May Your Victories Multiply...

The night was long and warm. Quiet.

The day had gone along quietly; exactly as he had intended it to. The paperwork was done by Ayanga’s hands - The assets of their home, all of the financial accounts under his name, the lease to the house, how to handle Sakanoue and the Uyagir. His name on all of it… All of it, written neatly by the Xaela’s hands and tucked into a special box hidden away where only C’tolemy could find it.

- - -

Silver, Gold and Black all stared across the vast emptiness of their home; an endless sea of flowers in the middle of a valley, protected high by rock walls. Their hidden oasis. No attention was paid to the cracks across their person, how their porcelain-like bodies seemed to crumble and crack with each step they took. No, that wasn’t important. Preserving this place in time, to remember what it was and had been was the goal - one they would not fail.

- - -

C’tolemy had smiled and pulled his husband away from the lingering pull of responsibility - away from everything that could cut them deeper than it all already had and the both of them fell into a pile of softness and warmth, a distraction away from it all. There, they spoke quietly amongst one another, barely touching yet so close at the same time. Soft embraces were exchanged, senseless distractions to have a normal day. One last, normal day. He smiled. He laughed. He fell still when finally the warmth, tea and snacks had caught up to him and left them both too sleepy to do anything else. He fell asleep, comforted by the presence of his feline mate at his side - though C’tolemy knew that rest would only be brief before something willed him to be up and handling more things before the final day.

Ayanga always had something to do. Always.

- - -

Within, each iota of time was spent collecting their world together. Every flower. Every ray of light. Each blade of grass. Every rock. Every drop of water. All of it was deconstructed like the pieces of a puzzle - pulled inward and stored in the palm of their hands. Along with the deconstruction of his inner world came the deconstruction of his emotional and mental state. There would be far too much on the line and if he was not careful, he would undo all of their hard work should one emotion happen to take him too intensely when he couldn’t stand it anymore. He would not risk it, could not risk it. Silver and Gold merely smiled.

They’d lived long enough.

- - -

The hours ticked by in minutes and those minutes by in seconds, each moment categorized and stowed away in his conscious mind with the precious passage of time.

Only when the moon was high and his husband had fallen asleep for the night did C’tolemy finally unravel from his shell. Only then, did he excuse himself from bed to step outside, to close the door to their home and breathe in the chilled air of night and bathe in the light of the moon shining so fervently overhead. Only then, did he allow himself to weep to the intensity that he’d wanted to for what seemed like days. All of the pain, all of the distress, all of the clawing insanity that he felt gouging its way through his chest every time he looked Ayanga in the face fell out of him in a mess of bitter, chest rattling sobs and bile that splashed across dark stone. His grief was gripping and his madness was intense, shackling him with maddening strength and clutching down on his throat until all that could come from him were broken whimpers.

The dam had popped another hole, to express some of the mounting pressure - only for the hole to be filled in once he simply could not cry any longer. It would make some space, give him a little bit of wriggle room and a buffer that could protect his heart until he was ready to address all of… this. All of - of the pain, the insecurity, the terror, the desperation, the anger and all of the insurmountable distress that he’s held tight to his chest for months now. A pressure valve had opened, only momentarily and was shut tighter than it had been before. Nothing would come in and nothing would come out. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

There would be nothing.

- - -

A rocking motion, back and forth, a gentle sway in the warm breeze. A laugh, a sharp retort and the most suffering sigh.

There was nothing left behind in the wide, unending expanse of blackness but a small box. A plain white box, sealed with silver and gold ribbon.

- - -

C’tolemy spent the night watching Ayanga sleep; observing the details of his mate and etching them into what little he had left of his memory - writing a story of images that would tell a tale his words could not. So, now, his own gaze drifted over his visage, casting delicate sweeps across his blue-tinted profile. It made him happy to note the knit between his brows had eased slightly - it only ever did in his sleep. Eyes of pearl white traced his long nose, smooth cheek, and sharp jaw. The pale of his eyelashes. The hill of his soft lips. How his crimson eyes would stare into him as if there was little else in this world worthy of his gaze than the Miqo’te in his vision. He knit it all, precariously, into place in his mind’s eye.

Full lips curved into a smile as a tear drifted down his skin and soaked into the pillow under his cheek. The final part of him that clung to his humanity took one last look over the man that held his soul in his palms, ensured that the ties he made to strengthen their bond were rigid and enforced… and then he let go of the leash.

He would remember. If he did nothing else, if he had nothing else, if he was nothing else.

Words had always failed her in moments like these.

When eyes are forced to watch those close enough to know their name but never truly know their pain - to see tears drip down their faces and hear the rage or agony in their voices, sometimes so intensely that it has become a cacophony that drowned out everything else. There were times when it all blend together into a potent mix strong enough to kill and there were times when it was little more than the sweetest whisper upon a quiet breeze and their unadulterated joy was something of a queer passing that she never truly understood.

Their grief was foreign, hideous and pointless. And yet, she was the aberrant.

The cheery laughs and cries of children playing would echo across the skittering sand and burning head of the Gyr Abanian sun; sun bleached stone multi-colored with reddish ringlets fabled to be just the reddish Earth beneath them -- though could never be proven to be the shifting of the earth beneath their feet or the blood of innocent life lost.

What possessed her, when she saw the little babe sporting a head of short, dark, messy hair and the smallest tail she’d ever seen, to take her in her arms and claim this child to be her own?

POCWOLWEEK :: Best Friend ( Day 5 )

Less of a best friend and more of a lifelong companion, Agni has been there for C'tolemy in his darkest times and he truly treasures his little bundle of pink happiness!

POCWOLWEEK :: Dressed To Impress ( Day 4 )

"Can I 'elp you? Yoah staehing..."  C'tolemy loves the attention but he'll never admit it!

POCWOLWEEK : Adventure ( Day 3 )

"We did it, Damien! We saved th'town!"

 "Mnn." 

POCWOLWEEK :: Home ( Day 2 )

“Ala Gannha will alwaehs be ‘ouah ‘ome.” “No matteah ‘ow fah we travel from it.” 

The relief never came.

When war, struggle and hard times had fallen on the Coeurl tribe--when Garlean’s had turned their sharp gaze on Ala Gannha, at the height of the Gyr Abanian occupation, when the tribe had been flourishing in both population and spirit--a promise had been given. A promise that those struggling to find their worth, those struggling to gain a foothold after having it ripped out from under them? That they, in all of their glory, would be given aid from the Ala Mhigan counsel on behalf of the Sultana. A group of scouts and tradesmen would come to Ala Gannha with relief aid, to give them the breath of fresh air they needed. To give them a boost. To remind them that they were not fighting this war alone.

They had not been anticipating fire to reign from the skies.

Destruction ravaged the population; too many perished in the flames--crushed under molten rock, suffocated in smoke, burnt alive or cut down by Garlean steel. There was nothing that would afford them relief from this tragedy and in the wake of the attack? They were abandoned.

And in their abandonment, came desperation.

And in desperation, came savagery.

{ FT: @talesfromthegameff14​ }

Sometimes it is in the blades of grass that shift with the softest of summer breezes, lofting the scent of sunlight, lavender and peace to any nose willing to catch it. At times, it is in the twinkle of stone and smooth rock under the rush of crystal clear waters on a hot afternoon. There are times when it comes in the caw of a bird overhead or the chitter of a mouse scurrying by. Sometimes it is in the sunlight that basks this world in warmth and understanding; or in the moonlight that bathes the world in cool and clarity.

It manifests in the ring of children’s laughter; uninhibited by grief, pain or stress. It blooms in the sway of fabric, the tap of feet on earthen stone and the tinkle of jewelry--the jingle of gold as bodies sway. It shines in the flicker and dance of flames roaring high; in the voice that commands a crowd and riddles of stories none can turn their attentions away from. It soars on the backs of hunters that scatter into the dark, hot in the pursuit of prey caught in the corner of their eyes.

It breathes in the warmth of the hearth; the quiet of peace and safety. It lingers in the scents that fill a home; fresh breads and spicy meat. In the cloy of smoke that wafts from a fresh cup of tea, or the tap of bare feet against freshly polished wooden floors. The cry of a child from a distance--the laughter of a little girl. It makes its home in the soft of plush blankets and the heat encased in blankets made of the softest fabric.

But most importantly?

It was born in the glimmer of crimson eyes. It was crafted, oh so carefully, on those full dark lips--how they speak and how they promised a dream that could have never been found alone, never been found believing that trust could only exist in one’s own hands.

{ Ft: @talesfromthegameff14​ }

There it was again.

The creak of bone against one another, rattling as it moved across the space with such definition it was hard not to watch it. A skull picked clean, stripped of all flesh and sinew that lumbered about—completing tasks that were invisible to both itself and the one viewing them. A spirit—a body—the living and not, existing in a plane not meant for mortal eyes to view.

And yet?

{ What If? :: Set 10 Year in the Future }

The whip and bite of desert wind along golden skin frames her in a light that would make any mortal look away, fearing that looking godliness in the eye would end in their demise. ‘Fear Not’, perfect lips would mutter into the warm air—welcoming any that found the courage to seek her out, long after she’s taken her exodus from the public eye. Years of having left behind the notion of living in a society that would not accept, acknowledge or understand who and what borne the fire that raged in her chest. She welcomed them into her light, into her sight for the short time they spent together—for she knew that they would leave and silence would be her best friend once more.

C’arha knew silence intimately. C’arha knew loneliness intimately. C’arha knew what it meant to live on your own, rely on no one but yourself—live and die and breathe on nothing but wilderness, freedom and instincts. 

It was how she preferred it these days.

{ Ft: @talesfromthegameff14​ and @komyoffxiv​ }

“Young Master…”

“Not now.”

“But—“

“I’ll only be a moment longer.”

Nothing could stop the flurry of quill and ink along the finest parchment, doctrine after doctrine written down in preparation for the exchange in power that lingered in the too close—too far future. Tsubaki was tasked with an immeasurable amount of pressure to succeed in the place of his father and while he had known the moment was coming, nothing had prepared him for actually having the task laid out before him. A part of him, a singular—traitorous part of him—had considered running away from this place with Akihito and his sister. They would have been able to escape, to run somewhere new and become new people where no one could find them…

But he had responsibilities. Duties. The syndication would have never allowed him to live an easy, carefree life with the half-xaela owing favors to Shinichi nor with their mother’s involvement with the clan. If it wasn’t the yakuza, their ties to their tribe would have caught up to them eventually. So he did not run—for running, if it did not mean that Akihito’s hand was clasping his own, was not worth it in the end.

He could do many thing. He could endure many hardships. He could thrive in chaos and blossom in stress. But he could not weather this ache in his chest if he did not have those eyes watching him.

It was simply too much to bear.

Choko could only shake her head and sigh, worry running like a well-spring in her veins.

{ Ft: @talesfromthegameff14​ }

A fine toothed comb slipped through silken green hair, long locks sweeping over fingertips and careful claws—running from root to tip in long strokes. Fine yet thick hair is handled delicately, looped down and over dark skin—wound around his wrist to keep it separately. One stroke over another. Another stroke over another.

The tail of the rat comb shifts from root once more, parting the hair into sections to be better managed—careful claws weaving pleated hair one over another in such a quick fashion you would think his fingers were naught but a blur. Over and Under. Over and Under. Over and Under. Braids, clean and shining from how well the hair is taken care of, slung over one wrist and off to the side while hands tend to another section. And yet another section. And yet another section.

The Xaela sits patiently, a leather bound tome in his hands—musing over the possibilities of aether and it’s healing capabilities, the Seeker sitting at his back asking him the occasional question about the material he was reading to make sure his husband was actually absorbing the knowledge.

An easy, quiet home life filled with tender, quiet moments like these.

They sat there for several hours, occasionally needed to take the time to get up and stretch their limbs; but by the time they were done? Ayanga sported a fanciful updo of well treated green locks, accent braids and his ponytail divided up into one massive braid that spiraled and sat high—only to drape down and curl about his shoulders like a lounging serpent upon one’s skin. Burning incense wafted over blue skin and pale hair—quiet prayers spoke in the man’s likeness, granting his peace and prosperity in their time on this star. Blessing both given and taken.

Ayanga admired himself in the mirror. C’tolemy admired the gift before him.

C’ohna did not have much in this life.

She did not have much in her youth; for what was hers belonged to the family and the family belonged to the tribe. She did not have fanciful clothing or jewelry, she did not belong to a special rank within the tribe. She did not tame beasts, she did not make weapons or have a particular way with weaving. She did not possess skills that would have made her stand out in a crowd. She was an average woman with average talents living an average life.  She could not have predicted catching the Nunh’s eye. She could not have predicted having fallen in dazzling, beautiful, perfect love. She could not have imagined having children of her very own, watching the glow in her mother’s face at seeing her so radiant in her joy. She could not have fathomed having a big family full of sons. She could not have anticipated having her sister come to her, pleading and in tears to take her infant daughter and raise her as her own. She could not have been prepared to raise all of these children--as well as adopt a wayward little madhouse of a girl with needs she couldn’t even begin to meet.

She could not have imagined finding her home, her life, her world turned upside down and having it all ripped away from her over night. She could not have readied herself to bury her husband’s headless body, nor 2 of her sons as well. She could not have been ready to lose her daughter in the dead of night to a human trafficking ring she can no power nor insight to stop. She could not have imagined losing her other 2 son’s when said daughter’s lover tore the rest of her precious children from her hands. She could not have been ready for this pain, no one was ever truly ready for this pain.

She could not have imagined learning both her remaining son and daughter were destined for greatness, lives eons beyond their gait leaning on them to shoulder a burden decades long. She could not have been ready to learn one was destined to die.

She could not have imagined gathering children who were both found family and close lovers of her sun and moon, to gather them in her arms and to call them her own. It did not matter how they looked, what they’d done, who they found their comforts in. All that mattered was that her children chose them and, in turn, C’ohna would choose them too.

And in choosing them, they were her’s.

For everything in this world that was not her’s--for all of the things in this world that she could not choose, this--this she would.

Whatever she chose to love. Whatever she chose to rename, reclaim, redefine. Her heart? It was her’s.