forgotten.

sideblog for lune-fall / lunefaer's writings.

[elysrian]

no, i don't need a cure for me

scaramouche was a god; with the gnosis in hand, and sheer power in another, he had one final step left in order to truly become perfection.

au work, exploring what had happened if he had never gone to sumeru or worked with dottore once again.

originally written 22 aug 22, heavily inspired by this artwork.

art by @IlumiArts, linked above.

he did it. he fucking did it.

the breath that leaves him is both derisive and ecstatic, an odd mix of contradictions that renders the corners of the puppet’s mouth twitching as though he doesn’t know what expression he should make, fingers gripping the front of his shirt and another feeling his face, his hair, as though reality is a delusion and a delusion is reality. he’s here, he’s here. he’s made it. he’s fine, he will be fine. things are going as planned, puzzle pieces fitting into place after all these years. his eyes burn, and his hands furiously wipe at them with a desperation that’s long carved onto ceramic. 

the world is unsteady, but the heart that lies within him rings true, each pulse a certainty that he is very much alive. 

the wisteria gaze that glances at him in surprise before him is now but a ghost of the past ; in a flash of electro, he moves forward – fingers reach out to wind around that slender, fragile neck, ignoring the pained gasp, the trembling fingers that feebly attempt to pry his grip open, the spiderweb cracks that appear on porcelain, fake skin.

weak links were always meant to be eliminated.

“stop crying,” kunikuzushi snarls at the figure before him, at this weak, pitiful doll who only knew how to shed tears, who knew nothing, who struggled in vain. he hated his reflection, the fear and confusion reflected within. the ignorance is almost painful to look at, if he even knew what pain truly felt like. the altered memories begin flitting into his mind like a stream entering a river, vivid emotion bleeding in and dyeing scenes. 

and as the doll falls helplessly onto the ground, still writhing as though determined to live, kunikuzushi permanently silences him with one last divine storm. with that one action, he has now replaced that doll’s place in the world… whatever place it is. his shoulders shake, as he laughs in sheer hysteria, the sound loud and booming not unlike thunderstorms. he’s free! he’s free, he’s free he’s free–

but as the laughs fade, only do the tears appear. he wipes at them furiously with a hand, startled at his own reaction. why the fuck is he crying now? he did it, he got what he wanted, and this was the very first step in his revenge and oh, why is he shaking? he doesn’t understand it. a breathless, disbelieving scoff leaves him, his features marred with scorn.

this is what he wanted, right? to be strong, to kill off the weakest parts of himself so that no one would take advantage of him ever again. to start all over from the very beginning, a clean reset where he uses the knowledge and experience from his future to twist things into his favour, and claim his birthright as an archon.

and yet…

he falls to his hands and knees, head bowed. why? he had tried so hard, endured so much to get to this point. he doesn’t understand where he is lacking, and with the frustration it gives comes hatred for everything. his situation, the remains of the broken doll before him, the gnosis. himself. 

it’s almost laughable, that he came so far to get to this point, even killing off his past self for constantly crying and not knowing anything, only for him to do the same. almost as though he hadn’t truly killed off kabukimono; but rather taken the doll into himself. memories that he had once thought forgotten resurface, along with emotions of happier, peaceful times. he was happy once. he was gentle once. he wasn’t so full of anger and hate once.

what had he done? what had he become?

[elysrian]

a preview of my work that I've written for the scaramona anthology, ad astra .ᐟ preorders are open, so do check it out when you can .ᐟ

i am incredibly thankful to have been a part of this amazing project ahh ;; honestly this has been a really big learning experience and i've never this much before so i'm quite proud of it .ᐟ

[elysrian]

Samsara

Prompt : “It’s been four hundred years since I last saw you, and last I checked you were 100% human - how are you still alive?” AU

In which Xiao sees history repeat itself in the form of a certain blonde. Traveler intentionally left vague, so you can insert whichever one you prefer.

genshin au.

Xiao stared at the traveler blankly.

This didn’t make any sense; granted, it had been so long ago, and Xiao didn’t make a habit of keeping up with time itself; it was subjective, something humans kept track of due to their short, finite lifespans, and Xiao himself was anything but human. He figured that that would be the last time he would ever see the starling, and it would be over and done with.

“I have to save the world,” xxxxxx said, and Xiao’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the way sunlight danced across their golden hair and illuminated the strands, their white scarves swaying in the breeze like clouds below the ether. Their expressive amber eyes twinkled and for a moment, despite their inherent humanity, Xiao really believed that they could really save the world.

“... You have my blessings, then,” Xiao's voice was soft.

“It’s been about four hundred years since I last saw you, and last I checked you were entirely human - how are you still alive?”

The traveler blinks in surprise, before laughing nervously, a hand reaching up to tug at their hair as their gaze wanders elsewhere, as though they have something to hide. Even the way their eyes twinkle were similar, but it could be that maybe he had misremembered, somehow.

“... Did you see my sibling?” The traveler’s voice is soft, and therein the similarities end. Unlike the determined hardness the one in his memories spoke with, this one was… Different. Gentler, as though one was a blinding light and the other as a warm glow. “They look like me, so it’s possible that you might have mixed us up.”

[elysrian]

god-ish.

aether names the wanderer after lumine.

au work, spoilers for interlude : inversion of genesis.

“have you got anything?”

“... ah. alright, if you say so.”

it’s a new name ( life ) he’s had to adapt to, but it’s nothing new — at the very least, compared to everything else, this is akin to walking on a field of flowers, where their floral scents coat them in their fragrances and only serve to highlight his inhumanity.

he’s used to being used. this is nothing new.

“lumine.” a voice calls, and his head jerks up, irises of wisteria gazing in the direction the sound comes from. brief perplexion crosses his face, but it’s gone when the traveller appears before him, a gloved hand reaching out to cup pale cheeks. lumine stills, gaze expectant and devoid of amusement, as is the short chuckle that follows.

“welcome back, aether.” lumine’s voice is off, far too off, but it’s better than the deafening silence that used to follow as a reply. there is someone who will listen, someone who will respond, someone to touch.

he is not the lumine that the traveller speaks of most fondly, that much he understands. but like a child that will eventually fill an adult’s shoes, so too can he try… even if it’s for a vain act of repentance.

( and to rid of that forlorn expression that feels far too familiar for his liking. )

admittedly, the puppet never really saw the choice of name coming, but after he had asked the traveller via telepathy, it wasn't that surprising. they were both souls chasing after that elusive illumination that would give both their lives meaning, but while they had both achieved their goals… not only were they contrary to expectations, they only served as proof that fate is truly arbitrary. for some reason, it had to be them, and no others. 

“that day, i felt like i had lost all meaning in my life.”

lumine understands, and so he bites his tongue to clamp down the words that had bubbled up, words that would have no purpose but to salt a wound that had long dried but hadn't festered. to aether, this lumine was a patch to hide the wound — not to heal, but to conceal, to pretend that everything is okay, or he might lose himself. 

lumine understands all too well because he's been through that before. 

their initial relationship is rocky, with both sides opening up about their past more to each other than to the rest of the people they knew, but that was fine. they were fine with it. 

lumine wrinkles his nose at the pungent smell of monster blood as aether makes himself comfortable next to him, head in his lap as the blonde curls enough to fit onto their seat. 

“don't lie too long — it would be awful if your sweat seeps into the couch and stink up the whole place,” lumine's voice is with bite, but not enough to hurt ; slender fingers hesitantly weave themselves into sunkissed strands of gold, lightly massaging the scalp and eliciting a soft groan. "the commissions couldn't have been that difficult, are you already losing your touch?" 

“the difficulty is one thing, but the terrain… stars don't sweat,” aether grumbles, but he leans into lumine's touch regardless and contentment bleeds into exhaustion, his expression relaxing. “so when i'm fighting in the red sands of the desert, i feel as though i'm going to implode from the heat. it's awful.”

“then don't take those commissions, stupid.”

“but someone has to. it might as well be me.”

there it is, again. lumine feels his face wrinkle in exasperation, feels his patience grow frayed, as aether’s face settles into that familiar forlorn expression.

“... enough already.”

“… what?”

lumine closes his eyes. he fears that if they were open, if he looks at aether one more time, he’s going to snap, and history will repeat itself. his hand trembles as it curls into a fist, his breaths forcefully even, and his iron will attempting to restrain his emotions. the frustration that he feels is not unlike back when he realised that yae miko wouldn’t be able to make it in time to help, when illness snatched his only friend away, when he let himself be consumed by nilihilsm and despair that he just let himself go.

the traveller, no, aether decided to take him in despite everything he’s done.

the puppet looks at the starchild in frustration.

“then why? tell me. is it because you don’t see a point in living any more? because you think that as long as you do this, everyone else will be happy?” he snarls, as trembling fingers reach out to yank at the outlander’s scarf to pull him closer, holding it with such force that he’s probably left permanent wrinkles on the fabric. he doesn’t care.

“because this may be news to you, but people actually care about you. just because you don’t actually care for yourself or for them in return, it doesn’t mean that they won’t stop caring. it doesn’t mean that they won’t be angry with you when they see you run yourself into the ground, when you burn yourself out and essentially nothing of the person they once knew is left behind. if you’re going to be so damn suicidal, then do it yourself and not try to pass it off as some good deed.”

disgusting. these emotions are disgusting. this anger is disgusting. even if it once fueled him enough for several years, it didn’t mean that he had ever grown used to how pitiful it left him after the high was gone… ah. so this is why it’s familiar. 

he was in that very same position once, and no matter how much he dresses it up with his self-justifications and emotions, he had lost all meaning in his life, too.

his hold loosens, and the puppet unceremoniously drops aether getting up and storming several steps away, lumine’s fingers angrily scratching at his own scalp and messing up his hair. how hypocritical he is!

“... balladeer, I—”

“lumine.”

“... what?”

lumine turns back to aether, his expression still dark. but he strides back to aether, index finger jabbing squarely against the traveller’s chest, and clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“you’re not allowed to do that any more. since you so kindly rescued me, i’m now your responsibility. i am also in your debt, and i always repay those i owe — even if you scream about how unreasonable i am, how cruel i am, suck it up.”

aether stares blankly, the gears turning into his head, before he lets out a laugh.

“... okay, my unreasonable responsibility. you could have just said that you were worried about me.”

“shut up, aether.”

[elysrian]

i was the original one.

in which he is given an opportunity to fix what he's started, and maybe learn more about him.

au work.

the good news is that he has a redemption arc of sorts; a second chance at life to make things right, and put a stop to whatever chaos he has sewn into the fabric of the first timeline. where he ( zorc? ) had quietly but steadily treaded the world into darkness with nary a hint of light, only for his efforts to be obliterated into nothingness.

the bad news is that he now has a conscience, and seeing things from a different point of view is really fucking him up. he’s not sure what to feel about the whole thing. amused? flabbergasted? horrified? all three?

for one thing, watching the pharaoh’s brand cruel justice was… quite the show.

“wow,” bakura’s tone is appreciative, fingers rubbing chin thoughtfully as his mouth flickers between a disbelieving grin and a grimace at the sight that greets him. granted, he is no stranger to violence, given his history as the thief king and the atrocities he has committed once, but this?

violence from the pharaoh in such a crude, dark manner feels inherently wrong.

“penalty game! the illusion of avarice!”

it is the same, authoritative voice that he’s heard for over three thousand years. but where righteousness should be is replaced by malice — the very same malice that once used to fuel him and feed into the shadow’s desires, that very same malice that once had him enter a deal with a fallen god, and started a chain of tragedy.

he’s trying to fix that chain of tragedy, to right what was once wrong, with horakhty’s mercy. he entered yet another deal fully expecting a repeat of what he thought he understood. he thought he understood what had fully happened, what the pharaoh was like as a person. he thought he knew what he was getting into.

watching this, bakura realises that he doesn’t know the pharaoh as well as he thought he did. tongue clicking in disapproval as he digs his hands into his pockets, he walks quietly, nary a glance spared as the mind crushed victim, the shadows swirling around him a familiar sensation.

bakura smirks as the pharaoh pauses, his gaze reflection confusion and wariness. certainly, this is no pharaoh, but rather a shell of a person simply acting on the emotion and instincts of his vessel. mutou yuugi was a good person and a prodigy at games, but that didn’t mean that even he didn’t feel anger at times. it is that very same anger that the pharaoh mistakes as his own, the game-like judgement a reflection of what mutou yuugi could do if he had power and was willing to act on it.

the millennium ring glints in the moonlight, as does the millennium pendant.

“look at you, how far you’ve come.” his tone is mocking, thoroughly enjoying the way the pharaoh tenses up at what he recognises is blatant disrespect and sarcasm, and the way his expression hardens. “did you enjoy what you did? acting on what you think is the right thing to do?”

“who are you?” the pharaoh’s voice is terse, his glare colder than ice. “and who are you, to judge me on what i have done?”

oh, the million-dollar question drops all too soon. as expected of the pharaoh.

“who else would i be, but the person who did them all first?”

[elysrian]

the shop beyond space and time.

There is a shop at the corner of 12 H. Lane.

Indiscreet, with a sign that’s not too memorable and a strange name displayed upon it ; it’s an open secret among the people that it’s not your typical shop. Sometimes it appears and disappears akin to a ghost ship, while others insist that it’s always been there, just shifting locations due to the ever-changing nature of property prices.

But above all, if there’s something you really need, simply step in and ask the shopkeeper for it.

AU work, crossposted from AO3.

NOTES: 'the shop beyond space and time' is a pocket dimension that does not follow the rules of the world ; like its name, the actual shop space itself is located in its own pocket dimension, whereas the exterior of the shop makes itself at home in any unassuming and abandoned shop in virtually any time. there have been no records found, but it is possible that the shop has the ability to appear in other dimensions as well, and serve as a gateway between two dimensions.

not much is known about the shopkeeper themselves ; whatever little records state that they all have long hair and golden eyes, with powers that seemingly overlap that of gods, with the ability to tear rips into [ classified ] and materialise something from nothing. perhaps the power of [ classified ] is what powers both the shop and its keeper. it is not certain if the shopkeeper still retains their power should they ever leave the space.

the last recorded shopkeeper's possible former identity could have been ▮▮▮ who had broken out of [ classified ] at [ classified ] ; ▮▮▮ has held a status of MISSING ever since, and hostiles sent in pursuit were [ classified ]. for now, the ▮▮▮▮▮ project has been put on hold.

There is a shop at the corner of 12 H. Lane. 

Indiscreet, with a sign that’s not too memorable and a strange name displayed upon it ; it’s an open secret among the people that it’s not your typical shop. Sometimes it appears and disappears akin to a ghost ship, while others insist that it’s always been there, just shifting locations due to the ever-changing nature of property prices.

But above all, if there’s something you really need, simply step in and ask the shopkeeper for it – which is exactly what she’s going to do.

She takes a breath, lips pursed, a determined hand reaching out and pushing the door open – the bell jingles merrily as the girl steps in, blue eyes wide as she gazes around the shop, dazzled by the eclectic mix of items held within. Body armour that shone as though it’s been freshly polished. A wide-screen television with such high definition that their pores could even be seen. A giant, golden cross. A katana with a blue handle and its blade seemingly made out of unmelting ice. A figure hugging raiment with layers of white and pink, decorated with golden trinkets. A bouquet of two flowers, one white and one black. A shiny amber ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮.

The last one held her attention the most, but she forces herself to turn her eyes away and head towards the cashier, where a figure with golden eyes glances at her lazily, chin propped on hand and elbow on the cashier counter. 

“Welcome to my shop, lost girl ☆ Shall I say, I’ve been expecting you?” The Shopkeeper’s smile is akin to that of a Cheshire Cat’s, much too wide and eyes in bemused crescents. The crosses in the Shopkeeper’s irises are oddly mesmerising, and the girl can’t bring herself to look away, her mouth dry and gaze fixed in place while her brain seemingly shorts, not a single thought coming to mind. 

It’s a little difficult to gulp down the lump of conflicting emotion that’s gathered in her throat, wariness and exhaustion fighting neck and neck for supremacy. She’s much too tired from her body being on edge, but she has to persist, her heart beating feverishly against her chest as she forces herself to take another step, even if her legs burn from exhaustion and her gasps for breaths are desperate. They’ll catch up soon, her head tells her. She can’t remember who they are, but the association with danger is more than enough for her to keep going. Even if she has to dig against burial soil in order to crawl out of her grave, she’ll keep going.

“Now tell me – what are you willing to pay any price for?”

“Place… Hide… Power.” I don’t want to be on the run any longer, but I don’t want to be taken advantage of, either.

“Ha… Hahaha! Of course! You must be so tired after all that,” the Shopkeeper coos, reaching out to gently caress the girl’s face, wiping bangs matted with sweat away from her eyes. Her words are sweet, soft and gentle, sympathy in her eyes. “Aren’t you? I can give you a place where you’ll no longer have to run from, and power beyond your wildest dreams. And nobody can take them away from you, unless you so choose to give it to them.”

The stories about the shop vary ; none of them have been particularly good. But to the girl, the Shopkeeper has been the nicest person she’s met thus far. She doesn’t even pay attention when the Shopkeeper lets her go in favour of striding over to the shelf where the amber sits, picking it up, and returning. 

“Yes…”

“It’s a deal ☆” is the last thing she hears, and the Shopkeeper pushes the amber squarely into the girl’s chest. Colour bleeds into black and then white, and all is silent.

Three soldiers follow the trail of blood into a shop at the corner of 12 H. Lane – weapons poised, they tentatively enter the shop, eyes scanning their surroundings for the target.

They do not expect the rain of the heavens to cascade upon them, impaling their bodies and killing them instantaneously. Nor do they expect the abyss to appear around them, swallowing their remains and leaving nothing behind.

“It would be troublesome to make sales if the goods were to be dirtied,” the Shopkeeper says, lips set in a frown as she glances at where they once were, before turning around. Come to think of it, the previous one had long hair, and after accepting the deal did her own grow in length as well – maybe it was a Shopkeeper trait? Along with the golden eyes, that is.

Well, she glances into the reflective surface of the cross, and sees a girl with matted hair as white as the moon, and sky blue eyes. That is but the past, and this is my life now.

[elysrian]

" god "

" please choose me. "

how many times has she heard such a thing?

from the cloying voice, to the wandering hands, agony breathed into her ear as they cling with all the desperation of a drowning man clutching feverishly onto a lifebuoy. even then, perhaps the comparison isn't all too impossible, considering that she is the lifebuoy in question, and those who surround her are the drowning men. 

she was born to make others happy, they said. her job is to live for others, they said. 

perhaps that is their justification for turning their child into a local deity, one blessed by the heavens to carry their will to the earth. perhaps this is why she was raised to be perfection incarnate, for the divine are ever perfect. perhaps this is why when they venture near, the thoughts of men sink into a warm sea of bliss, a word where happiness is eternal and the biting chill of reality ceases to exist. in return for carrying their burdens and weight, they are lighter. 

and so they keep returning, again and again. 

she spots familiar faces in the crowd, but they do not recognise " her " —— they only see the deity that she plays. she wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to scream——

but nothing will happen. nothing ever did. 

when she was born, she was the pride and joy of her parents until they realised that at a certain distance, the euphoria wears off and in its wake, a void and a desperate need for that high returns. but somewhere along the line, even the way they look at her has changed. 

she isn't their daughter, she is their god. 

" come one, come all! " she hears the sound of a man ringing a bell outside, along with the chatter of people. 

" get your blessings today! "

she wants to laugh, but she can't bring herself to do so, not when she's so numb to it all. 

this is no blessing —— this is a curse. 

[elysrian]

they're not like us.

" wanna fuck? "

dominique de sade almost spits her tea back into the ornate cup, aureate gaze slowly morphing into that of fury, as she glares at the very person who's propositioning, no, suggesting such a ludicrous, vulgar, classless act reminiscent of that of veronica.

veronica would love this. 

she is not veronica de sade, but her own person. her older siblings would testify to that.

vanitas doesn't even bother looking at her after that ridiculous question, his gaze into thin air filled with something she doesn't comprehend, doesn't wish to understand — why? why her? that bastard already has both noé archiviste and jeanne, two of the people she has long wished to keep by her side, only for the likes of him to cruelly wrench them away from her side with talks of who knows what in who knows where. is it not enough, that he already has them by his side?

is he the epitome of human greed, a plain-as-day showcase on why humans will always be lower? has he already gone that far with either, and is now on the hunt for the next target?

… no, he isn't that sort of character, if the stories she hears about him are real.

" he's saved me time and time again. he's a good person. "

" people like you are just 'convenient females'. …that's all. "

dominique stills.

" … answer me, then, human — why me? "

vanitas' gaze finally returns, those accursed blue eyes reminiscent about the tales of the vampire of the blue moon, bore into her. they're full of self-defeat, and she hates how she understands. she hates how she feels sympathetic to to the likes of him, that she relates, and is guilty of the same thing ; to make use of another in order to indulge the urge of self-destruction.

she understands, all too well. 

they're not like us.

" … very well. "