characters: Lofty Executor, Lofty Wanderer
words: 574
summary: Executor doesn’t have an answer. neither did the goddess.
broken. worthless. pathetic. pitiful.
useless. little more than nothing. this stinking existence of his-- what point does it serve? hanging fitfully upon the wire between life and death-- it’s difficult. it’s difficult to want to live.
the light glows beside him. his hair is wet, long stained with the blood of monsters and the corrosion of his own being. disgusting. why does he exist? what is his purpose if he’s already lost it all?
steps come near, quickly. the soft light of the blade gleams in the darkness and he’s tempted to take a hold of it, to come close to the icy judgment of the goddess. but the knife dissipates quickly and the hand that held it comes to rest gently on his cheek, then his forehead. soft, gentle. undeserved.
where is that knife--
“are you alright, Wander?”
a firm hand touches his wrist and he stops, words choked in his throat. green eyes watch him, kind and confused, and he doesn’t pull away, even though his core thrashes like it wants to shatter.
“it’s… nothing,” he struggles out. “nothing. Executor. I was-- I was just thinking.”
he doesn’t deserve to exist. but clean, unblemished hands cradle his scarred ones burned with the power of Henir, and he bites back his tears.
he doesn’t pull away.
what is his purpose? why does he exist? why… why, when there already exists someone who is stronger and better than him-- more deserving, more worthy of his breath?
perhaps, he was made as a reminder. perhaps, he is an example, living proof of failure.
he doesn’t want to be.
the fingers are tight around his wrists, pulls him back into the world around him. dark, with only the light of the heavens, shimmering gently beside him.
“... why… why are you still here?”
his voice breaks like cracks in glass and the calm in Executor’s eyes breaks a little too.
“did you think I’d leave you like this?” Executor says plainly, “your injuries haven’t healed.”
“they’ll never heal,” he says. “I’ll never get better. you know this as well as me-- it’ll only get worse. why waste your time waiting for me to heal? why-- why--”
he grabs Executor’s collar, but he barely feels it, his last desperate grasp on this forsaken world.
“-- why do you still believe in me?”
Executor doesn’t have an answer. just as the goddess never had an answer for him either. the tears fall from his eyes in bloody stains, and he doesn’t wipe them away. he’s groveled at the foot of the goddess and she never came.
why does Executor stay? is it out of pity? is it out of hope that he would redeem himself?
“I don’t know,” Executor finally says. he’s struggling with his words, wrangling with his thoughts, his emotions. humanity, after all, has touched him too. the celestial who was made to be a perfect tool-- is human too.
eventually, Wander’s grasp loosens, his breath evening into slow sighs. he is no longer alone--- perhaps, that is the crucial difference.
they are both afraid-- of their mission, of this world, of being. Executor, still strong, still perfect, still blessed by the goddess-- is still human. still flawed, still failed. irredeemable, just like him.
but in spite of it all, Executor still tries to own it. anger… fear-- the emotions neither understand, they are mere fuel for his power.
characters: Arme Thaumaturgy (Richter), Erbluhen Emotion
pairing: ^
words: 1756
summary: (piano!au) there’s a space in his heart and it’s empty.
3.
it’s like the night he remembered.
slow, plodding, the chilly wind tugging at the empty trees, the snowflakes falling like its leaves. the lights of the halls are dimmed in the auditorium, the spotlight shining upon him and the piano once again.
there’s an emptiness beside him, insurmountable. he can almost hear the hum of strings that always used to sing with him, an accompaniment to his tune, a voice to his song. but not this time. because this performance is his own and this song he always played alone.
so he plays, this once, the song that he found scattered in the pieces of his heart. longing, lonely, lost. to find what he used to have, to find what he’s been looking for.
he feels the piano under his fingers, a mournful loneliness rising in each key. the emotion emanates through his fingers, resounds through his heart. each note takes him away, removes him further and further this world until all he knows is the piano and himself.
where is the love he had in his hands? it seems so far away, stolen from him.
-
4.
there’s an ethereal figure sitting on the windowsill. it wears a long white coat, its long white hair like soft strands of ice, feathery white wings pressed up against the glass. cold blue eyes lift when he enters the room, but there are no words.
so he takes his place at the piano. arranges his music sheets, before setting his fingers upon the keys. before he starts, he peers over at the window again.
the figure gazes out the glass, at the snow that falls upon the encrusted rooftops. it glimmers like an illusion, a dream.
a guardian, an angel.
were you there when it happened? he doesn’t ask. do you know what I don’t remember?
and the angel doesn’t answer. but blue eyes shift toward him, catches him staring. the angel blinks, hollow blue eyes unseeing, and his breath is caught in his throat.
who are you?
snow brushes bright against the windowpane, falls into the quiet, empty world.
-
1.
when he’s released from the hospital, he returns home to his small apartment. he doesn’t remember how long since he’s been since he’s returned. the calendar says two weeks, his memory says forever.
in the kitchen, he pours tea into his single mug, a light blue one. he doesn’t drink tea. he moves into his bedroom, collapses into his bed. a bed that seems too large, too perfectly made, too neat.
the silence that fills the room seems too loud.
he stumbles to the other room, where his piano sits alone, sprinkled with a light layer of dust. the window is open, white curtains swaying in the breeze. he limps over to the piano and pushes it open.
he trails his fingers over the keys, slowly coaxes it alive. the music sheets lay scattered all around him, filled with scribbles, with notes. he sits himself on the bench and when he plays, he feels the loneliness rise in his soul.
there’s a space in this house, in his heart, and it is empty.
so empty.
when he wakes up, he hears a melody in his mind. but it’s silent and it’s night. the moonlight splashes along the glass of the windows, traces against the finished surface of the black piano, powders the air with glistening dust.
he pushes himself up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. hunger and sleep mingle, but his emotions carve him open.
so he plays the song again. each note, a word within his heart. each sound, a sorrow.
love me, love me
love me
when he is done, there are tears in his eyes, an image in his mind. but he can’t recognize it. he can’t remember.
upon deaf ears, love falls.
-
2.
he doesn’t remember falling asleep.
but he knows he is. at least, he must be dreaming. dreaming of the hand brushing through his hair, rubbing circles into his back. dreaming of the soft lap he lays in. it’s not warm, just there. as if it always has been there.
he’s dreaming. the piano bench is cold and hard underneath him. but he doesn’t open his eyes, afraid of shattering it all.
“Erblu, wake up. it’s getting dark already.”
dark, in the school’s music room. in his mind’s eye, he can see the sun setting beyond the windows of the building, spilling purples and reds onto the campus green, painting shadows into the tiled floor.
“five more minutes…” he hears himself mumble.
a sigh. chiding. but the hand tickles the back of his neck and soon it tickles too much.
“come on, Erblu, wake up.” a pause. “I’ll make dinner tonight if you do.”
“is that supposed to convince me?” he laughs, a ringing happiness filling the space in his heart. “you know you can’t cook.”
“at least I’ll know I tried.”
he finally decides to sit up. but when he opens his eyes, he’s back in his apartment, alone in the piano room. there’s no one else here with him. just the white curtains billowing in the midnight breeze. the white curtains billowing like a memory.
and a name, on the tip of his tongue.
-
0.
“eh? why do you want to play the violin?”
“you need a partner for the recital.”
“... no, it’s alright. it’s too late to find someone else and I can’t just teach you.”
“that’s never stopped you.”
“this is different! you’ve never touched an instrument before.”
“then teach me, Erblu. and I’ll learn.”
-
5.
a dream rips him open, wide awake. the covers seem too cold, the world seems too dark. he gathers himself in his blankets, shivers in the coldness of the room.
in his dream, he was dying. he remembers it so clearly. in the muffledness, he hears sirens. in his haze, he watches them blink. he sees himself die, a witness to his own death. his eyes shutting close, his heart slowing to a stop.
as the cars and lights blur, he sees a man tear into the streets. blue hair… light blue hair-- familiar. a voice is shouting his name. in agony, in pain. in an emotion birthed from the depth of his core.
then the wings appear. bright, shimmering, as if it was made of dreams and nothing real. it descends onto his broken dead body, and curls up around him, its feathers lifting into the snowy breeze, a gust picking up into a silent storm.
time stands still.
and then, it moves again.
the image flares awake in a sharp relief. a sickening crush. he’s jolted back into reality, back into his foggy memories. back where everything is white and machines beep, off-rhythm.
“divine intervention,” the whispers said. “he shouldn’t have lived.”
but he did, by some miracle. and now he knows, it’s by this miracle, he did.
he’s in his room again, away from the humming whispers, away the steady beat of the hospital. but he still sees some light, filtering in through the window in the piano room, twinkling like the stars.
he ventures into the room. the angel is there. the angel who’s always there-- the angel from his dream. he hears himself stumble, his socks soft against the floor, and the angel turns to him, those eyes so distant, so far away.
he approaches. he places his hand onto the coat that flows like white curtains, grasps it. it feels solid and the angel moves to cover his hand. the touch is not cold, not warm-- just there.
like it has always been there.
so he falls. he rests himself on the windowsill against the angel. finds those pale white hands, gathers them into his lap. slowly, hesitantly, the angel carves out an embrace, wraps its wings around him to cradle him, and those white wings descend like flower petals.
teach me and I will learn.
against the windowsill, the snow falls, white harbingers of a bright dawn.
the room is not quite so dark anymore. and the world, no longer quite so lonely.
-
6.
he hears a song when he returns home from the recital. it’s a familiar song, one that’s been playing in his heart for so long. someone is playing his piano.
when he opens the piano room, the angel sits there, his majestic white coat swaying in the gentle breeze. fingers caress the keys, plays his melody. so exact, so meticulously perfect. empty, but for a lone, single emotion.
when he sits down on the piano bench, the angel lifts his eyes up. there is recognition in those blue eyes-- a life.
so he says, a smile on his lips, “I didn’t know angels knew how to play instruments.”
“there is no such thing as music in heaven,” the angel replies. “I learned.”
“huh.” he places a finger on the key, lets the single note twang in the silence. “from who?”
the answer surprises him and it doesn’t. “from you.”
he says nothing. he dances one hand across the keys, plays the simple melody again, and the angel watches him repeat the chords. its emotions echo against the walls and fill his heart. his memories-- their memories-- laid dormant in this melody all along.
“why are you here?” he finally decides to ask.
“to protect you,” the angel answers, “to be whatever you needed me to be.”
“not that. I already know that,” he says, smiling. “this is different. this is something you chose to do. so why are you here, playing this song?”
there’s hesitance in those blue eyes. the angel places his hand on the keys again, wavering, so he reaches over, holds that too pale hand in his.
then the angel answers, “I felt as if I needed to understand. but still I do not. you wanted something of me, when you played this song. what… what do you want?”
he brushes light blue hair from those uncertain, inhuman eyes, watches as the air around him shine like gleaming snow. he curls their fingers together and wraps his arms around the angel, feels those arms wrap around him in return. he squeezes the angel tightly, before pulling away, sees himself reflected in those caring, careful blue eyes.
“I want you to be yourself, Arme,” he says, he almost pleads. “I want to love you. will you let me?”
a silence. a hesitance. then quietly, “whatever you need. whatever you want-- I will.”
he thinks he’s crying but he tries to smile. “just this one thing, Arme. I just want to love you.”
Herrscher - Third Job Change Quest Descriptions (Elsword NA)
Richter’s, Bluhen’s.
Herrscher’s.
Herrscher 1/5
Clear Forgotten Elrian Sanctum 0/1
Drawn by the power of the restored El, Ain steps in to Elrianode. Not knowing what he is looking for, he ends up in front of a mysterious cave. Let’s investigate.
Ain finds an enormous being that failed to return to the Void, because of its energy mingling with El energy. It’s time to return this pitiful creature to its original state of nothingness.
Once Ain turned all foolish beings back into nothing, he noticed that he somehow returned to the entrance of the cave. Ain realizes that this must be the doing of the mysterious energy that brought him here. In order to enter the cave again, he needs something that will allow him to blend in. Let’s defeat the monsters, born out of hubris, to absorb their power.
As if entranced, more and more Henir Mutated Monsters crawled out of their hiding place to approach Ain. Let’s lead these beings holding the energy of Void and Chaos back to their Maker.
The more Ain eliminates the monsters, the more he realized the true salvation he can grant upon these creatures is to rid their bodies that is chaining them to this physical realm. He realized that moment, the ones that are leading these beings had to be his ‘Future Self’ currently waiting deep within the cave.
There could be no one else that could possibly have more influence over Void and Chaos than he does.
‘What are you?’
Now that he knew whose voice it was, the answer was obvious. This body is also a meaningless creation formed by the Goddess. Eventually it will meet its demise. But Ain had no intention to simply fade away.
‘Unleash yourself.’
The preparation was complete. WIth his existence confirmed, Ain recognized it was time to unleash his true potential.
Ain headed towards the sanctum. ‘He’ was waiting for his answer at the heart of the sanctum
You’re here.
...
Do you still have doubts?
Accept. Everything will return to nothing. Every being follows the path to the Void.
... I have no doubt.
Just one last thing I wished to confirm.
... Yes. At the end of all things, that is where we will stand.
characters: Richter (Arme Thaumaturgy), Bluhen
pairing: ^
words: 570
summary: Richter reverts back into his old form. the one that has a little bit of humanity.
Richter is back early.
Bluhen can feel his aura from the outside of the room. he opens his bedroom door a peek to see a celestial lying on the sheets of the bed, icy blur creation ribbons rising from his form. prone, still, Richter's body shifts little as he breathes. it’s been a long time since Richter actually rested like this.
the door clicks shut quietly and Bluhen floats silently over to the bed. when he sits himself on the bed, Richter doesn’t move, remaining curled away from him. there’s a strange mask of exhaustion in his aura, so Bluhen touches his shoulder lightly, curls his fingers through his hair. his hair is shorter too. hm, did Richter cut it?
“... Bluhen.”
Richter attempts to wake, but the overhanging slumber clings onto his limbs.
“not feeling well, Richter?” Bluhen cups his cheek, tilts Richter’s face to face his. stops when he realizes there’s a peculiar light in those blue eyes, an emotion. -- anxiousness.
it’s been awhile since Richter’s eyes reflected emotion.
Richter closes his eyes again and Bluhen summons his Rein.
“looks like you got yourself into some trouble, Richter,” Bluhen laughs lightly. he crawls onto the bed alongside Richter, moves Richter’s head onto his lap with little difficulty. Richter hums absently as his body relaxes into the gentle warmth of Rein. “your form has reverted.”
Bluhen remembers it clearly. Richter had emotion once-- as Arme Thaumaturgy. wrath, mostly, righteous anger. more rarely, uncertainty. pain. Richter shed all of that when he ascended and left his human side behind. it took awhile for Bluhen to understand, took even longer for him to accept.
not all celestials want emotion, after all.
so this, this-- Bluhen thinks as he flutters his fingers through Richter’s brilliant blue hair-- he’ll appreciate. the relaxed knit of Richter’s brow, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. the fact that he does breathe. he never realized Richter’s true form never needed to breathe. his true form is like some inhuman glass, while this form… is still so human.
Bluhen smiles a little, leans down to tickle his nose against Richter’s hair.
“I love you,” Bluhen says casually, happily.
“I know,” Richter answers as he usually does. but there’s an unnatural tightness where there is usually careless ease, a lost light when Richter opens his eyes. and Bluhen can feel the pulse of his core accelerating. clumsily, Richter raises his hand to cup his cheek, leans up to press his lips lightly against his forehead. and then Richter drops back onto Bluhen’s lap and closes his eyes-- shuts them tightly, like he’s trying to will his emotions away.
Bluhen observes him, amused. Richter is usually so precise and controlled, watching him fumble with himself is refreshing. he gathers Richter in his arms and Richter falls into him, reluctant, but limp.
“don’t overexert yourself, Richter.”
Richter sighs and Bluhen can feel the frustration coming off him in waves. but Richter says nothing, does nothing, and the energy resumes cycling around him. Bluhen holds him tightly, closely enough to feel every tremor of emotion in his body, every beat of his human-like core. Bluhen closes his eyes too, lets his Blume hang in the air around them.
maybe after Richter’s rested, he’ll return back to normal. back to the normal, emotionless god that Richter always is. and if he doesn’t… well.
i’ve updated my ao3 archive to the latest, 140. you can find it at goddess wills, stars shine
unfortunately, i have not been writing as much since one of my classes takes a lot of my writing energy. i’ve also been trying to consciously take a break from writing, since i’ve been a bit drained. i’ll probably still end up writing here and there, but probably with nowhere near the passion and energy i used to (i really wish i could though, i want to explore the third jobs more)
as usual, to everyone who’s been following me, thank you for the support!
characters: Richter, Herrscher
pairing: ^ (kissing)
words: 650
summary: (modern!au) it’s a quiet evening at Richter’s home.
dusk climbs like slumber over the twinkling cityscape, as Richter opens the door to his apartment, the bright hallway lights spilling into the hazy darkness of the room. he hangs his coat and stows his case in the closet, before nudging the curtains opens, letting the pale pink sunlight filter in through the windows.
far above the rumble of the city streets, its blinking lights, and ubiquitous sirens, the apartment sits, a perfectly quiet, meticulously arranged sanctuary. Richter lets the water boil in the kitchen as he showers, and then returns to make his regular evening tea. alone, he sits at the living room couch and sips his tea. waits.
the door clicks, almost noiselessly. Richter looks at the time-- half past ten-- and sets his tea down onto the coffee table, waits for the figure of darkness drifts from the doorway over to him. he feels the sensation of lips against his forehead and the couch dipping beside him, and when Richter opens his eyes, Herrscher is picking the teacup gently with a gloved hand. he raises it to his lips, lets the steam puff into his nose.
“jasmine as usual,” Richter provides.
“smells like you,” Herrscher says. he doesn’t drink the tea. “good evening, Richter.”
Richter says nothing in return, but places a hand against Herrscher’s back, traces the curve of his spine upward. in a few precise movements, he fixes Herrscher’s suit collar, roughed up somehow, during his work. Richter never asks what happened to him or what Herrscher did, because in their line of work, it’s impossible for their spheres of influence not to collide. so it’s better for them to say nothing at all.
in Herrscher’s hands, the tiny porcelain cup glows in the dimness. Herrscher sets it down again, comes to rest his head onto Richter’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. after a moment, Richter takes Herrscher’s hands, removes his gloves one by one, presses his thumbs into his palm, feeling familiarly the thick scar running along his skin.
though Richter no longer truly feels the guilt. after all, it was merely his job.
“sleeping here tonight?” Richter asks. nudges him carefully. Herrscher doesn’t stir and Richter almost thinks he’s already drifted off.
“... yes,” Herrscher answers. rubs his head against Richter’s shoulder idly.
“shower?”
a silence. then Richter feels the press of lips trail up from his shoulder, dip into the crook of his neck, and press against his throat. Richter remains still until Herrscher tilts his chin, presses their lips together, captures them for a long, thorough kiss. Herrscher’s right eye flutters open and Richter raises a hand up to tuck a finger under the eyepatch over his other eye, before slowly sliding the cloth up and off. Richter cups his cheek, trails his thumb over the old scarring sealing his left eye shut, and Herrscher opens his mouth, pulls away to nip at his finger.
Herrscher wraps his arms around Richter, tucks himself against Richter, fits themselves like they’re puzzle pieces. a momentary rejection almost, of what they are. equals. opposites.
though, it is not forbidden if there is no one to forbid it.
Richter tickles his fingers through Herrscher’s long hair, straightens it strand by strand, removes the needles holding it up. Herrscher holds him, hands stroking along his back, feeling up his waist. mapping, memorizing each curve in his body. when Herrscher finally settles against him again, Richter rests his lips against Herrscher’s forehead, imparting a simple blessing.
“shower,” Richter says firmly, “then we can sleep.”
“mm.”
but Herrscher’s grip only tightens and the glint in his eyes only wishes. a fleeting want, a flash of desire, but Herrscher turns away and says nothing else. he doesn’t need to, because Richter already understands.
Richter takes Herrscher’s hand, folds their fingers together. a solidarity, a mutual truce. the still serenity of tonight, it’s something neither of them wants to let go.
characters: Richter, Bluhen (side: Vishnu)
pairing: richter/bluhen (hugs and kisses)
words: 1069
summary: (modern!au, in which Bluhen is a fashion designer and Richter is a lawyer.) Richter spends an afternoon at Harmonie Designs.
the afternoon sun filters in through glass windows, brushing the sloping walls with a gentle glow. in the center of the room is a set, a white background decorated with fabric flowers, all pastel red, yellow, and blue. a two painted stools are positioned in front of the cameras and a girl in a flowing white dress is perched upon one, her long brown hair tumbling down her bare back. she holds a bouquet of pure white flowers, fidgets with it nervously as the designer checks in with the cameraman.
his name is Bluhen Harmonie, the lead designer of Harmonie Designs. in the warm light, his satin shirt and slacks glow white, accenting the chamomile flower pin clasped on his ruffled black tie. a soft gold feather is tied to his tiny braid, an epitome of carefree purity, an embodiment of Harmonie’s philosophy himself: all innocent charm, all gentle grace.
on the sofa next to the set, Richter rests silently, watching Bluhen as the designer flutters from the cameras back to the set. a seasonal lookbook sits idly in Richter’s lap, a customary gift from the studio assistants who never really know what to do with this visitor. a man as sharp as glass, as frozen as ice, even though he’s in an ensemble Bluhen himself designed for him. a soft white three piece, a lightly patterned vest, cuffs lined with delicate lace, and a powder blue tie. -- the color of his eyes, Bluhen pointed out.
on the set, Bluhen finishes rearranging the props, finally turning to size up the model.
“chin up, Vishy, darling,” Bluhen says, lifts up the girl’s chin with a careful nudge of his finger. “you’re looking too timid for this.”
Vishy straightens her back, her brown eyes brightening. “um, something like this?”
“yes, that’s closer to what we want. an elegant simplicity, a daring charm. woo the man behind the camera, or--” Bluhen gathers a lock of black hair in his fingers. “if you’re too shy for that, you can try me.”
Bluhen presses his lips against her hair tenderly and Vishy’s cheeks flush a bright pink. her eyes dart toward Richter hesitantly, but Richter only continues to watch them both, seemingly unfazed.
“Bluhen!” Vishy whispers loudly, “your fiancé is right there!”
“that’s never stopped me before, darling.” Bluhen winks and lets go of her, as Vishy stares at him, dismayed. “I hope the camera can capture how lovely you look right now.”
Vishy squeaks, buries her face in her bouquet of flowers, embarrassed. “Bluhen!”
Bluhen smiles a serene, gentle smile, before turning back to the cameras. snaps his fingers decisively. “alright, let’s get the show started.”
Bluhen supervises the photoshoot for a few minutes after it begins in earnest, but eventually, he flutters to the side of the set, comes to perch on the armrest next to Richter.
“Vishy’s doing a lot better now than when she first started,” Bluhen says, his green eyes sparkling kindly. “remember when we met her? has it already been three months? her agent was about to let her go.”
“your charisma helps,” Richter observes.
“I’m glad it does! she does enjoy working with us,” Bluhen says. “she was really shy at first, but when she finally opened up, she’s stunning in her own right. I suppose, in the end, a flower only needs a bit of sunlight to bloom.”
Richter hums in acknowledgement. “just like you.”
Bluhen blinks, but Richter only checks his phone, oblivious. a secret smile unfurls on Bluhen’s lips, as he leans over into Richter’s space.
“you know, she said fiancé.” Bluhen reaches over to take Richter’s hand, traces his thumb over the ring on Richter’s finger. he brings Richter’s hand to his lips. “it makes me feel so happy, because it means you’re mine.”
Richter looks up at him, stares at him blankly. but then he says, “I have always been yours.”
“oh. oh, just ruin me already, my darling.”
“you’re at work, Bluhen.”
“and when has that stopped me?” Bluhen smiles teasingly. “you don’t come here often, so let me enjoy this a little. give me a kiss, Richter.”
Richter obliges, leans up to press his lips tenderly on Bluhen’s cheek. Bluhen sighs a happy sigh, before wrapping his arms around Richter’s shoulders and draping onto him. Richter shifts to accommodate him, before realizing that the camera flashes on the set have stopped.
Richter nudges his cheek against Bluhen’s. “they’re looking at you, Bluhen.”
“let them look. let them watch.” Bluhen hums, a faint pout on his lips. “let me have this, Richter.”
Bluhen pinches Richter’s chin and turns his face toward him, catches Richter’s lips tenderly in his own. it’s long, heartfelt, because Bluhen always pours his whole heart into his kisses. when they part, there’s a faintest of pink on Richter’s cheeks, and Bluhen can’t help but smile and give him another kiss.
“are you done?” Richter asks, his voice a bit quieter than usual. “they’re waiting for you.”
Bluhen only hugs him tighter. “you’ve waited for me all morning.”
“they’re waiting for you to get back to work.”
“alright, alright.” Bluhen smiles, finally hops off the sofa. he looks to see half of his staff abruptly turn away, varying degrees of embarrassment on their faces. Vishy has already slid off the stool, waiting nervously to be dismissed from the set. “oh, they’re done. now then, Richter!”
“hm?”
Bluhen takes Richter’s hand, tugs him upward, radiates with the brightness of the sun. “you know I don’t miss a chance to get you to model for me.”
Richter sighs, but stands anyway, grasping Bluhen’s hand firmly. “why? you don’t ever use my pictures.”
“what did I say, my darling?” Bluhen smiles, his green eyes smoldering. “I want you to model for me.”
Richter blinks at him blankly, before leaning in to peck him quickly on the nose. Bluhen squeezes his eyes shut and laughs, his mouth pinched in a happy smile.
“ah, you’re so cute, Richter.”
when Richter pulls away, Bluhen holds his hand tighter, lets it linger. then, quietly, so that only Richter can hear, he whispers, “thank you.”
for everything.
Richter doesn’t reply, only leans in again to press his lips against Bluhen’s forehead, instills a more tender blessing. Bluhen smiles, more softly this time and more honestly. he tucks his hand into Richter’s, folds their fingers together.
in the gentle silence between them, a warm love blooms.
characters: Apostasia, Herrscher
words: 778
summary: he meets himself, one who is no longer controlled by the void but rather, who rules it.
it’s broken– all broken, this world he’s destroyed.
so it is into a broken world that it falls.
a reckoning finally, an end to this cursed existence.
no. a voice echoes. words push into his mind. this is not the end.
he looks up. in the depth of darkness, he sees a being descend before him, cloaked black with rippling chaos. it’s broken, broken, corrupted, cursed, the turmoil smoldering within him, unrelenting, unending, so he flicks out his hand and orbs of chaos begin to form.
but before they form, they break. they shatter into dust. a glowing orb rises in place, foreboding. from it, a scythe gleams with a deep radiance, drips with intent. descends to strike.
he forms his own scythe instinctively, but the tendrils multiply before he can react. they pierce him, strangle him, cage him, subdue him, and when he gazes up into the haunted, glowing eye, he gazes into abyss itself.
Herrscher.
ribbons of darkness coil at his throat. the being observes, irreverently, carelessly, as broken orbs surround it like haunted lanterns. the chaos that restrain him still instead, the blade of the scythe linger contemplatively at his neck.
and then, it simply drops away. the being comes closer. fingers form of the chaos, pinch his chin. it turns him to face the absent green eye and he strains as it bores into him, picks his memory apart. the destruction that tore him into pieces, the corruption that poisoned his form. the emptiness that ate away his core, the chaos that replaced his light. the goddess… the goddess…
the goddess who left him, a mere shell of an existence.
the fingers let go and he turns his head away. does he remember resentment? does he remember shame? the restraints draw away, but the air around him remains stilted, frozen. unfamiliar. because the chaos around him is not his own, rumbles instead with a slumbering calm.
still burdened by the gods.
the voice. empty, emotionless.
still at the mercy of humanity.
the being grabs ahold of his left arm and yanks him upward. it twists unnaturally and he can feel his shoulder shatter and scream. he tries to grab what is holding him up, but even there he finds only chaos– only a chaos more powerful than his own.
discard it.
… how? how? the being of pure chaos watches him, silent, indifferent. he moves his fingers, tries to pull it out of its grasp, but it cracks from the pressure. his hand, his arm. it breaks… he breaks.
he can’t. he has known nothing else but that which were given to him– his existence as a ball of light, his existence as a human. a mere celestial, even one so broken as he, couldn’t have known anything else.
then, it stops. a sudden stillness. the darkness sweeps him up, flutters gently against his corrupted skin. he hesitates, because peace is something he is not allowed to have. a chaos fully realized, it consumes him, drips black into his skin, seizes the broken core in his chest and shatters it too. he thrashes, trapped within the darkness, his breath rattling in the confines of this body. he is too weak, this form is too broken.
a hand formed of chaos comes to touch the back of his head. it feels like the cradle of his creation, a false promise of a rebirth. but it is an embrace all the same. a comfort in this lightless well.
he feels his form precipitating into nothing, scattering into the void. the pain, the agony– it all disappears. everything becomes nothing, everything that is created is destroyed. everything within him is born out in waves, becomes an existence far beyond what he has ever been–
numbness. emptiness. it fills this broken vessel, this forsaken creation.
when he wakes, he sees nothing but silence. the being remains, a bellowing chaos next to him. a hollow ball of darkness floats before it, submerged in an eerie glow. around them, there is nothing but darkness, nothing but the bleak pulse of his core.
he knows now. this being is himself, his future. his future, who is so powerful, so at ease with his power. his future, who is no longer one controlled by the void, no longer a puppet of the chaos, but rather the one who rules it.
it no longer hurts. at least, it no longer pains him. when he tries to curl his hand, he grasps nothing. … he has no hand. when he wills it to move, it prickles with phantom sensation, pretends that he has control…
no… he still has control.
the being does not speak. but within him, he hears.
realize… understand. even at the end, you will still remain.
characters: Arme Thaumaturgy, Apostasia (Herrscher)
pairing: ^ (two kisses)
words: 837
summary: it’s a strange peace Apos has found.
he finds Apos as he always does, lying in a pool of cursed chaos. his form broken into pieces, corruption spread further, entire pieces of his body disintegrated into nothing. abandoned, aimless, and yet still, still in existence.
Apos gave up long ago, and yet this form refuses to cease to exist.
so Arme descends into the pool, the plume of chaos particulate mere dust in his grace. the chaos bubbles like thick sludge, seems to rise up to catch him, but when he lands upon it and kneels next to the broken body that is Apos, the fluid parts reverently around his presence.
the chaos is no longer oppressive, now merely a silent emptiness, uncanny. Arme raises his hand to touch Apos’s brow, tracing his creation power over the cracks in his forehead, before brushing his hair aside to reveal the left half of his face. Arme stops, curls his fingers hesitantly. because Apos’s face shattered completely, his left eye all but gone.
Apos stirs, opens his right eye. it’s hollow, empty, burns with an ethereal glow. unworldly. as if his celestial power still shines through this broken human form of his.
“... Arme,” comes Apos’s quiet whisper. then slowly, tendrils of chaos rise, wrap itself around Arme’s wrist. like a hand, Arme recognizes. -- but Apos’s entire left arm is gone. “... you’re here.”
“I am,” Arme says. he tries to pull his hand away, but the chaos remains, steadfast. “what are you doing?”
Apos isn’t looking at him anymore, gaze fixed on Arme’s hand, still aglow with a divine mending power. Apos closes his eyes and Arme can feel the grasp on his hand loosen, resigned.
“... you don’t need to. not anymore.”
Arme lets the power in his hand flickers out. “you have forgiven yourself.”
a long silence. then Apos inclines his head. “... yes. because I understood.”
Arme watches him as Apos sits up, gathers the pieces of himself slowly. his control over chaos is calmer now, the rippling ribbons flowing with a languid ease. the tendrils flutter into a form resembling a human body.
even though it no longer is.
“not all things deserve salvation… or judgment,” Apos starts, his voice tense, brittle. “but all things… end. the abandoned… the forgotten… the broken…”
himself, Apos doesn’t say. but Arme knows.
“everything… has a place. until this world disappears and all of the things within it, I will remain. so I will wait... and watch. until the end, when it all melts away. this world… this form… you.”
“I know,” Arme says simply.
“you know.” Apos repeats. he tilts his head a little, a tiny curious gesture. “... then do you accept my existence?”
his existence. his corruption. Arme shifts his fingers slightly, still caught in the tendrils of chaos. he grasps it, feels a tentative pressure on his palm in return.
was it ever a question? Apos, who is a celestial, himself, from another, much more broken world. Apos, who succumbed to the corruption that plagued him, fractured and shattered by the void that sought to consume him. Apos, who lays before him now, broken, given up entirely to the chaos, and yet, now finally, assuredly at peace with himself.
Arme has never forgotten. Apos’s fate could have so easily been his.
so he answers, “I always have.”
Arme closes his eyes, feels those hollow hands wrap themselves around his hand. Apos’s touch no longer stings, the chaos’ callous strength now fully his own. it flickers like mere threads now, tickles lightly upon his skin.
so this is it. a found peace in the abyss, a new purpose out of the chaos. what Apos realized, what Apos finally accepted.
there is a place for those who wander.
for awhile, he meditates, allows his creation aura to meld with the swirling chaos. his power remains resolute, the chaos in accompaniment. creation, destruction. order, chaos. neither can exist without the other.
Arme feels something press inquisitively upon his lips, opens his eyes to see Apos’s gaze fixed him. emotion curls peculiarly in that hollow eye, and Apos continues to trace his phantom fingers over Arme’s lips.
Arme doesn’t understand. but finally, he asks, “why?”
Apos doesn’t blink, doesn’t pull away. he leans in, casually, inexplicably, takes Arme’s lips in his own. when Apos pulls back, Arme can see no hunger in his eye, no thirst.
only playfulness, of some sort. a fleeting curiosity.
“there is no meaning in existence,” Apos answers and does not. “except the purpose we make for ourselves.”
“yes.” Arme furrows his brow, as Apos touches his cheek, cradles it gently. “but why are you--”
Apos leans in again, presses a kiss onto his lips. presses his tongue past his lips, prying, probing. Arme pulls himself away, covers his mouth with his hand, but he sense only a lingering emptiness. still, his core pulses, erratic; still, his face flushes, unwilling.
Arme looks up and Apos smiles, a small, faint smile. strange. satisfied. unsettling.
characters: Erbluhen Emotion, Apostasia (Herrscher)
pairing: ^
words: 915
summary: Apos is different now.
a coiling pit of darkness greets him at the center. blighted beings, shattered souls, soundless howls rippling across the space, their fear trembling through his core. the ground bubbles like ravaged ooze, reaches futilely for a pale being floating idly above its center.
“… Apos?”
a glance. white hair ripples out, shimmers with an iridescent luster. he recognizes it a little, the blank countenance, the irreverent gaze. but the scythe in those hands is bone white.
one of those white hands open, gathers up the dredges of darkness. it all dissipates into nothing. the power repels him, sickens him a little. but he understands and he doesn’t, because he’s felt this when he fell into the gap of time and space. this, the absence of anything at all– the void.
the white fades and black ribbons unfurl open. the scythe disappears too, morphing into a dark orb. gray hair falls into a glowing green eye, before black crystals gathers his hair back, revealing broken fragments where the left half of his face used to be.
“… Erblu.”
the voice is hoarse, rough. but the meaning is there. beckons.
so Erblu takes a few hesitating steps forward.
“what… happened, Apos?” Erblu looks from the haunted eye to the writhing mass of emptiness below his neck. the emptiness in his chest holds a strange black orb, pulsating like a twisted heart. “what happened to your body…? – what happened to you?”
Apos blinks slowly, as he usually does. then, as if in explanation, he says, “it doesn’t matter. it’s only broken.”
“then,” Erblu says, gathering a gentle light of Rein. “I can help you. I’ll stay with you as you fix it.”
“I don’t need to,” comes the simple answer. Erblu doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to, so he holds the Eid tightly in his hands.
he understands, in a way. their human body was only a tool, given to them to complete their mission. a container that held their core, a vessel moved by their essence. and Apos’s form was long corrupted by the curse of Henir, so if Apos wanted to discard it, he could.
after all, Apos’s core shattered long ago. so what part of Apos is even left?
“… are you worried?”
“of course.” but Apos never asks him this, Apos never asks him questions.
Apos tilts his head. “… why?”
“because… because.” Erblu gazes up at him into his remaining eye. it’s lit with a delicate curiosity, an unnatural light. but there’s no pain anymore, no tortured haze. Erblu opens his hand, lets the Eid glow before him, and the tendrils of darkness gather around it, cradle it like a lantern. the void consumes the air around the Eid, but the tiny light still dances in Erblu’s hands.
Erblu doesn’t understand. “doesn’t it hurt…?”
“no,” Apos answers. the fluttering ribbons bellow gently, comes to close around Erblu’s hand loosely. “not anymore.”
“I see,” Erblu says. he doesn’t.
he doesn’t know what else to say, so he lets a silence fill the gap. Apos seems content to let the black ribbons flutter around them, as if they too delighted in Rein’s gentle aura.
but he…
“… Erblu?”
“hm?” Erblu blinks, but he can’t help the tears falling from his eyes. a touch to his cheek, neither warm nor cold, neither soft nor hard. it’s a sensation indescribable, simply because it doesn’t feel real.
the ribbons wrap around him and he’s gathered up, loosely in a pulsing fluid mass. it tickles him, strangely, but comforts him still. even though he was always the one who comforted Apos before.
his Rein flickers. the shroud of chaos gather around him, curious, attentive. Erblu curls his hand closed, but grasps only air.
he wants something– anything of Apos’s to hold.
finally, Erblu says, voice quiet, “… I… I want to hold your hand, Apos.”
a pause, then movement. slowly, something nudges into his palm. wraps around his fingers. a hand, an emptiness bound together by the black tendrils– but still, a hand. Erblu looks up, finally.
Apos looks more solid now. his torso, arms, his legs have taken a more human shape, formed out of black ribbons. it lends him a sense of being, of existence. though Erblu knows better.
there’s a hollow in his chest, still. but that had always been empty. Erblu looks up at Apos’s face and Apos’s single eye observes him, watchful.
Erblu raises a hand to touch Apos’s cheek. it’s not warm, but it’s there, a familiar paleness. his other cheek is missing, but when Apos notices Erblu’s gaze, a thick ribbon slides in hide the gap.
Erblu rests his hand on Apos’s shoulder. it gives a little, as if surprised, but Erblu can feel Apos’s arms wrapping around him gently, soothing. Erblu can hear his own heart beating restlessly in his chest, but from Apos, he hears nothing.
but Apos is still here.
a kiss to his temple. one that he had always given Apos before. one that seemed to comfort Apos, one that comforts him now. it’s peaceful now, tamed, the absence that is the void. it’s nothing like the erratic corruption that consumed Apos’s form, nothing like the icy abyss that surrounded Apos before.
it is now only nothingness.
Erblu closes his eyes tiredly, buries his face into Apos’s shoulder. Apos wraps his arms tightly around him, surrounds him with an eerie quiet, the most tender calm. it lulls him, unbidden.
character: Herrscher
words: 189
summary: a reflection.
his body lay in sundered pieces around him. given up, perhaps, stopped. eyes unseeing glow with a haunt dredged from the abyss, ribbons of chaos formed of his essence, spooling, unspooling, winding, unwinding. yielding, unyielding.
does he breathe? but the air shudders.
broken, perhaps. but he has no need for wholeness. the final state of everything is nothing, everything that becomes becomes not.
a slow, simmering silence. he pulls himself together, carelessly, thoughtlessly. fabric fold into thin fingers, pick up the pieces of himself. his hand, his foot-- though he no longer needs the charade.
does he feel? the pain that burned the form he was given has burned out. his divinity shattered, his humanity stolen, his core returned to the beginning of everything that was--
light, or darkness. chaos, perhaps.
in this state, can order rule him? can emotion reach him? words fall infinitely into the emptiness, breaks upon the realization of futility.
perhaps, fear? but he is chaos itself and he no longer fears what he has become.
is he Apostasia? celestial abandoned by the goddess, soul consumed by the void?
Bluhen - Third Job Change Quest Description (Elsword NA)
i did Richter’s, so i may as well do Bluhen’s. parts 1-4 are the same, so this will just be part 5.
Bluhen 5/5
Defeat Spatio Reaper (Elrianode) 0/30
'What is your resolve?'
The aura of the mysterious figure was easy to identify even in the midst of Henir energy. Then the answer is also clear.
I'm resolved to go with the El Search Party until the very end. It's my decision, that won't change no matter the hardship that follows.
As if unsatisfied, he asked again. 'Are you sure you won't regret your decision?' Ain learned many new emotions as he traveled with the El Search Party. Among them, regret could have been one of them. But likely not the deep, painful kind of regret the voice was asking.
Ain wasn't human. Nor was he a demon, or a Nasod. No matter how much he pretends to be one, he will never become human. His life given to fulfill his mission may end before the El Search Party ends their journey, or may continue until long after they're gone.
That kind of life surely would be full of pain and regret, and the mysterious being, his future self was asking if he was prepared for all of that.
No matter what the future entails, Ain did not want to give up the present together with everyone. Even if he comes to regret that time, that regret itself would be proof of the precious time spent together with everyone.
Ain headed towards the sanctum. 'He' was waiting for his answer at the heart of the sanctum.
Ah, you’re here.
You’re...
Yes. We are the same, but of different time. I understand your resolve.
But you need strength to pull that through. Now show me your strength!
Haha, I didn’t think this would be easy, but this hurts quite a bit.
This is my resolve, my new found emotion!
... May the Goddess light your path.
