archive.

Perhaps it’s the ocean that makes things feel calmer, or the gentle colouring of the beach as the sun trails down past the horizon, leaving stars in its wake. It’s the kind of view to be shared with friends, or, lacking those, former antagonists. Well, it’s nice, regardless. Sadly it’s not in Kirschtaria’s purview to enjoy it just yet - his eyes are elsewhere, downward, focused on the glint of a knife and the careful cuts along their dinner. He pauses momentarily to watch Ritsuka’s disappear into the shadows, figure swallowed by the green.

“You survived across multiple Lostbelts, but can’t climb.” It’s not a question, just a simple statement. Or maybe a teasing jab. It’s rather difficult when he’s so honestly deadpan with things. “One must wonder how you achieved that, all things considered.” Ah, maybe those scars of his are from past climbing attempts, rather then unwieldly battles. The thought brings a passing smile to his face, that dips and disappears with the lingering light. All that remains is the lasting shimmer of the stars above and their fire, slowly waking to life.

“This should be done soon, depending on Ritsuka’s timely arrival and her success with the palms.” The fire spits and crackles to life, illuminating the sand and surrounding camp. There’s a temptation to ask - prod, perhaps being the better word - Goetia into movement, to go and not so much help Ritsuka, but just ensure she doesn’t do anything mortifyingly silly while alone. She has a penchant for it, he’s come to understand. 

But his last suggestion had been brushed idly aside, full of a curious brand of faith, and so be remains silent on the matter. Mostly. “Ah. Actually, there were mentions of wild boars on this island, weren’t there?”

@exousiate > @hopeled / don’t look at me, i’m feeding y’all

        “Failure is not an option.” he throws a significant glance to the other, but the sharpness of his gaze is towards the scorching heat. his silence speaks volumes, until it does not and then, it goes on for the sake of allowing Kirschtaria Wodime share his idle chatter.

he firmly rearranges the hat with careful measure. though his expression betrays none of his chagrin, the overwhelming heat brings some color to his cheeks, and his irritation manifests in the contempt aura that surrounds him. it is the mirror of what he is infamous for, and his attempt of brushing away his bangs never deters it. the gesture is unnerving, less from the calm rage, and more for how mundane it is.

     a bewildered pause. it is comical in the utter refusal that shows in his voice, his impassive face refusing to allow any single emotion happen. under scrutiny, there is no being that held arrogance but a person that is hearing the most ridiculous nonsense and attempting to hold any degree of patience. “I am not going.”

it happens with frightening indifference, swift and nonchalant as the buttons are undone, the shirt falling slowly from shoulders as his fingers finish their work. as soon as it is done, he lets out a weary sigh, the muscles from the back going up and down until all that remains is the subtle movement of breathing.

      a mere difference from the King of Humans, none of the enlightenment present with the lack of clothes. quite but not, the only recognizable wisdom in how his eyes were filled with exhausted wariness. perhaps it was due to how he still carried some degree of modesty, but it was hard to discern.

he turns around, the unmistakable flush from his cheeks the same shade pink from his hair. on another circumstances, it would be deemed a blush. if that were not Goetia, that is. unfortunate, that it was an uncanny resemblance of a certain fight in the Final Singularity. unfortunate that like the maker, he had no shame.

WHAT’S YOUR MUSE’S SOCIAL LINK ?

to find your secondary & tertiary tarot cards, scroll down your result page to your answers/result totals.

PRIMARY: HERMIT. ↻ 54%

THE HERMIT ARCANA  is associated with wisdom, introspection, solitude, retreat and philosophical searches. You place yourself in situations that hide you from the public eye. Hermit individuals hide away from others or act in more supportive roles rather than putting themselves in the spotlight.

SECONDARY: MOON. ↻ 54%

THE MOON ARCANA   is associated with creativity, inspiration, dreams, madness, illusions, fear, fantasy, the subconscious and trickery. You are sometimes being attuned subconsciously to the world around, gaining the ability to sense things without being told about them or without anyone else knowing. You are often psychically-attuned, and your projection of your own fears and faults onto others is becoming a habit. You often tend to have trouble accepting yourself for who you are and, because of that fear, you try to correspond to an ideal person.

TERTIARY: PRIESTESS. ↻ 53%

THE PRIESTESS ARCANA  is a symbol of hidden knowledge or other untapped power, wisdom, mystery and patience. Usually quiet, reserved, and very intelligent. Often modest and shy, and won't open up easily to others.

      “ You can never mean for something to happen or for someone to feel a certain way, but that does not stop it from happening. Rarely anything does, no matter our intentions. “ perhaps it sounds as if she is scolding him, but such is not the case. a reminder , gentle in nature, is more akin to its true meaning.  “ We often forget or don’t think of how our actions will impact another, especially those who care for us. Only later do we realize, but there is always a lesson to be learned from it. A chance to do better next time, for there will always be a next time. “

  it is with a soft pat of her hand against his forearm that she releases him, hands folding together across her body. much has changed in the world, in how it exists. a blinding white that stretches as far as the eye can see, the fate of it in constant danger. that which humanity had once known is now one, swept away into a nothingness. all that was left were those trying to fix it and those trying to stop them. she did not need to know the exact details or the reasonings behind how he had gained those scars. they alone told a story enough, one that blended with the words whispered by those who existed within each Lostbelt.

          he had helped them, the people who were simply trying to live their lives. he had helped Chaldea, that precious place she had dedicated her everything to protecting. that was enough for her.

 " There’s no need to apologize. You are fine, as far as I can tell.. You’re still standing and talking, so a few scars is alright. As long as you know you that you can do better next time. “ it is here that she laughs, finding humor in how similar he was to a certain Master’s recklessness. “ Ah, you and Ritsuka are going to give me gray hair before I reach New Year’s! And that’s something, since I doubt Servant’s can get gray hair.  “

   she slips back into it easily once more. that carefree and relaxed demeanor so many knew her as. there was no sense in continuing a heavy conversation, at least not right now. there was a time and place for that– this time was meant for something happy. 

      “ And stop that bowing! I told you– here, I am not a Queen. You don’t have to be so cordial with me. “

        “I can make no such promises.” it is said with a tone that holds the slightest sentiment of apologies, but a contemplative tone follows through. he has never been one for lies, he means he says and he says what he means. from an outsider’s perspective, it is remarkably human but not quite — there is always something he learns, steps and steps on a pilgrimage. giving up all that he has known has been far more than enough as a lesson, however, there is naught of time. he has no time for indulging in more fitting solutions.

her jest does not pass away from his attention. he ponders, debating for a second whether to agree about her Master, before he responds in the way he does. serious but hard to pinpoint the absurdity of his answer when said in a straightforward manner. “Miracles have happened before. It’s not impossible.”

     perhaps that is the irony. how ironic, after Chaldea dealt the final blow, he drew away his meticulosity. or, his companion for months shared more than her laughter in their time together. he seldom remembers her eccentricities with thought than he rarely spares for everyone else. it is a wasted sentimentality, to walk upon this city, look around and expect that swordswoman to talk until his ears are forming a song from what she has said. be as it may, it merely exists on his memory rather than flowing in the air, contrary to what that woman would have wanted.

losses are not novelty, and he’s not accustomed to the past returning in any form. he carries the memory of ages long gone, civilizations that flourished and were forgotten, the wrongdoings of humanity, but he does not look back and believe that people will return. it is a possibility, he’s been wrong before, and yet it keeps surprising him.

     “No.” and his voice turns a fraction softer, gentler, and the opposite of what the Beast has always been known for — rage and sadness. it has a timbre full of unabashed nostalgia, the loudest silence in hesitation, but he continues. “However, it is what I believe you deserve. You will have to allow me this act of selfishness.”

everything else will be buried. like illusions that vanish on the sand, akin to the end of a dream. similar to the desert she came from, and the temple that buried all that was of King Solomon. an era that will never return and only live in memory.

“Ha,” strikes out, short and sharp. “You go and sacrifice yourself one time and everyone starts calling you a martyr.” Coward fits him better. Fool is also a good fit, too. Casually ignore the way Roman had burned himself to nothing during the Grand Order; the way he cut away pieces of himself, his health and sleep, to see things through. The final being his wish and body itself, snuffed out like a candle before dawn. Goetia doesn’t know it, and he doesn’t need to know - though he’s glimpsed parts of his bad sleep schedule and terrible habits from mundane life. 

Roman looks at Goetia. Just that, just looks. There’s no suspicion in his gaze, no lingering doubts; only the lightest shade of curiosity, covered by a quick blink. “Will you?” Of course he will. He’s hard to read, but over time it’s becoming easier to pick up the small things. The human things.

“Okay, but I have a condition.” It’s not fair, given Goetia’s the one offering and everything. But, oh, he can’t help himself sometimes. “You have to try some of the stuff I give you. Don’t worry, nothing that’ll give you a cavity, I know you don’t have the same taste as me despite everything.” He’ll pay for everything, of course, because there’s going to be a lot. And Roman knows Goetia will agree - perhaps with denial, perhaps a frown or his own conditions - but that’s fine too. What is family without compromise?

        “I don’t need to eat,” he says, but against his wishes, it sounds remarkably vague. nearly like a child that is refusing to show weakness before it falls into a contemplative, vulnerable tone. he scoffs more at himself than the maker. if it were anyone else, he would leave and disappear for weeks until deeming acceptable to show up again. “Fine, I will try them.”

a headache is nothing if he compares it to heartache — not that he will refer it as such. he infinitely prefers the fool of man over the empty glory of the void. not like he will admit it, Goetia is blunt truths and sharp edges but the barest of sentimentality is always his undoing. some may call him merciless, and he is to a certain extent, but what is left of the Beast is a person.

     oh, the irony of it all. it was never the snowflake shield that brought him down but love.

he offers a stare in return. resentment will bring him nowhere, as it has been proven before, but he reminisces of an empty throne and the smile that would follow any decree, and it brings him an unjustifiable sorrow. not towards Solomon but the situation, and his own blindness. it will never leave, he recognizes it, but that does not mean he will carry the knife and throw it at the man.

     ❅ Contemplation passes over his face, and she tilts her head in equal confusion, uncertain whether or not what she said has offended him; or given him pause to think. Still, she does not regret asking, despite the complications the question seems to bring. There is a need to know, more than anything else. She has never been one to handle things being kept from her very well, and here it finally shows, in the face of a mere acquaintance whose name has only been mentioned in passing by others.

     Her response comes slowly, in the form of a small nod, and she is reminded of all the times the subject has been dropped before. With no determination to pursue it further, much less at the cost of the mood, she never made any pressing attempts, but it always lingered. Who is she to say no to such an opportunity now?

     So she does not relent, this being a person she can press for answers with little remorse, and perhaps one who will let her and offer that which she seeks. To what end, she does not know, but she is facing an enigma, one she will never understand beyond the sliver of emotion shown in his eyes.

     Perhaps what passes over his face is sorrow, and once more she does not understand, lacking the knowledge to connect the dots, having never heard the whole story, kept in the dark for reasons yet unknown. He offers no explanation, no acknowledgement, a mere order for her name, and this time it is her gaze that takes on something of contemplation.

    Thinking on it for a few moments, the answer is inconclusive, and she defaults to what remains familiar, what she has grown into and what she cannot leave behind. “Right. If a codename would suffice, please call me Frostnova.” She would ask for his, but it is a mere formality now, to her.

     He would hardly become someone to call her Miss, much less her real name, always spoken behind closed doors. The only one who knows of it on the island is the man she wants to ask about, the question she can’t form, yet it’s burning on her tongue. It is almost pathetic how she hesitates now, perhaps out of fear, perhaps a sliver of shyness.

        “Names are names. What you choose to call yourself shall suffice.” for a brief pause, he remains in silence, eyes narrowing from pure habit than malice. a careful glance is given, assessing his company further until he offers a mere nod. “Fitting. You and the stars have a lot in common, you will shine through the cold.”

the remark is poetic, whispered with what others would deem confusing but the honesty is genuine. his expression is impassive but he is a creature of silence and rare amusement, weariness is more present than his prior sneers. any teeth that would show violence are hidden like dulled knives.

     “Goetia. That is what I am called by others,” is said with the softness he musters unconsciously. what lies underneath the person and what remains of Beast I, borrowed flesh but flesh all the same. he supposes Romani Archaman would lighten up the room if he heard him, for reasons he cannot fathom. “You may do the same if that is what you wish.”

hesitation is the bane of existence. even the almighty will suffer from it — and had they not all had their own grievances near the end? Flauros had shared an anguish that bordered to denial, before accepting his role. it had been for nothing in the end, not that it matters any longer. all that is left is Goetia, stripped from any glory or belief that their solution would bring a less miserable to the planet. truths are always hard to accept, conveying them is an exercise of patience but he has more experience than most on that front.

     “You know one of them.” or perhaps more than one, he rationalizes. his attitude towards Fujimaru Ritsuka is another matter but he is well-aware of her nature. the Incineration of Humanity failed for a few reasons. “There are many of that world but mages are a peculiar sort. You will find but a mere of their numbers in this city.”

he pushes aside his crude words towards the society that has thrived upon the misery and search for power. his opinion has already been heard of — it would be a waste of time to dwell on it. without any preparation, he opens his mouth and speaks that hangs in the air. there is no delicacy, there is none of that but frontal bluntness.

                 " That’s a morbid question. “

   her words lack any sort of shock or horror at it, and outward calm that toes the line between a lack of care and something unnatural. she responds too easily, too quickly. of all things to ask, of everything to ask her – by a supposed stranger, no less – it was the one thing that she knew. something that she experienced firsthand, too soon and too suddenly. she no longer finds any interest in the dance, in the people surrounding them, for in her silence, she becomes lost in thought.

            her death is something she has not thought much of. at the very least, it is something she actively avoids dwelling on or speaking of. it is something that remains unspoken, a secret. there were those who knew in this city, but they never asked her. never brought it up. it was the metaphorical elephant in the room that was ignored and tucked into the corner, to be glossed over with any and everything else. 

      it is difficult to live like once before. to experience the mundane happenings of everyday life in a bustling city, to waking up and going about her day however she so pleased. there were nights she wondered if this was some strange dream. or some sort of limbo she became trapped in. but then she remembers that burning hot sensation against her skin. the blinding pain that seared her very soul, until it became too much and her cries quieted to nothing. it’s an impossible thing to forget, something that haunts her thoughts when sleep decides to escape her or she is left in silence too long. ( the first few days, she would find her hand against her chest, feeling the thump thump thumping of her heart. how strange it was, to feel and hear it beating. she is not used to it yet. )

            there is no way to answer what he asks. she knows it to be true, but she cannot conjure up any words to confirm or dispute what he says. (how fitting of an inquiry, though. so perfectly does it match the festivities.)   it is his touch that draws her away from thoughts, eyes blinking away anything that remained heavy in her mind and unable to be voiced. lips part to say something, but she is halted. 

     it’s involuntary: the chill that runs down her spine, slow and lingering along her skin with each word whispered against her ear, with each accidental brush against it. ( but is it truly accidental, though? perhaps not. there is intent behind it.) maybe it can be passed off as a result of the chilly air that autumn often brought as it draws closer to winter, the goosebumps something that followed it. but what of the sudden catch in her breath, so quiet and quick it might have been mistaken for nothing? what of the way she stills for a moment, so focused on what he is saying and the way he is saying it? the way it feels, sounds, what it carries unspoken in a space that is almost non-existent. such things are not a cause of the weather, impossible to be affected with. ( and that soft, almost shaky exhale is certainly not from the cold.)

                  it’s dangerous, something whispers in the back of her mind. 

   she cannot blame any of it on the air, on the candy, on anything simple could possibly explain it. her mind drifts to the ghost of pressure from fingers around her own, there and gone in an instant, yet the touch remains. silence is his answer for a time, as if words have escaped her entirely. if only that were so. 

    “ You’re right. “ is how she begins, a not-quite whisper, but her voice still low. secretive. “ Everything changing can be terrifying. You want to cling to what you know, what there used to be in fear. That’s something I know.  But things can’t stay the same forever, whether we want them to or not. Death makes sure of that. “

     and it is here that she moves, pulling away from a mouth against her ear, but there is a difference. she does not step back. she does not create a gap between them. no, she moves only enough to properly see his face, to meet his eyes with her own. it would take but one small shift for her nose to brush against his. ( if he dared to move.) her gaze is unwavering, a curiosity within as she refuses to look elsewhere.( refuses to be chased away by the hushed intimacy of this all .)

          “ Its a change we have no choice but to accept, otherwise you’re allowing it to destroy you. “  a pause, followed by the slightest tilt of her head and finally, her voice drops to a whisper.   

            “Besides, nothing being the same again can be good…. or bad. It all depends on how you make it to be. “      

        “Life may be brimming over with experiences. But somewhere, deep inside, all of us carry a vast loneliness wherever we go.”

persistence is, perhaps, his lifelong enemy, but he counters it with practiced patience. as soon as she gets closer, close enough for them to touch, he measures her with casual coldness. it is similar to staring into a black hole, any misjudged step and he will be pulled in. his eyes narrow, the corners of his stare turning sharper under the lights. as if on instinct, he dares to answer her curiosity with his forehead leaning against hers. his hair brushes in slow tedium, far too calculative but too natural to be deemed fake, as he assesses her. it is a promise of intimacy he does not believe he needs.

     he is more borrowed flesh than a walking memory, roaming the world with steps that leave nothing but murmurs behind.

his fingers slowly brush hers as if trying to remember for what will surely be the last time, but certainty is impossible to discern in these circumstances. frustrating, if not meddlesome. against his plausible judgement, he has chosen to accept the memory of a girl with her silly names and her lonely laugh rather than all that came after. merciless as he is, there is no reason to curse her, nor the belief there was only a pitiful situation amongst the many in human history.

    “Time is borrowed.” what will she do with hers, is a question he ponders. but that has nothing to do with him, it is not his business whether she chooses to play a second life or unapologetically lives for herself. “When you are least prepared, it will return to borrow more.”

he says nothing for a time, only runs his fingertips along the edge of her shoulder. the cape is so similar to blood, it does not surprise him. then, after some contemplation, he lets out a low exhale. he thinks of worlds that will never return, and the creature responsible for all of it. he thinks of Russia with the unforgiving laws and survival of the fittest, thinks of Scandinavia with the kindness that was a cruelty, thinks of China with a peace so fragile that became a burden, thinks of India with the matters of good and evil, and thinks of Atlantis.

     his attention falls back to the clock, which is gesturing the end in a few minutes. in a slow blink, his eyes carefully slide away and then, find her.

his fingers ghost over her palm and for a second it feels as if time stops, as if they are the only two in the world awake. he doesn’t remember the last time he had been this accepting with another’s closeness, had let them see that which drew breath within the pit of his stomach and ventured through his silence. it almost matters in an inexplicable way — he closes his eyes as he twirls her for the first and last time, before his lips lower to her ear.

     “There will be a time when you will question your own words. Until then, remember. Remember in the dream.”

     ❅ The picture painted before her is one she is all too familiar with, has lived and breathed, suffered at its hands before. It is like the soldiers she killed, the ones whom she cannot hate, for they were merely following orders; puppets of a greater conspiracy. And so was she, a mere thing to be manipulated, fooled by whom she trusted the most.

     Led onto a path littered with bodies, lifeless, it is the same as this story, and always has been. The path they chose would never be one of the peace they longed for, but the price paid in blood was far too high for her liking. Still, she grits her teeth, still she continues to watch, to bear witness to familiar scenery, stained only red.

     And yet, there are differences, an element of magic she couldn’t find in her own story, not in the same way. The root. She’s heard this before, and suddenly the gears in her head start turning a little faster, and the look in her eyes takes on something else. It was something mentioned in passing, something she thought would never concern her, despite her interest in it. Now she is confronted with a certain truth, having heard two different accounts of the same tale.

    It dawns on her now, her head slowly turning to look at her companion, and how she couldn’t connect the dots before. She is still oblivious to what kind of being he is, but the place of origin must be the same as them. “You are… from that world.” The same, the same, the one she’s never told about, only in brief mentions, in bitter truths.

     Based on a true story, perhaps, should have been the premise, and she would still continue to doubt, with hardly any evidence to support its truth. However, with a companion like this, she need but ask, to receive the full tale, not an imitation as he would call it. So she rises from her seat in contemplative silence, not to clear her head, but have it filled with more clouds.

     “By all means. I would have you tell me more about it, if you don’t mind.” Such is her selfish request, the kind she has come to make more often, because she would rather know than not know, to stop dancing around the issue as if it did not exist. The truth is always something that may taste bitter, but walking the earth blindly is more cruel.

        her statement brings him to a halt. It is momentary but his grip on his broom loosens, turning around to face his companion. understanding flickers as he mulls over her tone, picking up how it carries a familiarity but it is not quite there. from all those that he is acquainted, few will willingly speak about what has transpired in the play. there are exceptions but he doubts the Master of Chaldea has anything to say to what she is ignorant of. a blessing in disguise, being unaware of that brand of horror.

there is Romani Archaman as well, but the man has stripped himself of anything that could resemble that empty glory. a faint memory of a red cape crosses his mind but he bids it farewell with the acceptance of a half-remembered dream. but it brings forth another option, dismissing it upon elimination.

     his gaze is contemplative. it carries nothing, no hints of the burden of the years nor his exhausted exasperation, the weight is absent. not quite peace, but an armistice, a curiosity that fits what has lived through history. at last he drops his scrutiny and gazes levelly at the other. “You must truly want to know of something.”

he is not obligated to answer anything, if it crosses his mind, leaving her is a viable choice. there are repercussions for letting him speak — to allow scorn bring color to his apathy, to hear the judgment in frightening calm. it dares to bring what has been discarded for a laugh that has looked upon the world and found it worthless. unnecessary. solicitude had suited a loveless monstrosity for a reason, the emptiness had been an involuntary haven. a misunderstanding brought over lack of understanding was enough for a lifetime.

     regardless of what his creator preaches, Goetia has no intention in allowing emotions blind him again.

without pause, his eyes search for a reason and then, it falls with the simplicity that comes from observing for centuries. an inkling, but it weaves an idea upon his mind. there is a glint and while the nature of sentiment escapes him, he has seen it countless of times. from lovers mourning dead spouses to what could never be, it is the same utter adoration the Queen of Sheba would offer.

     ❅ Humanity is filled with greedy and vile individuals – that is a fact, indisputable and terribly known to her as an Infected. The picture painted before the audience is a mere repeat of things that have come to pass a thousand times, over a thousand years, over and over again. No matter where, no matter when, no matter who, tragedy repeats. History repeats itself.

     She saw it all across Ursus, she grew up with it, she fought it. Kicking and screaming and crying, but she fought it. She saw it again in Chernobog and in Lungmen, a tragedy of their own making, a sin she can never cleanse herself of. She saw it in their leader, and she saw the future, tragedy after tragedy, only violence left as an answer.

     But in her, that rabbit, the little one who could not bear to read her emotions, she saw hope. And that was all that she needed to now sit here and listen to a tragic tale without her kicking and screaming, unlike him. To know, that for every cruel person, there exists a kind one as well. That, too, is something she saw.

     A child of mere twenty winters and then some could bear this suffering and still hope. Something as old as time, perhaps, could not. She turns to look at him slowly, and the content smile that had been tugging at the corners of her mouth drops to something more serious. Had it been anyone else, she would think them to be joking. He is not.

     “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” comes out first, as if she’s just accepted this fact as well. Nothing in this strange world should surprise her anymore, but many things come as unexpected. Still, she has little reason to doubt him, she reads it in his expression. That such a thing could exist. But she does not berate him. ( She has no right. )

      Instead, she turns back to the stage, as if poised to simply move on from the topic without so much as another word on it. “I see now. It must weigh heavy, the burden of all those memories.” It must be so. If it weighs heavy on her heart, so young and fleeting in comparison, then she could not imagine the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

     It must be sad and lonely after all, that immortality.

        the theatre paints a picture for the audience. he never closes his eyes, finding some bizarre familiarity with what is formed with words and actors: conspiracies that exclude no one even if they share blood. nobles assured of their superiority, but the arrogance follows those that lack the power and the influence. tragedies pile up. he observes with particular interest an abandoned castle with dolls that follow their instructions and die without regard or appreciation, all in the name of a wish.

    “It is what it is.” he relents. without a glance, he brushes off the concern and any further conversation is closed off. he offers no opening for it to continue. not yet. his burdens have always been and will be his and his alone until the day he returns to the earth. “That path is caved with the dead.”

he listens and listens, before he silences the voices in his head. briefly, he considers a thought but lets it go as soon as the narrator speaks of that what drives the mages: emptiness. the swirl of the root. the records that carry all the possibilities and knowledge, none is too high of a price to reach that point and he is aware of his own futile attempt to utilize the concept to prevent what would happen.

                         all for naught, but that is the beauty of imperfection.

he awaits for the narrator to finish and the light in the room shifts with the passing of the words and the shadows are over. his attention falls to his companion and the world returns to the familiarity he has begun to experience his arrival. he sweeps all that has been said and not under and refuses to touch it any longer.

     “The details are scarce but it is what they say. I do not know if it is a mercy, but I will not berate them. This picture was incomplete, faint in the strokes, but there was no lie. An imitation is an imitation, yet you can still find some worth. Perhaps it is for the benefit of those unaware to handle the truth at their pace. Or perhaps it is not.”

he does not speak again as he collects his thoughts, his mere acknowledgment being his somber silence. it begins to lift with unsaid sentiments but that is his own doing. he has grown tired of the anger, it serves no purpose and brings no satisfaction.

      a slow start, but he seemed to have picked up on it all with ease. enough so that she felt it was not necessary to keep such a strict lead. her instructors words from years past fade away and muscle memory takes over, body moving with a practiced elegance and ease that left her mind free to think without worry of stepping on anyone’s feet or tripping over the fabric of her cape which rested against the ground. it’s a dance in silence, as she figured it would be. hardly ever do people speak when engaged in something that required focus. she has long since mastered this and it gave her time to observe. his gaze remained focused on the ground below and her would shift between those that remained, the decorations strung about and little, unimportant things. 

         there is an end to the first round and her attention snaps back towards the other. she’s prepared to leave, but then he speaks. and it is a question that catches her off guard, yet no visible reaction is given. the only change, small and almost insignificant as it was, was the slightest relaxing of her hand around his. 

                                         do you want it to end?

  she gives no response, choosing to remain in a contemplative silence, gaze drifting to the inky expanse of the sky and the lights that decorated it. truthfully– if she were to give that truth – she does not. ( why is that? ) but what one wants and what happens never truly lines up perfectly, does it? no, for fate, destiny, time, whatever one chooses to call it, is never so kind. wants mean nothing to it. they are nothing more than empty words and wishes that will never come to fruition if it can help it. pleas fall on deaf ears, a waste of breath and time against something that couldn’t be stopped or change. she knows this well, perhaps too well.

        what she wants is not something to consider or think on. not tonight. it will not stop time from flowing, from continuing to draw closer and closer to the evening’s end. it will hasten and it will be over in a blink of an eye. she is sure of this. (but for the time that remains, she needs not think of the after, only focus on the now.)  

      “ Do you?” is what she gives back after a time, a whisper to match his own. something soft, curious, hanging in what little space existed between them, a question that may remain unanswered. it may no. does the answer truly matter in the end?

   – and then, he gets closer. dangerously so. everything else is drowned out in an instant, fading to something muted. as if nothing else existed at that moment in time. there is no change in posture nor grip, yes she can feel errant strands of his hair brush against her cheek as that distance between almost disappears entirely. it is enough to almost render her still and cause her breath to catch in her throat. but that is jut that– almost. so close and yet not quite. still, it is perhaps the closest anyone has willingly gotten to her, outside of a few select people. how strange of a feeling it was. how new. he asks if she’ll return to shadows, something so specific and yet with seemingly no reason for it.  

            but it is something that sticks and it brings with it a subtle curiosity.

    there is the slightest of a squeeze of her fingers around his own, her body bridging that hair’s breadth of a gap and brushing against his without hesitation. a slight turn of her head– not away, but inwards, neither pulling from that voice against her ear nor leaning into it. “ Would you rather I did return?” a question answered with a question, another sort of dance to accompany the one they’ve already chosen to partake in. ( but those of the verbal kind hardly ever come to an end when two people part. no, they last much longer, a nigh eternal waltz until one gives in and finally departs. )

            “ Returning to the shadows and my possible want for this to end are they same thing, are they not?” she continues, voice low, a conversation meant only for their ears. “ No matter the answer I give, this will end, and with an end comes darkness. “ not always of the tangible kind, but the point still stands. “ So until that end comes,” whether by her departure or his or something else–

                                         “ I will remain here. “

        he concedes her opinion, but that is all it is — a permission. there is no doubt that she believes it is the same, but he has experienced the subtle difference and unlike her, and what emerged after, he remembers the polished steel of Mash Kyrielight’s snowflake shield and the exhaustion that followed. at the end of a foolish dream, he accepted everything and let go. without screams, with the knowledge it was indeed a journey transient and ephemeral but his from beginning to end. not that it was a rest for long. if he allowed Chaldea to accept their victory, it was on the inkling, the hope that they would reach another conclusion.

            the utter nonsense of the situation would vex him if he still carried that rage.

he had played his part in the story, had earned his rest, but it turns out mistakes were all the reason to bring him back. oh, he follows the instructions and watches over everything, with less condescension and more exhausted exasperation the farce displayed in front of his eyes. his all-seeing gaze is gone but his memory never fails, and grudges are utterly humane to an alarming degree. salvation for humanity? nonsensical. it will struggle and fight for survival but that is more of the same. the star they all refer as their home has reached its limits and Beasts are merciless.

     ridiculous and headache-inducing worthy, as well. he carries little care to those that came after with their plans of twisted love and imperious gestures, but the exception is towards that what mirrors pity. he would curse the name but his own experience brings forth the memory of the most pliable smile to grace an expression, and he chooses the misery and the ugliness, and accepts the loneliness.

the second round begins. his expression never changes, the proximity is natural in this situation but he takes a few steps away, pulling her into the crowd. where before she led, now he controls the rhythm. his hands never follow more than the occasional grip, instructing her to follow to what he has in mind. before it becomes clear, he sees people change around them and another round starts. and another. then another. but his hand never leaves hers, far more interested in her presence than anything else around.

     “Have you ever died before?” he speaks the words as if measured in a rather casual indifference. so gentle, it was almost cruel. to think he would be speaking to the memory of a memory instead of what comes after. any scorn has been casted aside since he realized it’s harmless to interact with what has been pushed off to the deep end. he knows this intimately, far more than anyone else will, and it is why he does not make it easier. his kindness has never been asked for, and any mercy has long been deemed wrong for those that believe theirs is above consequences.

     “When the illusion of self is shattered, you simply cease to be. It may not seem that way to others, but you know it is true. You can feel it. You become a stranger in your own body.”

his gaze turns to the night sky, his expression turning contemplative. how curious, for him to reconcile the illusion of the maze with the same creature, with the most troublesome of the numbers calmly answering him, bringing none of his rage.

he searches for something, but at the same time, he’s leaving behind all that is worth. maybe bring some conclusion, some quiet to all this. his face warps into utter tranquility, hints of what he is rather than pressing cruelty for grudges for what he understands. fingers curl into a touch that barely give away his presence before he leans down to her ear and whispers, his lips close enough to brush. it all feels like a promise.

     " Fights?  Maybe those ones got lost on their way to a bar.” there is little surprise, for even if this is something to enjoy, a moment to have fun, there would always be those willing to ruin it or disturb the peace that was already established. it was simply how humans worked. there was always, always going to be some form of chaos, no matter how small or fleeting it was. but, at least, the disturbances were not allowed to ruin the evening for others. 

            now see, she expects him to wander off in the crowd to follow her suggestion,  to dance what few hours remained away or to simply ignore it all together and leave. but there is a hand offered to her. he is doing just as she said, but not with someone else. not with one of the many here, but with the intention of doing so with her. her gaze drops to that hand in silence, expression forming into that of confusion as it drifts back up to him. 

  it has been….years since she last danced. the lessons she had growing up, taught alongside Kirschtaria, were not so easily forgotten. her feet still remembered the steps, hands remembered the placements and body remembered the motions. but they have not been put to use in such a way for so long. long enough that she cannot accurately pinpoint the last time her feet danced across a floor to the melody of a piano or a violin, everything else falling away for those few minutes except just her, her partner, and the music guiding them. instinct says to decline. to point to someone else. she worries she will stumble, make a fool of herself in front of so many eyes.  a silly thing to worry about, some may say, but to her, she had an image to uphold.  

      was there a need for it, here in this place? where hardly anyone knew her and she them? where she was just another face in the crowd, going about their life how they wished? most likely not. the rules of mage society and its innerworkings held nothing here, no social standing in any way whatsoever. and yet, it is something not so easily shaken. it’s ingrained. in her actions, how she carries herself and her words. a habit learned and habits– whether good or bad -- are so difficult to break.

   this is why her hand hovers, outstretched and motionless. at the halfway point between taking his and letting hers fall back down to her side. she had come here to watch, maybe reminisce to some degree, but there were never any plans to take part herself. but she remembers her own words. to at least give it one try, regardless of whatever the outcome may be. she must remember that this is not an event held by the Lords or a rival family. it is something innocent in purpose. there is no harm in letting herself take part in it, in creating a memory to look back on. 

          eyes close for a moment, followed by a soft sigh. one dance wouldn’t hurt.

   and so, she takes the offered hand in silence, fingers curling slowly around his own in a sure grip. it’s warm, is the thought that springs into her mind, surprisingly so. warm but rough from callouses formed over time by actions that remain unknown to her. it’s so different from her hand, ones that still remain soft and mostly unblemished throughout the years. she lets the thought drift away, lets it settle itself into a corner of her mind to be forgotten for a time. as his words, she leads. a gentle tug on the hand within her own to guide them less from the sidelines, but not so far in as to be entirely surrounded. if mistakes and missteps were to be made, at least let there be room for them. it’s how one learns, after all.

          she turns to face him and one step is all is needed to close the distance, joined hands raised up as her other finds purchase atop his shoulder. when she speaks again, it’s considerably lower; softer. “ It’s easy to pick-up on after a few moments. Mirror me and you’ll be fine. “  and like that, she falls into the rhythm of the music.  a step forward, to the back, to the side and forward again. a turn here, a turn there, she leads slowly, to give him a chance to memorize.

        those were simple instructions. a step forward, to the back, to the side and forward again. a turn here, a turn there. nonetheless, his sole attention is towards following her actions, finding a certain irony in her emphasis of mirroring her. the first attempts are slow, overly cautious before he begins to match her tempo but his eyes never turn away from the ground.

he contemplates if the answer of not being entirely unexperienced should suffice before it’s discarded. unless it warrants a direct confrontation, he will speak how he pleases, no matter the weight or the vague implications that he spins like all the wisdom is locked away. to a certain extent, he will admit his wrongs and accept them as part of learning, but going further into self-deprecation? he doesn’t have the freedom to dwell on it, the past wrongs will never turn into rights. so he remembers. remembers a long-dead world and long-dead people, remembers the gratitude and the inexperience, remembers the dances and the clapping.

     and yet, the thought he had considered it speaks of something. perhaps he felt some sort of sentimentality towards the last offspring of the Animusphere. all the demon gods were gone, but he suspects Flauros would have done the same in the circumstances – trying to distract his charge with idle chatter or casual pleasantries. or simply, it was the need for introspection. he had always been more acquainted with the dead rather than the living. he doubts Kirschtaria Wodime had not understood when Goetia himself had only offered him a significant glance.

it is only when he rises his eyes again, the first round finishes. he turns a rather caustic stare to the crowd, before subduing it from practiced ease and the acceptance that some may leave while others will remain. this is more or less what he had expected, company excluded, and another glance to the clock tells him the festivities will remain for less hours. time is flowing, and to his curiosity, it has done so with peculiar haste.

        “Do you want it to end?” is a whisper, low but soft. it’s the nature of what remains, wistful and appropriately transient, and underneath, it carries intent. a question, spoken in intimacy as if he's carefully unraveling the world around them but his eyes are only focused on the center, and what is standing at the center of it all. his eyes narrow, assessing her as always, gaze piercing until it carries the same fondness from mere nights ago, a blink in the grand scheme of everything. a mouth that no longer laughs mellows, moves up and down in peculiar rhythm. it is present enough to be noticed, faint enough to believe it was a half-forgotten dream, despite how the coiled laziness has vanished and all that arises is, unmistakably so—

                                danger. unprecedented danger in another form.

he leans against her ear, a few strands of his hair brushing as he tilts his head and gets closer. they are close enough that her body could brush his, if she dares to move. in the starlight of the night, he ponders the question that has wandered across his mind since she intruded. the dead never announced their presence, and what had he expected from someone with that contradictory attitude? memory of a memory, indeed.

  “ It’s called confidence, but most would confuse it for arrogance. Then again, the line between the two can be  easily blurred, so who could tell? But I will admit, you have me there.”

 she will give credit where credit is due. but her lack of joining was more a simple matter of seeing no reason to rather than boredom. that’s not to say she was not interested, but it was something kept hidden underneath. a long-standing part of her, one stemmed from many balls and lavish dances where Olga had chosen to remain on the sidelines, to watch and observe. she would indulge herself in a twirl around the floor with a partner or two, but no more.

     “ Deception would imply you’re doing something for your own personal gain. And unless I’m mistaken, there’s nothing to gain from faking an interest in this. “ 

 it’s a curious thing, though. that stare feels familiar, as if this is not the first time it’s been cast her way, and recently to boot. but her memory has never failed her. that does not chase away that feeling, that tug at the back of her mind. it stays there, hovering, but never insistent. there’s a shift and she can’t place why, nor the reasoning for it. but she notices. she notices and says nothing on it, yet her gaze never falters. it is something that she will think of and wonder later on in the night, when she is by herself, before the sweet call of sleep takes her away to that comforting darkness once more. she sighs, shaking her head slowly. 

    “ It’s a dance. One without any need for etiquette or deception or a hierarchy with preconceived rules one must follow. It’s something for people to enjoy for a night, without worry. “ and here is where that sharpness softens underneath the crimson shroud as a wave of nostalgia washes over her. for the unpleasant memories she has, there were a handful of pleasant ones. happy ones.  a few that involved dancing. it may not have been like this, nor with the same circumstances, but they were still moments to look back on fondly.

         she would not call it simpler times, for her life has never been a simple one. easier, perhaps, is the word for it. gentler. 

        “….at the very least, it’s worth giving it a try. It may go horribly, it may not, but you’ll have the memory of it. “ for the faintest of moments, there’s a smile, small and genuine (just like the maze.) holding nothing of a taunting grin or smirk. and then it’s gone. “ That should be as good of a reason as any. But you are free to do as you please. Take what I said as a suggestion, nothing more.“

        “Speaking from experience, I will presume. Indeed, the nature of arrogance is not for everyone to understand. What you believe as confidence can be considered an insult to another. It is a flaw when it comes to people.”

he narrows his eyes, steps light, and suddenly it’s like the maze, focusing only in the other's voice. there is a certain glint, teeth sharp but hidden — time is unknown, but a quick glance at the sky confirms in a few hours the celebration will be over. it’s not on his motives to stay awake, and neither it is to return to a temporary rest, he can spare some of his attention to what his companion is speaking of.

     “So it is. And yet, there is no denial that others will attempt to do so. A few disturbances have happened from those that pretended to come in peace, only to indulge in fights instead. How quaint.”

he has grown apathetic towards ugliness, but the truth is hidden behind in frightening intellect and pessimism. that is Beast I, a monstrosity given flesh, borrowed flesh but still his all the same. his hands hover in the air for a moment, nearly touching the memory of another time, when the lesson learned from death had brought understanding. underneath all the twisted sentiment, something else had remained. an emotion, born from all the rage and injustice, that accompanies the boredom.

     for the briefest of moments, his expression holds calm, a tranquility that holds another meaning, ethereal and ancient. he has seen so much, heard so much, and experienced less but the creature humbled by death turns around and no longer contempt is glimpsed.

                                   tragically short, and yet, strangely fascinating.

     little consolation can be given to one who has being discarded, and who else but him would understand that plight. an abandoned temple and the emptiness, the clock tickling towards the countdown until it is over. like that maze, and the ribbon that remains firmly tied against a ponytail. he knows more than anyone what it means when the end comes and the importance of having someone remember.

perhaps there is merit in a diligence, before he sees her disappear once more. to look, to learn, to remember. he nearly never reaches out, clumsy attempts are the norm even when he knows that those that hold him without contempt appreciate the effort.

     ❅ A simple nod is her response, affirmation, that yes, that was her question and a normal thing to ask, or so she believed. When she met him before, it was the same, and yet it was not. An indifference to everything, but it was veiled tranquility, not the calm before a storm as it seems now. Instead he seethes, like she has known herself to do, and she does not understand the scorn in his voice at a mere play.

     His answer is straight to the point, yet it raises more questions than it answers any. If he has no interest in this, then why is he here, having made no move to leave and even offering his company? She would call him a being of contradiction and hypocrisy, were she not so cautious of her words these days. Her right to this seat could be revoked all too quickly, and she’s had enough of strife for the season.

     “From birth? What are you, a few centuries old?” A mere joke, so much she laughs even, so much does he speak like something of incredibly old age. Something that has borne witness to any kind of story mankind could tell, and much more. But, that could hardly be the truth, no? Of course not.

     Yet, his voice still drips with something akin to a bitterness and wisdom, something eternal and tired. And still, he stays, and bears witness to this mockery, even if just to confirm. “Yet you are here to view said mockery. Why don’t you pass judgement after you see it? Look, I think it’s about to start.”

        he narrows his eyes, inspecting the laugh before he pushes it aside. an unamused look begins to form until he realizes it's not worth his time, he is worn enough to imitate the personality of others, even if it comes with unmistakable ease. everything disappears and leaves an apathetic, wistful and ancient look.

this is a time before time itself. before decline and unspeakable horror. before the belief was warped beyond recognition. before death.

     the narrator speaks eloquently and assuredly, the rise and fall of their voice painting the picture he has seen over and over. he sees endless slaughter, ceaseless screaming, it’s revolting and hideous and carries a pattern that incites rage, an anger so familiar his teeth grow sharper and his throat holds a scream that has seethed for centuries.

a man never bates an eyelash as the corpses of his wife and son are brought down under his hand. it is simple, she had given him an unworthy heir and brought him no prosperity. in the man’s mind, they had been nothing more than stones that hindered his path to glory. the pressure of losing their power was all that polluted his thoughts, and so he discarded them, without any grief.

     a tragedy, or perhaps more of the same from the society that believes in its perfection. they have no grand-scale wars or conflict that is not created under their hands, there is only blood and hypocrisy in the air. children are stripped of their humanity by their parents, an heir never needs such when the future of the bloodline rests on their shoulders, some die before they realize it and others are discarded, if not given away like unnecessary furniture.

for the briefest of moments, he turns more into shadow, leaving behind the appearance that chooses growth over stagnation. his rage is twisted into fury and sorrow, but never once he opens his mouth. in the split of a second, a memory echoes and tells him about a wish in a familiar face. it’s immediate, the emptiness reaches over and vanishes everything, leaving only an echo of agony.

    ah, this one had a bite, didn’t he? most would either startle, stutter an apology and leave or go off on a tangent of reasonings to why they’re so bored. neither of which she would care much to hear at the moment, but it is a change of what was expected. she gives no response in turn at first, eyes flitting over the crowd. the music would change every so often, giving others a tempo to match their rhythm or a respite from it. there was never a dull moment, always something to chase the shadows of the night into the early hours of the morning.  

    “  Of course not. There’s nothing wrong with taking a break, but others have at least made an effort to get involved. The purpose of a dance is to dance. Not idly stand by. If you have time to do that, then you have time to make an effort on your part to at least fake interest. You said so yourself– you’re here, are you not? “

 it is then, finally, that she turns to face the other, a tilt of the head as a hand lifts to gesture outwards, past the boundaries of the dance.  “ If you’re that uninterested, I’m sure there’s plenty more this city has to offer to keep you entertained.“ maybe she’s being hypocritical, but it’s not like it mattered. she had no intentions of staying long enough to be roped into the activity. this was merely a stop to see, nothing more. once this is done – whatever this conversation turns out to be – she is gone.

     “Do you know,” he begins with an even tone, refusing to indulge her sharpness. “that you speak as if you were above others? I have seen no hint of you doing what you preach of. However, I will commend you. There is little to care in this city, less of all entertainment.”

there is bird-song in the air, curious wildlife coming out to inspect the lights. at last he drops his scrutiny from the crowd and gazes levelly at her. the corners of his eyes soften in the slightest, just a touch but enough for anyone to notice — familiar enough to pick up on. a permission to look upon and come to a conclusion. it is but a glimpse that shows the particular attention he gave her when he had thought she would disappear and never return. memory of a memory, he had called her.

     he pictures a laugh, a red cape hiding claws, and the sadness of a smile. at some point he closes his eyes, reminiscing into what has left. left but not replaced, the glimpses from what he has witnessed in the maze are still there. he sees perfectly the curve that hides that gentle laugh, so gentle it is a reminder he had not dreamed upon it.

in retrospection, he should’ve known the Stars would keep her around.

                                             her ribbon had never disappeared.

he had been forthcoming with his earlier attitude, but there is a difference upon them now. he opens his mouth and speaks, any traces of possible annoyance fall away and he regards her again, equal in all but name. his gaze is piercing, the gleam in his eyes has nothing else but a peculiar curiosity.

      dances were something she’s well accustomed to. though usually something solely for nobility, mages often used it as well, as the two intersected more than most thought. a perfect place to make connections, to sow words, to hear ‘gossip’. she’s been to a few, but those dances weren’t quite like this. outdoors, under a giant tree, and filled to the brim with others in costume and enjoying it. one might as well call it a masquerade, thrown in the unique way belonging to this city and the Stars.

she was not one among those dancing, opting to remain on the sidelines and simply observe. less of a desire to join in– it was simply a habit. of course, she was not the only one. plenty did the same, but there were very, very few who looked as if they were about to fall asleep from sheer boredom. at least, that’s what she gleams from the unamused sigh of the person a few feet besides her.

     her eyes remain on the crowd of bodies, though her words are directed his way. “ Any louder and you’ll insult the Stars with your lack of enthusiasm. You should at least try to enjoy the dance if you’re here. “ advice neither asked for nor probably wanted, but it mattered little to her.   

@exousiate​ –  cinderella time

        it’s an opportunity to set his sights on other activities with far more interest than he has had so far. but the novelty wears off after a few rounds, it is more of the same. the people change, along with the costumes but it does not change his scrutiny. he has witnessed the same occurrence from the throne, the participants being relegated or discarded. the mere difference is the lack of bloodshed, enforced rather than natural and so his boredom picks up. after some hours, he has long decided to throw away any pretenses of manners.

he could pick up his broom and leave as unceremoniously, but his instincts tell him the opposite. there had been a reason why he had arrived to this particular place, under a giant tree and outdoors. it was for someone’s sake. the memory is faint, like a dream half-forgotten and half-remembered. otherwise, why else would he fill the bag with those candies? any kind of sweets cause him headaches.

             until someone speaks and henceforth, brings him back from his thoughts.

     ❅ “I could say the same.” To think him interested in a play, it strikes her as unusual. Yet the face he wears is one of bore, carrying his expectations for what is about to unfold before them – and they are low. She is hardly any different, having complicated opinions about this kind of thing, something she previously only knew as reserved for the nobility, that which she is not a part of.

     Still, it warrants investigation, she’s told this will be in the seasonal spirit and curiosity compelled her to come regardless. It is he who compels her to stay, however. Her broom is quickly set aside and she takes a seat next to the Beast, unfazed. “You are interested in this?” She’s a mind to speak the name, one she’s heard from various others, but foregoes it.

        “Interested?” sharp intent slips out in a thin-veiled indifference. anger carves out a particular picture, it erases all that has been gained and resurfaces an intensity that few could understand. that is the Beast, the nature of what lingers behind the perfect still-surface. it carries a burden, but condescension flows within the arrogance.

                       omnipotence has been stripped from him but his pride remains.

his all-seeing gaze is gone but it does not deter him from accepting the farce he has willingly walked into. the nature of those among his numbers is instinctual, deprived of the warmth and filled with contradictory wishes for humanity. during his time, he had carried the idiocy of believing tragedy could be prevented, but humanity never ceases to surprise him with their baffling ineptitude.

     “If you speak of those means of entertainment, I do not.” he answers her inquiry, expression quite devoid of his previous calm. “Unless you mean the absurd play they decided to choose, it is a story I’ve known from birth.”

he would laugh if it was humorous. oh, he could certainly but it bores him beyond disbelief. a shame. this deranged city has chosen to attempt to amuse him with the most blasé of spectacles. individuality is far more intriguing than what is well-known for bringing satisfaction, not like he believes in that. prayers are seldom heard from the almighty.