middaeg | (Closed) Event & Aftermath Catch All

Entry tags:

(Closed) Event & Aftermath Catch All

Who: Asura + Plotted CR
When: Late January - Early February
Where: Rescue basecamp, Asura's shared home, and likely the steps of Parliament.
What: Wrath, dumb jokes, politics, and a lot of h/c.
Warnings: Strong descriptions of injury, mentions of torture (re: event) and slavery.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The rescuer's basecamp is an entity alive, its head the Coven (issuing summons, prioritizing unworthy lives), its pulse the City Guard (like clockwork they move, calling for order, ensuring that no wayward liberator and no retaliatory victim falls out of line), its fettered limbs the Mirrorbound who'd no choice but to rally beneath the two parties—both guilty of harboring the Rathmore degenerates who'd brutalized their comrades.

Had Asura the means to do more than root his talons into the tenuous thing called consciousness and regulate his breath to shallow intakes and quick exhales (too deep, and he'd run the risk of opening the butcher's stitches barely managing to hold together his fissured chest), he would have railed against it.

All of it:

The middling human politics which prevent the Coven and Guard from exacting justice, saving face at Parliament outweighing the need to eradicate a common threat. How the Mirrorbound have always been tethered to more than just glass, their freedoms and strength compromised by reliance upon the city. His own failure to protect his Bonded; to keep her from knowing the weight of chains, that very thing which had kept Asura imprisoned at the foot of a creature which would have continued to style itself as his Master until the tides of time bleached the world of Faerie clean.

But in all his wrath, Asura had refused that fate, denied it just as he spurns the Guard who would beg from him a statement in the here and now. There is nothing for him in this encampment (no healer who can mend anything beyond flesh, no member of Coven or Guard deserving of his ear), save for the presence and fellowship of the Mirrorbound. They are far from his kin, and Asura cannot claim to know each name and face, but he is well acquainted with their voices; with their spirit which seems to always crest in flame (and this, he thinks, is no great coincidence; no mistake).

Funny, how all of them, now, are far out of reach. All, save for one: the ebon dragon who'd carried him in some herculean feat at the behest of a particular necromancer. And before Eren, too, departs to a place where Asura's hollowed-out body cannot follow (to deliver more out of that vile pit; to make more rounds), he will find himself forestalled by the touch of gold talons (cracked, chipped) to his forearm. Pitiful though Asura is, at present, he is no stranger to pain; he will be able to withstand its unremitting lashes as surely as the bow of a ship cleaves through the waves which would crash upon it. ]

There... [ A voice like the rolling deep of Summer thunder is diminished to a rasp, and yet— yet, the fathomless quality to Asura's stare remains pervasive as always, the green of his eyes stark against the ashen cast leeching the bronze from his skin. ] Is something... I would ask of you.

[ Of any Mirrorbound who would listen. ]

Though I am sure... the ache in your shoulder... [ Put there by Asura's impressive size and weight, the task of transporting the great golden dragon made no easier by the cavity in his chest. The loss of mass had meant only that a laborious task so too had to be a painstakingly gentle one. ] Will tell you that... you have already done enough... on my behalf.

[ Grim, bloodied, and handsome for all its wicked upturn, Asura grins, huffing out a dragging breath where his lungs cannot accommodate a laugh. Every part is Asura a sovereign seemingly upon their deathbed, and still he jokes at his own expense. ]

Edited 2020-01-25 04:54 (UTC)

[ “done enough” he says. asura catches eren before he’s done his best to turn and reassure the golden dragon he’d return to his infirmary bed as they tended to him, to find persephone and let her know where to bring the fissured mineral once jarred and being sold at a valuable price. it’ll be repaid to its rightful owner soon, sure to replenish the ugly cavity open in his chest. soon, some think, this will all soon revert, the threat punished and lives continuing on as if nothing had ever happened.

an idiotic and too-optimistic hoping that grinds against eren’s already jaded faith in humanity. through the entirety of his rounds back and forth, with sokie, removing judar and doing the same with asura, his expression, his energy— it’s all a blooming twist of apathy clouding his would-be passionate gaze, and grim enmity all to himself. of course, all to himself. had his anger trickled toward the family of rathmores? earlier, yes, as a relapsing compulsion. now, there’s almost a sluggish sense of pity for them. pity that spits from the thin spaces between his teeth, and pours into a repetition of history that has begun to exhaust him and leaves him feeling empty. alone. was he the only one—? was he the only one who was so close to caring less? was he the only one aware of his selfishness, that was no better than the captor’s?

the captive fought as if they were free, and there is hardly sorry thoughts for them. apologies would not fix the scars this left behind or cure the wounds that were carved deep into them. he could only feel relief, and pride in what beautiful things are still living in this world, and the next, and the next— a monstrous desire to live and be better than the shit who rose against them, as he sees completely extant in the witch’s flickering gaze and vivid grin and flash of fangs, no matter how physically weak he’d grown. he’d hope they don’t lose it, as he’s seen so many do after their freedom had been so injured.

eren hadn’t the time to dwell on what has happened at home, and only now does he begin to perceive what it all meant, all over again. it’s the first time in ages since he felt the same way he felt looking across the ocean as friends shrieked and giggled at their first time seeing the sea, when all eren could see was the blood waiting beyond it. how much more blood would await him here, and what must he do to leave it? was it an anchoring factor that he’s made friends here, or worse with what he was capable to do for them?

it wasn’t as glorifying as it sounded. he could hurt them all more than what this has caused. he can do worse to innocents if sacrifices had to be made all the same. he didn’t know anymore, and seethes in silence.

his shoulder had only suffered the weight of compression, as draconic strength easily handled the rest, especially under duress— it hadn’t been the first boulder he’s lifted over his head, and even as his ribs tightened underneath the earlier pressure, it’s gone now. gone as if he could shake off a workout and return to a swift walk. he leans over to the head of asura’s resting bed, taking the place of the fabric his talons had caught with his own crystal-blue textured claws, hooking into them like one would offer a comradely grip between two massive, battle ready fists. ]

I’ll be the judge of what’s enough. [ he was dynamic with his words and firm with his camaraderie, you can’t fucking tell him what to do!! ] So save your breath for what’s important.

[ and with a gesture, with his head: go on. tell him, as low as eren speaks, but attentive to urgent words. ]

What is it?

Before... I am able to show you... [ Show, Asura asserts, for even if he were to save his breath (and bah! on that, no force in the world could stay Summer from crowing precisely when it wished to), it would not change the fact that the story which he has to tell is something better witnessed through a spectator's purview. There are times, after all, when moments must simply be lived— no different from this instant where Asura embraces the hook and grip of another dragon's talons in vigor and in fellowship, curling his arm over his rent-open chest to thud the link of gold and beryl blue soundly against his shoulder. And how that impact is mighty and profound, conveying the King's gratitude as it draws Eren in closer still, until leaning is more akin to resting atop of, their proximity such that one needn't strain the ear to hear Asura's words: ] I must take something from you, first.

[ Emotion. That rankling seethe and silent fester which lives inside of Eren, tasting of wormwood (aromatics and bitter) and of blood upon Asura's tongue. And though Asura can appreciate wrath in all its forms (the hot and cold; the chaotic and the righteous), he finds that he cannot abide by this deadened animus which has cast its shadow over Eren's eyes. The King has glimpsed such umbrage in others before; in his own Summer brothers and sisters when they took departure from their warfaring calling, questioned how they were any better than the Gentry bastards when enacting such monstrous acts of violence. Always, Asura's answer to them had been: you are better, because humanity needs you. Changelings, they would always be the bulwark which stood between mortals and the madness of the Others, and so long as humans remained free, the bloody path which Summer carved in its name would be necessary and right.

Not moral. Not upstanding. But right. And for some (the stronger ones), that was enough. But for others (the less certain, the doubtful), it could never be, and they fell from the Crimson court. They lost the passion in their eyes, and that's why—

—Asura devours that internalized enmity, siphoning it clean from Eren's person. The emotion will only replenish in time, this Asura knows, but before it does, he will use it to fuel a spell which he'd not have the energy to cast without the help of a fresh meal. A familiar thing, the descent into a divination spell, and for Eren, it means:

A view from the inside of a stone pit. Reinforced bars which Asura pelts with the brunt of his weight (he is not yet cleaved open, though the atrocity must have occurred in response to this show of raw power; this assurance that if Asura were left strong and unhindered, chains and spells alone could not protect the ones who had caged him), causing them to resonate in baleful song and promise.

It causes the old shift of guard to sneer in disgust for "these Mirrorbound barbarians", and inspires their replacements (new blood, less sure of the Rathmore's cause) to whisper amongst themselves in the hopes that their voices might drown out the foreboding drum of a dragon tirelessly seeking to reclaim the freedom stolen from him. They speculate as to how all of this will end; how the threat the Mirrorbound pose will finally be done away with, and Asura pauses in his bludgeoning melody to hear it with astounding clarity: "...heard from Mr. Rathmore himself they're doing magic in there. A spell to send the Mirrorbound home, and the refugees along with them."

And Asura laughs, its bone-rattling rancor silencing the watchmen's next words, the sound echoing through the deep as he wonders if it would be better for the whispers to be some storied fable, woven to garner the compliance of others, or the truth itself.

When the memory ends, it is clear what Asura would ask of him; of Eren who can (and would) do worse if only it were the right choice to be made. ]

Wait too long to discover if such a magic truly exists... and the answer will be lost to us. [ Or so, this is what Asura believes. The Coven and the Guard will have the captors meet with public trial, and the surety of their conviction will protect the Rathmores and their associates from the Mirrorbound who would have otherwise rallied against them. ] The iron bars... of this city's justice... will shield the Rathmore patriarch from everyone.

[ But as the ebon dragon had said, whether or not he is to pursue: he himself will be the judge. Eren is no courtier of Summer, not one to bend to any authority but his own, and yet Asura knows and hopes. With their talons so interlocked, he cannot think the both of them to be so different. ]

That cannot come to pass.

Edited (wooords) 2020-01-28 05:21 (UTC)

[ something so rooted in him now slips between the cracks of his core like water in a gaping dam, fractured and leaving him with eyes renewed, reclaimed by what felt like a clean slate: they are large and full of vivid soul, and eren can’t bring himself to feel the same way when he thought about the state of the world— sacrificing so many who deserved to live the same way his own people did, and even then. more would have to die as wall maria crumbled. he could only feel that it’s there, not emotionless, but drained of his worst.

it allows eren to, despite the surprise, focus more than he ever could’ve (not that he wouldn’t have already). there was nothing to bide on and nothing blistering beneath his scales, only assiduity as the dragon accepts the fall into memory in favor of questions. questions could come later.

being held behind bars had never trashed eren’s freedom from him; not when he was imprisoned for his crimes, and one day broke out when he felt the time was right. it is what he feels from this massive, proud dragon giving ear to the youth of the rathmores, so young and too goddamn innocent for his own good. a loud huff resonates with asura’s when he hears it: a spell to send the mirrorbound and refugees home. eren was sharp in the deceptive ways of man and calls fucking bullshit under his breath like he’d spit at them. poor boys. poor all of them. the things they’d fabricate to ring the less inclined to their side and whim.

when he blinked, his hand had been intertwined with the summer dragon’s tight and resound in the concern he raises. he is not angered, but he was adamant. he’ll see to it. because: ]

There’s only one way to disclose bullshit, [ three things: it could be bullshit, it could be true, and it could be dangerously false. so eren nods, squeezes the other’s hand and assured him: ] and one thing I‘ll regret not looking into. I’ll do it.

[ he’s made his choice, and he’ll see to it. quickly, even. he’ll have something by morning if he worked hard enough after it and brought it back. ]

—Do you always need emotion for spells?

[ or energy? actually helpful at the time, if not mildly unnerving. but mostly helpful, for what the situation was worth. he’s not complaining, his tone remarks, and would like to know to simply know for his own reference. ]

[ So they are of similar sentiment, then.

As though it were an ascent into the firmament, Divination demands that its practitioners exist in many spheres as their magic manifests, soaring to heights where the boundaries between two (one human and one Changeling) might thin, allowing for memory to be conferred upon one able to shoulder the weight of it. And in this state of being split across the stratums (the lowermost, where Eren's hand remains clasped tightly with his own; the highest, where Asura stands in absolute governance over the recollection which Eren lives), he hears the ebon dragon's heave of breath alongside his own (the utterance of disdain and disbelief resonant, now, in their journey through anamnesis), and he is glad for it.

They are of similar sentiment, though Eren has more pity for the duped and the deluded than Asura is capable of giving, and in the wake of the memory, a promise has been made: I'll do it.

Better, to demystify the alleged prowess of the Rathmores, reavling to all how they'd gone so far as to manipulate their own blood to garner compliance. Better, to ensure that no single, solitary grain of truth lay hidden within the whispered rumor. Better, to set Eren upon this path to stay dispassion from once again clouding his eyes.

Ah, ah, speaking of that— Asura does owe Eren an explanation, one given with the quirk of a wry smile, but no flash of fang: ]

As much... as you need to press an already beleaguered man for the truth... of such a thing.

[ Which is to say that, no, emotion is not requisite for Asura to weave magic in the world of Talam. It is not like Glamour of the mortal realm he knows: it neither sustains him entirely, nor does it power the contracts which he'd once forged with the aspects of the universe.

But... ]

Call it a habit, one carried over from home. [ Something which marks him as fae, something thoroughly inhuman. ] It makes... magic easier. The spell stronger.

[ And it remains a boon in the present where Asura hasn't anything left in his ~~mana pool~~ energy reserves, not after sinking his magic into a silver dragon (and it's always dragons, isn't it?) who had begged from him a spark to free her from her ice-bound clutches. ]

But now... your eyes are clear and sharp. [ A second thud of their still-linked hands beats against Asura's shoulder with finality and trust that Eren will complete the task ahead of him (and perhaps, retain the look about him, keep that vibrancy of heart and human spirit). ] Let them stay that way, Eren.

I won’t let it go to waste.

[ something this empowering? no, never— it’s be as tragic as throwing away the lives he’s taken for a sheer amount of nothingness. something that eren was never fond of, and always cursed the possibility. none of it, no efforts that aligned with his own, would go to waste.

he’s taken enough out of the summer king, though, forcing him to speak when his chest lay there, fractured and exposed. he should continue with his efforts, and bring this along, quickly, to rid them all of doubts or truths before heads rolled. ]

You should rest, now.

[ eren considers something, and then, hopes he could keep the witch’s gate open for a little while longer. it comes first, as a request of his own: ] With this, [ that soon gestures with hands still clapped, and an eye, eyes, eager to give him something. ] If you’ll take it.

[ it’d help him recover his energy, he feels, especially after what he’s done for him. there were no words for the rejuvenation in his heart that he always wished he had. ]

[ Rest. It is only to be expected that someone like Asura would spurn that notion. For six days, he has enjoyed nothing of the sort— now, when all is in a state of tumult, and the King has yet to reunite with and learn for himself the status of so very many, is hardly the time to lie idle. What is a few hours more of enduring old pains (hollowness and cold, but not of flesh), and new ones (parting gifts from captors made sloppy by desperation: a litany of contusions and impact-split skin) after running the gamut of strange human tortures? Asura is not without will enough to remain a solid fixture of the present, straining the ear of all his would-be listeners with shallow, rasping breaths and stilted pauses denoted by one too many ellipses. And yet...

Eren offers to him a gift of something precious (as all memories are), though this time Asura has no need to extend his hand (show me?, he'd bid of Eren once before a bonfire), for theirs are already clasped together. And so they shall remain for a little while longer. ]

I will witness it. [ Because Eren is human, beautifully so, beneath his draconic spines and ebon scales, and the King wishes to be reminded of the reason why he chose to walk alongside mortals all those years ago. Unfailing is his certainty that, in the depths of the recollection Eren chooses to relay through their still-open link, there will be a testament to an ineffable something beyond the grim human history which has repeated itself here today. ] Just... as I asked you... to show me your strength, show me you.

[ The Eren who is unfettered. The emotions which were beyond all Changelings. The perspective which Asura lacked. The mortal experience of aging and growing into oneself as the years passed. All and any of it would serve as meal for someone so removed from the human condition, and between them, Asura's magic twists and twines, enveloping Eren with a ghost of a caress which implicitly states: it's time. ]

Edited 2020-02-08 23:34 (UTC)

[ not long after, vision warps, a deep color of red and pink bleed into the ceiling and allow walls to drown in purple clouds and orange beams of light from a falling sun. the heat in the air is humid, almost uncomfortable if not for the waves of wind tickling the face of who sat and faced forward in a steam-drawn carriage— there’s no denying the fact that it’s summer, smoldering even when dusk crept along the horizon line and waited for explosive, stubborn lights to darken. it would still take a while . . .

a handful of young ones no older than eren sit with him in a circle as an open train cart pulled them, tested the tracks they had only today managed to complete with hard work. faces shine with sweat and dirt, on all of them— and eren speaks, low, contemplative and almost grim: “we need to decide who’s going to inherit my titan”. words that perhaps won’t make sense without context, but there is no need. one by one, each friend argues a point. it’ll be me because . . . followed by another interrupting, then another: no, it’s me. i’m the best option.

listening to them all give their reasons, eren only observes, quietly, neck snapping left and right to settle on them, but . . . none of it sits right. his brows furrow with worry and his stomach knots, rising when each one is denied being a rightful owner but then flipping uncomfortably again. the more he imagined it, the more eren’s heart sunk from his chest to his gut. inheritance was not a worthy issue. it was littered with responsibility, with unbearable weight to carry and a shortened lifespan in exchange for great power. it didn’t feel right, he didn’t want this—

and it’s then, when eren suddenly realizes, and voices begin to drown out from his thoughts. he’s seen his future. he’s seen the scenery, he’s seen everything he wants, and he knows . . . he can choose. there is no such thing as having no choice, and when he speaks up— his voice is stern, decided and resolved: “I’m not planning on handing it down to any of you.”

incredulously, they all gawk at him. there’s shock and uncertainty in each of their features, some even feeling shot down from the looks. this group of five was something far more than passing figures. they made his core swell, made his heartbeat rise as his head did with steadfastness and enough objective in his words that when one would hear it, it felt as if stating an absolute fact. it felt like he could convince a stranger.

“you’re all important to me. all of you, more than anyone. so . . . i want you all to live long lives.”

silence falls over them, and each begin to carefully stare off elsewhere, being cut off and having nothing to say. but, the burning sensation on eren’s cheek intensify even after the discussion has ended, trying to look at them and deciding he couldn’t. his vision is cast to the ground when suddenly— one of the young men yell. wh— why’re you all red—?! as if contagious, and after realizing, the rest of their cheeks all begin to deepen in color. sorry, eren mutters, flustered beyond belief and fidgeting his fingers into the pants fabric around his ankles.

jean, it’s the sunset, a blond speaks with a grin spreading across his face. it’s making everyone red. some laugh at each other, some are equally embarrassed to do anything anymore and hide under their hats. there is one, though, one that seems to be staring at eren. their eyes meet, ice blue with dark obsidian. the girl, who asura has seen before, is older in this memory, hair pulled back as eren’s grows out to the length we see today. she smiles at him, something soft, sweet, and all eren could do is frown in turn as he feels his nose, his face, his ears and his neck possibly turn eggplant purple. his heart pounds in his ears and skips for each moment he can’t bring his glance to pry off her. she clutches the hat in her lap, and then . . . the emotion of this memory is clear here.

it’s only been a year, but it felt like yesterday. eren has passion, eren fought like no other, but for what? what made him so ferocious, what saddened him so? what drove him to keep going? the extravagant colors begin to seep and pool around blackness until it all begins to fade, into the very colors of the sunset so strong that marked eren that day, and what he now carries on his body in the form of scales. deep orange, blood red, a shine of pink and sheens of indigo.

eren’s grip never falters. his scales burn as brightly colored as that day, like fire, the same fire that kindles in his eyes and gives him life and makes his chest pump. it was them. it was her. it was love. this was part of him, underneath all his dangerous flaws and blunders. ]

[ For three days, Asura dreams. In a world both wretched and sublime, his draconic's heart pulsates within his chest, its molten fulminations no longer confined by his adopted bipedal frame and figure. With his body cracked open (humans have done this, a voice within him roils and burns, in their folly, humans have unleashed their Unmaker), magma and flame flow in excess off of his chest, wreathing his body until he is once again the great golden dragon of Svarga, his Keeper's favored destroyer. Difficult not to succumb to it, the fervor of dreamtime imperium (the call of Acardia, that which always slept within him); the inexorable truth that all degenerate beings would meet with their reckoning if only he did not shed his Ifrit's carapace, retaining it even in the waking world where the hammer of justice had yet to be brought down upon unworthy heads.

He dreams, and the echoes of what he had been made to be (by his Keeper's hands and all the creature had instilled in him) seep back into the mind as though he had never escaped them; like nothing of him (or the bonds he had forged in the world) existed beyond the scope of Arcadian record. But—

—that's a whole crock of shit, isn't it? One concocted by the madness which he would never be without, but would always tame in the end. It is true: Arcadia is the realm which he knows best (it is your home, and always you will return to it, the voice surfaces again), but the domain of mortals is his freedom, where he'd found himself again, and the world of Talam is infected and it is dying. It is where humans have chosen (and have chosen wrong) the many over the few, shackling those ill-perceived as threats and subjecting them to torments without parallel. And it is where a verdant garden, an overflowing, ashen heart, and an untamed force of life and all its shadows awaits him. Like fuck is he burning any world where they exist to the ground.

And it is with that sentiment that Asura wrests himself free of sorry-ass dreams, lurching awake to the feel of familiar magic (phosphorescent and sheltering, both a vigil and shield over his skin) and the surroundings of a room. His room, in a shared home in Haven. That no other occupant of the house has remained at his bedside is a welcome relief: the last thing he would wish for is his debilitated state to become some loathsome ball and chain for another he cares for. His body, after all, should be a prison for only him, and in the here and now (where his limbs move sluggishly, uselessly, after six days of confinement and three more of unconsciousness), he would have no one lay witness to the way he struggles to simply make his way to the washroom.

A series of ungainly full-bodied heaves and staggers sees him delivered to his destination, though exhaustion prevents him from seeking out the therapeutic massage of a hot shower. Instead, his taloned hands clutch to the fixture of the bathroom sink, employing it as a brace with which to keep him on his feet. His balance is shot to shit by the hollowed-out cavity in his chest, the whole world seeming off-kilter, and so he closes his eyes (steady now), and reopens them to—

—the vanity mirror. His reflection greets him there, all pallid skin and wildly matted hair, and though the blood has been cleaned from his skin (which poor medic had been responsible for toweling him clean so surface injuries could be properly assessed?), it isn't enough. He wants to wash his skin raw, clean from him the filth of wasting away in the chains cast upon him by invidious aristocrats. And yet, were he able to bathe as he would like, the scar which spans the breadth of his chest would still stand as testament and reminder.

Brazen and tempting fate, he lifts one hand from the sink to trace taloned fingers along the length of the raised scar tissue (humans have done this), aware that the one who had pieced him back together now lingers in the washroom doorway. He'd left it open, after all. ]

It is seamless. [ Her healing. Truly, it is without flaw. ] Your spellcraft... is why I am able to stand now.

[ It is the only reason why he did not fall. And how close he'd been—when she'd burst through the cell door to retrieve him from the Rathmore's pit, he'd barely enough strength to lift his head. To huff out a star-struck you're a sight for sore eyes, Sokie Undertown before being transported to a medical tent. He hadn't seen her again (being comatose and all), though he'd known that she had been with him, could feel her (her everything, poured into him) mending his collapsed chest and the wounds which Coven healers lacked the expertise to address.

Shaking his head (is a fucking dizzying mistake), but he grins anyway, finally, finally ready to look Sokie's way, catching her gaze with his own. Shame should never be the reason why he's unable to meet her eyes, least of all when the whole of him is thrumming and alive with her magic. What spell has she got on him? ]

Tell me, how is it that I'm supposed to repay you, Sokie Undertown?

Edited 2020-01-25 23:40 (UTC)

[It had been a shitshow. A great big shitshow for the past three days. She had been pooling all of herself into him, once she had seen the complete mess that Asura had been left in. She had to feed Paloma of course- willingly, even if she had been wary of the effect that it would have on her little vampire- and she had Eren take Asura out, and asked him to take him back to their house so they could heal him in privacy- otherwise, she had been focused mostly on Asura.

Very little had been given to those others that had been kidnapped. She had very little left for others.

Three days, Asura had been recovering; there had been no way of feeding him, do more then to ensure that some water was trickled into his lips. And she had watched. Her and the others, making sure that he didn't expire, and that if he woke up, someone would be there. He wouldn't be alone.

When she heard him move about, she got up with her cup of coffee, and she leaned against the doorway, taking a slow sip of her drink. It was still hot, fresh made, nearly burning, but she needed the action in seeing the pained grin on his face.]

Who said you have to pay me back, dunce?

[She said it lightly enough, but her expression- usually so light hearted, so amused- was serious.

Guess she really meant it when she called him dumb.]

Now that you're awake, we can work on this together. But first- I assume you want a shower? I'll get a chair for you.

[ So she isn't going to tell him. Not how he is to begin to repay her (something which the fae in him cannot stand—a debt is a debt, whether it is owed to a perfect stranger, ally, lover, or friend), and not how much of a crapshoot the past while has been. No, she'll just casually angle her shoulder into the doorframe instead, leaning there with her coffee in hand like Asura can't see the fatigue weighing upon her brow; like he is blind to the cast of purple-blue shadows beneath her eyes, the gauntness to her face.

Courting death has not benumbed his senses: clear to Asura long before he'd glimpsed her, that Sokie had spent too much of herself on him, leaving the barest of fumes for her own body to run on. And still, she calls him dunce, thoroughly lacking in any and all mirth as she levels him with a gaze usually reserved for objects of study.

Asura, he knows this side of Sokie, is aware that her detachment and reserve are for the express purpose of tempering her own emotions; of quelling the wrath which had announced her presence while the Changeling had been preoccupied with staring down the abject reflection which had greeted him in the mirror. But Asura (damnable, dunce Asura), is hopelessly attuned to the spheres of Sokie's sentiment, right down to the way the anger which limns from her person, suffusing through the whole of the room with its weight, stems from a place so gentle that it could make anyone's heart break. ]

No. [ His eyes flash, and there's a grimace upon his lips, and perhaps his mood is influenced by her wrath when he declares— ] First, I want you.

[ —and moves to let go of the sink which has borne too much of his weight already. It is sheer, bull-headed obstinance which drives him forward, toward Sokie, until he leans upon the opposite end of the door, breathing hard from the simple exertion. Yes, he looks a fright, and yes, he's pretty sure he smells ten times worse, but this is important. The way he reaches out to her, the flat of his taloned hand pressing to her breast and over the beat of her heart, is a connection he has been starved for. ]

I want to touch you and let you know that... [ —voice breathy and head spinning, he slumps a little bit more into the doorframe, the wood creaking with the shift of his weight. Though his chest is hollow and his figure is lean from hunger gone unaddressed, he is still a dragon-ish big boy who only comes in size large. ] ...I'm as alive as I have ever been, and that I am the one who's decreed that this debt between us must be repaid.

And I will begin to do so by saying... [ "I'm used to people dying on me, or trying to use me. If not that first party, then a second, trying to kidnap them, killing them, or worse to spite me." Sokie's voice echoes in his head, and he remembers what it is she'd confessed to next: ] ...I'm sorry, Sokie, for hurting you.

[ Her and others; the people he'd sworn to protect above all else. When he'd fallen, he'd taken others, too. ]

Edited 2020-01-26 02:36 (UTC)

[Just like he won't see how she's poured so much into him, like how she looks like she could use bed rest herself- or at least a sit down with a soup and a really good sandwich.

Or a session where she was screaming and slamming a hammer against something that would be fun to break. She hasn't had an outlet for all of the anger, the rage that was enough to make others tremble. They took her people and they treated them like this? They used them like this? And they were sloppy to boot. She saw that in listening to people, in her search and it was...enough to fuel her righteous rage even more.

And here he is, going with saying that he wants her, touches her in the boob and...says that the debt must be paid and apologies.

Something cracks, and she sighed, hot breathed, and closed her eyes. It wouldn't be fair to take her anger out on him.]

This isn't the time for you to apologize to me. You're vulnerable.

You should eat it already. We can talk about debts and apologies later.

[It being...well, what's just filling up the room right now. Her wrath.]

...figures that I'd be bad it, huh? [ —he huffs and tries to laugh, only to realize he hasn't the capacity to. And what a loss that is, because the vibrant sound of Asura's guffaw is often indicative of his moods. He crows in victory, chuckles bitterly in defeat, bellows when under strain, and in the here and now, he would have rasped a wry sound that only Sokie could pull from him with her admonishment. She is right: now is hardly the time, but a few days prior had seen Asura in dire straights, and he wants to leave nothing unsaid. If not now, then when?]

Being vulnerable, being weak. [ Weak—he intones the word with low, sibilant rancor, its sound amplified by ceramic washroom tiles and pretty porcelain fixtures. Always, he has been strong; always, he has been the one to look to in the bleakest of hours and moments of need. To lack the physical capacity to move mountains is something foreign to him, the dragon who had been crowned by Summer for his tenacity and grit. ] I don't have a damn clue how to do it.

Just like you don't know where to funnel your wrath, because... [ From its place over her heart, his hand rises, lifts to tuck an errant strand of cinnamon hair back, behind the shell of her ear, in a tender gesture which tests the limits of his tremulous-at-best dexterity, before— ] ...you've been cooped up in this house because of me.

[ —he devours it, her wrath. Siphons for himself an impossible portion while knowing full well that this meal of his will only relieve her for the time being. After all, the circumstances which had inspired her high-minded ire have not changed; the sentiment will only blossom anew within her chest. And for as long as she bore anger in excess, Asura would be there to pacify it. Ease it down, as its taste (pungent as blood and acrid as alchemical reagents) lingers upon his tongue. This is what he owes to Sokie; this is how he pays his debt.

And by the time he is finished with Sokie's offering of a feast, Asura is no longer standing. Somewhere in the midst of pulling the wrath from her person, he'd started a slow descent down, to the tiled washroom floor below. He sits there now, still leaning heavy against the doorframe, murmuring: ]

For... how many days have you lingered in this state? How much time has passed us by?

[She nearly rolled her eyes but...oh, that whispery noise. It's not like her noises. His filled the house, his bellow down the hall as they talked about whatever, as they ensured that things were all right. And that was...

that hurt more then she expected, having his voice taken from him like this.]

How the hell should I know? I'm emotionally constipated.

[It's supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat. But...she allows herself to feel annoyed as he drains her. Drains her of the potent anger, the rage, the lividness and...leaves her mostly tired.

But also alert and ready to be more reasonable then snappish. The next breath she takes is easier, and calmer.]

But I stayed by choice. I could have had your fanboy stay. Or Paloma, or Persie girl, or any of the others. I didn't have to stay.

I'm also a little drained because of blood loss. Paloma needed some. So, this was for me and you.

[She sighed, and gently touched the top of his head. And then:]

I'm getting you broth. You've been down for three days, fall out boy.

It is... not for lack of gratitude that I asked. [ Of this, she must be aware. Asura, he owes her his life. As surely as his body has become a reliquary for her magic and her wrath, he so too holds within him a well of thanks for which he has no outfall; no way to express.

None, save for this: ] I am glad you stayed.

[ Her hand is a warm weight atop his head, and beneath it, his eyes fall shut, lashes fanning darkly over the ashen cast which yet remains as a shroud over his skin. ]

Glad that you're here now. Emotional constipation or otherwise.

When I was in that pit, I thought of you. Imagined how this conversation would go when the tide finally changed, and we wrested ourselves free of our oppressors. [ Difficult for him, to speak of it. Of the time he'd spent in chains when he'd sworn to himself never again. But the more he speaks, the stronger he feels. His voice thin and it is tenuous, but it still belongs to him. ] It went a little differently than this. Less talking and more smacking. [ And here, the corner of his mouth hitches up, into a grin which is perfectly roguish and somehow heart-achingly poignant in turns. ] Me, being able to support my own weight for more than a laughable second.

[ For the briefest of moments, he lifts his chin, canting his head up, into Sokie's touch. He'd missed her. Missed this. Their back-and-forth repartees and returns. ]

You, being able to accept my apology.

[ When he knows that she'd been hurt. ]

But... broth is good. [ Opening his eyes, he offers her a wink and a bad joke in kind: ] And maybe some sugar, we're going down with it.

[ W h a t, she'd done herself in with that fall out boy thing, all right?

(And when Sokie returns from her broth-warming adventures, she will find Asura in the midst of drawing forth a chair from an adjacent room via a bout of universal magic. But while consuming wrath had replenished a good deal of his magic reserves, focus and clarity of mind are still requisite to spellcraft, and that's why—

—when he gestures with his taloned hand, like he's wrangled the chair with an invisible rope, it moves, but not in the way he would like. It fucking flies, sailing through the air, whizzing right past Sokie on a crash-course trajectory with the doorframe of the washroom. And with a mighty crash! it collides, rather than breezing on right through, splintering to pieces before Asura who still sits upon the floor, wide-eyed and bemused and with slivers of wood showered atop the bloodied mess of his hair like confetti sprinkles.

But also, he's laughing. Laughing soundlessly, with hard exhales of breath, but the expression's there, and the telltale crinkle at the corners of his green eyes is mirthful.

What the fuck, Sokie wasn't supposed to walk in on this.) ]

I know Asura. I know. I'm just being crabby.

[She was gentle, feeling around his scalp for signs of cuts or bruises, even as she gave him gentle touches, reassuring ones. She knew that he needed touch more then he pretended. That was how she found him in her bed that first night, his hands wrapped around her like she was a security teddy bear, a don't go, going through him in silent body language.

She's not surprised that he thought of her. She thought of him. She worried for him. Worried how it would break him down, into someone she didn't know. So far, it seemed manageable.

So far. She didn't know how many cracks he was hiding beneath the desperate veneer. And it was veneer. And...she wondered. How many other times had he faked it? No...no. She always knew he was a little crazy, like how Eren was when he wasn't completely ready to indulge in hedonism. She'd just have to wait, and see.]

I want to hear your apology when you're on your own two feet, and when you can laugh while you try to smack me back. This just sounds like you're vulnerable.

[And not the way that they made it okay. Even if she choked a little on his sugar request, she pulled away with a,]

Maybe you'll get some sugar if you drink your broth.

[And she goes and comes back with beef broth and...he broke one of their chairs.

He broke one of their chairs by trying to bring it over.

Sokie slow blinks.

She knew that he might break some things accidentally when they started living together, but not quite like this. With a sigh, she gently placed the cup of broth in his hands.

(She didn't know how rewarding it would be for him, or others, to feel heat.]

Drink this.

[And she starts off, not with a spell, but by gathering a rather mundane bin, dust pan, and broom to sweep things up.]

It seems you still need to work on your fine controls when it comes to spell casting. I've some books for you to read, but...maybe it would be better to teach you how to mend, and see about using the spell on the chair.

That way you can clean up after yourself. And thus, you won't have my foot shoved right up your asshole and becoming your second tongue.

Where was that threat when I broke the bed after you got me all wound up?

[ He remembers that night fondly and well (along with so many others), and no, the promise of retribution (for the messes, the ones which Sokie seems to always clean up) doesn't at all scare him.

What does is this: the thought of being allowed (being alone) to sit and stew in his own head, because in the moments after Sokie had left him, memories of Arcadia had been upon him again. He'd heard it for the second time, the voice of his once-Keeper, and it had rooted deep at the back of his mind no different from the way the Cwyld seized upon its hosts and left them shaded and shadowed, full of the infection and nothing else.

And so, to set himself to purpose (and to remain in the present, straying far from the possibility of falling into a waking dream), he'd cast a spell. Enacted the magic which had Sokie sweeping up chair-bits into a tin basin.

She isn't wrong. When he isn't focused, his spellcraft lacks in finesse. And yet, it'd felt so damn exhilarating to smash something to pieces after being laid up and useless in bed. ]

Or is it the fact that we wrecked it together, and this... [ He breathes in, the warmth of the cup of broth pressed to the center of his bare chest. By way of the porcelain, the heat of the liquid suffuses through to his skin in a way that's enlivening, helping to affix him to his surroundings. The washroom. Their shared home. To Sokie, who's going to strong-arm him into studying while his body remains in recovery. ] ...is the piss poor result of my own heedlessness?

[ Taloned hands curling all the more tightly around the cup of broth, Asura does not partake (he does not drink), though he holds fast to it. Clutches it, like its heat were a lifeline that had been offered to him. That, upon waking, his pride had been glad for the lack of an audience to his miserable state remains true. However... the longer that he remains awake (and the longer that his dream does not fade from his mind), the more he finds that he has no wish to be left alone to his own devices.

(Hilarious. Real fuckin' funny, that Asura Adevah, who wears Summer's diadem, is warfaring and commanding, draconic and bestial, cannot stomach the thought of being on his own. How he is vulnerable, just as Sokie had proclaimed him to be, and he doesn't know how to reconcile the fact with what he is. What he projects himself to be.)

And suddenly, a startling !! acquiescence: ]

But I'll learn to mend. [ If she's the one who's showing him. ] Can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I'll learn.

It's... how you put me back together again, isn't it? [ Because it couldn't be healed, only mended, the stone which housed his crystalline innards. And before what had been harvested from him could be reformed again, its shell of protective framework had to be repaired, fissure by fissure. ] Think I should at least be familiar with how it's done, if only for that reason.

Edited 2020-01-29 04:11 (UTC)

Honestly, I was surprised you didn't jam right up into my cervix. Or broke your dick.

[She had to fix the bed too, after they were done. But she had enjoyed the tryst, and those that came before and after.]

But you're being sloppy, and that's not good for your magic, or your mind. That's why you're fixing the chair.

That, and I don't have the energy to spare.

[She narrowed her eyes. He's not fussing as muc as he usually does. What's his game here...oh. He's going to overdo it and use the spellwork to make it a reason for him to exhaust himself.]

Drink your broth. This is only the first phase. You're also going to eat until you burst, so we can regrow what crystals couldn't be found.

It's not as simple as spamming you with spells.

[ Drink your broth, Sokie instructs, and Asura's left to wonder how the hell he's supposed to do just that when the mage has gone and confessed that their most vigorous night together had left her staggered— perplexed, that their bodies could keep up (keep the pace) where their bed hadn't. Break his dick (hah!), the King of Summer is far more likely to put a hip out first. Or so, he happens to be of the mind. And woe be to them, neither he or Sokie have the energy (or the strength) to put that theory to the test when the mage is drained (of magic, blood, and wrath), and the whole of Asura's body feels like dead weight and jelly. ]

Yeah, I'll drink. But for each sip, I'm asking a question. [ —he declares no sooner than he deems it safe to nurse at the mug of broth without fear that a silent laugh might seize upon him again. ]

Starting with... what's this about multiple phases? [ The first draw of the steaming liquid, long and deep, is both torture and relief in turns. Asura grimaces through it, pleased with the heat of the drink, though his stomach seems not to know how to react to the intake of anything like food after so very long of going without it. ]

Next, you're saying that you found my fire crystal? [ Where? In the charred remains of the Rathmore's torture room? Or had his insides made it to market in the time he'd been held captive in that stone pit? Did the Witches of this realm (once, once, he'd told Sokie what mages did to his kind; how they dismantled Changelings no differently from the way Witches took apart Monsters, and all for the sake of casting spells) finally get their piece of him? Bitterly, Asura drinks again, swearing he can feel the broth sitting heavy in his gut. ]

And... [ Leaning back, against the doorframe, he takes a third sip from the mug, and thinks... that maybe, there's something to this. The more he drinks, the warmer he feels, almost like his body temperature hasn't ticked down a degree or two because of the lack of fire crystal inside of it. ] ...you know that I can wait, right? I'm awake now, and I'm not going anywhere.

[ When Sokie's task of collecting chair-pieces brings her within the reach of his arm, his taloned fingers make a grasp for the leg of her pant, curling into the fabric as he holds her still, saying: ]

You can take it easy for a little while, Sokie.

[ And to be honest, that whole 'eating until he bursts' thing doesn't sound at all pleasant. That can definitely be postponed, can't it? ]

Edited 2020-02-02 00:24 (UTC)

[She accidentally gave her man friend the giggles. Welp, that's not the worst thing that she's done to him, so. It's fine. She continues to work on cleaning up and putting things in the bin, but listening to what he has to say.]

That's because I can't replace things that aren't there. So now that you're awake, we can take other materials from your body, mainly nutrients, and see about encouraging growth.

But I didn't find it. Persie and Eren did. They'd already put parts on the black market.

[Her voice warbles a little. Not in near tears, but in the anger raising and her swallowing it down.

But him sagging her pant leg, had her look at him. And she...rubbed her face with her hand, exhaling slowly.]

And no, I can't. I know you wanna cuddle and I am extremely relieved but...I'm way too high energy to stay still right now.

Also, I can do something productive now. It didn't feel like enough before.

...know that feeling, too. [ Releasing the leg of her pant, Asura takes to assisting Sokie instead, no longer a hindrance when he picks the splintered-chair bits from his hair before flicking each and every sliver of wood into the now-full bin. And what a bundle of mixed messages Sokie is (I don't have the energy to spare, I am extremely relived, I'm way too high energy to stay still), leaving Asura to worry after her (like she worries after him). A shaky sigh of his own slopes his shoulders, after his task has been finished and there are no longer any confetti-sprinkles of chair decorating his head like some novelty crown of thorns. What he should do is relent, allow himself to be taken care of. But what he wants to do is help, and so he does: ] Know it so damn well that I can say it won't ever feel like enough.

[ No matter what she does or doesn't do. ]

And that's... what keeps us moving forward, doesn't it? Despite tired bodies and worn hearts. [ In this facet, they are the same. They are fueled by what still needs doing, as opposed to what has been returned and already hard-won. Asura and Sokie, they're never satisfied. Enough is never enough. ] If you're really after something to wear you out, think you helping to wash my hair will do the trick. The only other time it's been this gnarled and caked with dirt was after I wrestled those reediles on the riverbanks.

[ The remnants of his cup of broth? Yeah, he's gonna chug it down like a shot in three, two, one...! There he goes. It's forced, but he soldiers right on through it, slamming his emptied mug down, upon the washroom tile to signify his victory before— he pushes himself up. Standing again. Fighting again. ]

That mud, it stuck with me for days. [ Smiling, he flashes a mouthful of dragon fang. ] Let's hope the stink of that stone pit doesn't do the same, or else we're really never going to cuddle again.

[ W h a t, she'd said 'cuddle first', okay? Not linger in possessive embrace, but cuddle. ] And maybe, while we're at it, you can even tell me what it was like. After the fires, when Paloma and I were gone. I'm not going to have any way of knowing otherwise, and you...

Need to wash yourself clean of it, too.

[ As much as he does. As all of them do. ]

Edited 2020-02-02 21:21 (UTC)

[Puppy eyes, were not effective. Sorry Asura, she has a way of processing things, and she usually doesn't settle down with a case of the cuddles- not when she was feeling so much relief that she could allow herself to feel the anxiety. Especially when she's been drained of her anger.

There's no hand shaking at least, not this time. She's steady, even as she sweeps up the rest of the chair bits.]

It is. But I am going to take care of myself, and I am going to be an adult.

[She eyes him.]

I still think you wrestling with those reedlies was a stupid idea.

[Just a normal stupid, not a How could you sort of stupid. But of course he chugged his broth, and now he's going to keep the cuddling in mind. He's a tactile boy, she knew this from day one.

With a huff, she moved away, into the hall, and brought over another chair, covering it with a towel.]

Also, don't move too quick. You'll just fall again, and then I'll have to kick you in the balls if you fall on me.

[Because, well, of course she has to threaten him casually!]

But fine. I'll tell you once we get your hair washed, and see about actually soaking you in the bath. After you wash you of course.

Maybe...if you're still awake once we get you out, we can talk about what we can do to relax. And...what we can do after the trial.

If. [ For a moment, the sheer amount of indignation laden in that word—if—makes Asura sound like more of himself. Like the man who always found novelty in the gall of others (regardless of whether or not they were the person who'd saved him, because Asura? he's an indiscriminate son of a gun), especially those who foolishly sought to challenge him in feats of strength and will. Even now, when he's little better than an invalid, he still doesn't know how to lose. How to be vulnerable. How to do any of this, much less how to contain his frustration when every step he takes forward, toward the chair which Sokie's set in the basin of the tub, sees him weebling, wobbling, but not falling down. ]

Is that a challenge I hear, Sokie Undertown? You know I can't resist a contest, much less one where the prize benefits the both of us. Though...

[ Stopping just sort of the tub, Asura inhales (shaky), exhales (steady), and centers himself so that no, he won't lose his balance while shirking off his own pants. He didn't fall on Sokie, so his balls are safe (for now!), and he hasn't got the slightest intention of dealing with the wet fabric when transitioning from hair-washing to the hot soak of a bath, and so: off the pajama bottoms go, divested from his person and left for the wolves. His own weakened constitution is hindrance enough.

Good thing that he can still carry on, chattering away with no impediment but a rattling, chest-borne wheeze; a distinct shortness of breath: ]

After the trial is hard to pin down. Too many variables, too many moving parts. And so long as there's the potential for justice going unmet, then— [ He, as the hammer of Summer's justice, will have to be prepared to mete it out instead. There is no other path which awaits for him. ] —that's something we shouldn't talk about. Not yet.

[ Because that argument can sit and brew upon the horizon. Asura, he doesn't have the energy for it, and Sokie, she doesn't deserve to have it foisted upon her now. Not when they've yet to recover, embrace one another, and acknowledge in full what had happened to them both.

Taking his seat upon the chair (were it anyone else aiding him, it'd be a humiliation, accepting this level of help; this amount of care), he reaches forward to start the water, setting the temperature to scalding (and somehow yet, he still shivers). ]

Right now I just want to feel without falling. [ —he confesses as the water rains down, and blood (his own) colors the runoff, rinsing free of his hair. The water is blistering, and it isn't enough (and it won't ever be, not to replace the heat missing from his chest; the parts of him which had been cut out), but Asura knows what will be, intoning the answer to his salvation with the soft-spoken reverence of a prayer: ] Your hands, your voice, and the water. Need that. Need you.

[ And she is benevolent enough to grace him with close proximity, the water overhead cut off and pulsed on again in the rhythmic lull of repetition as she washes his hair, rinses, and begins the process anew until—

(All he can feel is Sokie, Sokie, Sokie, her hands which told the story of her emotions guiding him through the shower and ensuing bath, but not without a shove (her) and a blind grope (him) or two.)

—he is clean, dressed in fresh sleeping clothes, and settled atop their bed rather than his own. And maybe, he's pathetically close to passing the hell out right there, atop the sheets which are full of Sokie's scent, but he hasn't given in. Sleep hasn't claimed him just yet. He's still going to win...! ]

Edited 2020-02-07 03:05 (UTC)

[There's so much indignation in his voice that it sounds like how he was in the hallway, looking for a book, cleaning something-just how he usually was. A force to be taken seriously, always, even if he looked every bit the himbo.

And then he took a step, and he ruined it, even if by sheer force of will he kept upright.]

You're right. This isn't for now. Not for us. Not for you. You need to focus on yourself, not anything else.

[Just on staying upright is a win. If they get into the injustice and all of it well- Asura will have to eat more wrath, and that's not a good way to fall asleep. He might get a stomach ache.

So she focuses on him, on washing out all the dirt, the blood, the memories of the time in the stone, and what should have never happened again, even as the water is hot enough to scald.

She knows what she could give him, if she thought that he had enough energy for it. Later, she promises. No kisses, because she knows what she'll do if they do. Her hands are everywhere, calm, sweet, firm, through in cleaning him-

And they managed to get him out, clean, wearing clean clothes, though she does need to change the sheets.

Still...she gently pokes him on the nose, trying to push him against the pillows.]

Sleep Asura. Sleep. It'll help us both.

[No spells here. She hasn't used a single one which is telling of how much she's poured of herself into him.]

[ A Sokie Undertown who does not employ the use of magic when it is to her benefit to do so is c e r t a i n l y no Sokie Undertown who Asura knows, and that's why...!

His arms encircle her middle when she leans in close to nudge him down, against the pillows, his hands clasping together at the small of her back to ensure that, when he falls down against the mattress in full, she'll follow suit. And with a creak of bedsprings, they flop! across the bed-linens, and though Asura is left a bit breathless for the move, he is no worse for it. Yes, fatigue weighs heavy on his brow, and his green eyes are set to half-mast with the encroachment of sleep well and truly upon him, but his body (what hadn't been taken from him) remains sturdy, and is anchor enough to see Sokie's restlessness docked in the safe-harbor of Asura's arms for the remainder of the day. Focus on yourself, she'd said before she'd helped him to wash clean of the abasement of being butchered and chained, but... there's just no damn way that he can.

Not when she hadn't answered his question ("tell me what it was like?"), not when she'd spent herself on his well-being for the past three days and nights. Laying side by side, Asura's hands still threaded together where they rest at Sokie's back, the King... smiles, and it's goofy looking. Dumb as hell. The expression made every bit as bleary as Asura's vision by the siren-song of sleep, but it's genuine and it's present, not only because he'd succeeded in dragging Sokie to bed with him, but— ]

It'll help you, too, if you sleep with me. [ —look at them, they both can be adults and mind themselves. ~~As Asura can use the word 'sleep' without any wayward connotations.~~]

Do you know, Sokie...? [ Know what? Well, there's a brief pause, if only because a yawn interrupts Asura's sleep-muzzled drawl. ] Your hands express what you don't. When you're tense, they find your face, and when you're afraid, they shake. And when... you're patient and you're tender, helping me to be new again, they're like nothing else in the whole damn universe.

[ Lips? Pressed to the temple of Sokie's forehead in a kiss, lingering and sweet, which they'd been denied in the washroom. ]

But they need rest, no different than you. So... [ Asura, he's almost irritated with how thick his voice sounds. How exhausted he'd become after being awake for no longer than a handful of hours (if that at all). ] ...don't you leave me, Sokie Undertown.

[ He needs her, just like he'd said. And he wonders if she might need him, too. ]

[It's a tired Sokie Undertown, which is how...!

She's captured, and his hands are still as large, still as capable of holding her to him, even if it feels more like a child holding a teddy bear then Asura holding his lover. She made a noise of protest-she still had things to do, ways to calm down as she tried not to tell him what it was like- since he would likely smell the lie, no matter who smooth the delivery.

And he looks so pleased with himself, with his goofy half asleep smile.]

You dork.

[Not like he could do anything remotely sensuous right then. And he had to point out what a tell her hands were too...which of course she disliked, and of course he would notice. Even when it tried to appease her with a kiss.]

...You know I can't leave you. But you know...

[She pulled him, gently, so he could rest against her chest, boney as it would be compared to Persephone's bounty.]

They shake when I'm angry too.

[A kiss will come at another time. When it is less likely that he'd clip his teeth against her chin, when they can kiss and know they're safe. They're home.]

[ She's never been this gentle with him, this deliberate in allowing him to seek the creature comforts of resting his heavy head against her chest so that he might be eased back, into the realm of sleep, by her warmth and the slow draws of her breath. No, she is not the Queen of Spring, and it does not occur to Asura to draw comparison between them: Sokie is Sokie, and she is how he knows that he is safe; that when he closes his eyes again he will not return to a lonely mountain or pit of stone. And even if the drone of his once-Keeper's voice should come to him in dreams, he is strong enough to separate himself from it, but...

Maybe Sokie doesn't know it, how resilient he is. And perhaps that's why, for all that she's embraced him (cared for him, given her magic to him), she has put distance (vulnerable, she'd called him, dismissing his words) between them too. Were he not so drained (from a simple shower and bath, from cleaning away grime, blood, and dirt), his temper might have flared at the realization, but as it is, he only seeks out more of her. To be closer still. It is after he threads one of his legs between his own that he finally seems satisfied with the proximity they share, steadied by the intimacy of being so intertwined with another.

("You know I can't leave you.") ]

...wouldn't call it just shaking. [ —he huffs, eyes falling closed despite himself. And yet, he still stubbornly speaks, clinging to consciousness: ] More like the anger turns your hands to weapons. The shaking is your restraint.

[ He'd tasted as much, when he'd devoured her wrath; noticed it, in the moments before she'd asked him to deplete her of the volatile emotion. ]

And you... you're my gravity. [ Hmm? Gravity? Does Asura really know what he's saying? Turns out that he does: ] Felt the pull of your magic, when I was asleep all those days. Helped me to wake up. To know what was real, and what wasn't.

Edited 2020-02-15 22:48 (UTC)

[She's being soft, sweet even, with how delicate she's being with him. Yes, he's durable, yes, he's able to handle more then a few things, but she's had to take him from near death without being sure she could bring him back, like she would have if she was still a true necromancer. But thankfully, there were no flare ups, no arguments, and Asura would not have to sleep alone, like he so hated.]

You know, Everett would argue I have no restraint.

[And yet...she did restrain herself when she needed to. The Foggy City and how she made sure she was on the rescue team, not the assault team, were signs of it. Things that Asura obviously knew. Sokie was used to compromise and not getting everything she wanted.

Though...Gravity? The pull of her magic....she hadn't realized he could feel it, passed out as he was. And now she was stuck, and she'd have to shove him away if she really needed to pee. Well...guess she would have to stretch herself to read some magic documents while he napped.

Gently, she brushed his hair away from his face, so he wouldn't accidentally inhale it.]

I'd argue I was an anchor. But it doesn't really matter. Rest now. You can check in with the others when you wake up.

[What others? Oh, just a few dragons, one of them possibly being licky dragon.]

[ Words all petered out, Sokie gets the low vibrations of a hum when she cards her fingers through his freshly washed and still damp hair, pushing the thick fall of it away from his face even as he turns his cheek into her hand. Feels the glide of her palm over his jaw, and sighs, releasing whatever tension in him that remained after nine days of being parted from her, this necromancer and mage who invokes the names and suggestions of others as reassurance. Dragons surely do await him, as does one vampire, and while Asura aches to be among others again (to return to normalcy, to be surrounded by those he considers as not so different from his Changeling kin), he—

—let's go, in the present, folding to the surety of Sokie's embrace even as it dawns upon him that this is what being vulnerable truly is: the ability to entrust yourself completely to another person, without hesitation or fear. But for Asura, there is no time to dwell upon this thought, a deep, dreamless sleep claiming him before long, though...

As it turns out, he does have some clue how to do it. Being vulnerable, being weak, he can be both when he's with her, and maybe that's what she'd been trying to tell him all along. It's just too bad he isn't awake to call her out on it. ]

Edited 2020-02-22 05:40 (UTC)

Come with me. [ —he bids of her, the Queen of Spring, in the quiet of the early morning. Two days have passed since Asura had awakened from the depths of his curative slumber, and upon the passing of each hour he enjoys in the safety of their shared and warded home, the King of Summer seethes in silence, knowing it to be one hour too many when so very much remains in a state of flux.

Uncertainty upon uncertainty weighs heavy upon the shoulders (what of the refugee community? how fare their own wounded numbers? who supports them now?), though rather than serve as some burdensome load, to Asura the sheer mass of the the unknowns (how many have been arrested? have the Coven and Guard done enough? who can be trusted?) is a boon; a ballast which steadies his person and fills his heart with sun and song. He will discern these answers for both himself and for others; he will lend his strength to those most in need of it, and he will continue upon the path which he has always walked since setting foot in the mortal realm: the unyielding war-march of justice.

That he is not yet wholly hale and well, the hollow spaces in his chest unable to be entirely filled by the parts of him which Persephone had recovered, is of no hindrance to him. He will walk all the same, and when he returns to this warm and familiar place (the house made so only by those who populate it), he will soothe his aches and pains in a bath of the hottest flame and grow strong again. ]

Let us go to the people who need us most, the refugees who are no different from our Biscione brothers and sisters. [ A triumph of the morning: Asura had washed, dressed, and styled himself as the Freehold Imperator Persephone knows him to be. His visage is one of power untamed, the wild freefall of his hair tumbling down, over his shoulders, to frame the gruesome scar which spans the length of his chest (bare chest, because no Winter cold could ever goad him into fastening the closures of his coat), the raised flesh a testament to Asura's fight for freedom. And upon his lapel, there sits the golden emblem of the Biscione, the crowned, coiling dragon on display for all eyes to see because Asura has precious little interest in hiding who and what he is for any longer. ] We will aid them, hear their stories, learn of all that they have yet to rebuild, and take their voices and their words to the steps of Parliament.

Every day, we must do this. Until the Rathmores meet with the justice which the Coven and Guard have promised, and long after that. [ And in doing so, galvanize more to join them in this fight which, at its core, goes far beyond the Rathmores and their family line. ] Everyone must know and never forget what atrocities were given life here, within Aefenglom's walls, because of humans and their fear.

If you do not believe me to be recovered enough to do this on my own— [ In truth, he is not. Though his speech is rhythmic and compelling, it steals away the majority of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest labored and stilted beneath his own orator's cadence. Gaunt are the lines of his face, his frame still lean from nine days of (pitiable) human hunger and malnourishment. Yet: ] —come with me, Persephone. I ask nothing else of you.

[ (And let us stand side by side once again.) ]

Edited 2020-01-30 05:12 (UTC)

[His initial request, at first glance, seems to garner no reaction from the floral dragon - a gentle flick of her tail is the only acknowledgement if he watches closely. It's not as if she is ignoring him, but rather she doesn't exactly... approve of him trying to go out, to move and strain himself, when he has only just recently arisen from a slumber brought about by his injuries. The last thing she wants, nor any of those dear to him wants, is for him to strain himself while he's still healing.

But she knows Asura. She knows that this won't stop him, especially as he was able to push himself to style in a more familiar way - despite the gruesome scar that carves across his chest.

(It makes a flash of something white hot pulse through her veins, recalling the room she found the culprit in - the broken shards along the floor, the instruments on the walls.

She wishes she could've taken more than some bloodied teeth.)

And especially when he's right. The refugees need to be heard, after all this - they were promised a safe place, yet what has been given instead? Violence and scorn, from the city that should've protected them. Of course, Asura knows she cannot resist what he offers, to extend helping hands and listening ears to them - to help them have a voice, when no others would.

So she then finally, finally, look at him - hair pushed back from her crimson eye, having been perched in her main 'nest' in the common room when Asura sought her out. By the window where the sun shines in brightest, the light reflecting in through the glass making her gaze burn all the brighter as it fixes solely on him.]

You are far from recovered to be doing this alone, Asura. So I shall make sure you stay steady. [A pause, before she shifts to stand up - wings stretching with a soft hum, a sound that echos from deep within her chest, before standing by his side.

Then something in her gaze softens, the blazing fire of her eyes becoming a warm glow, as lips quirk up at the corners. It's been a while, at least for them as casual and carefree they are, that she had let her tone take on something more teasing.

(That strange new feeling has consumed her for far too long.)]

After all, you can not hope to aid them if you are out of breath by the time you arrive. [So by his side she shall be, as always.]

[ Many things have changed. Enkindled by an emotion which she could not name, Persephone seethes and burns in isolation, surrounded only by the sights and sounds of her chosen aerie: light, filtering through glass, and the creaks and groans of the windowsill as its hoarfrost coating begins to melt away beneath the burgeoning warmth of day.

In Talam, the grasp of Winter seems not to last for long— already, it stretches, cracks, and thaws, receding so that Spring might come. But that vernal tide is different, no longer is it (is she) so simply desirous of new beginnings and better futures; of sowing joie de vivre across arable hearts and land so that Summer would well and truly flourish in the time when it straddled the world before Autumn turned its bounty and harvest to ash. No, there is something almost human about her; something which does not bend to the cycles of the four Great Courts and runs wild, untamed in the flash of her eyes when she looks upon Asura and his scar before she chooses to relent, bending to what he would bid of her and of anyone.

Though he does not say it, Asura can name the condition which Persephone has succumbed to— he can taste it for himself upon his tongue, and it (her wrath) is the earthy bitter-sweet of rose petals and aromatics. Never in his lifetime, did Asura envision a day where Persephone's emotions would be so real that he could feel, scent, and taste them for himself. And for the very first time since arriving in Talam, the King finds himself unnerved by the power of the world: nothing in all the realms has ever been known to reverse the inhuman condition of Changelings, and yet...

Yet, here Persephone stands at his side, and Asura has never felt so close to her (or so very far apart).

Many things have changed, but the King himself has not, as is evident in the way he offers the Queen an easy riposte despite all uncertainty: ] To be certain, then, that I've breath enough to greet them upon our timely arrival, I will need to look into borrowing some from a willing donor.

[ Leaning in, he allows for his kajal-lined eyes to fall shut as he touches his forehead to Persephone's own in a departure from his Imperator's visage. For her, he is even able to offer a smile as he teases in rasping, weakened, but still too damn charming tones: ]

I wonder... where might I find someone who will lend me the air from their lungs? Where is it that you would look, o'Queen of Spring?

[ Board? Set. Move? Played. Will Asura be able to coax a kiss from Persephone before they go on their merry way...? ]

Edited 2020-02-02 19:58 (UTC)

There once was a time when I was wild— [ Asura starts, his voice falling against a backdrop of short, staccato strokes of graphite against draft paper as he details the cantilevered stair landing of a treehouse. A treehouse which, provided that a suitable location could be found, would sit nested between two hardy oaks flanking the riverbank which cut through the Wilde. But the drawing is only one of many (dozens of iterations litter the low sitting table in Asura's shared home), and though the King is a diviner by trade, even he cannot foresee the final plan for the sanctuary which he and Enkidu wish to make for both themselves and others. For the friends which Enkidu had sung for, and those who Asura would see assuaged and protected.

And perhaps, it is difficult to believe Asura is not 'wild', still. The tumble of his ravendark hair spills, riotous and unrestrained, upon every surface which it might find, and there is something distinctly animal to his smokey green eyes. Something which is tamed, in the here and now, by good company and the task at hand, but remains present all the same in his smile and flash of dragon's fang. ] —and the primeval forests of Arcadia were my dominion and home.

And though I am far from the creature I was then... [ Then, he'd been held suspended in the thrall of another. And now, he is awake. He forges a path of his own choosing. He is free, now, twice over, and he wears his scars proudly as testament to the fact. Never one to bother with fastening the closures of his shirt, the crimson fabric of his open blouse frames the raised tissue which spans the breadth of his once-fissured chest, the scar nearly as impressive as the wound had been before it. ]

I cannot ignore the irony of returning to familiar territory. [ Or, at least, the intention's there, illustrated in ever-ambitious schematics and designs, even if it hasn't yet been wholly actualized. ] Maybe we're all just destined to return to our roots, someday.

[ Flesh to earth. Clay to soil. Dragon to Arcadia. Changeling to— no, he won't entertain that train of thought for any longer. Instead...! He leans in closer to Enkidu, his chin nearly coming to rest atop their shoulder as he makes to survey their work; their vision for a peaceable place in the forest. ]

...what is it that you're drawing, Enkidu? [ Inquiring minds need to know, okay!! ]

Edited 2020-02-08 02:20 (UTC)

[Compared to the last time they saw each other everything has improved. Asura looks well and apparently his head is full of great ideas. Now Enkidu has never been an architect but the sheer idea of building a tree house brings back a childish sort of enthusiasm.

That, and once again they recognize themselves in his story. Of a time where they were wild and without aim. Where they lived in the Cedar Forest and ran with the animals.]

Hmm...every time I speak to you, I notice how similar our lives have been.

[They are drawing as well and for now their tree house has two slides, a rope to swing from the treehouse to other trees and a ladder.]

To me there is nothing ironic about that. [They look up from drawing a bunch of flowers around the tree house.] I am born out of clay, for me it is the closest thing to home.

[That, and be in the presence of their friend Gilgamesh.]

Ah... [When he asks them they show their drawing.] ...It is a bridge. Made of ropes. Perhaps it can connect two treehouses at the time.

It is clever. [ Clever and most intriguing to the King whose compositions and sketches have all been marked by a singular, utilitarian thread of design. Upon better glimpsing Enkidu's drawing, something sparks in Asura's eyes, and with a careful, almost reverent, outstretch of his hand, he traces the pads of his talon-tipped fingers over the lines delineating the lattice-work bridge of rope, before...! He grins, softly huffing: ] And fun.

What do you think of it serving not only as a bridge, but as a hammock as well? [ Fetching a new sheet of draft paper, Asura sketches a depiction of just that: a vast netting of rope, woven with just enough give to serve as a hammock. ] It would be a fine perch for look-outs, I imagine.

[ Pencil tapping against the table below, Asura drums a slow beat as his eyes hood, lashes falling to half-mast, as he sighs in nostalgia for his season: ] Or for simply basking in the evening heat of late Summer before it disappears from the Wilde.

[ And when Summer did fade from the Wilde's depths, Asura's heart would be sore for it again, for even if it is the nature of all things to rise and fall in cycles, he will always want for the season's roiling heat, heady humidity, and color. ]

Would you lay there with me, Enkidu who is born of clay, and survey the peaks of starlight that manage to slip through the canopy of trees? [ A low hum— ] Even if our lives are similar, you see things differently. What I would not give, to hear you describe your view of the forest at night.

[ And so too relish in the freedom of it. ]

Edited 2020-02-11 03:59 (UTC)

What if we... [Carefully Enkidu takes hold of the paper Asura just drew the hammock on.] ...build this hut... [They add some lines, eyebrows knitting together in concentration.] ...and place one large hammock around it. And we can connect the giant hammock with the bridge here. [Enkidu draws more lines, sometimes letting go of their pencil because it's still tough to hold things when fingers are missing.]

I cannot wait to see the sun again and bask in its warmth. Perhaps the flowers will start to bloom again. And I hope to see petalwolves. [They smile when they think about it. And when they hear the other's words their smile grows a little more warm.] Asura, do you truly have to ask me such a thing? I enjoy your presence a lot.

[And that much is true. It feels good to know someone who they can relate to, someone who is able to put hope back into their heart, who they can draw fantastic treehouses with.]

I need to focus on that...on the ones that surround me and treat me with such kindness. [Because they still do not feel better.] Hmm...I think there should be many plants inside the house we are going to build. Flowers as well...

[ Heartening, to well and truly witness Enkidu as they come alive, animated as they see their ideas (a hut, a hammock-moat, a bridge, and more!) actualized on paper; their smile warm (in a way it hadn't been before) with the promise of what the future had in store. A future, alongside the people who surrounded them, Asura himself included.

And how the King is neither bashful nor reserved enough to stay the pleasure which crosses his features upon hearing Enkidu's words ("I enjoy your presence a lot")— Asura, he is only ever himself, and in this moment he embodies the golden glamour and rose hues of a long afternoon spent in the presence of one he considers kindred to him. A weapon, a person, the one who had supported him with their embrace in that vile pit of stone despite bearing grievous injury themself.

And even now, the wounds remain in the absence of their fingers (and in their own admission; their need to be refocused). ]

There is a particular flowering shrub which comes to mind. [ One which Asura had found himself sketching in the instant when Enkidu had mentioned flowers blooming anew. Doodled on the corner of a used piece of draft-paper, the plant seems... cute?! It's more or less several small bird-shapes dotted upon a bush. ] "Birdie-byes", they're called, and while their flowers are a common ingredient in potions, the fruits of the plant are shaped like small birds.

[ No different from the birds that he has depicted with great finesse and detail on paper!! (Read: Asura is terrible at drawing anything which isn't technical or cartography illustrations.) ] Once ripe, the bird-fruits sing and fly, and are rather enchanting little things, until—

[ Here, Asura mimics snatching one such bird-fruit out of the air...! And devouring it in (morbidly?!) good humor. ]

—you eat them. [ Or you don't. In conclusion: ] Doubtless, that we will need to keep several of the shrubs on site at all times.

[ Definitely. They are both companions and a food-source all in one! Unless, of course, Enkidu is of a different mind. ]

Edited 2020-02-17 03:50 (UTC)

[Enkidu is still busy with trying to find the answer to a lot of questions. What it is they miss, what it is they are truly longing for. Humanity and their politics. The only thing that has become clear to them is that they like to have more friends than one and that humanity is far more complicated than they thought at first.

When Asura starts to add bushes and birds on the paper they lean forward a little, watching with a growing smile around their lips.]

Yes! [Despite the fact that their voice is soft there's an obvious enthusiastic undertone in it.] Imagine the tree covered in it. From top to bottom. [They place one of their hands on his arm.] We could grow plants in it as well. Create a good place for plants to grow. Perhaps we can... [Inside their head the tree house is becoming this beautiful, sunny home for flowers and animals.] ...ah...imagine a separated area meant for plants to grow. We could collect all plants we can find. Even in remote areas. Perhaps those plants could...be of some help. To heal others. After Edelgard saved me she brought me to this healer who used plants and herbs.

[Enkidu chuckles when Asura mimics eating one of the bird-flowers.]

Would you truly eat them? You seem more like someone who could enjoy a big chunk of meat. Beef, perhaps. [Enkidu hums in a thoughtful way.] I like mutton a lot. And bread. And then flushing that away with beer. It is such a hearty meal. It reminds me of Uruk. [More humming.] There should be butter cake as well.

Uruk. [ —just this once, Asura is not overly verbose in his response, finding a particular sort of pleasure in listening to the lilt of Enkidu's voice, their cadence no different from the whistling of the wind as it cavorted through the forest. And with Enkidu's hand at rest atop his arm, perhaps the thing to do at present is act, instead of speak; share warmth, now that their plans have been given life upon paper. Lifting his arm (and so too raising Enkidu's own along with it), Asura's free hand finds Enkidu's waist, coaxing them closer with a languid, amorous, thoroughly playful tug. And if Enkidu should so allow it? They will come to find that Asura's series of tugs leads them to rest atop his lap, well within the circle of his arms as he sits lotus-legged and tall.

But even after, he cannot resist asking, if only to hear Enkidu's voice as it fills the room once again. ] Your home?

[ Growing plants and healing others. Mutton, bread, butter cake, and beer. All of them are worthy aspirations, humble things. And with the way Enkidu speaks of human food... maybe, they stand a chance of someday convincing Asura that savory dishes can be just as delectable as sweets. Does this dragon have a sweet tooth? Yes, yes he does, and it's been incurable to date. ]

It is Gil's home... [Speaking of their friend is still not very easy, but this time their voice doesn't change into a sad one. They seem relaxed and even when Asura pulls them in his lap all they do is lean back, basking in the sudden closeness.

Ever since enduring that torture they have started to find a certain solace in being close to another. Where hands don't hurt and words aren't cruel. Where there is a certain sort of trust. And really, they want to learn how to trust again. To see the worth in humanity and experience the joy humans could bring them once again.] ...so it became a place where I have stayed as well. Still, I preferred the Cedar Forest. Or the lush jungles I've seen during our travels.

[One of their hands slides over Asura's, the remaining fingers carefully curling around said hand.]

And what place do you call home, Asura?

[ It is not so often that the hunter becomes the hunted, but on this brisk Winter's morning full of flurrying snowfall, Asura is able to enjoy the novelty of being pursued by a benevolent presence on his journey to the Bright Wall. The one who follows him is fleet of foot, as silent as she is able to be given the telltale crunch! of ice and snow marking the footfalls of all who travel the road, and while it m i g h t have been possible for her to go unnoticed by another, Asura is ever the Mir Shikar—the Lord of the Hunt—and he had been aware of her proximity to him from the beginning. Her scent (bright and fresh, absent of any medicinal notes which might suggest she isn't yet fully healed from the wounds she'd been reluctant to show him) had filled his nose, the taste of her emotions (a blend of nerves and overwhelming care, the tang of acid balanced by the warmest of amber) had lingered upon his tongue, and...

He had allowed her to trail him, for a time, but for no longer. The terrain has grown rugged, now that they near the city's bounds, and after brushing the collection of snow from its surface, Asura seats himself atop a boulder of a rock, before...! Drawing a wooden, hand-carved flute out from the red and gold brocade of his overcoat. And upon giving the instrument a twirl betwixt his taloned fingers, Asura bellows in bold, hearty announcement!: ]

To you, the one who has been watching over me for the past while, I would like to give my gratitude. [ Because that's what Alex has been doing, hasn't she? Looking out for him. ] And with this offering, if I may be graced with a glimpse of your face, then... perhaps we both will be fulfilled.

[ Undeniable, that he has wished to see Alex for quite some time. That, during the haze of his own recovery, he'd asked Sokie to check in on Alex herself, ensuring her health. Confirming that she were well. And now... now, that Asura is able to move and to move freely, the crystal missing from his chest now nearly restored after half a month of mending and regrowth, he is able to greet Alex with a cheerful tune, as light as the crystalline snowfall around them.

But will it draw Alex closer to his person...? Asura, he closes his eyes as he plays, raven dark lashes sweeping against his cheeks, in the hope that when he opens them again, she will be the first thing that he sees. ]

Edited 2020-02-08 19:32 (UTC)

[ Sokie may have said he was doing better, and it wasn't that Alex didn't believe her, but she couldn't help but want to see for herself just how the man was doing. She didn't think Nel's tips on hiding would ever be put to use, but what better way to make us of it? At least, she thought she was doing it right.

The merrow makes sure to keep a safe distance, far enough to not be seen (o(hopefully) but close enough to still see him. It appeared to be going well, Asura not so much as even looking back during his walk. Maybe..just maybe she was doing this right..! Anxious and concerned as she was, there was a little bit of joy in being able to do something correctly.

Or so she thought, until Asura began to settle, and suddenly called out to someone who was undoubtedly her. She's apprehensive, not wanting to show herself out of shame and embarrassment. The guilt only festers inside at the thought of facing him, now knowing what to say, how to act, or even how to look him in the eye. A peppy sound cuts through the noises in her head, anchoring her, bringing her back, and eventually, leading her out of the trees she was hiding behind.

Her steps are still silent and cautious, but more like a child about to receive a scolding. She makes her way around the boulder as the song continues, peering up at Asura's face. His eyes are closed, but not because he was tired or drained. He seemed more peaceful, more lively. Relief fills her chest with the breath she takes in, wanting nothing more than for him to be doing better. But what was going to happen when his eyes opened?

She halts in her next step. Maybe she should turn back after all. ]

[ It is nothing so tremendous or imposing, the moment when Asura opens his eyes— and no different at all from when he'd awoken to find his head cradled atop her lap, Alex herself peering down at him with her river-clear blue eyes, he embodies his season's gentlest facets: the warmth of Summer rain in his smile, the radiance of the sun in his gaze. And in her quiet surveillance of him, Alex will have noticed his ~~sheer obstinance~~ ~~blatant refusal~~ adamant rejection of the Winter cold in his state of dress. The fastenings of his brocade coat? Markedly unclosed. The buttons of his shirt? Undone. The bronze skin of his abdomen (scales, scar-tissue, and all)? On display, and proudly so. In part, it is because the King of Summer is allergic to wearing so very many layers (euch), but so too is it due to the restoration of his crystal, his furnace of a chest churning out enough heat to be felt by Alex now that she lingers in close proximity. ]

Hey, you. [ Rich and deep, his voice once the flute is lowered from his lips. Gone, the poetic nature of his words in favor of the simplicity of familiarity, because... they are well-acquainted, aren't they, in some manner of speaking. They've seen each other through the hell carved by the Rathmores in their pit of cold stone, and for it, their paths have become inexorably intertwined. It is never what Asura would have wanted (not for her, not for them), but he is not one to shy away from the truth of it. ] Wish you would've dialed me up on the Watch, instead of following me out here in the cold. Would've come the second you called, you know.

[ Now that he's on the mend, able to muster enough breath to play his flute again. ]

All this while, I've wanted to tell you that you did do something. [ "But I couldn't do anything..in the end," she'd said back then. ] That you helped.

[ When she'd leaned into his touch and reminded him of all the good humans possessed, proving to him that his choice to walk alongside mortals had not been wrong; that there would always be those who were worth protecting with his dragon's wrath and fury. ]

Edited 2020-02-15 22:14 (UTC)

[ There was so much more color to him now, so much more life, and just when she thought he couldn't be any warmer, he manages to exceed that. But her eyes can't help but fall on the scar that marred his body, displayed for all the world to see. Any other time, she might have commented on how that couldn't be appropriate attire for the winter, but there was no place for her to scold him. For all she knew, the scar hurt too much to cover up.

His voice reverberates like a bass, forcing her to look back at his face and pay attention. ]

That...

[ Her gaze lowers once more like the coward she believed herself to be. When he seems to accuse her of doing something, which she did, she flinches, preparing for the several scenarios she played out in her head should she ever speak to him again.

But none of those scenarios foresaw what he ended up saying.

The marrow's head snaps up, her voice louder than it has been so far. ]

How..how can you say that?

[ There's heartbreak, in that question of hers; in the way she'd recoiled from him, clearly anticipating something other than his gratitude for the way she'd weathered the savagery of the Rathmores' crimes alongside him. How?, her voice echoes yet at the back of his mind, and while he could say that he'd been able to speak the words easily because they were true, that is not the answer she's after. What she needs to hear most.

This is: ]

Because you were hurt, just as I was, and you still allowed me to rest against you.

[ When his head had been heavy and his limbs leaden weights, when he could not muster the strength to sit up without aid, she'd held him and made sure he didn't slip away. This, he remembers as much as her tears which turned to pearls; how her hands had trembled when she'd tried to take care, be gentle when set to the gruesome task the Rathmores did not allow her to escape.

And in thinking upon this (the scars inflicted upon Alex and his Mirrorbound comrades, and the wounds which had yet to heal), Asura finds himself angry and galvanized by the emotion. It gives him direction and compels his body to follow— his flute? Returned to the pocket of his overcoat. The distance between them? Easy to bridge, a flurry of snowfall kicking up in his wake. And with hands newly freed, he embraces her as he lowers himself to one knee. Because here, like this, he is able to raise a hand (gentle, steady, sure) to cup the side of her face with a palm as calloused as it is warm.

Just as it had in that cell of stone, his magic threads between them through the link of touch, but something is different in the here and now where he is able to say the most important thing: ]

What happened to me, what happened to us, it wasn't your fault. [ There is no shying away from this; from him in this moment, his green eyes searching out the blue of her own and holding them with a gaze which is both arresting and impossibly honest. ] I will keep telling this to you, until the day you are able to believe it yourself.

Edited 2020-02-24 04:00 (UTC)

[ Something deep down has her shoulders rising and her hands pressing against his broad chest as his arms encircle her and bring her close. A part of her wants to resist, not so much the physical contact, but more to push away the beliefs that Asura had of her. His words were far too good to be true, just as his kindness and forgiving nature.

Her strength is nothing compared to his own, her attempts at rebuffing him futile against the force of his warmth and gentleness. Her finger curl at the ~~little~~ fabric of his clothes, her head weighing down against the palm of his hand despite still pushing against him. She was a woman of many contradictions. ]

Why do you bother...

[ He got nothing out of this, and yet he made it sound as if it was such a rewarding task to be so supportive. ]

I would prefer if you worried about yourself just as much.

Hey. [ What can he do, to wrest Alex free of her doubt? Though no physical distance remains between them, she's still out of reach, the softness of her hands pushing against his chest despite the way her chin sinks into the scarred and open palm of his hand. And where he might have shifted away to grant her space, he finds her fingers have curled into the lapels of his coat, and so...!

While he does move, rising in a precise economy of motion to his feet, he takes her right along with him. Scooped up into and neatly supported by his arms, he whisks her right into the air, standing at his full height of six-foot-two as he holds her high, shifting her perspective. ] I'm bothering because you're the one who's looking out for me, here in the cold and the snow.

[ But it's no longer quite so cold, is it? Not with the heat radiating from the crystal within Asura's chest. It melts any dustings of snow which might have collected on Alex's coat or the fringe of her hair. ]

And more than that... [ Though he smiles still, his carries with it a somber edge, a solemn note: ] I've carried it once before, too. The guilt of not being able to save someone.

[ Many someones. The lives which he'd been forced to take, the people who would still draw breath if not for him; if not for the whim of his once-Keeper. And lo: he's revealed that he's not too good to be true, because... he's walked the very path which Alex faces now, and they are not so different. ]

It'll eat you alive, if you let it, and it's my selfish wish for you to avoid that fate. [ Selfish? But ah, ah, how could that be? ] Because without you...

[ And here, there's a theatrical pause. A cheeky huff, before...!: ]

Who's going to sing while I play the flute? [ ??? What, Asura??? ]

Edited 2020-03-07 18:10 (UTC)

[ Her fingers curl into his clothes when she feels her feet lift off the ground, forcing her to pull back and look down at his face. Finally, eye contact.

It was difficult for her to imagine someone so powerful not being able to save someone. But what did the weight of that kind of guilt weigh? It may not be an excuse, but Alex knew she was powerless, and there really wasn't anything she could do even if she tried. But to have that kind of power, and to still be helpless? Were there things that he still carried, she wondered.

She lifts a hand, gently pressing the tips of her fingers against the side of his face, just as he has some many times now. But after a moment, she pinches it just so. ]

I don't know how you do it.

[ Or why.

Her head tilts lower, her forehead pressing against his. Her tone softens, just barely a whisper. ]

...Thank you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(Closed) Event & Aftermath Catch All

EREN;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

SOKIE;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

PERSEPHONE;

no subject

no subject

ENKIDU;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

late tag is late, this isn't my month

ALEX;

ASURA, PLAY DESPACITO

at alex's command (◡‿◡✿)

Re: at alex's command (◡‿◡✿)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject