of his fidgeting. Even if she knew where it came from, she did not have it in herself to offer comfort. Not anymore.

"And if the mistake end up costing lives...? No, never mind." She shook her head and heaved a sigh, utterly unnecessary and with an air of frustration. The hollow mask was coming undone, as if thawing gradually under the warmth of this attention... A flower starved for light, turning desperately in the direction of anything that glittered. Pathetic.

"Well. I don't know about your loved ones. But it's nothing to be afraid of, at least. I drowned...  supposedly an unpleasant way to go, but all I remember is a great peace coming over me. No pain, no regrets... well. I thought there wouldn't be. Delphia promised to deliver some words for me... but she never did. Not the ones that mattered." Tension entered her jaws, until forged muscles worked and shifted in the ghostly mimicry of another. That habit had never been hers, not truly. "For a time, all I knew was comfort. Like falling asleep, after a long day in the sun. I don't remember most of it, but I do remember that I could not quite let go. I had unfinished business here... so when a pathway was opened, I chose to walk down it."

The rain was picking up. Soft drizzle turned into fat droplets that tumbled through the sparse canopy. Messy white hair soon lay plastered against her skull, while dark clothes clung to Maea's diminutive form. Ragged, tattered. A poor imitation of rags once worn with pride.

"I knew what it meant. I knew what I would become, Harper. I knew what I left behind, and that there was no going back. It seemed... like such an easy choice. Was an easy choice. I could go back, see him again. Everything would work out, somehow, I was so sure of it."

But no, she had been wrong. Time waited for no one.

"It was a very foolish choice. I tried to pin my existence and happiness on the acceptance and love of one person. That is a very fragile foundation... when it disappears, there is nothing left."

tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?

“I don’t think you’d be capable of taking lives intentionally,” he disagrees quietly, though his eyes fall to her scorched hands, and for a moment his chest seizes. “Did…did she make you…?” Harper can’t even get the words out, too terrified by what her answer might be in the wake of the knowledge Gideon gave him. Ideas like possession and puppetry like a miasma in his mind.

Like ice thawing her words come faster with time and Harper can’t help but be grateful, hopelessly relieved that she is still somewhere behind that thick wall of unfeeling glass. Changed and lost perhaps, but still Maea at her core. Harper listens keenly because it is all he can do. There is already so much he is too late to do or stop on her behalf.

That Sunjata is involved in this is no surprise considering the conversations they’d had about the man before she died. It doesn’t make it any easier however, the man already difficult to see the good in sometimes, always caustic and cruel whenever others were around and yet contrastingly kind when alone.

“We’ve all done things we regret in the name of love,” he argues, having to speak a little louder to be heard over the increasing rain. “But love itself is purely good. You made a mistake - it doesn’t make you evil. Or irredeemable.” The final words are hushed but unbending. He longs to hug her, but doubts it would even bring her any comfort, only another reminder of all she has lost by Ascending. “Ludo doesn’t favor me but…perhaps someone else could take you to see it?” Because Harper doesn’t know what to do. How to help this girl who is so lost and alone, who he cares for. This is a problem of a magnitude he cannot hope to solve or theorize over, but his faith tells him that surely the gods themselves can offer guidance where Harper can only offer hollow comfort and support.

Harper