love bound.

So! I’ve consolidated all of my muses onto a multimuse (except Merlin, he’s retaining his own blog). This is primarily because I just can’t cope with more than 3 blogs and I’ll be starting classes come October, so I’d like to have an easy way to knock things out whilst continuing to write the characters I love.

To another there may have been a jarring dichotomy between spoken topic and tender affection which was clearly born betwixt the pair. Those war calloused fingers trailed against him where he rest upon King’s lap, honey gold giving her quiet revere as she regaled her tale for how unlike any other was she who spoke of weapons and violence with the same softness another woman would something like flowers. She was daring and wild, brave and steadfast in all the strength she harbored in lithe body, a fearsome opponent and the most reliable of allies.

She was the beginning and the end, sea and sky, moon an sun bound together in paradoxical dance that was unending. She was all of this and more, yet all he can do is stare with expression which is far too soft. Full of so much warmth, all of which is reserved for she and she alone.

“I wouldn’t call it much of an armoury.” Not compared to all that she had apparently wielded in her lifetime, a plethora of weapons though all paled in comparison to one. That one. The one which was synonymous to her and he story, the one bound into everything that was ‘King Arthur’. It was a weapon he’d had the  privilege to witness, to fight against, and to fight alongside with she standing with him.

       Displeasure hung like fog within the air, a stifling thing not unlike his own presence could be; still, had Gilgamesh even considered the opinions of others, he may be more inclined to care. Such was not the case, and even as Diarmuid finally broke the silence that lingered about them, the Archer Servant did not deign to cast his gaze to his begrudging companion.

       The stars were much more fascinating without surface light to blot them. How alike was the sight to the night sky in Uruk.

       ❝ I was at the eve of humanity. Should I not be at its end? ❞ Lips curved in a wry smile, for he understood well enough what Diarmuid’s question was. What joy was there to be had for a king whose dominion is the world? Certainly it was not in running such menial errands aside individuals who were unworthy of his mere presence. Still, here was he. Still, his crimson gaze kept watchful eye upon the Master’s journey.

       ❝ But for you, whose noble spirit burns almost as brightly as that King of Knights you so adore, ❞ he spoke nonchalantly, ❝ it is no surprise to meet you here in your servitude. ❞

He supposed that made sense enough. Gilgamesh was being who had stood at the forefront of humanity, had watched birth and acted as shepherd as he’d guided. Or at least this was what Diarmuid had heard, but the man he was confronted with seemed terribly ill-fit to do any of those things were his opinion in such matters worth an ounce Still, he supposed the world had been vastly different in Gilgamesh’s time to the point Diarmuid had lived. Perhaps such was justified on the eve of creation.

There is hiccup in conversation as King of Knights was mentioned, thoughtful hum as compliment was taken whether intended or no. Certainly he felt such comparison ill deserved for there was no word which might ever bring Diarmuid within even a league of that woman, but to argue would be foolish and that he was not.

“It was my role in life to serve other men and it was one I always found pride in.” Until things had gone terribly wrong in life; until it had been bastardized in death. Anger ran through him yet, a wildfire threatened beneath skin. 

        The prospect seems intriguing, and indeed he wishes that such was so presently, though for now he accepts what’s before him with confident smile. They are a long, old line of legends spanning hundreds of years. He’s inclined to believe that the strength of their tale themselves is what bestows them their true power— outlasting years and years by their beloved people.

       “A blade, huh?” Scarlet eyes blink. “I will have to agree with you on that one. Is there a weapon you feel most comfortable with?” For Cú it’d be his trusty spear, its gruesome nature bestowed to it by his teacher a testament to his battle-born soul who single-handedly felled an army. He ponders then how Diarmuid’s weapons speak to him and how they carried him through his journey. It becomes rather personal in that sense.

       All the while he spins ruby staff idly around, a mild itch that always needs to be scratch, a dog on the trail for an eternity of excitement and glory— the thing that damned him to his premature fate. It’s best he didn’t care so much. “Proud of the weapons you bear?”

@geased / continued from

None of the questions were overly complicated, but in his own way Diarmuid could be a soft sort of creature and there was a certain unease in having one whose stories he’d admired so asking such things. It is enough for Lancer to find pause, fingers shifting across the skin warmed metal  of his weapons in an almost nervous sort of energy.

“All the weapons I’ve owned are ones I feel ‘comfortable’ with, but Moralltach and Gáe Dearg would be the ones I trust most.” A blade gifted by father and lance which cut through any and all magic; these, above all, had been his most prized possessions in life. Now he might simply take things as they were and go with the flow as they said.

In lesser battles he uses Beafalltach and Gáe Buidhe when he’s not really taking something seriously (this is what he used when the boar killed him), whilst when fighting seriously he uses Moralltach and Gáe Dearg.

Child of Sun and child of Death were so very different and yet all at once terribly similar-- dispositions were, of course, far removed regardless. When one grew up on stories of the Hound of Ulster though, when one was inspired by them... well, were those similarities not to be expected?

Sometimes however legends outlived reality, bending truth and fiction into one to create something really quite different. This begged the question then of what sort of man the one interrupting him truly was, for to be true Diarmuid knew not at all.

liked for a starter || @geased​

     ❝YOUR FORM IS BEAUTIFUL. I think I could watch you all day.❞ The words that slipped from his lips could be taken as flirtation, but such was hardly the case. Upon realizing how he must have sounded, he cleared his throat, hand lifting to rub the back of his head. ❝Hmm…that sounds…a little weird. Let me elaborate. What I mean is, your stance with the spear. I’ve trained with them before, though that was never a weapon I was very skilled with. Guess the bow is just what I connected with the most…but warriors like us tend to have something that we’re most comfortable with anyway, so I don’t think it was that big a loss.❞ It was probably good to be all-rounded with things like this, but it was not as if Arash ever needed to know how to handle different things. He was just a bowman and nothing more. 

     Not a knight or anything else.

Initially he finds himself taken off guard by words, faltering as gentle frown took to features as he paused from carefully practised movements. An artful training, paused then as he leant upon red staff and regarded the bowman. “That’s the thing I suppose. We all excel at something, though equally I don’t know if that means we should disregard all else.” Eyes fleet training room, settling upon rack of mock weapons before own lances dissipated in flecks of gold as long strides took him to wooden wooden lances. Two were taken, though one was tossed much without warning to Archer.

     THOSE WERE TRUE WORDS…although who better to stir the beehive than workers? A king would never do such a thing, for he was the one who would reap the benefits of another’s effort. Still, Ozymandias did not offer retort, some politeness existing within him at least to let the other’s comment simply bounce off him and drift away into the air. Instead, another comment was offered. ❝You seem to be stirring it rather well, Lancer. It makes me wonder if my help is even necessary in that case.❞ Diarmuid’s attempts to draw him into combat all fell flat, the Pharaoh having no intention on budging while nothing of interest could move him to further assist. Why waste his energy now when he would be needed for larger and more ferocious prey? That was how he saw it.

     At least, this was the case initially. The Lancer’s next words caught his attention, gold shifting from the distance to instead rest upon him. A challenge? Oh, that was something that he could never turn down. ❝You wish to test your abilities against the might of the sun itself? You Celtic warriors truly enjoy risk. Mm…very well. I accept.❞ A smirk tugged upon his lips as he uncrossed his arms, staff summoned into his open hand. They need only further rile up the chimera and then that snowy white form would show itself with teeth bared and eyes blazing.

Did he need help? Hardly, but that was not the point and as those old eyes settle upon him he can near feel the shift. The way flat denial changes to pride, the way refusal turns then to  something else entirely and Diarmuid can do nought but smile and incline head into those words. “A Knight must always strive for betterment, so who better to challenge than the sun?” Whether Ozymandias was or was not such a thing was of no matter to he, for strength spoke for itself and Diarmuid knew it where he saw it and here it burnt brightly. Radiantly; more so than any sun.

Only in the wake of moonlight whilst the living members of the party slept in makeshift camp did Lancer care to speak, and even then it was more out of idle boredom than desire to really know. “I’m surprised you see fit to be here.” ‘Here’ being a broad thing, and the truth of it not being entirely obvious. Diarmuid did not much mean the here and now though that was no doubt part of it, rather it was a broader comment toward his summoning at all. What possible reason, the Lancer wondered, did Archer have to agree this time?

“you sure? I remember all five of us doing our very best to come back as little mud monsters.” he still remembers the horrified look on his mother’s face whenever they returned from their little adventures. or whenever his grandfather looked after them and turned himself into some beast to playfully chase them around the woods.

but they had been raised by a princess, in the end connla knows every code of honor, every little bit of proper behavior… and he is in general more soft mannered than many other young men had been during his age. “… if I’ve grown does that mean you are an old man now?”

“Children are children, and sometimes children come home as mud monsters.” There had been time enough where he had joined them in such affairs, aiding them in their efforts to slather themselves in dirt have a good romp. It had always earnt their mother’s exasperation, though for his children Diarmuid would ignore her in this much.

he returns the hug, hands clinging to the other and his head hiding against his shoulder “…you can’t make me cry already! I just arrived, I wanted to look really respectable in front of everyone.” but he had missed his father, had missed him terribly through out his life.

“…I missed you.” it’s easy to admit those feelings, besides his expression already reveals that he is fighting back his tears. “I hoped that you would be here too.”

Glad he was to see his son, but in equal measures he was not. He would have rather his son had peace in death rather than being offered as a tool in the wars of others, but such was not to be and to lament it would have only spurned them both.

Diar is a man who serves, and in some ways has a relatively submissive disposition? It’s a position he’s happy in, but it’s one easily abused. Diarmuid doesn’t agree to things because he doesn’t have the capacity to say no/doesn’t recognise what he’s enduring isn’t ideal because? Right through his lore it’s clear he wants nothing to do with Grainne and tries several times to make her leave him, but she won’t and under Geas there’s nothing he can do about it. Under Kayneth he is trying so desperately to fulfil his role as a knight that he allows the mistreatment? He allows cruelty and dehumanisation because he wants to be better than he was for Fionn, because for all Fionn was a dickhead Diarmuid still feels awful over that ordeal.

When he dies everything just sort of... comes out. Anger mostly. Anger at having to force so much down in himself, at being demoralised, at being betrayed, at having his life ruined. Grief, because he lost so much to such unreasonable circumstances, grief that he has once more failed to be the perfect Knight he badly feels he must be, and along with it self loathing because he’s done it again. He’s failed again.

Diarmuid is a man who serves and bends to severe mistreatment without complaint, but only because he has never been given the means to express himself in these matters. Because he is too busy trying to play the perfect role that, sadly, he represses everything not required for said role.