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!
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
A hoot of delight followed Belial’s achievements, and for several seconds he did nothing more than whip the bag around in the air, before gliding down and offering the satchel back to the Sword. For the peryton’s efforts, Deimos reached in and took off more than a chunk, and content with the arrangement, the peryton took flight once more, the brownie in between his teeth and the monolith regretting the companion’s impending sugar rush.
Zuriel stared at him from her corner, completely unimpressed.
Acknowledging those notions with a nod, he took the remaining dessert for himself, before depositing the empty bag amongst the rest of his belongings. Snorting at her own imperial presence, he refrained from shoving an elbow directly into her ribs, settling for swallowing down the rest of the confection. “You would have anyway,” since there’d been enough for the both of them to have more than one. “I was only going to have you do five laps around,” gesturing with his head angled towards the springs, “but now it will be ten.”
Endeared by Belial’s antics, it’s easier to accept her fate hand down from on high by her companion. Or maybe that’s the chocolate convincing her it was worth it.
As Belial returns with the bag and is handsomely rewarded (which is another minor win for Evie, as Deimos will have to endure it later) the Evergreen concedes the point with a tilt of her head and a Cheshire grin. “Maybe. I can’t help it - same way you irritate me, hm?” Using his previous challenge against him, that dare that now hangs in the back of her head; then do something about it. Biting her lip she looks out at the springs, instantly regretting her choices at his chosen punishment. “I thought there was no swimming immediately after eating?” It’s a cheeky grasp at straws, but she’ll take it.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
“Maybe,” he answered in turn, the same cheeky and devilish grin warring along the corners of his mouth. From those notions he rose, pondering whether to ignore her inquiry altogether, something affixed to urban legends or worrisome mothers (wondering how it had managed to blend in between worlds), and stepped along to the edge of the springs again, completely unbothered. “May cause some minor cramping,” to which Evie would be able to alleviate herself quickly. Gods knew how many times he and his friends ventured back out into the sea with full stomachs, intrepid boldness, pluck, and the hard-won stupidity of youth – and lived to tell the tale each time. “I would not let you drown anyway,” as if this was a better reasoning and quip.
The Sword plunged downward, not into any adversaries, but into the pool, venturing and wading, before turning back to see if she’d follow.
Belial, overhead, had already rapidly consumed the rest of his pilfered dessert, and had started dive-bombing various locations. Deimos ignored it, because it’d be better that way, and withheld the laughter as the peryton came soaring for Evie’s frame. “Might want to move quickly,” was a rumbled warning, head motioning towards the impending battering ram.
It was worth a shot, she bemoans to herself as he rises, a mountain of flesh and scars and warmth that makes her fingers twitch against her thighs. They are stubborn mules the both of them, and yet she wonders who they’re fooling. That same steady, familiar warmth curls around her stomach at his easy, offhand assurance that he would never let her drown. It’s the sort of everlasting support she has never had and always dreamed of, something found in well-loved pages instead of daily life. It’s a good thing he’s so irritating, or his charm alone would be the death of her.
Evie curls back away from the splash zone with a chuckle as he dives in, unfairly picturesque. As he resurfaces across the springs, Evie grins at him, helplessly fond. Luckily she is already rising to follow when the warning comes, and she is forced to dive in after the Sword to avoid being bowled over by the wrecking ball peryton. It’s less graceful, but without time to overthink the motion it’s relatively passable, and she surfaces with an easy kick against the bottom of the pool. Slicking her hair away from her face she rolls her eyes towards the Sword’s companion. “I’m sure we’ll regret that later.” Floating closer, her arms move in easy motions at the top of the water, relaxing back into the warmth that surrounds them. “So, laps. Going to teach me the strokes first?” And then, because she can’t help herself with how obvious the play on words is, she winks, grinning unrepentantly.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Deimos already largely regretted the peryton in general, but as his eyes flicked back and forth to watch the spinning, unfurling mass of carnivorous deer, he grimaced. “Maybe he will just crash and burn.” A bit like an infant – could take a nap along the warm stones and they wouldn’t be bothered for several hours.
His gaze slid back to her on the double-entendre, uncertain how many sighs he’d be permitted to unleash in a day. The Sword settled for a wink in return and a sharp smirk, but then launched into nothing more than his instructor disposition again. “You need to think about actions simultaneously – kicking, and your arms. Both movements will provide power for going through the water.” Glancing at the fringes again, he offered her a brief respite. “You can hang onto the edges, or try it without.”
Another demonstration ensued, starting the process over in front of her, toes pointed, his kicks starting from hips, straight during the upbeat and slightly bent on the downbeat, purposeful as he accelerated across the springs. At the same time, his hands entered the water in line with his shoulder, elbow bent, straightening out as he broke the surface, stretching muscles and limbs forward. The action persisted and continued between alternating arms, slowed down slightly so she’d be able to see it, with hardly a splash at all.
Then he stopped, without a cramp (ha), tugging his locks back into their bun. “Your turn.”
Tease. But it seems that’s all they’re dancing around doing, so she can only bemoan it so many times. Luckily there are other things to distract with; forms, movements, breathing techniques. Refocusing into a learning mindset is easier than she expects given the roiling tides of their mischief and emotions over the last hours, but she is admittedly grateful for it.
Evie chooses to hold onto the wall at first. It helps with getting her arm in line with her shoulder, and she moves slowly along it as she practices copying the motions of both his arms and legs. It’s a lot of moving parts, but not too dissimilar from the paddle she already knows; just more extension, and willingness to have her face in the water.
It takes a few adjustments from Deimos before she’s circling the spring slowly without the wall to guide her. Slowing to a stop, she blinks the water out of her eyes and gives a grimace of a smile. “Do any of those count as laps, or should I beg for a reduction?” The spring isn’t huge, so Evie is willing to do ten laps as initially ordered, but if she can wiggle her way out of it she absolutely will.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
To the Sword’s relief, inevitably, Belial’s sugar rush ended with him along a ledge, asleep along the corner. With one less distraction, it meant he could bark out corrections and suggestions, formidable in his prowess all over again. The inquiry had him narrowing his eyes though – reminded of many a soldier who’d tried the same tactic, with sheepish grins or mulish pouts. They hadn't won him over either (and he'd made them run extra laps around the Citadel, following them the entire way). Perfecting the art of his General stature, his arms folded over his chest, apathy the only thing present on his face. “Doing less laps does not help your swimming. You have done six.” He’d been counting.
But she kept setting herself up for something, and he kept her giving her opportunities, a mutual back and forth of foolishness. So, some of the residual, irritating, annoying charm manifested in return, waiting for her to dance around these notions too. “I will listen.” If only to be purposefully infuriating. His head tilted, feline once more. “What is your proposition?”
Gods, only six? Barely over halfway. Admittedly she isn’t exactly tired, could likely complete the original set with marginal more effort, but.
But.
Future days lay before them, with hours empty and awaiting lessons in a different land. This is not her only chance to hone her skills, to have him available to order and direct her about. But there’s something else, a tension that ties her wrists, that insists there is no more waiting. There is only the jump. The plunge. The risk. So much to risk, but he turns and entertains her in ways she knows he would never do for his soldiers, and that has to mean something. Right?
Evie has never considered herself a coward, had honed her bravery into a weapon so that she might wield it even when her intrinsic courage failed, so that she might avoid turning out like her brother. Her knees still shake as she wades closer to Deimos, and she’s grateful for the film of minerals and bubbles that conceal it. “I have a better idea for using our time,” she proposes, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes as she lifts a hand to lay against his sternum just above his crossed arms. Nothing more yet.
You fool, some dark voice laughs pityingly, you are no Demigod.
You’re right, she thinks. I care more for him than I do any God. I can be better than her. Better for him.
If he wants me.
Her lips tremble, so she quirks them into a small smile. “Can I kiss you?”
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Composure, tenacity, and perseverance had been figments intrinsically carved into the Sword and Reaper both. Grit and mettle, fortitude and resolve, persistence and endurance in nearly every walk of life – and it’d taken all of that to land somewhere precarious, stalking the shadows of another potential fall. Experience, grief, loss, and abandonment had been harsh teachers, and the notes of pushing onward thereafter even harder – each day to relive where he’d erred and failed.
He'd seen the crossroads from crimson wiles a mile away, and still wandered in their direction.
Something in the back of his mind told him he knew better; safety and sanctity, maybe, or the portions of his soul that were still tarnished from their lifetimes of anguish. Protective, building walls upon walls and permitting the rest of the world at bay. It was easy. It was simple. It was fear. It was startingly lonely.
And how many times had people told him of his worth? Of deserving things like this? And how many more hours would he deny it? What was bravery anyway, when one could be courageous and still so afraid?
When did he stop wanting anything for himself?
A harsh intake of breath resounded in his chest, a potential gasp, a glimmer of hope, nearly inaudible. The shudder along muscle and sinew was far more noticeable, and he wasn’t going to deny it, hands and warmth on his sternum, blending and fixating and trying not to come undone – heart a hammer in his ribs, still not so blackened as the rest of his soul. There were a thousand things he could’ve said, like you will regret it because someone always did and awaiting inevitable damnation at the spurning of another – reaching out instead and ignoring the tremble in his fingers, touching over her cheeks, bending down to grant her access, to give her permission for both of them to be a bit bolder. “Yes,” a whisper, hovering, waiting for her to make the final move.
There had been nights she told herself she didn’t want this. Didn’t need it. So long she had stood in shadows of people and things greater than her; the Wordsworth name, Amalia’s radiant light, The Voice’s unfairly unshakable love for Sam. Seeing what he was worth, what he was worthy of, it had seemed ludicrous to imagine a simple gardener from the Grounds, with no love of or for the Gods, could ever compare to what he’d had. Until she’d seen the scars left behind by having those things ripped away. And then she had begun to wonder if maybe he was just another lost thing thrown aside in the search for something better. If he was more like her.
He’s not the only one who considers that this could be regretted. Years of painstakingly cultivated friendship lay in the balance. Evie knows exactly what she’s risking; but she thinks she knows the worth of what could be gained as well.
All her life she had focused on her ability to heal. Mending wounds and setting bones was learned alongside grammar and poise. Maybe it was all leading up to this in the end. All those years of experience, all that time spent alone, so that she might have the chance to heal his heart.
His skin ripples beneath her hand, and her fingers splay gently over his chest. Perhaps it’s arrogant to assume there is any healing left to be done that he has not painstakingly crafted already. To give herself more importance than she should lay claim to.
All Evie knows is that he makes her happy. He makes her laugh even when she’s certain there’s nothing left to laugh about in the world. He helps her grow when she asks for the sky. Gives her peace when the world is set on chaos. All she wants is the chance to give that back. To give him the happiness he always should have had. She wants to spend the rest of her days finding different ways to make him smile, to hear him laugh, and - selfishly - she wants to do that from his side. As more than just his friend.
She leans her cheek into his touch, the warmth of his unsteady breaths awash upon them as he bends to meet her. Pauses, so she might take this final step for the both of them. And with his consent she smiles, though her lips tremble with nerves and she has to brace her hand against his chest to remain standing. “Thank you,” she whispers, because his consent is a gift she won’t overlook. Tilting her head the last little bit, she presses her lips gently to his. Lingering, but chaste. Evie’s free hand comes to trace the line of his shoulder, up to the slope of his neck, where her fingertips lay just against his nape; just enough to pull him closer, until their skin is touching more freely, and to press her mouth firmer to his.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
She didn’t need to heal him; Deimos had done that himself. Stitched over old wounds and bound lacerations tighter together so they resembled the other scars, drawn inward and coaxed down into marrow and bone. But there were other ways to mend, to learn again what it meant to trust and confide and find safety in more than just legions of shadows and one’s capabilities. To not visibly retreat into haunting eaves because those were the most familiar and the most comfortable, to not hide behind all those carefully crafted walls. He’d be lying if he said he still wasn’t tempted to slide straight into wreckage, to avoid the dread and sorrow. Sometimes it was all he’d ever known. Forged by fire and wounds again and again until his head rose above everything else, treading water, snagging at the air coating his lungs, keeping the ghosts out of his eyes.
This time he didn’t utter some age-old mantra (I do not deserve you). This time he didn’t refuse or dream or haunt, wage through battle after battle just to succumb to another. This time he didn’t do anything but feel; weights lifted from chest and shoulders and hearts, forgoing fear for courage and defying what life had told him once more.
Evie was laughter, crimson highlights against the stark ivory of snow, fixtures of light windings her way towards the sun. Evie was repose and antics laced and woven into some ridiculous force, compelling him to strive onward, into more complexities, into more devilry. And sometimes Evie was quiet, peace and repose, serenity and tranquility.
Closer and closer still until there were no gaps at all; hands sliding further down, tender and gentle on her cheeks and jaw despite the callouses, despite the way crusades had scorched and carved him. Mouth moved over hers the instant the touch flared, deepening, pressing, skin undulating under fingertips along nape and shoulders. If he was a little breathless, he’d freely admit it, breaking away several moments later merely to laugh, a light coaxing of warmth over her nose, pressing his brow against hers.
He almost asked for what but let it be, settling for a joke instead. “All right. One less lap.”
The heat of the springs feels negligible when compared to the burn of his hands as they hold her gently, or the fever in her chest that she’s sure he can feel as their bodies press close; seeking stability or unification she can’t tell. It’s a fire she’s unfamiliar with. Stoked from embers proven reliable from years of steady warmth instead of the flashburn of lust like the leaping flames born from gasoline and matches. It’s a familiarity, a turning of the head to see something from a different angle and going, ‘Oh, it’s you. You’ve been here all this time?’ Like a pleasant surprise.
Despite every time she has touched him, this time it feels new. The way he shifts and bends, the twitch of skin beneath her hands, the long press of his body in a line against her own is all new territory despite the familiar partitions. What is entirely novel is his lips against her own. Pulling away feels impossible, like she’ll suffocate in this new atmosphere without him, but the warmth of his breath against her lips as he laughs breathes air back into her own lungs and reminds them how to work on their own.
Her smile is bright and unrestrained as he tilts their foreheads together, and she can’t help but laugh softly at the first words that he chooses to grace her with after something that was paradoxically so small and yet so momentous. “Can I just kiss you three more times and call it even then?” Playful hope in her tone, that they might indulge themselves in this instead of further work and exercise.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
He peeled away only to stare downwards and catch the bits and pieces of blue looking back at him – a snort billowing through at the comment he should’ve been expecting. “That is not going to make you a better swimmer,” offered on the curls of his mischief, remaining steadfast and certain, familiar and whole, when everything else was tilted, fresh, anew, but not all at once. An enigmatic quandary, for a few moments as his mind balanced, as his frame remembered. Because Evie was Evie, and he knew her well, but not by feel and touch – learning curves and patterns, curiosities and entanglements, pressing his weight not into fear but something established and strong. It was only this, breaths apart and then not, that was sudden and altering and shifting.
The Sword sighed once more, as if perhaps he wouldn’t be so indulgent, that the General prowess would come rampaging through no matter the circumstances. There were quite a few words he might’ve said, but as a man who preferred less to more, he settled with a roguish grin and a whisper floating near cheeks. “Just this once,” he rumbled, like a promise, except he had a feeling it wouldn’t be a conviction either held to a significant standard. Before meeting her more than halfway, hands cupping her jaw once again, mouth swift and intensifying, eyes closed, memorizing feel and impressions and softening meanderings.
This mischief and banter is familiar, comfortable, and it eases that small worry in the back of her head that fears that her choice, her boldness, would change them irrevocably. “That’s what we have practicing in Torchline for,” she wheedles, attempting to be as convincing as possible. Her lips buzz with the phantom memory of his own upon them, and she grins. Tempted to say it might help her with her breathing technique, or some other delightful nonsense that might entice him to buckle and cave, but instead she bites lightly on her tongue and holds to her patience.
It’s rewarded moments later; his breath against her cheek, beckoning her to tilt her neck higher to meet him before she’s consciously aware of doing so. Seeking him like a flower does the sun. Words that might form themselves into responses are meaningless as his hands clasp her face, and she rises on her toes to meet him eagerly, hands assuring balance along his shoulder; one still over his heart, feeling it thunder beneath her palm in unison with her own. Evie languishes in the kiss, only daring to go so far as to gently envelope his lower lip to gently tease with her teeth. Content to be slow but intense, the hand on Deimos’ shoulder slowly traveling to trace his arm down to his elbow, learning every curve and scar.
