[TW] Out with the old, in with the new

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

The Temple was much the same as it always had been. When the region of the Hollowed Grounds lay shimmering under an oppressive summer sun , the thick stone walls of the ancient building kept the air within cool and comfortable. The grand hall had been a place of worship and gathering for as long as Maea could remember. The infirmary wing branched off from here, and a grand noticeboard near the exit hung covered with missives and messages dating back years. A stone throw away across the square, the Atheneum with its library towered like a monumental twin to the great keep; for centuries, this had been the center of the region. The heart and soul of an entire world, in truth, because for three hundred years and more, the Old Gods' barrier had kept anyone from coming or going. Effectively a cage to trap the rebellious new goddes known only as The Voice, the people of the region had been caught in the trap as well; a grim sacrifice for the greater good, meant to slowly die out so that the threat could never rise again.

Stepping into the Temple, Maea's gaze traveled up to the vaulted ceiling. It was early in the day and bright sunlight flowed in through stained glass windows. Breaking across the floor and over statuary depicting the Gods and their Heralds, the very air seemed to glow, and in the stillness she was able to hear her own heart beating. She was reminded of the first time her prayers had been answered. Right there, where a section of altar lay strewn with hand-made lanterns and children's toys, she had met Ludo, and her life had changed forever.

Today was as a mirror image of that time. LongNight versus Longheat, dark versus light, she had been a small and desperate thing with failing eyes and poor health, and desire burning hot in her chest. Now, stronger than ever and remade into the child of a very different Goddess, Maea barely recognized herself. Too many things had happened to her, she had seen and done much, and yet...

Here she was, still. Back in the same spot, older and harder yet only half as brave or bold as she had been.

Slipping into a pew, the albino woman slumped down on the seat and  leaned a horned head against the backrest. Leaving her thoughts to roam in deep contemplation, she didn't know how much time had passed until a commotion by the Infirmary wing made her look up. A soft frown darkened her fair brow at the interruption, and she twisted to catch a glimpse of what the ruccus was about.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh

TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.

MICHAEL

Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.

A breath. Hollow whisper of wind across the exposed back of his neck. Shirt torn, ripped along ribs, bloodied. Teeth marks pulled through fabric.Pants damaged near the lower hems, shredded. Holes and tears, muddied. Dirty, smeared in dust and crushed woodland debris. No shoes, feet bare but not badly damaged. Probably lost somewhere between running for his life and here. Deposited, a lump of living flesh and bone cast across a bench at the back of the temple.

So typical, really, that Michael would end up in a most H A T E D place. The gods were false, powerful beings who believed they had the right to determine who gained fortune and who didn’t. Who died, who lived. Treated those ‘below them’ as play things, little toys to fiddle with when they became bored.

It can be said with great certainty that he didn’t favor any deities at all. Had no desire to think of them, to consider their power or their place in this world. His favorite quip in regards to anyone who pressed their importance generally always

EAT MY A S S

Sometimes, though, he chose something more colorful, words spilled from snarled lips on his worst days. Savage, sarcasm-drenched syllables meant to hurt.

In this very moment in time, however, he hadn’t the energy for either. Felt the weight of exhausted limbs, muscles aching from being pushed too hard and too long. No current recollection of what had happened or why. He was there, he was in pain, he was alive (unfortunately). That was all he knew, which was more than he WANTED to know. Would much rather be 6 feet underground, buried and at peace where no one could fucking bother him again. ‘Bother’ meaning existing. Breathing. Thinking. Generally being alive in the same place as him.

Trust me, he’d slit his own throat and do himself the favor if he believed he deserved it. But, he didn’t. Couldn’t find any reasons why he had, or ever would, earn that kind of peace.

c l u n k

His shoulder shifted, sent a small rock and some pebbles to the floor. The sound jarred him into deeper awareness. He sat up, shifted a heel and sent more debris off the bench, reverberating through the space. Echoing within tall ceilings and ancient walls. The flutter of motion, a sound of skin moving in fabric within several feet of his position.

Michael became very, very still. Only listened, was acutely aware of his injured right forearm and the fresh bandages there. How deep the wound was, how he would have to compensate for it if he needed a way out. He’d avoid a fight if he could, as much as his pounding, aggression-filled heart would rather instigate one. And, as far as how he was there, why… that would come later if he managed to get out of here in one piece.

Either way, whoever was here with him knew of his presence; hiding would offer no advantage.

Go slow. Go easy. His head rang, ears humming. A sharp pinch at the front of his skull. The taste of blood when he lifted himself into a seated position; someone – or something – had cracked him good. A focus again on his arm, on the bandages. How new they were, confusion rolling like nausea. Not his doing, and the material was clean. Tidy. Not as dirty or as bloodied as the rest of him. The idea that someone might have brought him here purposefully to help him didn’t even whisper its possibility. Whoever had done this had a reason. They were playing with him, maybe it was the god’s way of twisting that proverbial knife in his heart deeper.

A picture of where he was began to come to him. Horns just ahead of him, someone there on a pew. A brief glance back showed him doors into what he could only discern as an infirmary. Somewhere Michael would never go on his own unless truly desperate.

“You gonna finish the job or play with me some more. Promise I’m a lot more fun when I’m awake.” Sassy, sarcastic snark, uncoordinated speech. Slightly slurred, a threat in there somewhere or maybe just an attempt to keep whoever was in here with him at bay.

Go down fighting. Go down savage.

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

Someone was carried in. Watching as a pair of sturdy farmers shifted an unconscious body onto a bench near the entrance, she caught a glimpse of fresh bandages and a whiff of blood. Running her tongue over sharp fangs that itched from the odor, Maea shrugged and turned back to her own thoughts. Or tried to. A restlessness brought on by hunger kept the serenity away. Not even thoughts about the gods could stave off the dark craving - and if she was to believe Danta, it was not something she even ought to do.

On the bench, the man was stirring. Why he hasn't been left in the Infirmary she didn't know; little sounds came off him like fanfares in the echoing chamber, too loud for privacy on either side. Maea sighed. Shifted uncomfortably. Maybe she should just... leave. Try some hunting, and see if it helped this time.

When a rough voice interrupted the stillness, she was almost glad for a reason to get up. Rising, she pulled the ragged black clothes into place on the thin body and padded on bare feet across the stone floor. Graceful in her movements, there was something feline in the gaze that took in the man, cool and distant and thoroughly unimpressed. White horns protruded from the shock of white hair that tumbled freely down her shoulders, and a tail as stark white as the rest of her skin coiled lazily about her legs.

"Good," she replied to the nonsense he sputtered, "I could do with a bit of fun." Looking the man up and down, she raised a pale brow while folding her arms across the chest. "If you don't mind my saying so, it looks like something has already had it's way with you. Are you sure you're in a state to do anything at all?"

She would have said no. But she also possessed a stubborn nature that refused to accept when she needed help, and the gleam in this person's eyes was a touch too familiar.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh

TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.

MICHAEL

Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.

He saw the horns move first. Pale curves in a dim atmosphere. Rising above even paler hair, alabaster skin. Movements fluid, a panther creeping down a game trail, silent footfalls. Dangerous, something untamed about those eyes that captured him.

And the first thing he wanted to do was to rip her horns off.

Not for anything SHE had done, no. In factm it had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with anyone or anything, really, it was all there in Michael’s busted up, fucked up head. That just to imagine, even for a moment, what it would feel like if someone hurt as much as he did. If someone could understand what it was like to slog through life, purpose diminished until it was but a pale ember. Crumbled charcoal unable to breathe life into flame.

Aaaand then it was gone. Passed so swiftly he wouldn’t remember it later.

Her approach set his spine alight, flickered paranoia stirring the hairs there. Goosebumps of warning over biceps and forearms, though numb at the site of his injury. Pupils expanded of their own volition, but he didn’t move. A mind trained almost exclusively for survival, not only as a soldier but also as a nomad in the vast expanse of Hak Etme. A nobody who had no one to take care of himself except for himself. To flee in the presence of a predator he had no chance of escaping would be suicide, and as much as he would love the kind of peace such a fate would offer him in the end, his body wouldn’t let him. His mind wouldn’t let him.

A concoction of raw instinct and self-loathing, the belief that he was such a failure as to not deserve the quiet of death yearned for so completely, kept his ass on the bench and his feet on the ground.

”good”

Good?

He liked her already.

“Are you sure you can provide?” An instant challenge, his words coming a little easier. Still slow but not as discombobulated. Clarity gradual in its return. The agitated throb of a freshly cleaned injury adding another level of s n a r l to his baritone.

Michael always had been an unclassy blend of IDGAF and try me, but this was another stride beyond that. Because WHO the god damn fuck had knocked him out, dragged him here, cleaned him up, and left him in a temple?

Hollow azure met eyes of her own, held them firm. Recognized something, the kind of tired he could relate to. He looked away first, had nothing to prove. Those days were long over and would never come again.

Go down fighting. Go down savage.

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

A soft snort preceded a subtle roll of thin shoulders, making light of both offers and demands.
"There's no sport in toying with people who can't even sit upright."

Looking the man up and down once more, Maea cocked her head aside. "Do you know why you were left out here? Normally, a wounded person would be taken to the infirmary. Is there a reason why the farmers who dropped you off would refrain from doing so?"

Hunching down to balance before the stranger on the balls of her feet, the long tail coiled through the air behind her with a life of its own, aiding in keeping balance. Picking at the frayed hems of her clothes, a closer inspection revealed the appalling state of her. Ragged and threadbare, barefoot and with a smattering of peeling scabs on her cheeks and brow, it was clear she had been through something. Even if a distance in the pale irises kept emotions locked up, inaccessible and irrelevant.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh

TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.

MICHAEL

Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.

no

sport

She’d been so eager earlier. Stalking him, muscles taut. Seamlessly rippling, supple, ready to be coiled and then RELEASED. He’d been convinced, maybe a little bit, that she might kill him. Might tear free his heart or devour his flesh. Drink his blood or rip him to pieces, do whatever the HUNGER within her was said to do. Not that he knew everything, no, but he’d heard enough tales in his travels to know, at the very least, what she was.

Some less accurate than others, sure, but no less entertaining. Michael wasn’t really a man of truth, seeing as he ran so vigorously from his OWN, preferred to lie to himself about how badly he wanted the numb to stop.

What was it like to feel? To care about the laughter that might spill from his lips, the tears that might touch his cheeks and dribble off his chin? To care about his fate, to feel as thoughnhe had a place in this world?

Once upon a time, in a fairytale with an ugly ending, he’d known.

Not anymore.

She crouched before him. Close enough that she filled most of his vision. Her form frail, he could note bone protruding beneath clothes. The slow sway of her tail, the scent of blood. Scabbing over skin, knew weakness when he saw it. Not because he felt it himself but because it was a matter of living for longer than a few hours out there in the wilds.

Their eyes met again, and his gaze, this time, didn’t sway from hers. Held there stubbornly, edges crinkling in a narrowed stare.

“I don’t know.” Not a lie, shockingly. “They were farmers?” Dehydrated lips tilted into a frown, gruff bristle over jaw and cheek shifting with the motion. He smelled of sweat and trail mix, of dried meat and blood. “I don’t know why anyone would bother to help me. Did they bring you here, too?”

Sudden interest. It would be easier to simply not care, but paranoia demanded that he ask questions. And a sliver of hope that somebody out there might give a shit about him more than he did. “You look like you were slapped around and fucked up a lot longer than me. They don’t feed you around here?”

The thought of food ignited the question. His stomach rumbled, an aching reminder of how long it had been since he’d last had a meal.

"Or..." His head canted to one side. A small, tired smirk. "Am I the meal?"

Go down fighting. Go down savage.

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

"Maybe they thought you needed it," she suggested, casual as if they were talking about giving away a pair of shoes, rather than saving his life. Having asked similar questions herself, it told Maea more than she wanted to know about this guy. Perhaps it had been a mistake to approach. Was she really committed enough to deal with this level of broken?

The notion that she had been brought in the same as him - or that she was going to eat him - had her lips tugging at the corners, not quite a smile, but almost.
"Not today, I don't think. Ask me again when you can put up a bit of a fight." Pursing her lips at the sound of his stomach, she pointed off towards the Infirmary. "If you feel up to it, there's a washroom in there. You stink. Should be some clean clothes to borrow, too. When you're done, I'll get you something to eat. I can try to answer questions later."

It was the bare minimum of courtesy; she didn't have to get personally involved from merely going through the motions. A raised eyebrow suggested she was open to listen if he had objections - of course, listening and accepting bullshit were different things.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh

TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.

MICHAEL

Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.

S N O R T

As if anyone would believe he needed anything except a grave. It was easy to deny that she might be right. Even easier to convince himself she’d brought him here to play with him. A bored cat with a mouse, skinny and hungry and eager for some sort of relevance to her existence. He preferred that over any notion that someone might actually CARE, that he was worth saving in any way.

Still, there was no snarky comeback this time. No sneer on lips that might peel back from straight teeth that wanted to bite into the hide of something meaty and devour it. Such a visceral thought, that. Hunger could do that to a person. Make them ravenous, make them forget societal norms. Michael knew most of them, had travelled far enough in various directions to know how important it was to try and ‘fit in’ when he was in the midst of ‘civilized folks’,  but he was tired. His head pounded. His injured arm ached, a sharp, insistent prickle that wasn’t horrible by itself, but that it went on and on and on made it unbearable.

That exhausting kind of pain, chronic and unrelenting.

“Yeah.” All he said at the mention of putting up a fight. Most of that beaten out of him by now. Mentally unbalanced by her earlier statement.

A roll of his eyes toward the Infirmary. Bathroom. Clean clothes.

FOOD.

A meal was solid incentive for the cantankerous Nomad, and he shifted on the bench. Applied weight to his feet, used his good arm to PUSH. Shaky, wavering, he got up. Used the back of the bench to keep himself from collapsing, the world spinning.

“Ow…” A quiet grumble, the grate of a growl.

He didn’t look at her when he moved. Took him more than a minute to reach the doors of the Infirmary and enter. More than ten before he came back out. Fully dressed in new clothes. Just a white shirt and a pair of simple black pants. Same boots, though, that he’d come in with, different socks. There were just some things a nomad trusted more than most, and good, solid shoes were one of them.

He didn’t stink anymore, either, once ruffled hair now semi-brushed, swept back carelessly but… at least he’d washed that, too. Wouldn’t talk about how incredible it had felt to stand under that water, to feel the days and weeks of travel and trauma cyclone down the drain.

“You said something about food?” Resistance in that gravely baritone. Hatred of being taken care of, of accepting help from a stranger. But, the promise of food smothered personal opinions about himself, shifted gears instead to basic survival.

The way he watched her, there was hope in that hallow gaze. Subtle faith in this stranger with eyes like his.

Go down fighting. Go down savage.

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

He did not ask for help, and she did not offer it. Maea merely watched as the man got to his feet and painstakingly made his way to the Infirmary to wash up. Perhaps that made her uncaring. She had learned from experience, however, that some things could not be given from others. To count, they were best taken with your own hands, wrenched and wrestled into being with no interference. Hope, was one such thing. Perseverence, in the face of crippling aimlessness. You could lead a horse to water but not make it drink, and in the same spirit, she could dress a man like this in silver and silk, fill his plate and cup to overflowing - and he would still question her reasons and his own appetite in a year, ten years. Perhaps even as he finally left this life for Mort's embrace.

So Maea waited, lingering in the Temple until the injured man returned. Rising from the pew she had returned to, she strolled across the floor with hands in deep pockets, the same feline grace in her stride but casual now, and with a goal in mind.

"I did indeed. Come along. It's not far."

Opening the door to the Temple to the brilliant day beyond and holding it for the man to exit ahead of her, Maea picked the shortest route to the Last Whisper. People milled through the streets along the way, busily going about their own lives. No one looked twice when they rounded a corner and descended down a flight of steps into the underground bazaar. The air down there was close with the scent of food and spices, stale drinks and perfume. At this time of day the brothels and taverns were only sparsly visited, but restaurants conversely seemed to boom with activity.

Considering the options with a swift once over, Maea nudged her chin to a smaller establishment and ushered her guest inside. While crowded, there were comfortable seats available and enough separation between tables that they could talk. Or at least hear their own thoughts.

"Order what you want. You can pay me back some other time." Slipping into a seat, the Ancient leaned back and waved for a waiter to come attend them.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh

TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.

MICHAEL

Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.

Alarm bells in his head. Not the kind that chimed and fluttered. These were the bells that blared like an explosion. Deafening, the ignition of adrenaline telling him to run. Get out now, leave, circumstances were already so suspicious and he wanted to get the hell out.

Almost would have, too, except then he would be back to square one and he’d never find out if this woman was one of his ambushers… or someone who really wanted to help him. Someone who could lead him to a meal and regain some strength.

She could also lead him literally anywhere else. Wasn’t uncommon for those unwary enough to be toyed with and gradually, unknowingly, guided to their deaths or worse. Michael knew what it was to be tortured, had been there before, had some understanding of the mind of those cruel enough to actually go through with it. And such individuals were common, even in a place as ‘sacred’ as this temple.

This had always been a common dilemma for Michael:

Allow a stranger to help him or leave.

Had he been in a less disadvantaged state he WOULD have left already. Put this lie with walls behind him and never looked back.

But, that wasn’t reality. He was here, he was wounded, he could barely walk in a straight line, and she said she would lead him to food. Desperation came in many forms, not all of them visible.

"I did indeed. Come along. It's not far."

She opened the door, blazing sunlight cast through. Made him squint from the brightness of it. Slowly, bones aching, he moved through that door. Followed her without hurry, took each stride in turn. Paid attention to as much as he could, though his senses were still muddled from whatever had cracked into his skull. The world around him became more familiar, The last Whisper a place he frequented. You could get away with anything here if you knew how. Could snag all manner of food, clothes, and other related items and get out before anyone knew they were gone.

Those days, though, were farther behind him than he liked. The less beaten version of him had far better footing and didn’t stumble so much.

Around a corner, down some stairs. Familiar still, he knew where they were. It offered him solace, to know how to get OUT should the need arise. He knew cobbled streets, vendors, businesses, alleys, little side streets. Would have chosen somewhere less inhabited, might have veered off and simply left, but there were few people down here; it would be hard to blend in, and so he waited. Didn’t even know if he would NEED to get out.

He sat in a seat that allowed him to see most of the establishment, but with the number of people and the constant buzz and din of their voices, it would be easy for anyone to get the jump on him. She gestured to a waiter, told him he could pay her back later.

Another red flag, one that stirred hairs along the back of his neck. But, god damn it all to hell, he was too fucking hungry and too fucking sore and too fucking tired to care.

He ordered the biggest meal in the house along with a glass of water and a pitcher of beer. She offered, he was going to take advantage. See what she meant and what she didn’t. Because bringing a stranger here, all the way from the temple, made little sense to the man who didn’t believe good hearts still existed.

“Why?” It was all he asked after the waiter left. His stare boring into hers. Searching as though trying to peel back the layers, reach inside, and yank out the answers.

Go down fighting. Go down savage.

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

Content with the silence, Maea ordered a simple meal of soup and bread for herself, and a pint of cider. Waiting patiently for the food to arrive, she watched her guest from the corner of her eye while pretending to people gaze. He looked exhausted in her eyes. Like a wolf caught in a bear trap, deciding whether to gnaw its own leg off or simply wait for the inevitable. A dangerous state of mind to be in. Dangerous for anyone he came in contact with.

Taking a spoonful of soup into her mouth when it was set down before her, the Ancient did not wait for it to cool. Humming thoughtfully in response to the terse question, she licked the spoon to sagor the rich flavors and met the hard stare without flinching.

"Good question," she replied. Metal clicked against sharp fangs, and she shrugged lightly. "Because I can? Because others have done the same for me, and I would repay them poorly by ignoring you? Hmm... I guess that's about it. Self satisfaction, in other words." Tilting the horned head aside, Maea tried to gague his reaction.

"You don't trust that, do you." More a statement than question, it was half a challenge to contradict her.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh