#exilegend

for nine months she has hidden herself amongst their ranks, wearing the face of a stranger. it is not so different from what she-who-was did, theo had told her. only she had worn the face of an ally, a friend. she had worn the face of one of the most famous warlocks, and had gotten away with it. he would not allow the same trick twice.

not that it was an option, she thinks, and takes a bite of the bungeoppang theo had ordered from a local stall.

the pastry is warm in her hands, and the sweet, nutty flavor of red bean paste is welcomed. theo had given her two for breakfast, told her to remain where she was, before he'd shuffled off. to order himself something to eat or simply to puruse the stalls, she wasn't sure. it didn't matter. a moment alone was a welcomed one, even if she was forced into this ridiculous disguise.

her eyes— just two, each a gentle human blue— scan across the scattered terrans as they meander through the bazaar. it is not too crowded on this lazy saturday morning. though the food vendors have been set up for an hour now, others are just opening their stalls, unlocking the doors of their shops. a peaceful start to a peaceful week. it makes her chitin-turned-skin crawl.

she is gazing out across the crowd when a familiar shape catches her eye. a shape she would know anywhere, wrinkled hands and furrowed brows she could never forget. it had been within his mind that she'd dove, only a few days after her resurrection. it had been his awakening that had truly sealed theo's place by her side. and it is him she has been avoiding for months.

and despite every instinct telling her to disappear into the crowd once again, the witch queen finds she cannot tear her gaze away.

The rotary huffs, and hmmms, and noisily scoots over on their front to bother Osiris by staring down at him with their big bright optic. They pride themself on just how distracting they can be sometimes.

❝  just let me look at you for a little bit.  ❞ | for rohan :business: | @exilegend

rohan is in the act of folding his cloak when osiris speaks.

he sits now on the couch, cloak removed, back slouched, shoulders at ease. it is the first time in... quite a while rohan remembers being this relaxed. (it's hard to find time, to find a reason. the vex, the witness, chioma esi's logs— there is much to be done in the limited amount of time they have.) but it's... easier, when he's in his residence. when he isn't alone.

that didn't used to be the case, of course; osiris had to drag the humanity from his closed chest. calloused palms and painted nails scraped for purchase as dark eyes pinned him down. demanding the truth; not for himself (partially for himself, rohan admits) but for the cloud strider.

and it is here, in his residence, with the brightest mind the last city has to offer, that rohan finds himself easing into it once more. he places the cloak aside. he does not admit the way osiris' words make his stomach flutter; like he is some innocent youth once again, blushing and virginal. he would not be able to handle the ridicule.

❝  you can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.  ❞ / for ikora | @exilegend

"you, more than anyone else, should know that is not the case."

with a heavy sigh, ikora leans forward, resting a hand on her desk. the other ghosts over a file, separating the papers within. the muscle in her cheek tics.

❝  i will not be the raven on your shoulder all the time, predicting gloom.  ❞ | @exilegend

"what?"

despite her best attempt to control her emotions, julia's words are whispered, and colored in disbelief. there is a split second of indecision, of desperation, and then she shakes her head. little hands reach out, to grab one of his. she squeezes, warmly; gently.

"no! oh, no, i would— no, i would never accuse you of that. you are far more than a prophet or... or anything— oh, i am bad at this, aren't i?"

another squeeze of his hand, and julia takes a deep breath. this time when she looks at him, it is with a smile.

send an emoji to learn how good / bad my muse is at that particular skill!

“I’d like to boast and say I’m good at anything musical, but—nope! The last time I tried to play an instrument, it was some kind of keytar. And it blew up.”

    THE MEMORIES BURN IN HIS THROAT.  or perhaps they are tears,  though it is admittedly difficult to tell the difference between the two.  especially now.  especially with regard to him.  ze'ev does not want to admit what osiris likely already knows.  what he surely could tell,  based on the things aetius said to him.  ( guilt rises in his chest,  mingling with the pain of what was,  what could have been.  aetius deserves better than to be held against the ghosts of two of ze'ev's loves.  deserves better than seeing his husband curled around the cloak of a man who still yet draws breath,  but no longer exists. )  

    ze'ev never stopped loving osiris.

    he never stopped loving him,  and it is far from fair that those memories be stirred up again,  the memories of the casual adoration in the eyes of a man who disappeared,  leaving the bitter pang of loss as his only calling card.  a man for whom he was not enough.  ( sometimes he wonders if things would have turned out different,  had he been a guardian. )  ( he is beyond happy with aetius,  loves him more than he would have thought possible with a heart as wracked by loss as his own.  and yet.  .  .  he cannot help but wonder. )  

    his hand reaches out for the briefest of moments,  as if he wants to brush his fingers against osiris' shoulder.  and then he thinks better of it.  lets out a sigh.  turns away.

    ❝  you know exactly how much,  osiris.  it has been.  .  .  years,  but all the same.  .  .  you murdered the man i love to become who you are.  ❞    and ze'ev does not even have the energy to be bitter about it.  he is simply.  .  . tired.  tired of losing,  tired of grieving.  it is difficult,  grieving a man who stands in front of you.