'an aptly put word'

- selective, independent fate multi-muse rp blog, beloved by maybe, resident chaos raccoon. - friendly and eager to interact with everyone! crossovers, ocs, same muses and all are welcome! - used to be @caimkairos​ until the i got locked out of my blog because i forgot not my password, like a normal person, but my email incident, in case you ever felt intimidated by me. - here to break hearts and uwu cutely. you definitely won’t curse my bloodline, and nobody has ever wanted me dead before! trust me! there isn’t a bounty on my head, i promise!

“You fought that... lesser me alongside the great Siegfried, in your first ‘proper’ adventure.” Possibly an odd way to start a conversation, besides sliding into their personal space with a look that is more of an inspection of quality than perhaps standard for one as carefree as the twilight dragon. A doomed jewel- or perhaps one that invokes a miracle? The same thing, really. They’re truly the same thing.

Dooming someone, giving them a miracle... living and dying... they couldn’t be more similar. Or at least, looking upon the atrocities the Grand Order must witness, a dragon would assume.

“Was defeating him a gift? Or would it have been better for him to be an impossible hurdle?”

“Urianger Augurelt.” Almost more automation than person. The Echo should not manifest here, in something without a soul. The statue knows this. But the statue is covered still in dust and with unfinished aspects, cleavage points that have left sharp fractures and missing gaps. “My master’s will bade me to find you, one scholar to another. Pygmalion of Cyprus has left his library to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. I carried the paperwork in my satchel, but...”

Hm. The marble creaks slightly with her approach, trying to not break the floor below her with the force of her steps. Being made of stone typically does that to a person’s gait. She gives a small bow, then the woman makes a vague gesture with one hand.

...presumably to the entirely missing limb on her right side.

“...it appears to be missing. Some men on the road asked to borrow it to carry their gold. They said they would return it within the hour, but when I went to get it, they held swords. I do not think they intend on returning it.”

A pause.

“Or my arm. When one of their swords hit it, it came off. I tried to use it to entice the return of my property, but then they took that, too. My master then bade I come here to explain the situation.”

How did this turn from a normal transaction to a comedy sketch?!

Idly, he’d hoped not to run into family.  Taking up a western garb helped, keeping his hood carefully down, and surely even his brothers wouldn’t have known that their brother had a different mother- a more... fox wedding sort of mother- if even Ranmaru himself hadn’t, so the odds weren’t too stacked against him, logically, yet...

No. The odds were stacked against him because karma was a bitch.

They would remember him as a sister. They would ask questions. They’d stir up complicated feelings. They might try to argue with his... everything. So, sue him. Ranmaru was a bitchy little coward and he’d admit it. He had wanted to avoid the kind of awkward conversations that would ensue. 

So hurrying down the hall and quite literally stumbling face first into Mori Nagayoshi wasn’t exactly what Ranmaru had hoped for even when he was forced with a confrontation. Stupid brothers, all being bulkier than him...! (Because it can’t be anything but an angry confrontation, can it? They must all hate him. There’s no other option. To be the last, most loyal page, and to have abandoned their lord after death...)

Careful planning especially stood helpless in the way of Nagayoshi.

The little sprite at his shoulder huffs, as if to say I told you so, me.

“Brother. It’s... been a while.” Really? That’s the best he can muster? Maybe he should just start taking advantage of a higher Agility stat and book it like a really laughable fool. It’s not too late to run, right? The dramatic tension of the situation really feels lost in the all-too-familiar sensation of being a younger sibling about to be trouble...!

“Shizuka Gozen.” The name falls irritated from her lips. Really... this kind person, having a wife? This sort of ehehe, whoopsie, haha head puns, eager dog kind of person? Medb stands hands on hips, looking over Ushiwakamaru like someone surveying the worth of a property, or appraising a rival. “You never said you had a wife... did you get too much sunshine? Are you delirious?”

How odd. She’s more genuinely irritated than her normal cattiness...

“You better have treated her better than your mentor’s girl, you got it? I can’t believe it. A brat like you, with a shy sort of woman...” Eh? Isn’t that making an assumption, Queen Medb? Really, looking so unimpressed before someone has answered is hardly fair, but Medb has never the kind of person who experienced or gave out ‘fairness’.

“She must have been quiet, to tolerate how loud you are. I’ll pull out Fergus’ sword if you give me the wrong answer, you know.”

“Your Mystic Code needs to be tuned up, but we don’t have the time before we face Ivan. We can’t send you out like that-”

“It’s fine, I’ve been practically sweating in this.”

“But…!”

“It’s like you said. We don’t have time. Let’s get it done, okay? I promise, I’ll be fine.”

“Mm… if you insist, but…  If something happens, tell us right away, alright? Be careful, Director Sophie!”

She really should have listened.

Something has broken. It’s a loud noise. The world is a blur in her head. It’s all so loud. It’s all so quiet.

Something has broken. It’s a loud noise. Someone is crying. There’s a lukewarm sugar in her brain. 

Something has broken. The world is splintered around her.

Something has broken. Someone is crying.

“My child… my child…”

A dog is barking.

“My wife… she doesn’t remember…”

All the evil things in the world speak. All the dismissed things in the world speak at once, yet she can hear every voice as clear as glass.

Her fingers ache.

Someone too depressed to go to work wails. The prostitute wails. The soldier on the wrong side wails. A child born blind wails.  Every misfortunate soul screams and cries out into the world, Their screaming is thundering, but their surrender is deafening.

Ah. Is that the point?

All these people. These beings. Lost in an empty space. It almost tastes like milk-

Oh. That’s what happened.

She fell.

There was a scream. There was not enough time to respond. The Master is the clearest threat to the one who seeks to keep his position as the final god of this world.

A single lunge. A single swipe.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra stood on the Shadow Border.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra fell off of the Shadow Border.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra reached out her hand.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra locked eyes with her murderer.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra and The Final God’s gaze met.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra reached out her hand.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra plunged into the milk sea.

Everything in the milk sea at the origin of the universe was colorless and inscrutable. The people sang, uncountable. Their songs were filled with grief and rage and yet, their nonexistent emotions were buried away, because they weren’t important. This empty white space was where everything deemed not right for the world was placed. All at once, she was swallowed and embraced by that miserable nothingness.

Perhaps it was fitting that she fell here.

...everyone would be okay…

...so maybe…

She could just…

...close her eyes for a moment…

…and listen to the singing of the sea.

...no. 

...this sea isn’t singing.

It’s screaming, like a child taking its first breath.

The wails become a harmony. Something understandable. The lost flowers, the scattered arms of eaten gods. Every lost life exists here- yet that’s not right.

It wasn’t lost.

It was put here.

It was killed.

It was sacrificed so that a perfect world may exist. It was sacrificed for one person’s own ambitions. Everything here was murdered and put together into one being, and they all occupied this space combined together, individuality lost into the sea. 

That person put them here. Put everything here he didn’t want to look at. This place was made up of everything ungainly and unsightly, everything deemed defective. This sea of sacrifice, of suffering, where she now was placed.

It made her angry.

Who was he to choose? Who was that blue eyed god to choose? (Eyes were more grey, but they’re cold as ice.) Why does this blood that drips from her mouth feel so cold? (The ice killed her. It has taken root in her.) All this screaming has become a beautifully frigid noise, sliced through violin strings, a broken piano. 

(The funeral song of rage and grief played as the Master of Chaldea dies not from a dramatic action but because her suit failed and she froze to death.)

(A death devoid of purpose or meaning, not a murder or a suicide or anything with intent. Just an empty, sad accident.)

Who was he to choose? Who were they to choose?

Ah. The death of her parents, too, was a sacrifice, chosen by her, and her own mortality has become a sacrifice for her life to continue. Every life is just a grain of sand on the scales of a selfish being that wants to mold the word into their shape. Everything has been reduced to nothing but this, this idea of perfection that spat in the face of those who walked and talked and breathed and lived, lived, lived-

It’s all so obvious. 

(Something calcifies in her chest.)

All of this, all of this here, from the first god who reached a hand to a lost son, to the most very recent victims of the cycle, and everyone and everything in between, can all fall under the label of sacrifice.

And that… was something she could reach out to.

Sophia nearly laughed. 

She could grab it, and use it like she was used.

No human could survive this.

But it was fine.

Because she finally realized [                                                        ]-

The world outside continued for the seconds that passed. There was not enough time to respond with anything of value.

But those seconds resulted in something odd.

It was a cough, wet and choking.

The final god’s Arjuna stomach bulges out. Something swallowed up like any other sacrifice presses up to the surface and cuts its way out of him, falling to the ground in a duet with another sickeningly wet noise.

A piece of metal, ragged like a ripped piece of paper, not even a proper blade, a swan song in a solid form.

Something crawls from the milk. 

She could never know the reactions to this rebirth, but she knows that feathers drip from her body like puss, swollen under her skin and pushing through like something unnatural. Her tongue can feel something pushing from her gums before it pierces through, a sudden relief from the pressure that had been mounting. Her hands are twisting. Webbing and patches of fur make her fingers contort into new and fascinating shapes. Yet even as she cannot breathe, and her body erupts into a more violent change with each ragged cough, she grins at a pain she can finally, finally, control.

Sophia Vogel-Westenra tries to grab her chest as she hacks something up, something solid and squirming in her throat, blocking the air from her lungs, and she can’t breathe. It hangs from her mouth and the swirling blur of the lack of air makes her grab it and rip, and she can feel something wet drip from the corner of her mouth as she takes in a pure breath of oxygen and ozone and iron, and when she looks down-

Her own heart has fallen onto the ground, twitching and pulsing as it changes forms around the single, unchanging patch of flesh, where a rune is dug in like a brand. It is still because it is bone and calcified flesh, and without thinking, trembling hands reach out to it.

Every finger is different, and the sharpest two take the firm, boney thing in-between them.

They ask what it felt like. It was pain. It was clarity. It was the way the shards of shattered bone dug into her convulsing hands.

She screamed.

bold protagonist

you're the star of the show, baby! and boy does that come with a lot of emotional turmoil. you have a seemingly endless supply of determination. whether you have a lot of goals, or one big one, you're constantly working towards it. you're pretty restless, and struggle with imposter syndrome and generally feeling like you should be doing more. your insecurity might not be immediately obvious to others, however, as you come across as very strong and bold. vulnerability is not your strong suit, and that's likely to be your downfall. if only you had just let people in, and asked for help... well, maybe this was always gonna be a tragedy.

        “Of course I believe you,” Amakusa hisses, like the thought of anything else is an insult.  “Douman.  You were right.  I died,” one of his trembling hands pulls away and brushes a strand of hair from Douman’s face.  “Why do you weep so when you weren’t the one to put the blade through my chest?  Dear loyal Douman.”

         Amakusa feels his eyes water and scrubs at his face with his sleeve to try and ease the itching.  “You are my servant, so you should rise with pride,” at that his voice breaks in his throat and he closes his eyes.  He can feel their nails against his skin, their warm breath on his face.

         To him, Douman is home.  Amakusa has been made bereft of many things, but he had felt no other loss so keenly since Shimousa burnt.  Screaming at all hours, scratching his skin until it peeled in long strips, unable to sleep, the loss has made him a madman.  (The proprietress has been suspiciously patient.)  Surely he looks rough to their sensibilities now.

         He presses a single kiss to their forehead, as Douman would do for him late at night.  They don’t look quite the same as when the two of them last met, but that’s alright for now.  He’s eager to understand every inch of Douman that wasn’t there before.

Of course he are. Logically, this notion should be sound. Never has Ashiya Douman doubted so much someone’s words, and yet there is something here that hisses and spits-

once again, worthless. misogi and harae are left away from your grasp. bested by worse at curses. not even a useless thing that can only do kamigakari. because you are worthless, worthless, unable to serve a single person.

unable to love and properly save a single person.

Yet Amakusa Shirou says he died as if it gives them any absolution. They laugh, pained as their eyes burn, burn, burn like their lord’s must have, because this is nothing but fire and pain and salt upon the wound that is their grief. Their hands shake.

“As if you did not die by my own fault... as if I was not the one who failed to stop the blade...” Like a bird in a cage, plucking its own feathers out. Shirasagi-no-mai, the dance of white cranes. Set in April, and would not have their lord died the day after that sunday’s dance to the heavens? Are they not as much a failure as the crane that failed to bring good fortune? 

Amakusa Shirou is a sun that Ashiya Douman should never have been painted alongside.

“If you had less faith in me, you could have used the seals to bring me to your side. If I had not deceived you so, made you think I was able to protect you... you may have lived.” ‘Command seals’. At first, Ashiya Douman could not resist toying with the ideas of how to make them go to waste. Perhaps cut them off in one, clean motion? Gag him and make it slow? Certainly there was the temptation. Whether they bowed willingly or not, it was still folly to think anyone could truly be served by Ashiya Douman.

Yet...

They stay knelt upon the ground. A shikigami falls out of their sleeve, almost limp and dead. But it pulls weakly to life, forming into a far more solid shape in their hand.

A boxwood comb sits in one hand, held by talons that could, so easily, divot the wood. Yet their touch is as delicate to it as it is to their lord. Talons cannot harm him, simply because he is their master, defined and announced as such.

It’s a well-worn box. '四郎’ has been carefully carved onto the outside of the box, and though the honeysuckles have been singed by fire on the left side, the ambrosia blossoms carved onto it seem largely untouched by the flames, rather instead chipped and scratched. It is damaged, charred and with deep gouges.

The damage could not be undone. Their head droops, but they open it instead, a creak of the hinges that have not needed to do so for so long. There is a familiar bundle of fabric, stained in blood and ash, swaddling something far, far more precious. Dried flower petals, swirls of wild angelica pressed flat. Finally their talons still, as they unfold the haori their lord died in.

Inside, as has for so long, sits a hand-carved tsuge comb. Camelias sit opposite of honeysuckle, and it smells of a staleness of a box long closed- very faintly, still, of pine. Not something they made- no, they were utterly incapable of such a thing, that long ago. Incapable of the tenderness required to make a delicate thing. But they commissioned the effort. They found the tree.

Now, they think the camellias were a sour touch. For one so ever-ill. What were they thinking. But their thumb rests over the self-beheading flowers and they must forgive their past self. They must, if they want to move forward.

That was then. This is now.

This was one piece of their life they would never ‘move forward’ from. They would carry it forever.

But they cannot help but reach for him again. They would sooner die, unworthy as they are, but if they... if they would...

“...I should have put edelweiss instead. It must befit my lord better... persisting. Surviving.” Douman holds this, this first gift given, this item so cherished. A long abandoned shrine that slowly became less of a heresy and more of a sense of belonging. Angelica saplings and mountain vegetables. Wards worked on by two. Even the grave left behind. 

“I held onto it so long... because this is all I had left of you. For 1,238 days I have only had this single box.” For 1,238 days, each counted, each recorded. A single piece of sentiment in everything else, all the rage, the venom.

“...if you forgive me... please, take it back. I have held onto it for its proper owner... and if my lord will stand by my side, where I may love him, then...” Ah. Is this what most humans feel like, when they renew vows? “...it was the first action I gave my lord, out of true sentiment, and nothing more. I would have it renew that vow, to my living lord, rather than the grieving memory I held of him. If my lord will wish us... if you want to be side-by-side again.”

It has been so long. They would not blame him. They cannot quite meet his gaze, but they force themselves to do so. What an unchanging fool they are. How perfect still, is the first human they ever loved.

It’s a quiet night, despite the god’s tendencies when it comes to this kind of thing. In spite or because of everything that has happens as of late, there is a sense of inevitability at this time. Something about this moment feels irreplaceable.

...Kama’s body is always in pain. This is not something that will ever change. Kama does not hope for it, does not bend and pray. This is simply the way the world works. She sits and would hiss at most touch, but the approach of the master seems to be accepted.

...perhaps more than that.

Cold arms wrap around Yako’s midsection. Close, closer... there’s a safety here. Something trustworthy. A balm. Her chin rests upon the Yako’s head. It’s soft, and her ears twitch slightly at it, but for once, the mouthy bastard doesn’t say anything.

Not that Kama would have minded. Really... it would have been fine. There’s something about the quips and dumb comments that by now has become rather more a comforting presence. It should be irritating, but at this point, it’s fond rather than truly peeved.

It’s all irritating. But she thinks quietly, for a while, eyes not truly focusing on whatever Yako is reading. Probably the Illiad, or something similar.

A thought comes to mind. Something from Yako’s language, rather than her own. It vaugely reminds her of that boisterous seasonal bunch with the feisty dog. One of them spoke about inevitability, but this is rather more...

“To you... 恋の予感, I guess.”

It doesn’t seem like Yako noticed. Maybe she did and just chose to not probe. But for once (as if it can be said to truly be ‘for once’ at this point), even if she did, maybe Kama wouldn’t mind.

What an irritating fox.

(”Thank you.” It is unsaid. Yet it should be.)

(For so long it was unthinkable.)

(Yet maybe someday, even from a prideful god, for this one person, it will.)

Is it arrogant? Andrej didn’t feel as such beginning this conversation, but there’s a slight prod of doubt now introduced. Is it simply him? No, it couldn’t be, he generally doesn’t dream of his writings or those around him particularly often. “Perhaps not every night.” But still, Andrej does not entirely believe Oberon’s words.

It’s fine like this, a little back and forth of storytelling. The themes of a story contain truths, even if the words are pure fantasy.

“Really, I’m not that bad. I’ve grown up a little bit.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question because he knows Oberon would scoff at him, if the Pretender believes him or not. Best to keep the statement without requesting rebuttal. (Though Andrej knows he is so desperately far from skilled, he accepts passable for his master’s capabilities.)

The imaginary residences of the autumn court. “I don’t mind if a few of them take up connection with my magecraft. I’m sure the prince is missed, and subjects want for tales of his derring-do. It’s easier to tell stories while I’m aware of what I’m doing.” To wit, if they’d like to appear within his reality marble as something visible. The place is already imaginary, its eternal golden autumn light. There is other subtext to Oberon’s words, but this is what Andrej feels he can extend the most obvious hand over.

“Yes, yes, how dare I exaggerate... what a terrible con-artist I am.” It’s said jokingly, like someone admitting to a lie, yet... well, isn’t that actually the truth...? Still, the edge of dark taunts stays mostly absent, even as a discarded take-away box sits beneath his carapace’s heel, the grease rendering it translucent like morning dew.

“’Grown up a little bit’? Aww~ You sound so proud.” Of growing up? Or is it a lying way of saying ‘you sound pathetic’? The gum (when did it turn to that, rather than delectable pieces of fruit?) snaps between sharp teeth fit, for crunching bone more than this. The concession is accepted, a piece of reality.

“Their prince is dead. You’d have to render them a new one. Is that the kind of author you are, Andrej? Are you to the fae as Andersen is to his mermaid and the cygnet? Shall you write yourself sleeping beauty’s queendom?” Though the reality of sleeping beauty’s life was rather dark and miserable, as the slumber of any sleeping yet not dreaming person would be. Her family of note was absent by the time she woke, alone in a strange world, depended upon still by helpless things despite being so helpless herself.

It might be a bad sign, if Vortigern compares them. Yet it’s not roses with spindle-splinter thorns that bloom upon the terrace. Instead, cheerful chicory and creeping thistle take winding routes around the banisters and form little seats for littler beings.

“The truer question is, will you trust our hungry mouths to not bite your feeding hand?” That... is a line befitting a far different scene and a far less smugly inspired smirk. A blue tongue cleans off his juice covered hand, and then quick as a whip snatches Andrej’s own, pulling it over. It’s a gesture half-between something about to bite and the kiss of a gentleman, with the result of allowing Vortigern to pull it closer unclear as to which possibility his tongue and teeth will take.

HE’S SAYING HE’S A WHAT?! IN THAT OUTFIT?! BACK OFF! THIS IS HIS FUCKING THING!

“I’LL KILL HIM! I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM! AMAKAUSA SHIROUUUUUUUUUU-”

“Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have seen a ghost.”

Semiramis is not truly taller than Amakusa Shirou, but she is mightier, and she stands far taller than a man who runs so far from his past. Her eyes look at him as a lioness does a young gazelle, pathetic and so small, so scarcely a meal.

“I would rather see a ghost, you see. These reanimated, graceless dead? Stripped of their lives lived? They are not even ghosts. Nothing but shallow facsimile. When the living die, when they remember, they become ghosts, and I once knew a living man. I would consider him a ghost, but I see no ghost in front of me.” The hallway is ice cold. There’s a look in the little man’s eyes, unable to fully bury sentimentality even as he hides behind his so blatantly recognizable escapism. It’s cute that he thinks he can escape the humiliation behind being so known. 

By cute, she means infuriating, naturally.

“I suppose I see ghosts quite rarely. If someone rejects a life, then are they a ghost? Would they even be the same?” For a moment she leans closer, as if examining him. Of course two play at such a game. They are so similar, so compatible. What else would make a lost saint who keeps seeing people die for him summon someone from another land and another willpower? 

(The obvious answer is that, of course, Amakusa Shirou could never summon someone who would die (be)for(e) him.)

“Don’t make me waste my breath. If I wanted a fresh start, I would not come to play at life and ambition time and time again.” Her hand waves in a familiar dismissal. Unlike before, however, he is not given any grace. Chains string the false saint up like he sits on the cross, and the rusty gold gags his mouth. 

“As we are strangers, and you are not a ghost, I see no need for your cheap small talk to be held. Seek audience before another, Ruler, if you seek here to be baptized into a new glory.”

It itches. Mash has tried to get them to stop, but their hands are almost glass thin and just as easily bruised, and so each movement reminds them. Even Da Vinci says to stop, yet-