those who hast lost it all make cater-cousins
in dangerous places, little witch. i am no exception
to this rule. the hallowed halls speak of thy name,
takenaka mao, and more specifically: of thy candle.
doth thee looketh for a place to lay thy head to rest,
to set thy candle on a stick whilst thee slumber? i
want to provide this for thee. i desire a court wizard,
and the gods regard this witch highly. ‘
he isn’t dressed to the nines in formalwear or armor. instead, it was a simple outfit provided to him by his lord ( you will wear my silks, amatsu has spoken to him, gently caressing strong jawline as sebastian lay submissive to his every word, nodding and agreeing without question ) of a white tunic and pants, black boots, white gloves. he looked to be friendly, though lips were upturned and eyes glimmered with malice. court wizard, squire, royal adviser. all were necessary to rebuild the kingdom he had ripped from him.
arms fold out into blades at forty-fives, bending at the elbow – one on his heart, one tucked in the small of his back. militaristic bow was offered to the younger witch, blonde locks tainted with the sweat and grease of this spartan world. only one must survive, and those who are allied with the gods gain that title.
he is ares and athena. he is mars and minerva. he is tyr and vol. bastet carved his face and fabulinus winded his vocal cords. but most of all, ANUBIS WAS PAINTED ON HIS SKIN AND OSIRIS GLEAMED IN HIS EYES. HE WAS THE PATH TO IMMORTALITY, HE WAS THE CHAMPION OF THE GOD OF CHAOS, AMATSU, AND SAVIOR OF THE LORD’S LOVER, AND HE WAS THE ONE TRUE KING.
HE WAS ETERNITY.
all she can muster herself to be is the lightbearer, and if she is snuffed out, so is the dream. premonitions of the future, restored once again. despair burned to the ground with only the holiest, flickering flames. her eternity stays in the stars, wraps itself in plasma for the sole purpose of safety.
her nails, dirtied with her own blood and the guts of animals, clank against bronzed metal. her eyes follow the path that the wax curves onto it, thoughts steeped in a mixture of exhaustion and fear. she’s gone for days on end in the past, why stop? this light would be the everlasting salvation, provided by a brother who was dead to time. kin, buried in red clay and the spoils of a broken shrine. she had cried that day, worlds broken in two. worlds broken like bread, swapped across a table. mao watches the flame, watches the light it projects upon his face; the shadows are kind to him. they seem to dance along with every syllable that falls from his oily, stubbled mouth.
she finds it hard to believe that she’s seen as such a high witch--she’s only ever really just believed, just practiced what she thought was right. with every single word she read about wicca, she felt at home. she had pleasant teachers. her book of shadows was filled to the brim with white magic, sigils. as he spoke, she kneeled down and dropped the candle to his feet.
“...i am a touch exhausted. do tell--who are residing in these hallowed halls? do you speak of kibougamine academy? i was regarded as an oddity, a pariah, yet i reserved myself as a witch of practice. but, if you are exchanging my knowledge and my energies for shelter, and rest...i would be willing to try my hardest!” and she gives him a weak smile, bows her head.
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