#palewatcher

There is a tinge of smoke upon the air, thick and heavy as if it was waiting for him to arrive to show itself as a greeting, as if it wishes to conjure dark memories of his home, his city, burning even under the constant downpour of tears as sickness stalks the streets as a starving slathering beast. He failed those bugs that died. He failed those that lost everything. He didn't even talk during the funeral. Didn't make any demands. He allowed his King to do all alone, to stand there as a pale beacon before the wretched weeping wailing mourners and carry their sorrows in his own four shaking hands, to carry that trauma once more, that agony, that burden so crushing that it could even bring the most stalwart of shells to their aching knees and yet… he had stood firm, faced forwards, and allowed his bugs to shed their grief with all their might. In that moment it was as if all the whimsy of their dalliance had dropped away and Lurien was allowed a brief peek behind the curtain for but a sliver of his life; that was not his Strelitzia, his star, his wyrm that hides his face behind his hands when he laughs or wiggles his wings when kissed on the neck or purrs when safe and warm and loved or…or…

It wasn't him. That being that stood there, it was everything his bugs needed him to be; a god, a lighthouse in the dark, a thousand pinpricks of light in a sky of velvet black guiding the first pilgrims to their resting place. In that moment he was The Pale King in truth. Nothing but a title. Nothing but an idol, an ideal, a perfect flawless eidolon.

And Lurien? He hated it. He hated seeing it. He hated seeing him be it. He hated seeing him be what he thinks he's supposed to be. He hated seeing him play that pretence as if it meant something, as if he wasn't allowed to weep for the loss too, as if he has to be a diamond that never breaks. He hates it. But Strelitzia has always been like that, hasn't he?

Back then when the Blackwyrm had been felled for the first time, when he'd lain broken and burned, healing from the assault and battering sustained, Strelitzia had still attempted to work, demanding papers to sign, to take court from his sickbed unwilling to cease in his certain march forth. When the Infection first crawled through the dreams of his bugs he had thrown himself, body mind and soul, into the finding of a cure, ceasing to sleep, to eat, until the White Lady had to physically pull him from his workshop as nothing but the barest glimmer of himself only for him to wake and scurry right back. Even when curled around a dead clutch, when nursing a wound that has still yet to heal, may never heal, all he spoke of was work, all he spoke of was being ruler of a vain folly and… Lurien sighs.

He'd shouted at Strelitzia in that moment, had screamed with all the force his little moth body could muster, and he knows he shouldn't have done it, he knows those words he can never take back but the image of him there, pale body wrapped around dead still cold dead black tinted eggs, speaking not of how much that loss had cut him deep, speaking the words 'no cost too great' until the syllables lost all meaning. And that's the damned thing, isn't it? Bugs will hear those words, those disgusting foul four words, and assume it to mean 'I don't care who dies or what is crushed as long as I get my way' when it doesn't, it really really doesn't. Lurien wants to take all of those that think that and shake them by the shoulders. Violently. Because they're stupid. Because they're dead set on only assuming the worst. Because he knows, he has seen, exactly what those words mean.

'I will sacrifice all I can, even my own body to save those who I am meant to protect.'

'I will suffer so that others may not.'

'I will do crimes unspeakable, even if the doing of such will haunt me forever so that others may survive and live.'

It means to cut oneself on purpose, means to cry alone in silence, means to stand on the edge of darkness alone with no support.

It means to collapse into the only arms available and beg to die in the place of all others just so it stops hurting.

Lurien looks down at his shaking fingers and curls them as tight as he can to stop himself from trembling, from falling down a spiral of shadow and hate. He chest throbs in pain—a familiar burning hot pain—that is quickly doused into a numb ache as he trudges through the ashen downpour, Jennings following behind in dutiful silence. One more corner, one more drop and—

"Thou took thine time, Lord Watcher."

There he is.

Strelitzia sways on his feet before him like the swing of a pendulum clock, back and forth and back again once more, he almost sways along with the motion. He looks not exactly his finest, tired, almost sickly, but well, that's his fault, isn't it? Lurien only has himself to blame for freaking out and frightening his beloved with that show of rage and fear and burning indiscriminate light. Even so, the sight of him stood there as if they were never parted, it is beautiful. A blessing. His pale visage almost blends and bleeds into the equally as white surroundings, like swiping too much paint upon a canvas, the pearlescent sheen to his shell and lustrous nature of his soul-shot wings sets him apart from the rest of the dim and death however. Lurien can feel an embarrassed heat swirl in the pits of his stomach. He's been wearing the same robe for a damn week at this rate, he stinks of drink, cigarette smoke, his fluff is a mess, stuck up in all directions and… he's a mess. A complete mess. How could he think that such a base creature like him could dare to claim the adoration of a higher being?!

Maybe everyone is right about him; he's a loser, pathetic, only good for following orders blindly, only good at laying his head down in sleep eternal. How could he even dare to think Strelitzia even wants him as much as he wants him?

But then, he talks, softly, slowly, it washes over him like waves at the beach, all early morning kisses and lover's embrace, "Thou did take thine time, Lord Watcher."

Lurien just. Blinks. Dumbly. Where does… where does he even begin? What words does he conjure that don't just twist the knife? That don't do more harm than good? How does he make this better? An… apology? That's what one does in these kinds of circumstances, correct? Yeah. Yeah an apology might be a good start.

"Mine King, listen I-"

A single hand is lifted, stopping him in his tracks, "I already know. At first… I was upset, angry even, that you would hide something so drastic, so damning from me, I did not understand why. And then, I realised something."

Quietly, meekly, he responds, "What was it?"

"You were afraid. Both of us, afraid, fearful, and yet I, with all mine power, can do nothing," Hands spread, Strelitzia looks down at his fingers that shiver and shake in front of him, "We were trying so loud to love each other that we didn't realise how much that can hurt. You don't need a Higher Being, or a ruler, or something to kneel before so you can spout worship at it. And I… don't need that either. I don't need a vassal, a devoted servant, someone who will praise the very air I breathe. For some brief moments I thought everything would be better if I just… turned mine back on you and yet… if my mind is anything like yours—"

"Stubborn, refusing to let go of prey?"

A chuckle, small but genuine, "Exactly that in truth. If you think in the same ways I do then this, us, it isn't something you're willing to let go of."

Lurien looks away from his brilliant light for a moment so he can—wait. No. No no. That's it, isn't it? Strelitzia just said it himself in the plainest way possible. He is just like every single bug 'neath his care; he's been idolising him, putting him up on a pedestal so high that the distant ground below is nothing but a dizzy blur of colour, so high up that he physically cannot stand, swaying to and fro, ready to fall, ready to shatter into a trillion shards of gleaming glass. He's been looking but only at the surface, only at the things that appear pretty, shimmering and pure, and never at what lays under, never at the ugly, the disgusting, the parts that both of them would rather pretend don't exist. With great effort Lurien meets Strelitzia's eyes and sees a vulnerable uncertainty reflected back at him; his own, his star's, all mixing together into a big puddle of unknown futures that stretch out forever in front of them both.

Silently, he reaches out to take those shaking hands in his own, "Well I'm not. Letting go that is. Of you. Of this. Of us and… this sounded better in my head, I'll admit. I might be… an idiot!"

Strelitzia stands there, silent, before in one fluid motion he steps into the shadows of the cave with the brilliant glow of the ashen grave behind him, meeting Lurien in the dust and grime. He isn't perfect, isn't some paragon, not be a long shot. He has a small crack by his left eye, barely there but visible if one knows to look, his scales peel a little around his neck, he's drained, and tired, and dull and he holds one arm across the small swell of his abdomen and—he should be in bed, resting, not out here in the wilds, not struggling to come to terms with his senses, not worrying about… about him. Silently, one of Strelitzia's other hands finds its way onto his chest, pressing in right where it hurts, right where that burn tickles under his fluff, where that burn blazes through his very being. Lurien hisses in response as something old, angry, blinding twists inside of him.

"Forgive me, I should have been stronger."

"No this was… it was on me, I made the deal, I struggled, I—"

"How was this your fault?," Fingers pressed hard against flesh, against the warmth of his body, digging in, there is a spark of anger there but Lurien knows it isn't at him, "You didn't ask for this, you didn't want to be changed."

Lurien's anxieties well up, the ache, the dull scraping hurt, it blossoms into a searing hot something, the more his heart hammers the more it screams within, "But I held my hand out to the Old Light, I struck a deal just to get home, I made that choice, me, nobody else. I betrayed everything you have ever stood for…"

"But did you ask her to rip your very soul asunder and stitch you back up with her own light?"

"…What?"

"…You didn't know?"

"No I… I didn't…" The heat sears, simmers just below the surface, Strelitzia adds another hand on his chest, soothingly cold as he stumbles stuttering, "That… explains everything, everything that has happened to me, how I hurt the White Lady, I have to apologise to her I know I know I'm scared of going alone—"

"We'll go together."

"—and I hurt you! I stabbed you over and over and… what if I hurt, void below what if I hurt our kids and—"

"You caught me after that, Lu. I forgive you regardless. I know you did not intend to—"

"—I hurt you again! Abandoned you to fight that plague alone, I failed my mission I—"

"Lurien."

"—could have killed you, or killed our clutch and I just hate myself for it I hate all of this I want this to be gone I want to be free of this but I can't! It follows me everywhere and I just—"

Lurien finds himself struck into silence when his mask is lifted and a mouth finds his own. His breath ceases, his very hard skips several beats as a body is pressed up against him, blissfully familiar, hands dancing in his fluff neath his cloak in a way that is far too intimate for the great outdoors. But he allows this to happen, allows himself to wrap his arms around the only slightly smaller body and for a moment everything is upside down, topsy-turvy, inside out and spinning and Lurien only realises he's hit the floor when something in his chest moves. Under the surface of his shell something is wriggling, worming, trying to crawl to the surface, being pulled and twisted; with a yell he breaks the kiss, his hands tightening in the thin fabric of a silvery robe. His breath quickens, just enough for the pain to cease, returning to that thudding want, that aggravating heat.

"Forgive me, I think I cannot remove what has been sown in the depths of your very soul. I had hoped I… no matter. Are you… faring well?"

"…Ngh, that… hurts…"

For a moment all he can see is Strelitzia's fearful expression, his wide eyes, his tilted head, "I am surprised you aren't dead, fostering this fragment of the divine within like a curse. Alas, I think tis impossible for me to remove without sundering thine very being, forgive me."

"Not… your fault. Ow."

"…How hath you not died?"

Dumbly Lurien reaches into his pocket and reveals the glowing half of the White Fragment; while he has not carried it on his person for long he has taken notice that the ever present blaze of light that dances through his mind seems to feel lesser when he has this divinity within his grasp. Judging by the very clear surprise on Strelitzia's face—when did he become so expressive?—the reasons why, or perhaps the mere fact he possesses this, is not something known or expected, still, Lurien has no doubt that somehow walking around with a second piece of a Higher Being in his pocket isn't making matters better, the numbness can't be a good thing, right? Still, Strelitzia takes the halved-charm from his fingers to inspect, turning it over and over and over, considering it with such delicate care as if he cannot believe his eyes.

"I think," He says slowly, lowly, "I am beginning to understand a little."

"I think my legs are getting numb. You're straddling me," Lurien's joke falls a little flat it seems because no laugh or scoff is offered in response.

"I had not believed the whispered rumours," Murmured, quiet, he has no clue what to make of his star's shift in mood, he continues talking regardless, "I see no reason to reject or object, although, this is not exactly how I foresaw this happening…"

Strelitzia simply shuffles forwards to clip the charm to his cloak with the same reverence one might hold in prayer, his hands coming to cup the bauble carefully, gingerly, like he's trying to protect it, or focus on it or… something, Lurien doesn't exactly truly understand how magic works but he knows a spell when he sees one, can feel one, pulling on the depths of his being, bringing something to bear, dredging something up from the deep, the pressure builds just like before.

The pressure builds but, behind his eyelids he can see only pinpricks of light, like tiny stars dancing through the darkness, pale and perfect.

Tears trickle down his face but not from pain, not from hurt, but from a sense of almost relief that washes over him as gentle as the city's rain, his breath catches in his throat as a small gasp.

The pressure builds as something is pulled from his mind, from his blood, from the very depths of his being, from what makes him himself. Something that is him, truly him, a something that makes him Lurien.

The pressure builds.

He refuses to waver.

The pressure builds.

His heart thumps in a giddy excitement.

The pressure builds.

His gasp becomes a sigh kissing up against white shell.

The.

Pressure.

Builds.

And as Strelitzia focuses the world burns bright and brilliant, white and radiant, his hands lift the charm from its place as it becomes a nebulous shape, formless, a writhing mass of soul and essence both before it snaps. An elastic set free. A brilliant luminous scream. And floating there, in the air between them both is something… new. The charm is half white, half golden lattice, like the woven threads of a dream catcher, it shimmers and shines with a power he can feel thump through him like a second heartbeat before it drops neatly into his awaiting palm.

"What—"

"You brought the proof of mine love to me in the place where I passed from this world once upon a time, you saw me and embraced me in the deepest depths of mine despair, you, a mortal, have made me, a Higher Being, bow to you and none else. How could I not accept thine proposal? How could I not wed mineself to you?"

"…Well… this wasn't how I had envisioned revealing that or asking you to… wait… wed? As in…?"

A smile, a warm nuzzle up against him, real, physical, "That charm you hold is proof enough, is it not? You hath caught me. I am yours and you? Mine."

"…Oh."

"Oh?"

"I don't… know what to do I…" Lurien hiccups as tears begin to fall in earnest now, from joy, from something else, he hasn't a clue, and yet, his thoughts drift to one thing and one thing only, "Don't we get a ceremony?!"

"Is that what you're worried about? After all of this?"

He whines, pathetically, "I had a gown made for you! I had it all planned, the works! Urgh!!"

"Oh my lovely foolish Watcher," A kiss, a moment shared, it is warm, incredibly so, but the burn in his chest feels almost… happy with it, content, Strelitzia purrs lovingly, "We can think of that later for now… take me home. I fear I have been a fool."

"…That makes two of us, doesn't it?…I am glad to be a fool with you."