a horde of untameables

One of us is the Angel of Silence. Another, the Dark Horns of a forgotten people. The last, a shrewd and knavish sprite even Shakespeare paid service to. And for some reason, we all live with this tattooed fuck who has wings and a big mouth. [RP Blog, occasionally NSFW.]

[primordialreign-blog]

She was Russian. I’m Winter.

You tell me if you think we were familiar with each other.

And no, you don’t care whose daughter I am.

It’s appreciated.

[primordialreign-blog]

...that thought hadn't occurred t'me, to be perfectly honest.

You- you're somethin' I ain't, lass. Not t'go back on my word, but like your sister an' father both are. One's a goddess, an' you an' him, well. A fuckin' force of nature.

I'm just a story, Beira.

An' a story never saved anyone.

[primordialreign-blog]

You’re full a’ shit, an’ Puck can say that t’ you. I don’t give two shits whose bloody daughter ya are, and you know it. Would y’rather me be like your father, then? Nature’s fuckin’ time bomb, about t’go off th’ next time somethin’ pisses him off? An’ it’s him, so that includes just about everything that don’t live here.

Did you even know her, lass? What th’ fuck do you care?

[primordialreign-blog]

She was Russian. I'm Winter.

You tell me if you think we were familiar with each other.

And no, you don't care whose daughter I am.

It's appreciated.

[textsfromdeltagreen-blog]

[textsfromdeltagreen-blog]

[primordialreign-blog]

Two things did come to mind, as it happens. One: your name is Puck. Use it, if you would? I don’t particularly care what idiots have taken it over in your stead; take it back.

Two, desist with the honorifics. I’m no more a Lady than you are a Lord. You could stop it with him, as well, but I know better than to hope for too much.

…you’re nearly sulking. Mourning suits you as well as anyone. This doesn’t.

[primordialreign-blog]

You're full a' shit, an' Puck can say that t' you. I don't give two shits whose bloody daughter ya are, and you know it. Would y'rather me be like your father, then? Nature's fuckin' time bomb, about t'go off th' next time somethin' pisses him off? An' it's him, so that includes just about everything that don't live here.

Did you even know her, lass? What th' fuck do you care?

[primordialreign-blog]

I’m not in th’ fuckin’ mood Ci, if y’happen t’ be-

…ah. An’ I’m only half wrong, then, but wrong all the same.

Did ya want somethin’, Lady Beira?

[primordialreign-blog]

Two things did come to mind, as it happens. One: your name is Puck. Use it, if you would? I don't particularly care what idiots have taken it over in your stead; take it back.

Two, desist with the honorifics. I'm no more a Lady than you are a Lord. You could stop it with him, as well, but I know better than to hope for too much.

...you're nearly sulking. Mourning suits you as well as anyone. This doesn't.

[primordialreign-blog]

I'm not in th' fuckin' mood Ci, if y'happen t' be-

...ah. An' I'm only half wrong, then, but wrong all the same.

Did ya want somethin', Lady Beira?

[primordialreign-blog]

october underground. {prose, one-shot}

Robin is the only one with energy to scream, but it's enough. Scream, perhaps, is an inappropriate word for it. The first syllable from his mouth as he sees the bloodied form in Duma's arms, maybe- his No is comparable to a man who's had the literal heart ripped out of him, and when he runs to her, tripping a number of times on dead leaves and gnarled roots, his tears come freely, and his hands are less skilled at refraining from touching her, or what used to be her. Duma is either gracious, or too numb to care, and at least the hobgoblin doesn't attempt to pull her away. There is enough sense left in him for that, though the sobbing and unintelligible words give evidence to the contrary.

Beira is next, and silent as her father, though with a surprise in her arms- Duma's pet, the hare, not even wriggling in her arms. "I thought I should," she murmurs, and he doesn't question her wisdom, instead moving closer, the intimacy between father and daughter almost imperceptible, save for the fact that their arms now touch, soaked jeans spotting a dry linen skirt as he does. 

"She reminded you of her." Ciaran's jaw stiffens at her statement, and he feels angry words brimming, aimed for his oldest before she cuts him off with a finishing truth. "She did the same for me." 

This time, a long arm wraps around Winter's shoulders, and doesn't let go. Which is best, really, because even he needs that touch when the next, and last of the group makes their way into his grove, a woman on either side of him guiding his path.

It's no doubt easier for Izrial to see in here; so much of this is covered by spirit. But the angel is still blind in many ways, save the one that counts at the moment. His face already defeated and broken, the lack of eyes doing nothing to hide who, and what he's looking at. The part that hurts most, though- the part that twists Ciaran's gut, empties him more than he ever thought possible- is the momentary look of confusion, before he pushes Jane and Slania away, repeating one word under his breath; the same word Robin screamed.

He didn't see her. Because she wasn't there.

The one syllable is a mantra even as he kneels, Robin's tear and dirt-encrusted hands still attempting to make her face clean, Duma still clutching on to her body as he is, undoubtably, her memory. Slania, for what little she can do, puts her own arm around the detective beside her, whose mouth is covered in a mix of horror and disbelief. Taliesin, from behind, has his own protective hand on his wife's shoulder, and for once isn't afraid to meet Ciaran's eyes, dark and deadly as the blood from Natasha's wounds. He grieves, but worries, and the Stag God can only give a curt nod of agreement- those who are mortal, are in danger. And they should have known better.

From now on, they will. That sentiment, however, will not bring the already dead back to life, and Ciaran continues to watch as Izrial stares and whispers, unable to cry as his brothers do. His pale, still shaking hand begins to move, however, until it's obvious he's feeling for something, which turns out to be the dead spy's own, stiffening palm. He clutches it, and then coherent thought is voiced, even if joy is utterly lacking from his words.

"This. This is all my fault, ain't it." The Archangel can't cry, but his breaths, sudden and uneven, tell all the tale that is needed. "I shoulda- I gotta- fuckin' goddamn, Tsarina, I'm so fuckin' selfish; Duma, I-"

"No." And Duma's voice is broken, lost, but most of all, unfamiliar, and it shakes his brother as much as every person present. Even Robin stops his breath for a moment, the weight of what's been done pressing on them all. What he did.

The former angel of silence seems the only one unconcerned about his lack of it, and instead, he leans down, giving her bloody lips a kiss with his own burst ones as his grip finally subsides, the shadow of a smile on his face before he looks at them all- but mostly his brother- with a dazed incredulousness.

"She said I had to live," he murmurs. "She meant you, too."

His hands leave her then, and Duma looks at Ci, the gaze impeded by moisture but no less decisive. "Let her rest."

It takes a moment for her mourners to comprehend, and then move- Duma more or less stumbles back, his hand still reaching for her even as momentum pushes him backwards into one of the larger trees. Izrial follows suit, with only slightly more grace, pulling himself on hands and knees until he reaches his brother- something he can see- and wraps his arms around him, still whispering apologies in a dead tongue.

Robin is the last to leave her, and Ciaran, perhaps, is the least surprised. There are a few more choked sobs, a kiss to a forehead before his hand goes to her chest, giving it the briefest touch before he whispers his own goodbye. "I would've gone back, if it meant takin' you, lass." 

And then he, too, leaves, stalking in a mix of depression and fury that Ciaran understands all too well, and perhaps that's why Robin comes to rest by his feet, kneeling back down with head in hands.

"You'd better fuckin' take care of her," he snarls, and there's no Lord or honorifics to be found. Merely an order. It's almost refreshing- Ciaran's never required the title, and from Robin, or Puck, it seems inappropriate- but legends run on rules. In this moment, however, there's only Cernunnos and Puck, and three words that equal a promise.

"She was mine."

And with that, Ciaran closes his eyes, and wills himself to take her. For a moment, it's dark, yes- but that darkness is filled with a knowledge that comes from something different than sight, from sweat and the smell of blood mixed with loam and the crunching and crinkling of roots. He is the earth, and here, the feeling of her cool limbs and peaceful face disappearing into his essence is almost, almost too much to bear, a reminder not only of what she was but of what someone else was, as well.

Fitting, then, that the one to break his reverie is Slania, her blue-green eyes the first thing he sees, her long fingers pulling at his sleeve even as she whips her face around, to the most distant corner of the grove. "Mo athair," she whispers under hissed breath, and then he looks.

Those trees- a corridor of them, dead as the woman he just buried and leading to a path of frozen darkness- those are not his. The figure, however, standing in confusion and sadness at its beginning, is.

It's her. Clad in an army uniform that's far too big, but somehow suits her, Russian, of course, Russian as the word on her lips and the gun on her back.

"Myshka," she says mournfully, and it's then that Ciaran realizes that their gift of vision doesn't go both ways, and Natasha is looking straight through them, looking for someone else. 

"She's lost," whispers Beira, low enough that only sibling and father can hear, and Ciaran nods, keeping silent about their visitor for now. She's not meant to stay here- that much is clear- but they are seeing her for a reason. 

Nothing happens without reason. He is no fool god. As it happens, however, his daughters are the first to figure out what must be done, and he barely has time to react before Beira hands the small black rabbit over to her sister, Slania holding it up, analytic eyes studying it before staring into those of the hare. 

"You do have somewhere to go. Well, then." She places the rabbit on the ground, giving it a light swat before it hops into the frozen distance, stopping at the dead woman in the path. Her response is almost instant, kneeling and a smile of disbelief- this, she can see.

"I don't think the bunny rabbit is going to protect her," Beira says, and the bemused look she gives him is all too familiar. He smirks back- the smirk, perhaps, being the first miracle of the day- and brings two fingers to his lips, whistling hard. There's no bothering to hide it now- Duma and Rob, at least, have noticed the rabbit's departure, and their gaze goes to the trees, even if their apparent confusion indicates that they aren't in on the sight. It can be explained later. For now, she who is his needs help.

The hound that materializes in the green whines only once at the cold, before also trotting beside Natasha and licking her hand. A nuzzle follows, the beast large enough to reach her waist when standing, and not leaving her side. She stares- stares long, and hard- before burying her face in his fur, arms wrapped around his neck. She's crying into the dog's shaggy fur, her whisper only audible to its ears- but those ears are his, and somehow, she must know.

"Mo chroí i scáth," she sobs.

And for Cernunnos, that is enough. He feels guilt then- pain for the angel here who truly loves her, who has for years, and now cannot even be seen by her. There are no tricks for Duma Guillory to reach his lover.

This, at least, is what he thinks, until Izrial rounds the tree and his jaw drops.

Well. Of course. Once the Angel of the Dead, always the Angel of the Dead. The spectacular part of it all is that her jaw, now out of the black hound's fur, has also dropped. 

Izrial points at her (or where she is, not what is necessarily seen) and then at Duma, face turning towards Ci with confusion. "Wait. She can't-"

"No. Shut up. Only you, it'd seem." He doesn't want Duma to know- not even Puck, but in the next instant, Izrial's running forward, and so is she, and-

--

I'm dead, Jordan. Don't you tell them any different.

...Tsarina, you're 'bout dead as dead fuckin' gets. I'd know. 

Good. I- he didn't leave, did he? All of them?

No. Fuck, no, no one left. Ya just can't-

Oh. I thought so. I did, really.

Damn straight ya did. Just- where th' fuck you goin'?

I don't really know. I guess I'm following a rabbit.

That ain't th' way t'Heaven, if it makes ya feel any better.

It's not the way to Hell, either. I think it leads to a bird sanctuary, if you must know.

What th- oh. Well, fuck me.

I'd rather not.

You gotta be goddamn snarky in death.

I could fall into a sobbing mess. But I'm not allowed to do that.

Ya are, act'lly. Ya just don't.

Same difference.

I guess. Look, Nat, I...can I ask a favor of ya? It ain't my place, 'specially now, but-

I can't imagine it's anything horrible. As long as you keep up your end of the bargain, and stay happily alive on this plane, I think we can make a deal.

Happily an' on this plane might have t'be negotiable.

I'll spare you the first. What.

...can I give em' what's theirs?

Oh. ...I might want that, you know.

Well, guess ya'd have t'come back an' get it, then.

Jordan.

Yeah, yeah. Dead. Well, look at it this way, sis- everything fuckin' melts. 'Ventu'lly.

...fair enough. Will it hurt?

Nah.

I don't care if it does, I'd just like to brace myself.

...yeah, okay, it kinda stings. An' it ain't like you're gonna forget it's gone, or who ya gave it back to.

Good. Do it. As long as, you know. It's less painful than a blade to the gut.

That ain't fuckin' funny.

I know. But, blubbering mess, or black humor. One thing, though. Izrial?

Yeah?

...you tell him I'd go to Hell for him. That I love him. Tell all of them, but him especially.

I think he knows, sis. But fuck, a' course.

Jordan?

Yeah?

Love you too.

...heh. Who don't?

...asshole.

--

-and then Izrial's right hand is in front of him, the other wrapped around a shape that isn't there, and for a moment there is one sharp white glow in the green. Ciaran can see, and he bites his lip hard enough to bleed- that hand is inside her, but then he removes it, and she sighs, before turning away without a second look.

The hound and hare meet her at the dead forest's entrance, and she nods, walking into the black until she disappears, and the trees with her.

Walking up to Izrial, then, is almost instinctual- Ciaran does it, along with a scrambling Puck and Duma, who is already there. The Archangel says nothing, before opening his hand. Inside are seven small shards, one bigger than the others, if only by the slightest bit, but it's noticeable enough. Clear, and iridescent, almost silver when the light hits. Icicles, but never melting.

It's her heart. Or part of it, at least.

"Two of those ain't ours- I got a feelin' I know whose they are, though. I'll take care a' that. An' one- well." Sightless voids look up at Duma, even as his voice goes low. "Think we all fuckin' know whose that is."

There's nothing but silence, then. Rob is the first to take his piece, pulling it off Izrial's hand with near-reverence before Ciaran goes, giving the piece his fingers are drawn to the same care. Minutes pass by after that, but still no one speaks, and no one hurries. Taking it, after all, is admitting that she's gone.

After an age, however, Duma's hand moves, and takes the largest piece, a shaking fist clutching it against his chest. Izrial then closes his hand, carefully moving down shirt and around waistline until he's sure he's found a pocket, and placing the remaining three inside. "Rob," he asks. "Little help gettin' back?"

The hobgoblin obliges, and wraps his arm around Izrial, old limbs leading an entity older still back to a waiting Jane, before they both help him through the portal that leads back to home. Beira goes, then, eyes watching Puck as he leaves, and Slania follows suit, one small smile for her father before taking Tal's hand.

It's just Duma, then, and Ciaran.

"Do you want to leave?"

"No."

"Should we?"

"Likely."

"It's not required, you know. I'd hardly kick you out. Or keep you out, for that matter."

Duma looks up at him then, hesitant, but determined. "Can you feel her?"

For some reason, then, Ciaran answers honestly. "Not as much as I should. It's odd."

The angel considers this, and then asks one last question. "You're keeping an eye on her."

"Every part." And with that, without thinking, Ciaran swings his own arm around Duma's shoulders, and holds him with the same tightness that he would a son. "Rest. And then we'll come back."

Duma's response is simple, but as is still his nature, tells more than enough.

He closes his eyes, rests his head on the god's shoulder, and begins to walk.

Let her rest, he'd said. With any luck, but how much of that do they have?

But he can protect her, even if he failed once.

Every part of her.

Including him.

[beardedbarefootandbespectacled]

“Have you never wondered, little bird, what it must be like to see the world through the eyes of a god?” For all of your Loki feels. 

[primordialreign-blog]

ooc psa: account changes/plot

So, as we're all now aware, due to an unfortunate turn of events and the active and not-so-active machinations of a megalomaniac Demon, Criminal, and Archasshole, a few things have happened, particularly in the thread God Called In Sick Today:

Raph and Balth each have half of the power of the Pit. To be precise, that would mean every sort of power that Hell ran off of- the suffering of the damned, screams of the tortured, etc. This is not good.

Because of this fairly extreme power balance, Raphael was able to kill Nat.

Yes, she's dead.

Lucifer nearly ate it, along with Duma, who is now Fallen

As a "side effect" of losing the Presence, Duma is/was unworthy of hearing/possessing/transmitting the Word of God. This means while he does still have his silencing capabilities, he can also...well, speak.

This is really actually not a good thing and no one is pleased.

Well, maybe Jim, Balth, and Raph. But we don't count them.

Anywho, now that that inadequate plot summary is over: Matty and I obviously have been talking about this for a while, and due to the plot changes and for my relative sanity, a few account changes are being made- nothing big, but I've finally redone the pages to make it official (so THAT'S where I've been hiding, yes) and I can tell everyone now so you can follow and all that jazz for future RP.

First of all: Duma has his own RP account now. You can find it at http://permafrostredemption.tumblr.com and you should go follow it. Basically, though this probably comes as a surprise to no one, Duma's Matty's, now. Permanently. That, and given the fact that he's become more of a featured player in the DGI as one of the Angelbros, we thought it'd be easier to give him his own page. Like Izzy, he does still live with The Reign- he just has his own page. Cool? Cool.

You may notice, though, that the Primordial Reign account (this one, whee!) looks different! On closer inspection, one might even notice that I actually finished the About page! HOLY SHIT. THERE'S EVEN A NEW GRAPHIC.

...anyway. So here's what I changed for The Reign:

Slania, Tal, and Beira (Winter) are now all part of The Reign. It makes sense; they're Ci's kids, and well, part of the Primordial Reign. This also gives me +1 to Sanity because I have two less logins to remember, so do feel free to unfollow Winter. 

You may all have already noticed that Slania/Tal's short lived account did change, though- it's now http://thegalleryendless.tumblr.com. Basically feel free to follow, especially if you're in the DGI, but that is, I swear to God, a side account. It's there because I know Dream will be coming into the picture soon, and possibly some of the other siblings (obviously, Death and Delirium have already popped up). So, they are there, feel free to follow, but if you want to thread with one of the DGI Endless, please ask. 

...I think that's it. Here. Let's find a ridiculous gif to celebrate.

okay that wasn't ridiculous but i'll never get to use it in RP so why don't we all just enjoy

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[primordialreign-blog]

Oh, it’s not his fault. If anything, Lucifer Morningstar is the reason Duma still draws breath, and that if anything, the rinceoir scáth’s body, at least, will not rot in the bowels of Hell. If there is any blessing in this, it is that- she who was his, yet no one’s, will at least rest with and within his branches.

Duma’s father, however, is not the only god to have failed, today. So he continues his assault, not because Lucifer deserves it, but because this feels better.

For both of them, apparently.

Duma screaming, however. That changes things. Perspective.

Because of course, Duma has never done such a thing, but it makes sense, does it not? The boy’s Fallen (and though he is not a boy, hardly, Ciaran will never be able to think of him as otherwise), and an angel without the Presence is not worthy to carry the voice of God, not any longer. Quiet as the angel ever was, there was always the knowledge that inside, there was something very, very loud, and now that noise is forever gone.

The fact that he is not utterly and entirely broken, though- 

That speaks for Duma, and not his absentee father.

The god’s fist stops, mid-swing, and he stares at Lucifer with the same eyes, a mix of hues facing clouded green and now red. Ciaran doesn’t ask for forgiveness- not vocally, anyway. “Can you make it home?” Words, rough and bitter, though not at him.

“…probably.” The devil can’t even be damned enough to lie, and that’s when the Stag Lord finally notices his back, perhaps healing slightly in the cool water, but not near enough.

Stronger than he let on as well, then. “The Lady knows ways others don’t. I suspect she’ll allow you in on the secret.” Fingers unclench, even as he looks back at Duma, his hand now visibly shaking, no outlet for his rage. “I doubt you’ll want to be at this reunion.”

“No,” Lucifer manages, and it’s neither sarcastic nor prideful as he pushes himself out of the water, albeit with a decent amount of pain. The angel actually slips, once, and Ciaran grabs his arm- and it’s grabbed in kind, this time a desperate, confused whisper coming from Lucifer to match his expression.

“She knew. She knew, I-” He stops then, letting go of Ci as if he was made of hellfire itself, and pauses once more to look at the two left on the cavern floor, or, perhaps more accurately, the one.

“Duma. I-“ 

Lucifer doesn’t, won’t, or can’t finish, and instead, he leaves. Leaves, as Ciaran makes his own way to the sobbing brother and dead child that he holds. He kneels, hands over bloody ones, but doesn’t even attempt to loosen their clench. It’s not his place, and as much sick, dark fury and grief currently flows through the god’s veins, he knows that for at least one other, it is worse. Far, far worse. 

Red hair. Why do they always have red hair.

He does, however, have a request for Duma. Condolences seem meaningless- he knows. To be strong and sane, for now, is the only thing he can do, and what he asks for, perhaps, is even a favor. The Stag God, however, doesn’t consider it as such.

It is something he wants to do, because, in their odd sense and understanding, she was his as well.

“Let me watch over her,” he says, and that is when his voice cracks in half, his own fingers clamp down on top of angelic ones on mortal skin, and, in a moment he immediately regrets (for the angel’s sake, not his pride, but he is a god and must be strong)-

Trails of tears, dirtied by silt and blood and as warm as the latter, run down his face for the first time in an age.

And suddenly, across all of London, it pours.

[primordialreign-blog]

Contact, so desperately needed right now and yet hated, hated, hated, as Ciaran's hands clutch his own, and Duma can't even seem to breathe as the ghosts of the scream and the tears still clog his throat, and always will, and her absence is a noose around his neck that tightens with every shudder and sob, and the Stag Lord cries.

And outside, thunder and lightning and the storm of the century rage on.

But it can't be seen, right now. 

It can't even be thought.

Duma is empty, empty, empty, something that goes beyond the darkness and beyond anything he could have ever been able to imagine, and this newfound voice is lodged in the spikes that make his throat bleed, a collar of thorns, imaginary. But the suffering is there.

The pain is undefinable.

A martyr clutched, and all he can think of is her final blow and he should be the one dead, he, who was entity and a mockery of life, blood only fictive, only dreamt into view, coldness of death that made muscles work.

She, she was light through leaves and dust and old libraries and life, the beauty of a prayer spoken out in the worried glances of college students studying for exams, asking him for help to find a book, and he'd just smile, point and nod.

And Raphael wanted him and not her and wanted both. But if only he had died, oh, if only he had satiated the bloodlust.

If only he had not loved her. If only she had not loved him back.

But really? What would have come from that?

Snapped necks and a mad Healer's rage, blood spilt too early.

They had their time, a gift so sweet Duma doubts he will ever be able to taste or smell or feel again.

They flied, Icarus and her watching eyes, they flied and had that dream for a while that might as well be told in books, now, old worn tattered rotting books.

But they had that, did they not? They had it, it's theirs - his. Right now. Confined to memory.

Confined to screams.

Duma rests his forehead against Ciaran's shoulder.

He thinks her eyes should be shut, and maybe letting her go would be.

But no. It is much too early for that.

Much too painful and dark.

No, he who was the Quiet One cannot let go. Not just yet. Not right now, he owes it to her, to threads of fate tied around thin wrists.

And so he clutches harder, pulls himself back from his brother. A face buried deep in red hair.

A shirt wet with blood.

Another scream hardly muffled.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[primordialreign-blog]

can it.

no it can’t be but you’ve seen the blood you saw it it was THERE

you saw the blood you heard

him.

scream?

sadness in the eyes the dead man forced to watch and then the laugh the laugh the laugh but it doesn’t min

d

because you’re here right now and you’re holding her and can it be

her voice her breath my god no, no no no no mon cri silencieux i beg of you

no

Blood dirtying hands of the Holy now Fallen, Lucifer’s burning fingers digging into Duma’s shirt.

natasha?

natasha?

look at me?

please?

Knees hitting ground water escaping lungs. A Stag Lord dragging an Archangel away, a Stag Lord’s fist colliding with an Archangel’s face.

…natty?

“…Natty?”

A first word uttered with a child’s plea until fingers ghost over Natasha’s immobile chest, a last breath lost in Hell’s empty stale air.

she’s gone she’s

go-

And that is when the sound tears through his chest, up from the depths of a devastated, pain stricken stomach, through a throat set in stone, past lips and teeth and tears.

And Duma screams.

[primordialreign-blog]

Oh, it's not his fault. If anything, Lucifer Morningstar is the reason Duma still draws breath, and that if anything, the rinceoir scáth's body, at least, will not rot in the bowels of Hell. If there is any blessing in this, it is that- she who was his, yet no one's, will at least rest with and within his branches.

Duma's father, however, is not the only god to have failed, today. So he continues his assault, not because Lucifer deserves it, but because this feels better.

For both of them, apparently.

Duma screaming, however. That changes things. Perspective.

Because of course, Duma has never done such a thing, but it makes sense, does it not? The boy's Fallen (and though he is not a boy, hardly, Ciaran will never be able to think of him as otherwise), and an angel without the Presence is not worthy to carry the voice of God, not any longer. Quiet as the angel ever was, there was always the knowledge that inside, there was something very, very loud, and now that noise is forever gone.

The fact that he is not utterly and entirely broken, though- 

That speaks for Duma, and not his absentee father.

The god's fist stops, mid-swing, and he stares at Lucifer with the same eyes, a mix of hues facing clouded green and now red. Ciaran doesn't ask for forgiveness- not vocally, anyway. "Can you make it home?" Words, rough and bitter, though not at him.

"...probably." The devil can't even be damned enough to lie, and that's when the Stag Lord finally notices his back, perhaps healing slightly in the cool water, but not near enough.

Stronger than he let on as well, then. "The Lady knows ways others don't. I suspect she'll allow you in on the secret." Fingers unclench, even as he looks back at Duma, his hand now visibly shaking, no outlet for his rage. "I doubt you'll want to be at this reunion."

"No," Lucifer manages, and it's neither sarcastic nor prideful as he pushes himself out of the water, albeit with a decent amount of pain. The angel actually slips, once, and Ciaran grabs his arm- and it's grabbed in kind, this time a desperate, confused whisper coming from Lucifer to match his expression.

"She knew. She knew, I-" He stops then, letting go of Ci as if he was made of hellfire itself, and pauses once more to look at the two left on the cavern floor, or, perhaps more accurately, the one.

"Duma. I-" 

Lucifer doesn't, won't, or can't finish, and instead, he leaves. Leaves, as Ciaran makes his own way to the sobbing brother and dead child that he holds. He kneels, hands over bloody ones, but doesn't even attempt to loosen their clench. It's not his place, and as much sick, dark fury and grief currently flows through the god's veins, he knows that for at least one other, it is worse. Far, far worse. 

Red hair. Why do they always have red hair.

He does, however, have a request for Duma. Condolences seem meaningless- he knows. To be strong and sane, for now, is the only thing he can do, and what he asks for, perhaps, is even a favor. The Stag God, however, doesn't consider it as such.

It is something he wants to do, because, in their odd sense and understanding, she was his as well.

"Let me watch over her," he says, and that is when his voice cracks in half, his own fingers clamp down on top of angelic ones on mortal skin, and, in a moment he immediately regrets (for the angel's sake, not his pride, but he is a god and must be strong)-

Trails of tears, dirtied by silt and blood and as warm as the latter, run down his face for the first time in an age.

And suddenly, across all of London, it pours.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[fuckyouiquit-blog]

Oh, fuck. Fuck everything.

Honestly? He doesn’t remember a lot. Nothing but the flames finally stopping, most of him gone just staving off fucking Balthazar, of all fucking people. Demons, whatever, but it’s not fuckin’ Balth, anymore- it’s half of goddamn Hell.

And Hell’s not fuckin’ his. But he doesn’t have time to think about that, because when he does get the chance to look up, there’s only three things to see.

Raphael, laughing his insane ass off.

Balthazar, pissed off enough to leave him alone and run for…them? Him? He doesn’t know why, but-

Oh fuck.

And Duma soaked in blood that’s not his.

It’s hers.

Oh, fuck this.

He might have Hell, but Lucifer still has wings, and whatever power he has left is in them now, even as he feels every movement of scorched appendages, even as his face twists and skin cracks with every beat.

But he beats that fucker in a race, at least for now, and when he reaches Duma and the Tsarina, he doesn’t fucking stop. He can’t. They can’t afford that shit, and this battle’s lost, and maybe, if he can get them off this fuckin’ plane, some god who’s actually fuckin’ useful might have noticed the absence.

Blistered hands grab the back of Duma’s shirt as Lucifer breaks through the Veil and beyond, and he only manages four words.

“Don’t let her go.”

Probably unnecessary, but he doesn’t have time to think about it- this trip through planes isn’t without peril, and if they don’t get back- if he can’t fuckin’ get them back, and they land fuck knows where in here-

And then, something very powerful, very angry, and interestingly, very green reaches out for them. And fuck it, it could be a trick- it could- but Lucifer can’t be arsed to care. He lets it take them.

The next thing Lucifer remembers is the feeling of chalk and hard rock, his lungs burning from the freshness of the air, his back hissing in waves from a shallow pool.

And Ciaran’s fist in his face. Multiple times.

He doesn’t stop him- doesn’t care, once again- but he does wonder why, for a second, until it hits him, maybe harder than Balthazar ever did.

That’d been a lot of blood.

Too much blood.

Ci would know.

And so he realizes, and almost wishes the fucker would hit him harder.

[primordialreign-blog]

can it.

no it can't be but you've seen the blood you saw it it was THERE

you saw the blood you heard

him.

scream?

sadness in the eyes the dead man forced to watch and then the laugh the laugh the laugh but it doesn't min

d

because you're here right now and you're holding her and can it be

her voice her breath my god no, no no no no mon cri silencieux i beg of you

no

Blood dirtying hands of the Holy now Fallen, Lucifer's burning fingers digging into Duma's shirt.

natasha?

natasha?

look at me?

please?

Knees hitting ground water escaping lungs. A Stag Lord dragging an Archangel away, a Stag Lord's fist colliding with an Archangel's face.

...natty?

"...Natty?"

A first word uttered with a child's plea until fingers ghost over Natasha's immobile chest, a last breath lost in Hell's empty stale air.

she's gone she's

go-

And that is when the sound tears through his chest, up from the depths of a devastated, pain stricken stomach, through a throat set in stone, past lips and teeth and tears.

And Duma screams.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

The first snap is always the most pleasant one, as Raphael’s elbow collides with Duma’s jaw, the fallen angel falling back, for a moment, dazed, something similar to pain blossoming somewhere in his mouth.

The second is a fist colliding with a throat, a hand digging into hair, and a bone twisted, wrong, as he forces Guillory to his knees and turns, grinning, to Natasha.

“Look at him.”

And when an Angel speaks in voices so deep, it is impossible to contradict him. 

Nails digging into pale skin, a boot colliding with a back, another snap: vertebrae creaking under weight but not breaking, Duma’s voice is caught somewhere in his mind where he can’t reach it.

And Raphael’s hands burn, then, suddenly, Hell and nothingness so dangerously close, DNA gone mad. Flames that lick fingers.

Hands slammed against Duma’s cheeks, a back arched, body flailing as the fire burns through flesh, fingers digging through tendons and muscle.

“Don’t move, scum. Do not move.”

Blue eyes thrown towards a trembling Tsarina, then, tongue licking maddened feverish drool.

“I want you to watch, whore. Watch and realize that his blood right now is worthless, and so is yours, and your death will be as meaningless as his.”

An elbow colliding between Duma’s shoulderblades.

“And there is nothing you can do.”

[primordialreign-blog]

So be it.

He won't fight back - he's decided it so.

He'll give him the satisfaction he needs, give him the joy of his flesh torn to shreds.

Just as long as he doesn't touch her. Just as long as he is satiated.

Bitter tongue and metal clogged throat, ash filling lungs that do not exist.

An elbow splitting a jaw.

The pain is nothing, compared to the heartbreak.

Don't look, my silent scream. Please don't look.

Bones that nearly shatter.

Don't listen don't look don't look

I beg of you

Hellfire burns through him, a back arched. He searches for her eyes.

don't look

[dystopianarcher-blog]

why am i laughing this hard

jesus christ

[primordialreign-blog]

…you forgot someone.

accurate

[prof-jim-moriarty]

WE SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED ON THE INTERNET

[primordialreign-blog]

the dgi gpoy, all day, every day

what the fuck are these letters, and what character will i make suffer

also how did i get such fabulous hair

those, those are the true mysteries

[dystopianarcher-blog]

why am i laughing this hard

jesus christ

[primordialreign-blog]

...you forgot someone.

accurate

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Years.

Centuries.

Fucking ages of listening to him, following his orders, doing his will.

Oh, no. Things, things were different now, and Lucifer, apparently, would be the first of the Old Ones to fall, fall for a second time, the first to feel the wrath of a new god and be bent to his rule. A pity, though- the Archangel still had bite, and try as he might, Balthazar didn’t see him bending. No, no. He’d proved that well enough the first time around.

Truly, again, a pity. He’d have to die.

Still, though, at least the boy was making this a challenge. Cold hurt, especially now, but then again- what has fire, to fear from the freeze? Nothing, truly.

The crazed Fallen was playing with his food; perhaps it was time for a little showmanship. Balthazar tensed his neck then, at least in theory- but in action, it was so much more, a force greater than that of sinew or muscle emanating in a shockwave from him, and throwing the former Lord of Hell to the ash-covered ground. “Not feeling at home, Lucy? Don’t worry. I can fix that.”

The wind, once normal in this place and now gone, picked up again, this time with no center of calm, that spot replaced by a center of pure, unadulterated will. 

The fire, Balthazar thought, was caught in me. Under me. Scraping at skin and sanity. I just needed time. Only time.

Now, I can control it.

With that, a hand flew down, fingers snapped, and then, an inferno raged, a literal ring of swirling fire forming a wide, but still imposing perimeter around the five entities.

“Come on, then,” Balthazar said with a grin. “I’m a different God, after all.”

“You might get lucky.”

[primordialreign-blog]

No.

Duma's head swims, for a moment, he sees red and he sees stars, but reality is far too terrifying to ignore for so long, and so he forces his mind back into his trembling body, forces his hands to dig into soft ash, forces burn wings to erase pain.

He forces himself to stand, then, and his hand clutches a weapon once more.

Duma doesn't care. He realizes this the moment he places himself between Raphael and Natasha.

He doesn't care, it does not matter.

No, this is my war.

He knows, almost certainly, that he's not going to make it out alive.

But if his sacrifice means her seeing yet another day?

Well then, so be it. And may his death be the ultimate love letter, may his spilt blood be her token of freedom.

May he die, so that she may live.

It doesn't matter.

He doesn't care.