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!
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
There was blood everywhere.
On his hands. On the snow. On patchworks until they blended and blurred into a flood, and the drumming beat began. Your fault.
Singular notes saved him from falling apart at all – echoing and bounding through his mind with the rest of the horrific schisms, his name a fragment against the backdrop of ash and mountains. Halo stands.
And then there was an after; pieces and pockets of Caido salvaged by Remi’s hands, and they were gone – and he could only stand upon peaks for moments, for seconds, taking in a breath, feeling the inches of scars and the knives in his heart, and the memory of other things so clearly, so vividly, that they’d be scorched on his mind for centuries.
A beat later, and his voice was a bare rumble. “Evie Wordsworth,” caught along the cuff on his ear, and maybe she wouldn’t be able to hear with the wind whistling and his heart lurching and everything else struggling to fall into place, but he'd tried nonetheless. He always did. “It is done. We are coming home.”
He made do on the promise – wings and a flurry of feathers, sparked and united in sienna refrain, because the gales would carry him to below mountains and circuits and hellholes and dragons – to where they all were and lived and breathed.
It was difficult to discern how long it took; not bothering to calculate distances or trajectories of the sun. Mental and physical exhaustion was beyond fumes, determination melding and molding into a canvas, a slate, of forged blades and warrior prowess. They survived.
He’d repeat it endlessly in his mind, until he circled over the Citadel, until he looked down upon people and places and multitudes he cherished; hovering over broken and gnarled gates or hollowed out walls – but the land still remained, and only bricks, only stone, had fractured.
From there he drifted downward, as the sun pressed and crested, catching the warmth and the glow as he landed, as he nodded towards the soldiers standing at the aperture, as they all started to piece themselves back together.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Evie doesn’t know the last time she slept. Odd minutes and hours in corners or collapsed over her makeshift desk in the Infirmary, long blinks that end in startled awakenings. So few seem to have the healing arts these days, and Evie won’t allow her own exhaustion to be the reason another Halovian dies. So she works, and she prays - something still so new after seasons of solitude and spurned, bitter faithlessness - and she waits.
Waits, and touches the cuff at her ear like a fixation.
We are coming home.
Word travels fast in the wake of the attacks, Evie had commanded it so. The moment there is a disturbance at the gate she is made aware, and only the assurances of the guard - It’s Warden Deimos, ma’am, he’s returned - keeps her from reaching instinctively for her shield.
She runs all the same.
He looks as exhausted as she does, and Evie doesn’t even pretend to think that her own struggles while he was in the Draig at all compare to what he must have faced up there. But as she runs past the gate undergoing repairs to grab him tight. Heedless, careless, of any who might see them, she wraps her arms around him and clings tight. Hundreds of words choke up her throat, each seeking freedom and finding countless more in the way. Nothing suffices it seems, and it scalds her. “You’re alive. Gods, you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re home,” she cries into his shoulder, tears a rush of gratitude and relief instead of sorrow. “Are you okay? Are you injured - what can I do?” It comes out without her meaning to say it, a phrase she has been saying for countless hours, perhaps days now as she approaches each new bedside. What can I do?
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
His walk was a slow, sedate one, head lowered, the gnawing aches beginning their residual grind; a warning he’d pressed too hard and his mind an indifferent wake just the same. He might’ve heard the guards passing their messages along, would expect it, but his eyes followed the path of his walk, nearly mesmerized at how they managed to meander without so much as a thought –
He only lifted his head when he could hear running, a rampaging of feet echoing and bounding across the snow, and in exhausted expectation, the glimmer of crimson hair and rapid motions spurned the tiniest of smiles in the corner of his mouth. The Sword stood like a wall as she stepped into him, arms curling around in the familiar abyss, ignoring the hiss of pain welling along the depths of his jaw and pooling from his shoulder. Strength and fortitude ensured she was tucked under his chin, in and amongst blood-soaked furs and coats, a long breath of relief curling and pluming, head bowing over hers.
Alive. They were alive. And maybe that was all that mattered for the moment.
He carried her a little further before answering anything, mind taking him along brushstrokes of patterns; the walk to his house, the bonds of companions’ reeling along cobwebs and nightmares. “I am okay,” which might’ve been a lie and a reassurance. “Probably need Zuriel though,” which might’ve been the only other hint of the barbarity and wounds layered beneath armor and clothing. But there was no release of her form against his, not yet, words upon words needing to be said and no right moment for them. “What about you?”
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Their arms come around each other like twining branches, but with the strength and immovable conviction of trunks and roots. His steps continue on, implacable, even as she hangs within the cradle of his arms. She goes willingly, work forgotten; in all truth she could have stepped aside earlier, taken a proper rest, as little remains now that cannot be achieved by various underlings in the Infirmary. Now there is only this, only him. Alive, if nothing else. Whatever else there is can be dealt with, she is sure of it, with a conviction that warms instead of burns.
He smells of iron and sweat, electricity and magic, and she longs to divest him of his clothes and soak him, wash him clean with her own hands, until he smells once more of only himself. Eradicate all memory of that which he has triumphed through. But first, home. Home to his companions, to familiar notions and better memories, and rest.
Finally, rest.
Though she stirs to life at the mention of Zuriel, hands previously clinging to the back of his jacket moving to touch his neck with gentle fingertips. “Let me help until we get to her,” she murmurs, an offer that she doesn’t wait to be taken before she is letting her magic seep through her and into his own body, healing everything she can find until her own vision goes spotty at the corners. It’s worth it, and it always will be, and he need not know anything more than that. “I killed a Banshee Queen,” she huffs, trying to find some degree of pride or amusement in this hellish aftermath. “She got me pretty good while I held her down. My shoulder and arm mostly. Some scars, but I’m healed.” It had taken too long for Evie to submit to her own healing, too busy doing triage, but with some rest and some application of her own magic even those would fade if she desired it.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
Home had always been a considerable ease in his heart – the way the eaves carried snow and ice for eternities, the way the rime glimmered beneath layers and lacquer, the way the people survived, determined and resolute, the way comfort eased into his entity the moment he glanced upon the Evergreen, the way in which this earth wasn’t always so damned haunted. Rest sounded like a distant fog, a fortitude not yet found. Not before, but maybe after.
And though her healing incantations wouldn’t be able to counteract anything along his form, she’d already found other ways to nurture and tend and mend a discarded soul. A muffled word of protest left his lips, only to be sedated as she strived and tried anyway. He carried them onward, shaking his head, something like bemusement threatening in his lungs, because giving way to everything else wasn’t acceptable. Tired eyes found her, lifting and widening slightly as she began to describe in minute details, a snort discerned and fumbling at her pride, at her amusement, at how this had all transpired. “You did not try to take it for a ride?” The corner of his mouth curled, lips moving to her hairline. “Proud of you.” Of scars. Of healing. Of fending and protecting and ensuring their world was safe, uncertain of how a damned banshee had made it all the way to Halo, but not inquiring on it at any rate. His words held more promise anyway. “How is everyone else?”
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
His soft, insistent noise of objection is too late, but when her magic finds no purchase she pauses, tired and flustered. “Oh. I forgot,” she says lamely, and tries to ignore the empty feeling she gets over her inability to heal and cure him. She knows it’s a fair exchange, his power for this, but she longs to fix it anyway.
She laughs because she doesn’t know what else to do, and tears are not an option. “No, she was too small to ride, though I kept her pinned beneath me for enough time to consider her a bucking bronco I reckon.” The Queen had certainly fought and struggled as valiantly as an unbroken horse. His pride makes her wilt, for though she treasures it, the failures still sting. “We lost so many, it feels. But I know it could have been so much worse.” Unaware that so many other lands did indeed have it worse. That the Banshee could have gotten deeper in, the dragons could have been more numerous and more destructive. Still, it hurts.
And what hurts worse is the news she has to share. “Everyone is alive.” At least, everyone she knows he would be concerned about. “But…Deimos, I have to warn you. Hotaru…her son died. I don’t know how, one of the healers told me in the Infirmary that he was among the count. She’s with her daughter now - they aren’t taking visitors until the funeral I think.” And as much as she would love to keep it from him until he has eaten, slept, showered…he asks, and she cannot keep it from him. Wouldn’t dare lie even for his own sake.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
They’d had enough fretting and worrying in the days before that he merely snorted at her trial and tribulation, knowing and understanding the wakes of not being able to do anything. But her presence was enough, and he’d take that again and again and again, embodying the notions by tucking her further into his embrace, into walking amongst the streets, into finding the familiar chimney of his house, into feeling the bombarding notions of his companions echoing in his mind again.
“Reasonable,” he offered as little residuals; the beating and throbbing in his shoulder beginning to burn again, before placing her down beside his door, hand maneuvering to open it – jaw clenching at the fringes of the news, unaware it was damned and doomed to be more monstrous as it unraveled. “How many? And who?” Because then there were a thousand other things to do – pyres and fires and food and shelter to be arranged, repairs to be ascertained, families spoken to and honored and cherished, and gods he could feel it building up behind his machinations like its own blaze –
And then there were the other words. His palm dropped away from the door knob, head instinctually turning towards Ru’s residence, the familiar ache and panic drawn in his ribcage over her losses.
Again and again and again.
He swallowed down the bile; gaze inscrutable for a moment as it twisted and turned amidst the ghosts. Evie must’ve known he would’ve rushed towards the Valkyrie’s within a moment – but unwilling to straddle that line of beckoning and calling and hovering while she grieved. “Okay.” A long, slow breath unfurled, a mental note amongst the many, and suddenly the regrets pooled into their gaping, swallowing maw (and he could see the blood once more – right under their feet). “I am sorry I was not here.”
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
He folds her closer, and she pressed her chilled nose to the warmth of his throat, where she can feel his pulse against the slope of her forehead. She shouldn’t need the extra reminder, but she does, and she doesn’t care why.
As such her words are pressed halfway into his collarbone, but Evie knows his keen ears will hear her, even as she obligingly speaks a little louder. “The first line of Shields on the ramparts. A few civilians in the Citadel, to the dragons. The remaining Shields had no losses, and Hotaru and Sah kept the casuals to a minimum in the city.” Lucky, so goddamn lucky, and she knows it. But she can’t stop seeing the spray of blood on the walls, from the stone and snow where she’d been engaging the Queen. There every time she blinks.
As he sets her on her feet, Evie gently touches his cheek. “Preparations have been underway since the moment the fighting stopped. We have a little time.” Not nearly as much as she would prefer, but enough for now. And as his hand drops away from the knob she catches it in her own, eyes stinging fresh for the first time since it all went to hell - not for herself, or for those lost, but for him. For Deimos, and the way his head turns immediately towards Hotaru’s home, for the grief she can see double on his face at the news. The news she had delivered.
His apologies are heartbreakingly unnecessary, and Evie turns the knob he’d abandoned to draw him over the threshold and into the warmth and privacy of his home. “He wasn’t even here as I understand. There was nothing you could do, my love,” she whispers, and closes the door gently behind them. “We were well prepared. The things we fought were not native to Halo, things we never could have predicted. We - all of us - we needed you to be in the Draig, exactly as you were.” The only comfort she can really give him, but oh how she tries to make it count. “You don’t need to say what happened up there yet. Let’s get you cleaned and changed, okay?” Glancing down at her own clothes - medical scrubs thrown hastily over ichor-stained battle garments, hair similarly half-washed of the Banshee’s blood - she smiles humorlessly. “Maybe myself, too.”
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
Deimos considered the warriors, the people, of Halo much his own; and so the line of grief persisted. Faces and names and families affected because he hadn’t prepared them enough, or hadn’t been capable of calculating every route and possibility of what they were about to face. He put their memories in the back of his mind, and made a quiet, silent promise to ensure the rest of their blood were taken care of, that honor was bestowed when the pyres came to rise and rise and rise into smoke and ash and dust. “Okay,” he offered again, trying to accept the bombardments all at once, barely aware they were pressing into his home – as if he were someplace else, clouded and foggy. Murky and draconic.
Her touch on his cheek didn’t startle or rattle, but brought his attention back to something resembling the present – gazing at her, then the hearth, then Zuriel, and Belial, clattering together in a rolling force of emotions that he could only breathe through. Saw them, felt them, heard them, but couldn’t quite reach them in the moment; one hand enclosed over the Evergreen’s like a tether and a line.
Sons dead before they arrived (how?) were a whisper and preparations that had been a balm against the woes, the trials, echoed vaguely, stare scattering and the modicum of fault lines threatening to drum and beat upon his mind (not enough such a familiar refrain he’d memorized the tune). “Thank you for taking care of them,” came on a guttural rumble, deep in his chest, something to be said in multitudes when he wasn’t full of fatigue and anguish.
Next motions were habitual and routine, nodding at her suggestion. He first peeled away his coat, stuck to other layers by blood and blood alone, sleeves jagged and half-torn by a dragon’s teeth, revealing portion of the once-wound along his arm – for that had been healed, leaving its scar and memories in place. His hands went to hang it and thought better; for it wouldn’t make it any further either, dropping it to the floor so he could burn and discard it later. “You too,” he joked with a modest smile, habitual, concern back in his gaze amidst all the other wraiths.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Evie knew the news would be hard regardless. She still sees their brave faces in every second blink; the first always shadowing the arc of their blood atop the walls every time she dares to close her eyes. In some ways, she’s glad he wasn’t here to see it, only receiving the news in the aftermath. Evie would never burden him with those memories. Not with how much closer he was to the Shields than she could ever imagine being.
The distance in his eyes fades into focus as she touches his cheek, and she smiles quietly at him. Even in all this loss, there is still so much to smile for. If he cannot do it himself, she will do it for him. Always. His hand on hers is a calloused, solid warmth she has missed like a stolen limb, and the ache of its loss fades the longer she revels in his return. “Of course,” she utters softly, “they are as much mine as yours now.” A spark of humor in the wake of sincerity, for all it’s worth.
There is no lust or craving to the way her eyes fall to his body as he disrobes, only a medical eye and a tenderness that flickers with the edges of amusement as Deimos discards the ruined garment carelessly on the floor. She follows at his prodding, removing her scrubs and half-heartedly rolling them up before discarding them similarly. A grimace appears as she fights to pull her ichor-laden locks through the bun she’d put her hair into, eventually snapping the tie with a grumble to free the remainder. As she pulls the next layer off - what she’d worn on the front lines - she twinges with the deep ache of the Banshee’s claws, revealing layered gossamer silver scars across her shoulder and collarbone. They don’t hurt more than a slight twinge, however, and someday she may erase these too, with time and recuperated magic. In her bra and pants, she kicks her shoes off and holds her hand out to Deimos, intent on walking them backwards towards the tub as they strip. “Your turn,” she hums quietly.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
Shared losses intertwined and numbed; he knew those pathways like the back of his hand, wounds and all. The mental preparation stilled for a moment, though he yearned to write it all down, until his skull wasn’t in some listless, transient fog. His eyes flickered to her briefly instead, their piercing sway not clouded by lust either – just the ache of knowing and the curiosity in the wake of her newfound scars, in the marks of survival, in the new lines and stories delineated across pale skin.
He nearly reached out to grab the tie in her hair, to do something other than feel the clambering notions of exhaustion prodding their way through every arch and mass of muscle; instead the depths of his scrutiny laid upon silver lacings along collarbone and shoulder, before he followed – in certainty, in peeling away layers, in removing armor and vulnerability, the metallic pieces undone and left along a little trail of clothing and protection towards the bath.
He'd never bothered to look at what scalded and bloomed, presumed any matter of wounds – but as he lifted and rolled his shoulders to remove his shirt, the pain segmented into a barely muffled hiss. He only glanced downward to find the circuity and bizarre wiring burnt into his flesh, still raw and incandescent, before snorting. The rest of him was merely mottled and covered in bruises and lacerations, snagged and snarled, nothing than couldn’t be altered and fixed with a little time and Zuriel’s incantations. “Next,” he offered her with a slight smirk, returning out of some of the deluge, enough for his hand to squeeze hers, then reach past to turn the water on.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Planning, structure, the future, it is all on hold for now. Even she must quiet her own restless thoughts; how was the young soldier holding up in the Infirmary? How were the gates progressing in repairs? So many errant thoughts that she muffles with an insistent hand so that she may focus on the here and now.
His own skin is bared to her in turn, scars and wounds shown plainly and with neither reverence nor intimidation. Her eyes only soften with regret and sympathy at the strange circuitry burned into his skin, wishing anew that her magic had any hold on his physical being. Still, Zuriel would ensure such repairs. Nothing was lost, not permanently.
Deimos squeezing her hand brings her back, and she snorts a responding laugh before obligingly divesting her pants. Aside from her one-on-one tangle with the banshee, Evie had suffered few other wounds, and pale freckled skin emerges unharmed until she is left nude and impatiently awaiting the fill of the tub.
There is a curious harmony and tranquility to their shared nudity as they stand in the bathroom, quiet and lingering near one another. It belies a trust and connection Evie had only ever read in stories - and only the truly good ones, which looked beyond primal desires to something far more precious. Leaning her side against his less wounded one, Evie takes a slow breath to stow away the sudden emotion that overtakes her after hours and days of enforced control. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispers instead, the thick cloy of her voice the only betrayal of the restless waters beneath. But it is a turmoil born from relief, from emotions she won’t dare put to words. The words don’t matter; this is what matters.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
Grief and trauma had that cyclical hold; and though he’d give anything to simply lower his head and maneuver onward, the triumphs – their imminent survival – could never quite outcome all the phantoms burning their way down his spine. He’d tried in war after war, battle after battle, loss after loss, and this one, like so many before, would take the angles of time. And little by little, they’d forge on, never quite numbed enough to the pain and agony, but remembering, recalling, how to forge, how to steel, how to progress and ensure the losses hadn’t been in vain.
But gods he was tired.
A muffled sigh and forbearing wince soldiered on, and he removed the rest of his clothing, tossing them aside to be picked apart or discarded like the jacket. His gaze alternated between ghosts and wraiths and simple existence – grateful, exhausted, fatigued, drained, and just bearing it across every line in his shoulders, leaning back in return, tilting his head to grace upon hers while the water filled and the heat flooded in steam and plumes.
Mouth maneuvered over her hairline, where lips pressed against her brow, shifting guttural vocals along her skin, striving to snag at some manner of relief too, amidst all the doom and gloom. “Glad you are here,” that she lived and breathed and they were going to hold onto their second and third and five hundredth chances amidst Halo. With him. With all of them. And they’d find ways to overcome – because they always had, even if the trails seemed mottled and marred by thorns. “Knew you were strong,” and he lowered his gaze just to see if he could catch hers by way of amusement.
Before stepping in, permitting the rush of the water to flicker against his calves, hand extended and reaching out to drag her in.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
They prop each other up like leaning, sagging trunks, boughs caught together in just the perfect array to have halted the other’s fall in tandem with their own. This is why Evie doesn’t ask yet. This is why she makes the choice to forsake her own duties and worries. For all she is willing to give until there is nothing left, she cannot abide him doing the same, just as she’s sure he feels in reverse. In this manner they take care of one another. This first; then the world beyond. They cannot face it until they have rested.
His lips touch her hairline, and she hums softly, sinking into the simple display of affection as her eyes briefly close. She can’t promise she always will be here because they both know how hollow those vows ring, so she leaves the sentiments from both sides where they lay. Smiles a little brighter, perhaps, when his gentle nudge of tease and humor inspires her to open her eyes. “I’ll do the honors of saying the actual words; you were right.” And a tiny laugh escapes as he pulls her into the bath moments later, the hot water blissful on her tired legs. She sits gracefully, adjusting until she sits with one of his parted thighs at her back, content in her smallness when it affords her the ability to see him, to tend to him. Evie grabs for the pitcher at the side of the tub and sets about dousing her hair; that ichor won’t come out easily she suspects. “Did everyone else make it?” Though she won’t push him to talk about them the Draig at all, and certainly not before he has rested, this is a question that burns enough to force it’s way free.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
