Hello! Do you& know of any pagan-umbrella deities that're plural or could have domain over plurality in any way? We're looking for someone to devote to, someone we can ask and thank for good fortune/etc related to multiplicity functions and such. We collectively identify as a Chaos witch so technically we could search for one across the multiverse but we'd really prefer one from this world. Thank you!
So I'll preface this first by saying this kind of isn't my wheelhouse. Most of our system works with entities that are able to communicate within the system (as participant in daily life) or are derived from our exomemories (like Narty from the innerworld). We tend to avoid working with externally sourced entities as a stopgap to keep them from messing around with our system (either on purpose or not). It gets real weird real fast when you start introjecting Gods.
Now, that being said, we are interested in the theory behind worship. Say, "in what aspects is [x] God worshiped in? Why?" Again: we're coming at this question with the big ass pin of "we don't technically work with external entities for this kind of stuff." Your mileage will vary here.
So, since we can't give y'all any specific deities to do research on, instead we'll say this: when you're looking for a deity that is plural or could reasonably have domain over plurality:
Do you consider epithets and the fragmentary nature of Divinity to be plural? In other words; if Divinity can be worshiped in many diverse aspects, some of which may be broadly different in scope or temperament, is that plural to you? Are there elements of the world which you gravitate towards and see yourselves in (ex: relating to the Moon because of its ever-changing yet ever-same faces)? If any of this is "yeah" then:
What are some core ideas you hold true about your plurality? The goals of your worship might offer you a starting point to kick off of here. Real reductive examples here but: say you view this goal as primarily one of Health, so you might investigate the Divine associated with Health/Healing/etc.; but if you view the goal as primarily one dealing with, say, spirit work (this is the most relevant example I could think of since we have a lot of dead people in our system), you might try to work with the Divine associated with Death/Grief/etc.
If approaching Divinity associated with plurality in the world, then consider how that might affect your path. Are you going to approach the Divine from one aspect alone, or do you intend to work with the broader strokes of that Deity? Understand that your goals may guide you a bit better here, but from what little I know about Chaos witchcraft (very little), y'all probably know quite a bit about throwing things at the wall and finding what sticks as opposed to what stinks.
If none of the above appeal to you, meanwhile, the search for plurality in the Divine might be a little messy and complicated. It's hard to pin down examples of Gods that you could definitively label "plural," because sometimes that comes down to UPG, as well as what you might be looking for as plural. The only example coming to mind right now is Janus, the Roman God of Boundaries (forgive me if that's a bit reductive). But that said, the answer also might not be obvious if you're looking for a very strict definition of plurality in the Divine.
Uh, anyways, I'm sure other people in the witchblr and pluralgang spaces could chime in better than we can, considering our lack of expertise here.
On Exomemories/"System Lore" and How it Complicates Spirituality
by (mostly) Artura and (somewhat) Nova
This will be a bit of a long post, so to save you all the hassle of scrolling for an eternity, it'll be under a cut for convenience. Seriously. Don't expand this unless you want to hurt your hands (or just hit the J key on desktop for your own convenience).
Content warnings for this piece include discussions of: headmate on headmate violence, abuse, trauma (including religious trauma), repetition
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
This may touch a little bit on some other subjects that we want to discuss at a later date (which can be seen on our Topics page). For now, let's define some terms as a baseline and talk about the matter of today's post. We'll assume that the reader is unfamiliar with these terms entirely, but if you find this section to be redundant, you may skip ahead.
Glossary
exomemories - memories held by headmates that are not biographical in nature; for example, an introject may remember their time being the source of their identity. These may be referred to as past lives, and we will be using these concepts interchangeably. Similar experiences can be found in otherkin spaces regarding kintypes and varied information known about said kintypes.
introject - a headmate whose form is determined by external sources. For example, a fictive is a type of introject in which a headmate forms based off of a fictional character. Some introjects may also come from original work.
divinekin - an umbrella term referring to anyone whose otherkin identity is related to divinity in some way; subkintypes include angelkin, demonkin, god/deitykin, etc.
iterative - headmates that share common identifying traits and may be "variations on a theme," so to speak; these may also include reiteratives, which are specifically chronological versions of an identification.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Intro: Prefacing Notes on System Structure
It is worth noting that not all systems may share our experiences on this matter. In fact, we would largely expect the opposite to be true, because we are an adaptive, polyfragmented system. That means that we are uniquely formed to respond to the circumstances of our being and upbringing.
Worth also noting here is how our system formed in response to religion. We grew up undiagnosed as autistic, with two different members of our family pulling us towards their religions (these being a form of Christianity and a form of Buddhism). The most notable similarity between both pulls is the idea of changing the world through prayer (or worship, in Christianity's case). When you have autism and you believe that prayer can literally change anything, but are still put into abusive situations again and again... well... It gives you some baggage, to put it one way.
Our system is comprised of many layers and subsystems, which makes identity sometimes difficult to determine. Many of our subsystems are, in fact, comprised of members who share the same face (to a degree). Most notable of these subsystems is ours (Artura and Nova's), which contains over a dozen individuals all identifying with Nova's face.
That in and of itself is not unusual in polyfragmented systems. They also happen to be largely involved with how we write; we are iteratives of Iz. Where it gets strange is how this interacts with our subsystem's spirituality.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Artura and Nova
I, Artura, am the innerworld God of Light, Knowledge, and Linear time. Nova was, as close as I can explain in words that this world has, something akin to a priest of mine. I gave him power, but unlike how the relationship often goes, I expected nothing of him in return. This was the first timeline, and this timeline was left to atrophy by Fate.
In this time, Nova became adept at using the magic I gave him, until eventually turning his back on my siblings and I. I was the first he consumed, and then were the other five. By this, Nova became the God of Magic. But I did not dissolve, and the two of us instead became intertwined.
He became part of me, and I became part of him. And then we were the God of all those things I once held, and magic as well. He was content in that timeline to do as he pleased, and I did nothing as he enjoyed what brief time he had left.
I knew what was coming, after all.
It was only when Fate finally turned its eye back on the first timeline that it saw what had transpired. It deemed the timeline to be a failure, and unmade it. As I said, however, Nova was a part of me, now, and could see from the other timelines what damage had been wrought by his actions. His timeline went unmade, and him the only remnant of it.
A part of him resented this action by Fate that ended his timeline. Another part felt only inconvenience. And another did not care, so long as he was a part of the gestalt.
Appointed by Fate, Nova is a part of me, and part too of that which is the closest thing the innerworld has to an afterlife, tending to all the dead versions of himself from the many timelines. In our system, he and I run the subsystem known for sailing us smoothly through college.
He is my "bitchy headmate," as he would put it, and we get along like bickering roommates, generally. The destroyed time is the worst we ever had together. But it does color how we approach spirituality, if only because of what came after.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Artura and the Others
In every other timeline, the man that would have been Nova in the first has a million relationships to I as that which grants him undefined, nonjudgmental power. These are the iteratives that make up our aforementioned subsystem.
It is also to these others that Fate pays its attentions, having never done so with Nova in the era of his timeline until it came to do away with it entirely.
In some timelines, he follows the echoes of Nova's steps, seeking to destroy or replace gods that have stood distant in hardship's times when they were close at youth. Echoes of Nova's idea come from Fate's hand in the story. What Fate wants is a good story, after all, and what better way than to play at conflict? There is emotion there for it to sink its teeth into.
In other timelines, he who would be Nova steps away, taking the magic and wandering eternity in a world as a specter of magic. Fate is less so interested of him, but I know he is in enough timelines to grant me rest and comfort.
And in others still, he comes back after finding peace, and I ask him to join me as Nova has. There is always work to do, and unlike Fate I incorporate perspectives into that work in much different ways.
At the center of our innerworld is that it was a creation of emotion, first and foremost. I understand it as little as Fate, but I welcome those that do in their willing assistance.
There are certainly others more, which to the system are mysteries we are not allowed to perceive until it is their time to be seen.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
A Brief Interlude on Divinekin Experiences
Now, if reading all of that didn't already clue you into it, it's worth mentioning that because of mine, Nova's, and the other timeline's instances of him, a lot of our system experiences divinekin (or adjacent) feelings.
I am the innerworld God of Light, etc., etc., and so on. Of course I would be drawn to this label, I miss something that I cannot have in this world beyond helping Fate to spin it as a story instead.
But with the other timeline's instances of who Nova is, there are often complex emotions within divinekin-like packages. Some aspire or envy that which wei represent. Some simply scorn it.
A complex relationship to divinity is given for all within our system, and it would not surprise me if the structure of our system has allowed us to process a lot of biographical trauma surrounding the body's religious upbringings.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Cycles in Our World
There are plenty cycles in our world. You want me to joke about the water cycle?
The reason I pivot back to it here, however, is to highlight the repetitive nature of trauma as it pertains to our biographical history. We won't be getting into the details of our trauma, but it is worth a brief tangent on account of certain details.
As mentioned prior, we have experience being torn between two different religious paths. One of which is notable due to how it was taught and reinforced in our upbringing. Reincarnation gets a footnote here obviously, but the common misconception about how karma works is particularly of interest; that is, the idea of "what goes around comes around" as opposed to what karma means in-context.
Yes, this is despite that family member being Buddhist for over a decade at the time of our body's birth. We're chalking it up to it being a weird branch of Buddhism.
Being raised under the pressure of this misconception of karma colored our experience of repeated, seasonal trauma. Ergo, it cannot be ignored that many of our exomemories parallel our philosophy of the world as experienced through repeated trauma.
Every year, without fail, we would return to trauma. Was this punishment for transgressions in a past life? Or had we committed some act in this life so heinous in our infancy to justify it?
There is also, of course, the concept of the cycle of abuse, which until fairly recently in our life always hung like a blade over us. The idea that we are doomed to repeat that which our forefathers pressed upon us in bruises and scars is... unwelcome, we shall say.
Repetition is part of everything we have experienced, a maddening and festering thing that, inevitably, would lead to an innerworld structured the way ours is.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Cycles in Our Exomemories Regarding Biographical Trauma
As we have attempted to make clear in this exploration, the nature of our exomemories is that, at the end of the day (especially in this life), they are stories meant to evoke and tear emotions from our mind. We are set pieces, characters, the fictional in thought. As much as I dislike it, it does explain the repetition ad nausea of certain stories and themes.
Put one way, there is always the gestalt that embodies chaos, order, or atrophy; or any other schema you would like to call upon. Our exomemories are our own, but they are also echoes of the pain that wrote their tales.
I am fictional, but I am sitting in the body of that which wrote me, typing about my own experiences as being fictional and understanding that the same fiction which birthed me is not the truth that caused that pain.
We repeat so as to escape the past.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Cycles as Comfort
Understanding the nature of repetition as it relates to our trauma, as well as what we can get from the exomemories we are made of that repackage said trauma, I feel it is important to add that none of this is without some positive consequence. I would not allow us to share this were that not the case.
The abuse, yes— I do not pretend any of that was positive. There are parts that were as an oasis to a desert. We would not have survived otherwise. But none in the system will make excuses for the hardships our body faced. Abusers can do nice things. They are still abusers.
But the encryption of this pain into exomemories as we have put distance between us and our abuse has given the system important things to cling to in times of distress.
First: the understanding that not all things must be guaranteed in this world; that to escape hardship is (generally) possible, even if that hardship may in time find you with a new face. It is possible to be happy. This is a human emotion we all deserve to feel. It may require fighting for it, in many cases, but there is joy in this world. Fleeting joy is worth that fight too.
Second: if there is anything to remind us that there are things to cling onto in this world, it is the small things that become so hard to experience when the world makes us feel small. There is comfort in knowing that the sun rises each morning, that clouds mean rain, and that every year the trees grow a little taller, a little thicker. Just because so much repeats does not mean it stays stagnant or festers, either. Does a tree think the harsh winds of Spring will give way to lightless Summers? To struggle is the capacity of all things. So too is to relax and find safety.
When the clouds break, even if thunder still roars, the sun will still shine soon enough.
[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]
Conclusion
I'm honestly not sure what to put here, considering how much I've just written about our system structure and exomemories in an attempt to try to communicate to the readers some iota of our spiritual experience.
Not everyone in the system is attached to the innerworld, so not everyone in the system relates to this. Some are introjects of characters that were hurt by all this nonsense, and some are perpetrators of innerworld harm themselves.
If anything, it has been an interesting experience coming to terms with just how much the innerworld means to us from a spiritual place. I don't even know how I feel about it, entirely. I don't know if I ever will.
I at least recognize that there is something deeply important to us about this experience, in a way that can only be called spiritual.
[ID: A rectangular crop of artwork depicting a man with closed eyes, facing away from a stained glass mural behind him of the glowing sun. He cries golden tears, with a thoughtless expression on his face, as if dreaming.]
I’m not sure what the more frustrating part of writing is:
1. Trying to get the framework of the piece down so that you can flesh it out.
2. TRYING TO MAKE SURE THAT SAID FLESHING OUT HITS ALL THE RIGHT POINTS AND YOU KEEP ALL THE METAPHORS CONSISTENT AND THE PACING IS EFFECTIVE AND YOU HAVEN’T ABUSED THE THESAURUS TOO MUCH AND
I’ve been working on the next entry of my Insektors lover100 challenge for the last couple of months, on and off, and there are two distinct paths I could go down. I just...can’t figure out which one is more appropriate, and I could really, REALLY use another opinion.
Writing under the cut. Please weigh in, this is driving me nuts.
Version A
Acylius could have laughed with relief, but his brief panic had left him breathless. Instead, he hauled Fulgor onto his feet and hugged his friend as tightly as he could. The Joyce leaned hard against him for balance, so much so that they nearly tumbled in a heap again. Acylius didn’t care. He was just glad that Fulgor was alright.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Acylius loosened his hold on Fulgor slightly, but didn’t let go—his friend was still unsteady on his feet—and looked around. Aelia was standing a short distance away, her expression a complicated mixture of relief, irritation and amusement.
“Hello,” she said.
Acylius felt Fulgor stiffen. Then the Joyce started to squirm. Startled, Acylius stepped back. “Fulgor, what—”
Devoid of support, Fulgor swayed. Acylius stepped forward again, arms out to catch his friend, but Fulgor warded him off with frantically flailing hands. “This isn’t what it looks like!” he exclaimed to Aelia—just before the flailing proved too much for his already precarious balance. With a pronounced thud, Fulgor hit the ground again.
Complete silence reigned for about ten seconds. Then, his voice muffled by the dirt, Fulgor said, “Ow.”
Aelia sighed and fluttered over to kneel beside her brother. “You should have let Acylius catch you,” she said. “Roll over. I need to look at your eyes.”
Wincing, Fulgor rolled slowly onto his back. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said.
“The wrong idea about what?” asked Acylius, thoroughly baffled.
“Don’t worry about it, Acylius,” said Aelia soothingly. She held up three fingers in front of Fulgor’s eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“How can you be so relaxed about this?” asked Fulgor. “He was hugging me!”
Aelia sighed. “How many fingers, Fulgor?”
“What’s wrong with hugging you?” asked Acylius, even more confused. Since Joyces were far more emotionally expressive than Yuks, how could hugging be taboo?
“It’s—”
“Fulgor.” Aelia’s tone indicated that she was rapidly losing patience.
“Fine, three fingers. Look, Acylius, it’s just not something that friends do, okay?” Fulgor tried to prop himself up on one elbow. “Just…trust me on this. Don’t go around hugging people.”
“You make this sound like something I make a habit of,” huffed Acylius. He folded his arms, feeling hurt and a little embarrassed. Clearly he had made some sort of gaffe, but there was no need for Fulgor to make such a fuss. “Yuks aren’t encouraged to be free about such things, you know.”
Fulgor spluttered. “I hope not!”
“Oh, Fulgor, stop it,” said Aelia. “You know it must not mean the same to Acylius as it does to us.” She glanced towards Acylius. “Among Joyces, hugging is… It’s an indication of a very close and trusting relationship, since you can’t fly while someone is hugging you.”
Acylius felt himself stand up a little straighter. “I see.” Well, that stung. He’d thought that he and Fulgor were close. Clearly he was wrong.
“Oh, for—” Fulgor groaned, getting slowly to his feet. “It’s a couple thing.”
Acylius felt his mouth drop open. As the implications of that statement sank in, he felt his face heat. A couple thing. And Aelia had seen...
Oh, soggy fog and maudlin mist.
As though he hadn’t made Acylius’s mistake abundantly clear already, Fulgor went on pointedly, “You should be hugging Aelia, not me.”
“I understand, thank you,” said Acylius stiffly.
There was the sound of a light slap, and Fulgor yelped. “Don’t be mean,” said Aelia sternly. “You don’t get to lecture Acylius about Joyce romantic behaviour. Not after the music session. And especially not after the tour around the flowers.”
Acylius’s stomach dropped. “Those were romantic gestures as well?” he asked, horrified. Aelia had seemed a little irritated both times, but he’d thought it was just part of her usual annoyance with Fulgor.
“No!” said Aelia, hastily. Then, more thoughtfully, “Well, listening to Fulgor play wasn’t. The flowers were…” The silence stretched out with unbearable awkwardness. At last, Aelia concluded, “The flowers were pushing it a little.”
Acylius covered his face with his hands. “Aelia, I don’t know what to say—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She sounded exasperated, but affectionately so. “I know that you didn’t understand. And honestly, the thing that annoyed me most about the flowers was that Fulgor was making it all up as he went.”
Acylius groaned. “I should have known.”
“Why?” asked Aelia. “This is all new to you. You couldn’t be expected to know.” He heard the brief rustle of her wings, then felt a gust of air as she fluttered over. Her hand touched his arm, and Acylius tentatively spread his fingers so that he could peer out at her.
“But why didn’t you say something?” he asked, a little plaintively. “I concede that I should have asked when I noticed that you were annoyed, but…”
“I’m sorry, I should have,” said Aelia. “I just didn’t want to embarrass you by bringing it up in front of Fulgor, and…” She ducked her head a little. Her thumb brushed absently along Acylius’s forearm, making his heart skip. “I felt like Fulgor had spoiled them. If I explained that music and flowers could be…couple things…then I would have embarrassed you. But if I didn’t, then you’d think that they were only friendly gestures, and…” She trailed off.
“You didn’t want them to be just friendly,” said Acylius softly.
Aelia shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. Acylius slowly slid his forearm through her grasp, until he could take her hand.
Version B
Acylius could have laughed with relief, but his brief panic had left him breathless. Instead, he hauled Fulgor onto his feet and hugged his friend as tightly as he could. The Joyce leaned hard against him for balance, so much so that they nearly tumbled in a heap again. Acylius didn’t care. He was just glad that Fulgor was alright.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Acylius loosened his hold on Fulgor slightly, but didn’t let go—his friend was still unsteady on his feet—and looked around. Aelia was standing a short distance away, her expression a complicated mixture of relief and...something else. Acylius couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“Hello,” she said, her voice sounding unusually…controlled.
Acylius felt Fulgor stiffen. Then the Joyce started to squirm. Startled, Acylius stepped back. “Fulgor, what—”
Devoid of support, Fulgor swayed. Acylius stepped forward again, arms out to catch his friend, but Fulgor warded him off with frantically flailing hands. “This isn’t what it looks like!” he exclaimed to Aelia—just before the flailing proved too much for his already precarious balance. With a pronounced thud, Fulgor hit the ground again.
Complete silence reigned for about ten seconds. Then, his voice muffled by the dirt, Fulgor said, “Ow.”
Aelia sighed and fluttered over to kneel beside her brother. “You should have let Acylius catch you,” she said. “Roll over. I need to look at your eyes.”
Wincing, Fulgor rolled slowly onto his back. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said.
“The wrong idea about what?” asked Acylius, thoroughly baffled.
“Don’t worry about it, Acylius,” said Aelia. She held up three fingers in front of Fulgor’s eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“How can you be so relaxed about this?” asked Fulgor. “He was hugging me!”
Aelia sighed. “How many fingers, Fulgor?”
“What’s wrong with hugging you?” asked Acylius, even more confused. Joyces were far more emotionally expressive than Yuk. How could hugging be taboo?
“It’s—”
“Fulgor,” snapped Aelia.
“Fine, three fingers. Look, Acylius, it’s just not something that friends do, okay?” Fulgor tried to prop himself up on one elbow. “Just…trust me on this. Don’t go around hugging people.”
“You make this sound like something I make a habit of,” huffed Acylius. He folded his arms, feeling hurt and a little embarrassed. Clearly he had made some sort of gaffe, but there was no need for Fulgor to make such a fuss. “Yuks aren’t encouraged to be free about such things, you know.”
Fulgor spluttered. “I hope not!”
“Fulgor, stop it. You know it must not mean the same to Acylius as it does to us.” Aelia’s voice was developing a definite edge. Acylius could certainly understand that. His own anger was starting to rise.
“Perhaps Fulgor would care to enlighten me as to what it does mean,” he said, a little coolly.
Fulgor opened his mouth, but Aelia cut him off. “Among Joyces, hugging is an indication of a very close and trusting relationship,” she said. “You can’t fly when someone is hugging you.”
Acylius felt himself stand up a little straighter. “I see.” Well, that stung. He’d thought that he and Fulgor were close. Clearly he was wrong.
“Oh, for—” Fulgor groaned, getting slowly to his feet. “It’s a couple thing.” Acylius felt his mouth drop open. As the implications of that statement sank in, he felt his face heat—and not with anger. A couple thing. And Aelia had seen...
Oh, soggy fog and maudlin mist. No wonder she had sounded so strange.
As though he hadn’t made Acylius’s mistake abundantly clear already, Fulgor went on pointedly, “You should be hugging Aelia, not me.”
“I understand, thank you,” said Acylius stiffly.
“Just as long as we’re clear.”
“Oh, stop it,” snapped Aelia, rounding on her brother. “You don’t get to lecture Acylius about Joyce romantic behaviour. Not after the music session. And especially not after the tour around the flowers.”
Acylius’s stomach dropped. “Those were romantic gestures as well?” he asked, horrified. Aelia had seemed a little cross both times, but he’d thought it was just part of her usual annoyance with Fulgor.
Aelia flinched, as though she had forgotten that he was there. She turned to him, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “Listening to Fulgor play wasn’t,” she said. Acylius had the impression that she was choosing her words very carefully. “The flowers were…pushing it a little.”
Acylius covered his face with his hands. “Aelia, I don’t know what to say—”
“You don’t have to say anything. I know that you didn’t understand.”
But you were annoyed, and I didn’t ask why. The words utterly failed to leave Acylius’s mouth; he couldn’t get them to fit past the guilt that was closing his throat. He should have asked. But he had been enjoying himself, and he hadn’t wanted to spoil things by triggering another sibling quarrel. Aelia and Fulgor always seemed to be bickering about something or other...
Acylius swallowed, letting his hands fall away from his face. That was no excuse. He should have asked.
“Look, there’s an easy solution to this,” said Fulgor, into the tightly stretched silence. “Acylius, you just go over there and hug Yaya, and this will all—”
“Don’t you dare.” Aelia sucked in a thin breath, like there wasn’t enough room inside her for anger and air. “Don’t you dare, Fulgor. You can’t just tell someone to…to be romantic and expect it to fix everything!” Her voice shook on the words be romantic. Acylius’s heart clenched painfully, and he took a step towards her with hand outstretched.
“Aelia, I’m so sorry—”
She shook her head fiercely. “No! Don’t apologize. It isn’t your fault. It’s Fulgor’s.”
“I didn’t mean—” Fulgor finally seemed to have grasped the depths of his mistake, but Aelia clearly wasn’t in the mood to accept an apology.
“Of course you didn’t mean it,” she said, with bitter, angry resignation. “You never mean it. But you spoil things anyway. You always do.”
“Don’t be like that. It’s not like you can never do those things with Acylius—”
“And how do you think it will feel, knowing that you did those things with him first? It won’t be—” She stopped, took another deep breath. Then, softly, she said, “It won’t be the same.” She turned away from them both. “I’m going to start working on patching paint. A lot of the bees and the dragonflies got caught in the Kloud, and they won’t be able to fly until they’ve got their kolors back.”
Acylius took another step towards her. “Aelia—”
She wavered for a moment, but didn’t turn back around. “Thank you for coming to help, Acylius. Could you make sure that Fulgor makes it to the springs? He might be a little dizzy.”
Acylius watched her helplessly. Her wings were beating unevenly, a slow and erratic rhythm that he suspected was unconscious. He noticed that her own kolors were slightly dimmed by the dissipating Kloud. At least, he hoped it was the result of the Kloud. Did Joyces lose their kolors when they were upset?
“I will,” he said. It seemed like the only safe thing to say.
She hesitated a moment as though trying to think of a reply, then nodded once and took off into the clearing sky. Acylius watched her until she was out of sight, then groaned and buried his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” said Fulgor from behind him. He sounded as despondent as Acylius had ever heard him. “I really didn’t mean to mess things up for you both. I was just trying to get Aelia to make some kind of move.”
Acylius thought about being angry. The situation seemed to call for it. But he couldn’t quite muster the energy: he was tired from his desperate flight to Flower City and his equally desperate dive to save Fulgor, not to mention the emotional rollercoaster of the last twenty minutes. He didn’t seem to have any strength left for anger.
He did, however, have the strength to be sure of one thing: somehow, he would have to make this up to Aelia. His ignorance may have been genuine, but so was her hurt.
“I must make this right,” he said aloud.
“I’ll help,” said Fulgor eagerly, but Acylius shook his head.
“Fulgor, I mean no offence, but you did play a large part in causing this problem. I think it would be for the best if I fixed it myself.”
“And how are you going to do that?” asked Fulgor, sounding more curious than miffed.
“I don’t know yet. But I will think of something.”
Me: Hmm, I'll just work on one scene of this fic today...
Me: I guess it's going to be two scenes. But that's okay, the first scene was only 700 words and 200 of those were from an older draft. The second scene shouldn't be too much longer.
