it could only end in Tragedy (but wouldn’t it be wonderful all the same)
I finally wrote a real but short thing based on this post from a month ago
Dirthamen is based on @feynites writing as always.
“You're very...lovely,” she stumbles, tongue tripping over social rubble in the awkward air of the evening.
Blue eyes blink behind dark strands; long, luscious, dripping like shadows over an otherwise painfully colorful ensemble. Off-balance, like her. Out of place, and unsure in his own skin: crawling with vines and dabbled in dirt as it is.
Another blossom opens on the curve of his collarbone, and Selene nearly gasps in wonder at the sight.
“Oh,” he breathes, and she nearly shrinks back from the shock of it. Breath. What a strange, alien behavior after...
After so many years of her duties.
Perhaps this was a poor idea, debt of bet hanging around her or not.
'Befriend a member of the world of sky, rediscover what it is like to be near someone with a heart that beats, with life still echoing in their bones, with light in their eyes and red in their lips-'
Lips that finally close as he manages a quiet “Thank you,” with fingers twisting in feathers from his own back.
She swallows around a throat that hasn't needed it in decades, and nods politely back. The curls of her hair itch against the back of her neck with the movement, arms pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“Do you come to these often?” He asks.
The question catches her so off guard she nearly laughs.
“I-uh-I'm sorry, what?”
“The parties,” The man explains, gesturing towards the stone door leading back to the ballroom and festivities still in full swing inside. “My family attends most regularly, though this is the first I've attended in...some time. I am afraid there is little I am familiar with when it comes to the expectations of these evenings.”
Selene blinks, mind racing with stories Des has brought back from his past excursions; feasts of food and flesh and beasts and whatever extravagances the gods see fit to fill themselves with in the moment and thinks-no, no.
“This is my first in millenia,” She admits with a shrug and a half-honest smile. “If there are rules to these events I might have known once, the memory is long buried and lost to me. I uh,” She chuckles. “I don't get out, much. My responsibilities keep me far from here, and it's only the result of a particularly wily string of fate falling into the lap of a mischievous and trouble-loving imp that's allowed me to be present here tonight.”
“My gratitudes to the imp in question, then.” The man says with a quirk of his lip, and while, no, being a God of Death doesn't exactly leave Selene with much of a heartbeat, it feels as though hers has flipped right into her throat all the same.
“Do you dance?” She asks before she can think better of it. Think of what her touch brings and the cold and the rivers of her home and the loneliness waiting for her by moonset.
“I...suppose I have never tried,” He says, moving towards her all the same.
She takes a step towards him, undeterred by the pollen and petals and the sprouts in his footsteps.
“I'm told I make a wonderful teacher,” She offers, sliding one hand into his and the other around his waist. Not waiting for an answer, she should, she should but damn her nerves and the voice in her head. Death is not meant to dance with Life, with Spring which he so clearly is, she would be a fool not to notice. Not to see how this could only end in tragedy, how it should never even start, how it could only be terrible for them if they could be bothered to see sense.
But the orchestra is leaking through the walls, spilling into the gardens and guiding them through a dance it feels like they have done a hundred times. They must have done, steps easy and effortless and comfortable.
Gods, how long has it been since she was comfortable?
Long enough that she had forgotten the word, the concept, the relief.
Long enough that she is loath to lose it again.
“What is your name?” She asks, though it seems superfluous, nearly, now. What weight does a name carry, in the end. She has been called a great many names, and very few connect in record despite how many of them truly are hers.
Still.
If she is planning to keep him near...
“Dirthamen,” He answers, wings billowing behind him.
“Dirthamen,” She repeats, spinning him into her as surely as she spins magic into her words.
It is a terrible idea.
“I have a proposition for you, dear Dirthamen,”
A terrible, tragic, idea.
“I have a kingdom of my own, that requires my presence and much of my time,”
Would he even be happy there, in the dark with the dead and her home?
“I would very much like to show it to you,”
She could make him happy.
“If you are amenable to the trip.”
She would make him happy.
She has summoned her chariot before she can change her mind, before he can do anything but nod and follow her into it. She cracks the reigns over her spiritual beasts, keeping her prize beside her. Safe, as they travel into the dark of the night.
Down
Down
Down, past the horizon and into the place where the world of sky ends.
Down
Down
Down, over the waterfalls of the world, across the seven rivers, and around the confused gaze of her ferryman whose eyes are still heavy with sleep.
Through the crowded alleys of the underworld, still empty in the early morning tides before she pulls into her stables.
Selene exits first, hand outstretched behind her for her newest, and only, visitor.
He might hate her for this, she knows. Could resent her and regret his choice, here in the dark of her home. Could find her to be as empty and depthless as the river Styx itself.
But she would do her best, to make him happy here.
for prompts, I'm sure this goes without saying but some of that good good Dirthalene stuff would be great if you're up for it <3
I did a Mo Dao Zu Shi AU.
Well, to be accurate, I borrowed the basic plot of the first two episodes, because I watched it recently and I wanted to. X3 But knowledge of the series shouldn’t be required, so here! Enjoy some Dirthalene stuffs! <3
Did you hear? Did you hear about it all?
What?
Lord Dirthamen, that evil master of black magic, has died!
No! Truly? How?
He was killed, of course! His evil lair was destroyed and he was shattered into a thousand pieces.
Who struck the killing blow? Who could have managed it?
His brother, of course! Lord Falon’Din led the march on the lair himself.
Weren’t those two allies? I thought they opposed the mad Keepers together…
They did. But Lord Dirthamen went too far. His magic turned too dark. Lord Falon’Din had to put a stop to him, before he razed the world! They say he’s been left near to death himself by the whole ordeal, too. A real hero.
Well. I suppose we ought to drink to Lord Falon’Din, in that case…
To Lord Falon’Din! Liberator of the people, destroyer of evil!
Here here!
~
Dirthamen blinks his eyes open.
…Odd.
He shouldn’t have those anymore.
His vision swims a little. Disjointed images crossing it, and equally disjointed thoughts spilling from his mind. But he is not unaware of what has transpired. He was dead. He recalls it quite clearly. It had been… peaceful, actually. Though recollecting the particulars is proving more and more impossible, the knowledge slipping from his grasp, like water between his fingers. He was absolutely dead, though. For a long while.
And now he isn’t. The difference is too stark for him to doubt it. For the first time in a long while, he feels pain. Sunlight streams in through the slats of some kind of ramshackle roof. His limbs ache; his ribs hurt. He stumbles over remembering how to breathe, and ends up in a coughing fit that makes white sparks dance across his vision.
How has this happened?
The coughing fit prompts him to sit up. His head swims. He presses a palm to his brow, and sees red.
Long, deep slashes of red, running down pale wrists. He regards them blearily for a long moment, flexing the fingers of the hand in front of himself, before looking at his other arm. It, too, has been mutilated. His chest is bare; bruised, but not cut. Dirthamen regards the purple blotches on a torso that looks thinner than the one he recollects having - when he was in an elven shape, anyway.
His inspection draws his gaze down to the ground he’s sitting on.
It, too, is covered in red.
Runes. Written in blood. As he stares around himself, Dirthamen realizes that he is sitting atop a summon circle, infused with copious amounts of blood magic. Blood from the body he is in, it would seem, and also from a pair of headless chickens, lying slaughtered in a corner of the… stable? It looks like it might be, some sort of pen for an animal. He swallows down past a dry throat, and turns a more critical gaze to the summoning circle.
Hmm.
That would explain some things, at least.
A self-sacrifice ritual.
Dirthamen has never seen one outside of a book before. It is a rare ritual, primarily because it is fatal to the caster. Where most resurrection spells involve binding a spirit to an unwilling host body, allowing them to be performed by casters who can still live to benefit from making some kind of pack with a demonic spirit, a self-sacrifice ritual invites a spirit to enter the body of a willing victim. One who has spilled their own blood, one whose own spirit will die the moment their body is taken possession of.
It is almost exclusively the purview of zealots, and generally used to summon spirits of great havoc and destruction. The intent, generally, is to die destroying one’s enemies. A suicide attack; infiltrate a camp or stronghold, or even gain vengeance on a home or work place, by summoning an entity of pure chaos into your body, and letting it lash out and attack until either it or everything around it has been destroyed.
But… Dirthamen is not an entity of pure chaos.
The runes in place specifically invoke him. Which explains why he is here. Yet he has no recollection of bargaining with any would-be petitioner… not in this regard, at least. There have been attempts to summon him before, but he simply refused them.
Apparently, this type of summoning does not leave such options.
It is an interesting thing to learn, and not information that one could probably glean without having been subjected to the particulars of this process. Dirthamen files it away, before he finally manages to get up onto his feet. The runes beneath him flicker once, and then burn away. Leaving behind the scent of blood, but nothing else, as the magical energy in them finally dissipates. It makes him feel even heavier, in his new shape.
He may be alive again, but judging by the state of this body, there is a chance he will not remain that way for long. Perhaps it would be wise to simply sit down and wait for death to claim him again. He is still undecided on that front when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps.
The stable he is in does not provide much cover; the walls are fairly open. Dirthamen hears someone mutter an oath, and can only turn and watch in growing astonishment as a pair of teenagers suddenly begin running down an overgrown path towards him.
“Sir!” one of them calls. “Sir, are you injured? Were you attacked?”
Dirthamen blinks.
He is taken aback, of course, because of how the teenagers are dressed. Though he has been dead for a long time, he still recognizes the uniform of the Lunar Disciples. His mother was once head of their order, after all. The two teenagers look like pictures drawn from his past; dressed in crisp white uniforms, with their hair neatly tied back, each of them holding a staff topped with a transparent quartz crystal. The left breasts of their uniforms are emblazoned with symbols of the moon in the First Quarter phase; that, along with their age, leads Dirthamen to conclude that they are Junior Disciples.
They have a similar look to one another. Probably, they are related; though one has a streak of white in his otherwise dark hair.
“Sir?” the other asks him, looking him over in turn. “You’re bleeding…”
Dirthamen watches as the Junior Disciple takes off his overcoat, and begins to gently settle it over his shoulders.
“Careful,” his companion says, standing some ways away, and observing their surroundings more intently. “This could be a trick.”
“I think he’s in shock,” the other replies, apparently heedless of the warning. His youthful face is twisted in concern, as he begins to prod Dirthamen towards one of the stable posts, and urges him to sit down. It is only as he begins to feel some warmth seep into him from the enchanted coat that Dirthamen realizes how cold he must have been. Likely, blood loss had not helped matters much.
After a moment, the other Junior Disciple comes over to look at him as well.
“Do you have a name?” he asks.
Dirthamen blinks. He does. But he probably should not say it.
The two teens share a look.
“Give me the healing kit,” says the one who offered Dirthamen his overcoat. The other narrows his eyes, but then lowers his pack, and retrieves a smaller bag from inside of it. Dirthamen finds himself simply sitting in place, observing as a pair of Junior Lunar Disciples tend to his wounds. He realizes that he has no idea what he looks like; but that is not so strange for him. Towards the end of his life, maintaining a consistent form had been difficult. The teenagers frown at the slashes on his arms; the one with the streak in his hair catches Dirthamen’s eye for a moment, before pointedly averting his gaze.
“I’ll keep a look out,” he says, and moves a few steps away.
The other nods, but then offers Dirthamen a reassuring smile. An expression that falters as he observes what seems to be a boot-shaped mark on Dirthamen’s ribs.
“Well… perhaps we should start with our own introductions, instead,” he says. “My name is Darevas. That cheerful fellow over there is my brother, Felasel. We are both Disciples of the Lunar Order.”
Dirthamen blinks.
Darevas smiles at him again, and waits a moment. Then he carries on.
“We’ve come to the region to investigate claims of dangerous magical activity,” he says. “People say there are undead monsters roving about, attacking travelers in the night. Felasel and I have never been on such an assignment alone before, but we’ve gone along on similar ones many times. If you saw something strange - something that you might not think an ordinary person would believe… we’ll definitely take it seriously. We’ve seen a lot of bizarre things.”
Dirthamen looks down as Darevas begins bandaging his arms. He supposes that, to these two teenagers, the situation must look very strange. Even for himself, the situation is very strange. He doesn’t have an answer for them. So he remains silent; but somehow, the cheerful teenager trying to help him only seems a little discouraged about it.
It is only after the worst of his injuries have been attended to, that it occurs to him that he should probably not have accepted the help. It is a waste of resources for the two young disciples, in the end, if he only means to sit down and die. And yet… it seems like such a striking twist of fate, that he should be found by Junior Disciples from his own mother’s order.
The last time he knew of it, the Lunar Order was being headed by Lady Selene, instead. Someone Dirthamen had once fought alongside, facing challenges during their own years as Junior Disciples. Before the Evanuris ancestral home was destroyed by Sariandi’s armies, and Dirthamen’s soul was split, and he began down the road to mastering dark magic in order to help his brother on his quest for vengeance and dominion.
Then they had been uneasy allies, for a time, fighting against Sariandi’s forces; before finally becoming enemies. Not that they had ever met on a battlefield. The Lunar Order had mainly contested with Falon’Din’s forces, before his brother had claimed that Dirthamen had ensorceled him for the past several years, and killed him to forestall his defeat at the hands of their former allies.
Dirthamen harbored no desire for vengeance, however. He had not become a malevolent spirit or wrathful demon. In the end, he had been able to make a sort of amends to his brother for failing him so profoundly; Falon’Din was able to start anew, to try again, and the only cost was Dirthamen’s life.
Which had never been worth very much to begin with.
Yet, somehow he finds himself keeping quiet as Darevas tugs him along, and insists that they must take him into town with them. Felasel offers no objections, but seems more uneasy with the situation all the same.
“Do you live around here?” Darevas tries asking, as he finally gets Dirthamen to walk down the road between himself and his brother. “Do you have any family? Anyone looking after you?”
Dirthamen blinks.
“Leave him be,” Felasel says, to his brother. “When we get to town we can ask around.”
Darevas subsides, and the pair fall into silence. Dirthamen suspects his presence is to blame. After a few minutes, they begin to let him lag behind them on the path somewhat. Though if he falls too far behind, then Darevas will slow down until he has caught up again. Although in truth, he is not trying to shake them; he has not made up his mind enough to do such a thing. Rather, he is simply very tired, and his body does not want to move without pain.
As the afternoon sun stretches on, the teenagers stop for a break. Darevas produces some food from his pack, and offers Dirthamen a sweet-tasting travel bar, and a small flask of water. He puts some herbs into the water, first.
“Medicine,” he says. But Dirthamen recognizes the scent; herbs that are good at staving off infections. He takes the tiny flask, and then hesitates, before offering it back.
“You shouldn’t waste it,” he says.
His voice rasps in his throat.
Darevas looks shocked to hear him speak; Felasel’s gaze narrows, and his lips purse in what seems to be disapproval.
“He speaks!” Darevas exclaims. “It’s not a waste, friend. Disciples like ourselves are supposed to help people. It’s what we do. And I have plenty of herbs; so drink up!”
Dirthamen can see that the young man has no intention of taking the flask back. And his throat hurts. So after a moment, he does drink, and he does eat.
Felasel’s gaze slips towards the bandages on his arms.
“Those wounds on your arms,” he says. “That angle… self-inflicted?”
Dirthamen blinks.
Darevas freezes for a moment, taken aback. But it seems it less the assertion that bothers him, than the fact that it was made, as he lowers his voice to address his brother.
“Fel,” he hisses. “Leave it alone.”
“Well. If he thinks it’s a waste, then he’s probably planning to try again,” Felasel counters. “If that’s the situation, we can’t just leave him with anybody.”
Darevas glances at Dirthamen, who finds himself largely unbothered. The observation is true enough; the wounds on his current body were self-inflicted. The cutting marks, at least. Not the bruises, he doesn’t think; it would be difficult for him to boot himself in the chest. He is not suicidal, or at least, he had not been in life. Willing to die, perhaps, but apt to take his own life. Though he supposes that deciding to simply wait for death, in this situation, would amount to the same thing.
Isn’t a form of suicidal thought to simply opt to return to one’s natural state of death after forced resurrection?
He supposes that is the sort of thing that would be debated among more scholarly disciples in the Lunar Order’s celestial halls.
“We’re not going to just ‘leave him with anybody’ anyway. Those boot marks weren’t self-inflicted…” Darevas says. He looks very young, Dirthamen notices. How old are these teenagers? It can be hard to tell, but definitely not more than eighteen. To be sent on a mission alone, either the Lunar Order is sorely strapped for resources, or else there is some senior member not far away from these events. Waiting to see if an emergency signal goes up; to record how well the pair handled their first ‘solo’ assignment.
Both youths look at Dirthamen, as if waiting to see whether he will respond to any of this.
He finishes the small bar of oats and nuts that Darevas had offered him, and, again, find himself too indecisive to do anything but blink.
The brothers sigh in unison.
Despite the signs of exasperation, though, they do not leave Dirthamen behind. Instead he fins himself following them into a town he does not recognize in particular, and yet finds nebulously familiar. There are many places like this scattered throughout the territories, though. Tiny towns, with small local ruling families, old but limited in their growth by the amount of resources available to them. The arrival of the Junior Disciples seems to stir up some interest; their staves and uniforms are noteworthy. But then a few eyes seem to land on Dirthamen, and twist towards shock, disgust, confusion, and surprise. As near as he can tell, at least.
The teenagers decide to ask for directions, and end up stopping at a local merchant booth. Darevas is the one who bows politely.
“Excuse me, miss,” he greets. The girl at the booth looks uncertain; but also blushes, a bit, as she looks at the two boys who cannot be much older than her.
“Yes, Sir Sorcerer?” she replies.
“My brother and I have come at the request of your local lord to investigate some of the disturbance,” Darevas says. “Could you tell me where I might find this lord’s home?”
The girl blinks, and glances uncertainly at Dirthamen.
“Why don’t you ask him? He lives there,” she says, gesturing towards him.
Felasel and Darevas glance at him, and then share a look.
“Oh?” Felasel says, folding his arms. “Our friend seems to be having troubles locating his voice at the moment. He hasn’t even given us his name, I fear.”
The merchant girl ducks his.
“It’s not my business,” she says, glancing at Dirthamen again. “But everyone knows that the young master is… a bit prone to addled senses. That’s the lady’s bastard nephew, sirs. You’ll find his family up at the big green house, close to the mountain side of town, but they probably won’t thank you for bringing him back.”
“Won’t they have been worried?” Darevas asks.
The girl shifts uncertainly, and then shrugs.
“I wouldn’t want to gossip,” she says.
“But…?” Felasel invites, leaning in a little closer. He pulls a pouch of coins out of the front of his overcoat. The girl’s eyes widen, and her blush darkens a little. She seems resolutely determined to avoid looking at Dirthamen, now, as she closes a hand over the parcel of coins.
“Everyone’s been blaming the young master for the dark magic,” she explains. “His father was one of those rogue sorcerer types. He left an ‘inheritance’ behind, all kinds of things. The lady of the house found the young master trying to call up evil magic, after some of the villagers reported seeing dead wolves hunting in the woods, and trees trying to grab men off the paths, and serpents lunging out of their shadows. She ran him out.”
Again, the twins exchange looks.
Dirthamen finds the information interesting, at least. Perhaps this is where the former owner of the body he is in managed to obtain the information on his summoning spell. Did he even realize what he was doing, in that case? It seems even more tragic to contemplate that he did not.
At least this is something closer to an answer; though Dirthamen is not certain that he is seeking one, in the end.
“Thank you, that’s very helpful,” Felasel says.
“Of course,” the merchant girl says. “Happy to help, sirs.”
The brothers share another look, before they begin heading towards the mountain side of town. Darevas turns to regard Dirthamen critically, but they do not tell him to leave, or attempt to turn their staves on him.
“Were you really trying to summon something evil?” he asks, plainly.
“…I don’t know,” Dirthamen finds the voice to say.
The answer seems to surprise both of the teens. Felasel’s expression turns contemplative, while Darevas looks uncomfortable. But again, they do not run him off. They seem to reach some unspoken agreement with one another, and bring Dirthamen with them to what is obviously the nicest household in the immediate area.
There is a servant who looks alarmed as he sees them all. Another who runs off, and then finally, they are approached by yet another servant, who looks stiff and uncomfortable as Darevas introduces himself and his brother, and requests to see the master of the house. They are brought in without trouble, though. Dirthamen is still wearing Darevas’ coat, so it seems to take people a few glances to recognize him.
They are lead into a reception room with a few mirrors on the wall. He takes a moment to observe his own reflection.
…Oh.
To his surprise, Dirthamen realizes that he doesn’t not look like he could be much older than the two Junior Disciples beside him right now. There are bruises on his face, too, yellow and purple, but not swollen enough to disguise his features. He is not bad-looking, as youths go. His hair is short and dark, and looks at though it wants to curl. His eyes are blue, again. His nose looks as though it has been broken and improperly set at least once before in his life, and there are bruises shaped like fingers on his neck. An old scar splits through his left eyebrow.
Hm.
He looks like the aftermath of one of his brother’s rages.
Their small group is not left waiting for long before a very refined-looking woman enters the reception room. She makes a face at the sight of Dirthamen, but manages to retain her composure as she politely greets Felasel and Darevas.
“We’ve come by request,” Darevas says.
“The Lunar Order sends children to protect our town?” the woman asks.
“It may seem worrying, but my brother and I have been trained since birth,” Darevas assures her, with a polite bow. “We can at the very least assess your situation.”
“Can you?”
With a sharp motion, the woman gestures towards Dirthamen.
“Then what is he doing here? That wretch is the cause of all these disturbances! We never had anything like this going on in these parts until he gained that cursed ‘inheritance’, and started using the tools of dark magic. If you know what you are about, then you should have left him wherever you found him.”
Felasel raises an eyebrow, and folds his arms.
“Madame, with all due respect, the events you have been describing are not the work of a dark magic practitioner.”
There is a moment of silence, as the lady of the household seems taken aback by that response.
Dirthamen nods in agreement, however.
The merchant girl had described undead wolves, shadow serpents, and moving trees. While dark magic can accomplish many things, even at the height of his power, Dirthamen would have struggled to control or manifest so many natural elements on his own. He could command an entire army of walking corpses, or summon his raven spirit companions, but to perform elemental magic while controlling a pack of undead wolves and summoning shadow beasts?
Either there are many practitioners of dark magic foolishly targeting random villagers, or there is some kind of corrupting influence in the woods. Most likely a corrupted Nature Spirit. A strong one, to create such anomalies.
Felasel states precisely that.
“Well, if there’s some kind of thing in the woods, then he probably put it there,” the lady of the house insists. “You think it’s a coincidence that all of this just started happening?”
“Good lady, when did your nephew receive his inheritance? Your request for aid reached the celestial halls three weeks ago,” Darevas says.
“And that loathsome package came for the boy just a few days before that!” she snaps.
“So you’re saying that your nephew managed to master dark magic in a few days?” Felasel drawls, straightening his sleeves. He glances back towards Dirthamen. “I am impressed, young master. Your aptitude must be astounding.”
Dirthamen blinks.
For him to have managed the self-sacrificial summoning, it could not have been terrible. But it is true; pulling off a ritual generally only requires knowledge of the ritual and the requirements to fulfill it. Mastering spells, however, is another matter entirely. And sustaining them for more than a few seconds is something else again.
The lady of the house does not look pleased.
“…I think, perhaps, it would be best if you were to summon a senior member of your order,” she says. “I believe the Lunar Order has underestimated the severity of this matter, and on behalf of my community, I am offended at this lackluster response.”
The Junior Disciples look somewhat annoyed, at that. Though they maintain their composure.
“Your thoughts are noted, madame,” Darevas says. “We will conduct our investigation. Rest assured, if something beyond the bounds of our training should come to light, we’ll seek further guidance. In the meanwhile, I will have to advise you to keep the villagers away from the forest. Our investigations may stir up activity.”
The lady does not seem pleased with this. But after some tension, she does offer to let the brothers stay in the guest lodgings of her home. The two decline, however, citing a preference to work at night, and remain largely outside the boundaries of the village. A guard arrives before they are leaving, and attempts to escort Dirthamen to the local jail house.
He is surprised when the Junior Disciples intervene.
“He’s part of our investigation now,” Darevas says, cheerfully. “I think it would be better if he stayed with us.”
“We should get him his own coat,” Felasel mentions.
“Does he have any belongings left in the main house?” Darevas asks. And after politely pressing the matter, Dirthamen is giving a sack of ‘his’ belongings. Mainly clothing. He dutifully returns Darevas’ jacket, or attempts to; but the teenager refuses, making a shooing motion when he tries to hand it back after changing into a shirt from the bag.
“It has protective enchantments on it. You should keep it for now,” he insists.
Felasel does not look pleased, but after a moment only sighs, and shakes his head.
“What? He doesn’t know how to fight. I do. If we’re taking him along, we should offer some protection,” Darevas insists.
These two are very gallant children, Dirthamen thinks. He feels badly for causing them so many inconveniences.
Probably, he thinks, he should try and make sure they don’t die in the woods.
Then he can just die again afterwards.
~
There is definitely something in the forest.
Dirthamen is having troubles deducing the specifics, but the energy in the air itself is telling enough to one who knows what to look for. The brothers grow quiet, as they begin laying down scrying runes, in order to attempt to deduce what has gone on in the area. It is a good idea, but it might not yield any useful information. There is too much ambient energy in the region; scrying spells can easily become ‘cluttered’, and, by the time evening has arrived, most of them have not yielded anything more coherent than a confirmation that something is going on.
Dirthamen is not sure either of the Junior Disciples notice the undead deer. Or rather, notice that several of the deer they pass are dead. If they do, they do not remark upon it; but the signs are subtle, and only Dirthamen seems to be watching when one turns so that its torn throat is plainly visible.
They notice the trees, however.
It is night, and they have set camp, and the air is quiet. The trees creak. Dirthamen watches as one begins to slowly encroach upon the campsite. Its roots move slowly, sifting through the earth as if it is loose sand rather than densely-packed soil. The leaves rustle. He is debating whether or not he should draw attention to the movement when the brothers notice it themselves, and stiffen.
They observe for several minutes, and then move camp.
“Definitely a nature spirit,” Darevas says, while they keep a look out. They have no fire this time, but Felasel had handed Dirthamen an enchanted warming rock. And the moon is full, so there is still light to see by. The brothers worried that the trees were drawn to put out the fire.
“I don’t know,” Felasel says. “You weren’t with me when I went with Uncle Des and Wonder to Riverfall Village. That was a corrupt nature spirit. It was old and mean, but… it tired out fast. This is sustained.”
“Maybe more than one?” Darevas suggests.
“If it’s more than one, we’re in trouble.”
Dirthamen is inclined to agree that they are in trouble, but he has his own suspicions. The brothers decide to take turns holding watch. They do not truly intend to investigate in the dark, he supposes; they were only claiming as such, to avoid staying with the lady of the town. That is good. Even Lunar Order disciples are courting a lot of disaster when they try and hunt monsters at night, especially if they are not using traps and lures, and do not even necessarily know what they are hunting.
Dirthamen waits until Darevas has fallen asleep, before he whispers a spell, and sends his brother tumbling gently down beside him. Then he gets up. He takes off Darevas’s coat, and lays it back over him, before laying down some simple spells to awaken both brothers if anything gets too close to their little camp site.
Then he sets off towards the treeline.
There are more signs to be found. Pockets of air where the temperature wavers from intense heat to inexplicable cold. Crops of dead trees, that look as though they have simply had the life energy sucked directly out of them. He hears the clacking of bones on the wind; skeletal things, most likely.
No spirits.
That is the trouble with it being a nature spirit. Or several. Where are all the other spirits?
This imbalance is not created by corruption, Dirthamen thinks, but by absence. Theft. The odd quality of the air is the brittle lack of normal spiritual energies, creating voids where other things are attempting to fill in the gaps. Ancient remnants of magics from generations ago; or echoes of things even beyond the Veil, that are ordinarily too weak to reach so far into the waking world.
It takes him an hour to find what he is looking for.
A black stone pillar, half as tall as most of the surrounding trees, marks an area of dead growth. Dirthamen can feel the pull of the black magic on it. Like a magnet, drawing nearby spiritual energy towards itself; even trying to draw Dirthamen’s own out through his flesh. Beyond it, he can see only ordinary-looking green trees; but he suspects that they are an illusion.
Past the pillar is a Spirit Vault.
Someone has built a Spirit Vault in these woods. A container that can trap spirits, and like a flytrap, gradually ‘digest’ them. Breaking them down into their component energy, which can be used to create powerful magic. Dirthamen himself was credited with their invention - an inaccuracy. It was another practitioner in the Black Skull Order who made the discovery; and Falon’Din himself who devised the idea of the spirit vaults.
His brother did not have much of a reputation for inventing, however.
Dirthamen observes the magic, but does not get any closer. They will be wards to safeguard such a place. Any interactions will likely alert its creator to its discovery.
He is debating what to do, still, when he sees a bright white signal flare go up in the distance. Bursting like fireworks, from the direction he just came up by.
The Junior Disciples.
Dirthamen turns and hurries back, and sure enough, finds that the brothers had apparently entered the woods of their own accord. The source of their distress is obvious, as Dirthamen hears the sounds of fighting, and makes his way down a small hill covered in dead growth to fight them both wielding their staves against a chimeric beast.
Something animated by the discordant energies, Dirthamen thinks. A confused and aggressive creature, part broken spirit, part wrathful remnant. It looks to be made from the body parts of a dozen dead animals; antlers and claws, hooves and two sets of sharp, snapping jaws, with patches of fur and bone and rotting flesh all jutting out of it. The aura surrounding it is intensely vile; Felasel’s bright cleansing spell simply rebounds off of it, and Darevas’ physical blows only give it an opportunity to swing its mismatched limbs back at him.
It lets out a horrific roar. Echoing and gruesome.
Dirthamen cannot see this fight favouring the teenagers.
He glances around himself. Fortunately, the dead growth affords him some opportunities. He searches for a moment, while the Junior Disciples attempt to deflect the monster’s attacks, and then finds an elderly tree, drained abruptly dry of its life-force. Black magic cleaves to the wood, steeped in the layers of a long existence, and the shock of the suddenness of its end. Dirthamen neatly breaks off one of the branches, and scrapes off the smaller twigs. He splits the skin on his hand - this body is very fragile - but the smear of blood he leaves behind only helps as he channels a rush of energy into the wood.
He checks on the brothers. It is not looking good. Darevas seems to be trying to redirect the water from a nearby stream into a purifying burst, to press back against the monster, but the energy is still rebounding and so he only seems to be impeding it a little; and Felasel is moving to attack its flank, but it has too many limbs for the usual weak points to apply.
The monster closes a human-like fist around Felasel’s throat.
Dirthamen slams the butt of his makeshift staff into the ground, and draws upon the discordant energy in the whispering shadows. Three whispers answer his call. He points at the monster with his staff, as he feels the dark energy lick against his ankles. Black fire lights at the end of the dead wood branch; too dark to see from a distance.
“Dismember the fiend,” he instructs.
Three massive shadow ravens erupt from the blackest segments of the night, and launch themselves at the monster. Crashing into it, so that it loses its grasp on Felasel. The boy gasps, and his brother races to him, immediately dragging him away. The brothers stare in consternation, as the shadow ravens rip at the undead chimera; attempting to tear its disjointed parts away from each other. That will be the weakness, of course. But even with the directed attack, Dirthamen can tell that it will not be enough. That aura is simply too profound to breach. The ravens’ beaks do a better job of piercing it than the disciples’ spells had, however, it will not be sufficient.
Dirthamen lowers his branch, and douses the black fire. The shadow ravens will follow his command until he has either moved out of range, or they have succeeded. It would be better to leave, especially since Felasel and Darevas seem to have concluded the same thing, and are hastily making their escape from the monster.
Dirthamen follows at a distance, attempting to keep an eye on the situation.
Unfortunately, they have less time than even he would have guessed. He hears the sound of shadows being rent, and another terrible roar breaks through the air; and then the monster begins to pursue the Junior Disciples, no longer impeded by the shadow ravens.
Inadequate.
If he had his proper tools…
But he does not. He is not even supposed to be here.
Besides which, the monster is not chasing the disciples in a random direction; the way they are running, the beast seems to be herding them. Dirthamen does not have to double-check the direction to guess where; it is drawing them towards the Spirit Vault.
Is this an accidental chimera? Or a deliberately constructed guardian?
He calls more shadows. Only one answers, as he runs, but he directs the new raven-shaped minion towards the monster all the same. It buys the brothers some more time to gain some distance, while Dirthamen tries to think of what he should do. He needs to get them to change course; with no other immediate recourse, he veers down off of the higher path he was taking, and nearly barrels into them.
Darevas has very quick reflexes. He almost smashes Dirthamen’s skull, before he realizes that they are not being attacked.
“Not this way,” Dirthamen says, sharply, and shoves both of them towards a different route between the trees. “Go.”
Fortunately, they do run in that direction.
“Where did you go?!” Darevas demands of him, however. And Felasel throws him a suspicious glance, before another bellowing roar has all three of them focusing on their escape again. Dirthamen is able to call another shadow, directing the raven backwards; the flash of black fire makes Darevas swear, in a manner typically frowned upon for Lunar Order disciples.
But then the monster seems to come into a renewed burst of strength, and with its most furious roar yet, charges clear through several lines of trees. Breaking wood and flinging itself towards them with feral intent. Dirthamen rushes to put himself between the monster and the Junior Disciples - better someone already dead than two boys who have barely had a chance to live - but before the snarling jaws can close on him, a bright burst of moonlight shoots down from the sky. Shaped like a white raven, as it collides with the monster, and encases it in a shimmering barrier.
The chimera flings itself wildly against the surface.
The brothers both let out sudden gasps of relief.
“Mama!” Darevas exclaims.
Dirthamen follows the line of his gaze, and stills.
A figure is standing, impossibly lightly, on top of one of the tallest nearby trees. Near a small clearing, that is right next to them - and likely where the chimera had hoped to corner them. She is dressed in the white robes of the Lunar Order, too, though the moon symbol on her breast is that of a full moon. A silver circled adorns the top of her head. White hair flows down like ribbons around her, and the staff in her hands is intricately carved; white wood, covered in thousands of tiny runes, wraps itself around a single large ruby.
Selene.
Dirthamen does not recall her having any children, before he perished. It has been a long time, then. His once ally, once enemy, is focusing her spell on containing the chimera. She looks over the Junior Disciples, but then her gaze moves towards Dirthamen.
Something in her expression shifts. He is not sure what to describe the look as, but it makes him feel… recognized.
“We need to help seal the barrier,” Felasel realizes, a moment later. And he is correct; Selene’s spell has captured the chimera, but unless it is fortified, it will break loose again. The two Junior Disciples determinedly plants their staves against the ground, and begin to cast their own spells to solidify the effect.
Dirthamen suspects this will be his only chance, now, to make a retreat. If Selene has recognized him, he is not certain what it will mean; and he finds himself increasingly caught off-balance. He does not know what to do with this situation. So after a moment, he turns and retreats. Fleeing back into the forest.
If that chimera is a guardian, then whoever created the Spirit Vault likely knows it has been compromised. Now, the wisest course of action would be to attempt to destroy it before its creator can harvest the spiritual energy, and then remove the evidence. For that is likely what they will do.
Dirthamen keeps hold of his dead wood branch as he makes haste back to the pillar.
He is tired. This body fatigues too quickly.
But time is of the essence. He has to accomplish then, and then retreat. Part of him is surprised to find the thought of retreat crossing his mind; hadn’t he already decided to simply return to death? Survival instincts are quite strong. Apparently, even just being alive for less than a day has already gotten him to start wanting to preserve this state; however inappropriate it may be.
It is still an adjacent concern, he decides.
Taking down the pillar will require something large. Fortunately, there seems to be a lot of energy to work with in the region. And he is beginning to think that he does know where they are, after all.
The forests surrounding the base of the Lunar Peak were frequent cites of battle, in the days of the war. Felasel said it took three weeks for the Lunar Order to answer the nearby town’s request. By the standards of such things, that is quick; particularly for an incident with, apparently, no confirmed human casualties. Selene’s response to the emergency beacon was also fast; and this mission was deemed suitable for two Junior Disciples. All implications leading to the logical conclusion that they are near Lunar Peak, and the halls of the order’s sorcerous training grounds.
If that is correct, then Dirthamen knows if something he can call.
He plants his staff before the pillar, and begins a familiar incantation, in ancient elvhen. A summons, but not the spiritual kind. He chants for several minutes. The sound of his voice carries through the trees, and reverberates where the pull of the Spirit Vault warps reality and attempts to draw all things inwards. It is, he has been told, a haunting sound on its own; but he had not anticipated the ringing of his voice to echo beyond the boundaries of the vault.
He is debating whether to cease, when he finally hears an answering cry.
So there is at least one still left in the region.
Dirthamen keeps going, calling it forward. The familiar sense of magical connection grows, as he hears the rustling of narrow legs speeding through the forest.
Come, guardian.
Come to me.
The cries of the varterral split the night, as his spider-like minion finally emerges through the trees to his left. Dirthamen opens his eyes, and feels the black fire traveling all along his staff, and up his arms. The points of the flames aim towards the vault, as it pulls at him.
He steps back, and aims his staff towards the pillar.
“Destroy it.”
Without hesitation, the varterral charges the pillar. Its armored body is strong, but the important part is its aura, as it rams against the fortified magical energies of the structure. Dirthamen reaches out a hand, enhancing the vaterral’s energy with his own, until it, too, is wreathed in dark flame. Every charge it makes grows more effective, as it rears back, and strikes, and rears back, and strikes. Again and again, a terrible clanging filling the air. The pillar cracks. The top stone shifts. The illusion on the Spirit Vault falls, and Dirthamen finds himself staring at a deep chasm; like a mineshaft. Surrounded by magical lodestones, and sealed at the bottom, with a single stairwell leading downwards into the dark.
The varterral moves to smash against the cracked portion of the pillar again.
Dirthamen is so consumed by the amount of energy it takes to maintain the spells he is casting, that he is caught utterly unprepared when a black and golden spear streaks through the air, and skewers his guardian clean through.
The varterral screams. Dirthamen leaps back, and can only watch as the enchantments on the spear burn like acid; and dissolve the poor creature alive. His eyes widen, and he staggers backwards.
When there is not enough left of the varterral for the spear to remain in its form, it drops towards the ground. Right before it lands, it stops, and then flies backwards. Returning to the hand of its owner.
A tall figure, standing on the opposite side of the vault. Familiar, of course. His pale hair has grown longer, and even from a distance, Dirthamen can tell that he is not what he once was. Killing one’s twin soul cannot come without costs.
Falon’Din looks gaunt. But whole. His armour is lighter than usual, and the lines around his face are etched deeper. Sorcerers of their ilk do not age swiftly; from what he saw of Selene, Dirthamen would not expect his brother to look so changed. But there are exceptional circumstances, he supposes.
His heart sink.
If Falon’Din is here… then there is no denying who must have built this vault.
He was supposed to start fresh…
For a long moment, the two brothers regard one another in silence. Dirthamen is not certain if he has been recognized. He is surprised to find that even with his brother standing right across from him, he does not feel anything. No pull of connection. No sense of their bond. Not a fragment of what was once so inescapable between them.
Then Falon’Din shifts his grip, and flings his spear again.
Dirthamen watches as the black and gold weapon arcs towards him. Stunned, in a way he cannot quite describe. So he will die twice at his own brother’s hand…?
Before the spear can reach him, however, there is a flurry of white fabric. Something moves in front of him, and then a burst of magical energy erupts, flickering with blue-white flames at the edges, and crashes into Falon’Din’s spear. The weapon does not clear the opening of the spirit vault. The counterattack knocks it backwards, far enough that the magical pull of the space catches it; Dirthamen sees it fall, sees his brother’s expression twist across the open expanse. Most of his vision is filled with pale white hair.
Selene turns, just slightly, to look towards him. From behind, he can hear the sounds of more people coming. The Junior Disciples, he assumes.
A blink of an eye goes by, and Falon’Din vanishes from his place across the vault; only to reappear from behind the nearby pillar. One of his hands rests pointedly close to the hilt of the sword at his side. Dirthamen takes a step back, but is surprised when Selene moves between himself and his brother again.
The two regard one another in tense silence for a long moment. The Junior Disciples arrive, and seem to draw up short.
Felasel’s hand moves towards his own sword.
“Lady Selene,” Falon’Din finally says, breaking the silence. “Do you know what you have behind you?”
There is a pause. Dirthamen can hear the wind; and the moon seems very clear overhead.
“Funny,” Selene replies. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Falon’Din pauses. After a long moment, he removes his hand from the hilt of his sword, and makes a pointed glance towards the Spirit Vault.
“You think I had anything to do with this?” he asks. “What an insult. I drafted the legislation forbidden the creation of these death traps myself. Black Skull Order was the first to sign the treaties, prohibiting the creation of any Spirit Vaults by members of the allied sects.”
“And yet, here is a Spirit Vault, and here is Lord Falon’Din,” Selene replies.
“A Spirit Vault at the foot of the Lunar Mountain,” Falon’Din counters. He begins to move, slowly. Pacing. He is nervous. Dirthamen is surprised to see it; it is rare for his brother’s bravado to falter, and to his knowledge, Selene has never been a figure he feared in her own right.
But it has been a long time; it seems some things have changed.
“This is not my territory,” Falon’Din continues. “If anyone here is suspect, I think it is the Lunar Order.”
Selene does not flinch.
“And yet, you are here,” she says.
Falon’Din raises a hand.
“I am not actually accusing you,” he assures her. “Though of course, I could. But I am certain of your innocence, in fact. I know the real culprit. The one who was behind all of these monstrosities, in the end.”
Selene’s gaze narrows.
Ah.
Dirthamen understands, now. His brother has recognized him.
Falon’Din levels an accusing finger towards him.
“That boy is no boy,” he declares. Then he gestures to the remains of the varterral.
Selene does not take her eyes off of Falon’Din.
“He is back, Lady Selene. Our old foe, the great betrayer - Lord Dirthamen has stolen the body of that poor youth.”
“Possession?” Darevas blurts.
Selene gestures at him, and he goes quiet. Felasel still has not taken his hand away from his blade.
“What utter nonsense,” Selene declares.
“Nonsense? If only,” Falon’Din counters. “Test him if you like. You’ll see, the answer to both of our dilemmas, to resolving this entire situation - without any undue hostilities between two of the most prominent sects in our alliance - is the simple truth. Lord Dirthamen has been hiding under our noses, disguised as some backwater nobody. Possibly for years. Trying to build up his power again, the only way he could.”
Selene remains where she is.
“How very convenient,” she drawls. “Is this going to be the new trend, Lord Falon’Din? Every transgression you commit will be excused by accusing some random villager of being your brother reincarnated? It must be so difficult for you, that you could only pin the blame on him that once…”
“Your lack of faith in me is hurtful,” Falon’Din counters. “But also irrelevant. Because I am not lying.”
Dirthamen’s brother snaps his fingers, then, and a dozen Black Skull sorcerers suddenly move out from the surrounding trees. Dirthamen does a swift count, and stiffens in alarm. They are badly outnumbered. He doesn’t know the full extent of Selene’s power now, but even if she has surpassed Falon’Din, the odds are not favouring the Lunar Order.
He does not want to die, but neither would he have the Junior Disciples and Selene perish. Whatever their past differences, they do not deserve such trouble on his behalf.
He moves.
Selene stiffens, and for a moment her hand reaches out as if to halt him, but Dirthamen is quicker. He bolts out from behind her, and raises his hands in surrender. Barely getting them up in time to see Falon’Din’s expression turn to triumph. His brother gestures, and casts a spell. The bright energy slams into Dirthamen; knocking the breath clean from him, as he recognizes the incantation.
Possession reversal; to remove an intruding spirit from an unwilling host.
It hurts, but mainly because the magic is so potent, and Dirthamen’s current body is already badly bruised and beaten. He lets out a cry of pain and drops to the ground, as the spell engulfs him, and washes over him…
…And vanishes into nothing.
Because of course, he is not an intruding spirit with an unwilling host. He is, if anything, the subject of a kidnapping, of sorts.
As he looks up, he blinks back the stars in his vision, and hesitates in yet more surprise.
Selene has moved. Her staff is angled directly at Lord Falon’Din’s face, while his brother has gone rigid in shock. Felasel has a shortsword in one hand and his staff in the other; Darevas is holding his staff in a fighter’s stance. The Black Skull sorcerers look ready to attack, but, both Selene and Falon’Din seem astonished as Dirthamen stands back up without exuding any miasma of ghostly possession. Or perhaps it is only Falon’Din who does; as he looks again, Selene’s expression seems perfectly neutral.
He rubs a hand gingerly down his bruised ribs.
“That hurt,” he admits.
For a moment, one could hear a pin drop.
His brother’s expression shifts from shock to fury, before he finally glances towards Selene. The brief flicker of fear is there and gone again, before he finally stands back. One fist clenching tight enough to turn the skin white.
“He is-”
“He isn’t,” Selene refutes. “Clearly, Lord Falon’Din. This matter will not be resolved with wild ghost stories.”
Falon’Din sucks in a breath through his teeth, and lets it out again.
“Perhaps he is not Dirthamen,” he concedes, with very little of the grace their mother had tried so hard to teach him. “But he still summoned a varterral. He is still a local practitioner of black magic. Whatever is going on here, it is clearly his doing. My order was passing through when we witnessed a distress signal; we came to help, not be subjected to mistreatment.”
There is a long pause.
Finally, Selene moves her staff out of its threatening position.
“We will look into that,” she decides. “We will look into everything.”
Falon’Din sneers.
“As will we,” he spits. Dirthamen does not think it sounds as intimidating as he hopes. He gestures towards the Spirit Vault. “We will also be investigating, and should we find that the Lunar Order has been harboring dark magic practitioners and creating Spirit Vaults, the full might of the rest of the alliance will fall upon you.”
“As it should fall upon anyone doing such things,” Selene says, with an odd tranquility that somehow does not seem to be genuine.
Falon’Din motions at one of his followers.
“We’ll take the rogue sorcerer off of your hands,” he says.
“Oh no,” Selene replies, moving in front of Dirthamen again. “You won’t. He’s coming with me back to the celestial halls, for proper questioning. This is our region. And your methods of interrogation are in violation of our order’s mandates.”
Falon’Din dares to move a step closer. His gaze is intense, and when it darts towards Dirthamen again, he feels burned by it.
Why is there so much hatred?
He had thought… he had thought it ended, with this death…?
“If you do not give him over to us, we will read it as a sign of the Lunar Order’s guilt and involvement in these matters,” he warns.
“Oh, will you?” Selene replies. “What a shame. I hate to lose the faith and esteem of such reliable allies.”
There is a long, tense pause. Dirthamen wonders if it will not come to violence after all.
But in the end, even despite having them outnumbered - it is Falon’Din who backs down again. With one more scathing look, that seems fit to burn Dirthamen right down to his bones, the man turns on his heel and finally withdraws. Shouting a few more warnings of investigations and dire outcomes in the wake of his atypical retreat.
Dirthamen watches until he is gone, before slowly looking towards Selene, and blinking.
It is Darevas who approaches him, though. Reaching out to gently shake his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have wandered off,” he says. “Even if you know some dark magic, it’s not safe. That stuff’s illegal, you know.”
There is a light ‘smack’ sound, as Felasel puts his hand to his face, and sighs.
Selene’s lips twitch. When she finally turns towards them all, Dirthamen is surprised to see an unexpected gentleness in her gaze. Particularly as it does not seem to abate when it lands on him. And again, despite no real indication of why he should think so… he feels recognized.
As if Selene still believes it is him.
As if she is… not unhappy with that?
She looks away, in favour of brushing a stray strand of hair away from Darevas’ face.
“Take our guest back to the halls,” she instructs. “I have to secure this area.”
“Do you really think Lord Falon’Din would be brazen enough to build a Spirit Vault in our territory?” Darevas asks.
“Yes,” Selene and Felasel agree at once.
Dirthamen finds himself nodding, too, before he catches the gesture, and halts.
With some obvious reluctance, the Junior Disciples move to start accompanying him. Dirthamen hesitates, as well. Uncertain of what to make of this situation. He and Selene had never been friends, though she had been kind to him, once. He could not see how should could be kind to him if she recognized him, however. So far as the world is concerned, he is one of the most evil beings to ever walk the earth. Dirthamen thinks the reputation is exaggerated, but that does not mean the opposite is true.
They were opponents.
Selene turns and looks towards the varterral’s remains, while her sons summon up a pathway back to their magical halls.
Dirthamen stares at her, until Darevas gently encourages him forwards.
“It’s alright,” he says. “Just don’t do any more illegal dark magic.”
Hm.
That may prove… difficult.
But if it is required, Dirthamen is certain he can try.
...... arranged tanzanite/conquering elvhenan au idea...................people trying to help get dirthamen out of his catatonic state with small, inching success eventually selene comes on to the team (i imagine after a certain point they start switching ppl around to see if that’ll help) and slowly, slowly after a long time (centuries or millennia even) she helps him get back to okay again and they have a sweet snuggly romance full of love compassion and patience................
Here are the crochet commissions I've been working on for @my-beautiful-thief recently! The top two pictures are of Dirthamen, with and without the hood up on his cloak, and her Selene! I've been having a lot of fun making them!
Oh hey look! The first installment in 'the dark-but-not-FEY-dark!reincarnation AU' XD.
This goes along with this picture by @my-beautiful-thief. Felasel and Selene belong to her as well. And this interpretation of Dirthamen belongs to @feynites.
Warnings for fire, mention of the death of an animal, and a description of an asthma attack (severe asthma attacks often have associated panic or anxiety attacks, so there is a brief mention of an anxiety attack as well).
---
Felasel tells her early on, about Pride. He tells her about Pride, and about the first time they met, in college, hundreds of years ago.
This is the third cycle.
This will be the third time he’ll watch her grow old and die, while he remains the same. Dying is easy, she thinks. She gets to go on, ignorant of the pain and loss, reborn into the world with no knowledge of the hardships of the life before.
But Felasel lives with it. He carries those memories with him like stones, heavy with the weight, building up over the years and soon he’ll be crushed beneath them, with no one there to lighten the load.
He must have been so lonely.
That’s all she thinks about, for the first year, as he holds her, and she listens to the sound of his even breaths in the darkness. He must have been so lonely, and when she dies this time around, he’ll be lonely again. So so lonely, until she comes back—but what if she doesn’t? What if she’s nowhere near him? What if she doesn’t find him again?
Dirthamen understands.
Dirthamen, who is Felasel’s father but also isn’t.
They discuss it sometimes. Sometimes he’ll come by the museum, when she’s working late, and they’ll sit in her office, and she signs to him, and he nods.
They’ll be so lonely, when we die.
Dirthamen holds his teacup, and the silence seems to stretch. “Yes,” He says finally, voice fading to a strained whisper.
I don’t want them to be lonely, she finishes, fingers trembling, just a little.
He meets her gaze, “I do not want it either.”
---
It gets easier, over the next two years, to not look at Felasel and wonder how her death will break him this time. They move out of the city after they get married, to a house Felasel owns in the countryside, surrounded by old vineyards and trees.
Safer, he says. From those who might wish to hurt them.
She doesn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt Felasel and Selene. They’re the kindest people she knows. But then again, she doesn’t understand why anyone would want to put cleaning detergent in a child’s fruit punch, but that is something she remembers very well.
Cruel people do cruel things to good people more often than not.
She doesn’t mind the hour drive into the city for work every morning, not if it helps Felasel sleep a little easier at night.
“Serah Elvhen?”
Cirimeni smiles at the assistant curator and holds up a notecard: Doing some late night research for a new exhibit. You can go home if you’d like.
The assistant curator nods with a smile, “Have a good evening, Serah. Don’t forget that Kelos locks everything up tight after ten, so if you have to go outside you’ll need him to unlock everything to come back inside.”
Cirimeni nods again, and waves. She watches him walk down the hall and disappear, before she heads toward the stairwell to the old Tevinter Imperium record room.
She’s got an hour or two, before Felasel comes to pick her up to head home for the evening. It isn’t much time, but it’s something.
There have been cases of spirits and demons possessing non-mages, Cirimeni is certain she’s come across it before in some of the older readings.
Now…now she just needs to find it in the records.
---
Selene and Dirthamen are coming over for dinner.
Cirimeni’s the only one working late this evening, and since she’s in town she offers to grab a few last minute items while the others begin cooking.
The supermarket is packed, as Cirimeni maneuvers past shopping carts and busy mothers calling for their children to keep up. She takes a step back into a less crowded aisle to avoid being run over by a particularly gruff looking woman.
She moves the hand she’d placed unconsciously over her stomach, before she tightens her grip on her grocery basket and continues down the aisle.
They don’t need much, just some eggs, and some particularly sharp cheddar cheese that Cirimeni’s become quite fond of lately, and a few ingredients for tomorrow night’s dinner as well. She pauses in the wine aisle and pulls out her phone with a smile.
Do you have any requests for wine?
She doesn’t get a text back right away, which is rather odd.
When two minutes go by and Felasel still hasn’t replied she grabs an old favorite of his and heads toward the checkout line. Likely he’s busy helping his mother in the kitchen, but somehow it just doesn’t…sit well. Something tightens in her chest, a feeling she can’t quite shake.
The checkout line seems to take forever, and the drive home even longer. She finds herself glancing over at her phone, even when she knows she should keep her eyes on the road, just to see if he’s replied.
Nothing.
Not one response, in the hour long drive through the darkening countryside. The classical music filtering through the radio seems too loud, violin strings echoing in a haunting melody that suddenly sounds too sharp and shrill on her ears.
An orange glow flits over the trees, and Cirimeni’s heart seems to stop, and she steps harder on the gas, tires shrieking on asphalt, until her car pulls out of the trees and the house looms in front of her.
The house is burning.
She barely remembers to turn off the car before she stumbles out and up the driveway, coughing as smoke filled air assaults her lungs. The garage is nothing but a pile of charred brick, and scorch marks score the front door.
She can’t hear anything from inside over the roar of flames and the crackling of burning timber. That is, until an unholy shriek pierces the night air. At first she thinks it’s the whistling of the wood, until it hits her.
The rabbit hutch, attached to the back of the house.
She needs to get inside, needs to find Felasel and Selene and Dirthamen and…and…she can’t breathe. Her throat locks up, as she lets out a strangled cough that ends in a strained wheeze, and her chest tightens and her vision goes blurry, just for a moment.
They’re dead. They’re all dead. Where are they? She needs to get inside. The rabbits, the rabbits, the screams are so loud what if that’s really Felasel? What if he’s screaming and she can’t get to him!?
She digs into her purse for her inhaler, as tears stream down her face, a product of fear and smoke alike, and manages to suck in one strangled, choppy breath. The next is easier, as the medicine begins to kick in.
The rabbits have gone quiet, by the time she can breathe enough to move.
She tears the hem of her dress, and ties the strip of fabric around her mouth and nose, and pushes her way inside. The stairs leading up from the foyer have collapsed completely, and the smoke is too thick to see much. So she crouches down, coughing again, throat tightening dangerously, and scans the floor.
There’s a figure near the door leading to the kitchen, lying atop the two half of their coffee table.
Dirthamen!
It’s the adrenaline, she knows, that allows her to drag him out onto the front lawn, but even then she’s gasping for breath, and has to reach for her inhaler again. Dirthamen lets out a small groan, and she pulls him into a sitting position as he opens his eyes.
He stiffens for a moment, and then sits up more fully, and looks back at the house and then to her.
Cirimeni lifts trembling hands and signs, angry that she can’t scream, can’t voice the desperation she’s feeling, as she keeps herself from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking as hard as she can to demand an answer.
Hades/Persephone-esque AU idea where Dirthamen is the one who carries Spring.
Flowers bloom beneath his step and feathers shed from his bones where they grow and stretch and carry a warmth that has soaked him to a point that is nearly numbing to him now
Lost and left in his thoughts beneath the sounds of the constant buzzing bees and the half-dreams of his consciousness as he spreads out into other pieces-fluttering wings that spread across lands without the obvious trails he’s cursed to leave; a freedom denied beneath his mothers watch and thirst for control few others seem to notice
always the bridesmaid and never the bride; Spring is welcomed and greeted and perhaps even anticipated, but quickly forgotten with the arrival of Summer; the greater and grander and golden half of himself. The one who brings parties and days that stretch out into territory otherwise seized by the night. The one the world Truly loves.
Selene, burdened to care for the people in her world of Death. Misunderstood but never alone, with a world only becoming more and more crowded with each setting sun. Heart breaking every time she finds a face that hasn’t earned its place; unwrinkled and tainted with youth. Time stolen by the fickleness of Life; sent to her before, before, before.
The shock and imbalance when their streams finally cross; she had thought to see the sun just once, just once she had sworn. a single beam to remind her what warmth is supposed to be, and instead to find this man who carries life on his shoulders, who births and creates with every breath and step and still somehow chose to stay so, so still. Whose breath stops when he sees her and she worries that she has ruined this, ruined him with her presence; Death ruins all that it touches, she knows, she knows.
the relief when his breath returns and the world moves again and the impulsive instinctive rush of greed when she grabs him to take back to her home. warmer and fonder and greater than any sun, surely.
Regret that isn’t regret when she remembers herself, remembers that she has stolen him from the world above, the world she had ached for only moments before he had become all that she desired, all that she craved in ways her tongue was not talented enough to place.
relief, again, when he assured her he did not mind her impulsiveness.
Time, together. Learning and yearning and conversing and nursing wounds that neither could find until the other. Joy and hope; flowers for the dead, color in the dark, and a new kind of warmth in their bed.
Panic and guilt rising surely and steadily as their home becomes more and more crowded, far more quickly than it should. More young, more thin; the fickleness her own, this time.
life blooms beneath her mouth and hands and she does not want to give him back; the earth will still spin without.
She has had so little of her own for so long and he has smiled more in Death than he ever did in fields and meadows, found his own relief as she plucks the weight of years from his shoulders. Cycles unfinished for centuries that he carried for so long; he stands straighter now. Stronger, and surer, and it suits him so well, how could They be wrong?
Summer, who cannot understand his brothers preference for Death and darkness; who never understood why Spring preferred the rainy afternoons to the bright bursts of mornings, and does not understand him in this. Who sees only that without Spring, Summer cannot happen. Too rough and too hot and too impatient to care for the buds still trying to push through the snow, who nearly floods the world in his impatience.
Death, who nearly takes Summer from the world above herself when she discovers him sneaking into her domain and attempting to steal her Spring.
Her husband, whom she loves and protects with the fire he has shown her she has always carried deep beneath.
Death, who cries when Spring agrees to return to the earth to quell the fury of his brother. Who leaves her with the dead and the crowds and the silence and an empty space in their bed.
Death, who does not smile when people arrive with seeds in their hands; flowers and herbs and pomegranates. Who does not realize what the gifts are meant to be, sorting and forgetting them in places around her home with an aching sort of hopelessness. Nothing grows in her home. Life does not reach here.
Spring arrives on his own two feet as snow begins to fall on the world above; their home bursting in sudden blooms and color and she forgets herself to greet him to find him to follow the foliage and this time she is the one who is breathless when she sees him; the only one she is happy to see in her home, always.
It always hurts when he leaves, always feels like dying and she would know.
He sends her gifts in his absence; finds those near to her door and gives them seeds to bring with their coin. things already living cannot cross her threshold, but he finds potential is enough to coax them out when he comes near.
half his life spent in waiting for the other half to arrive is a sweet sort of longing he finds suits him far more than the flower crowns the muses keep trying to force on his image
and on nights when the world is too warm and the heat is unbearable and he needs the relief of his wife and the balm of her touch...well, it seems only too fitting for the fables when the ravens flit through her gates beneath the shelter of a moonless night.
only feathers and pomegranate left behind in the light of the rising sun.
