#pair: hellpair

[silversiren1101]

Right here, at the Threshold of our fates, keep your promise... come back to me.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[Absolutely gorgeous piece from @pauvre-lola featuring a scene from one of my favorite fics of mine! I'm just stunned with this piece every time I look at it. I adore it so much - the textures and background and THEM!]

[silversiren1101]

And So We Start Again

There, in the petrified boughs, of a willow tree that might never have grown so much as appeared exactly as it was, did her search finally come to an end. The thread between them, invisible yet unmistakable, like an insistent slight tug over where her heart lay, finally stilled, as if in anticipation. A held breath.

The cold granite plaza was empty save for this tree and the presence she felt resting within; a stark contrast for the others she'd passed through. They'd thronged with the residents here, those souls of fallen soldiers, of the victims of murders and suicides. Silence rarely graced the Garden Anima she'd come to realize, these stone walls and structures ringing with wailing grief and and howling rage as much as they did with song and laughter, colored by, at last, acceptance. This place was a refuge for bitterness and grief as much as it was for comfort and solace, she'd understood quickly after her search had began; and how that had twisted her heart with more confusion than not—that he was here.

It'd only hurried her steps. Each passing moment had been harder to contain the wall of tears pressing behind her eyes. She hadn't even officially declared her entry. Hadn't even asked for permission from the lord of the house, so to speak. She'd only followed that thread in her heart from where she'd appeared elsewhere in Pharasma's Court—Ascended at last—having barged into another's domain without so much as a thought for the consequences.

"Have you seen a—", she'd been asking the residents, to no avail, when Mrtyu had greeted her, a slight laugh to his voice as he'd assured her that none had seen the quarry of her search. She'd been fearful at first, preparing for a fight, even, in anticipation of his wrath at her intrusion, but it'd been no blade bared at her. How warm his smile had been, dark eyes so filled with passion where rose blossoms ringed them practically glowing with life from the vibrancy of their red—just as red as the gaping, ever bleeding wound across his stomach. She'd known Ushers to be strange, yet he'd defied anything she could ever have expected. He'd seemed filled with life and love even as much as he was marked permanently with his death, and none of the others she'd met had captured a fraction of his passion in their own stony demeanors. How relieving it'd been when he'd reached not for his greatsword, but for the basket of fruit at his side, pulling forth an orange she knew unmistakably to be of Wiscrani origin.

Death's Consort had accepted her apology at her intrusion as if it hadn't been needed at the slightest, speaking to her like an old friend as much as a colleague, and the orange she'd shared with him had tasted so much of home that it'd loosed some of those tears meant for her upcoming reunion. She'd known then as they'd talked, with his jovial and fiery spirit and kindness, that Mrtyu meant her (and him) only good will, and her sudden kinship and respect for him had surprised her more than his abrupt appearance had.

Especially when he'd clapped her so reassuringly on the shoulder as he bid her off on her search, "...a man after my own heart, that one...".

The tears had been harder to contain after that, remembering that Mrtyu, though Usher now, had been the first mortal to die with love on his lips. Of course he was here, knowing that. Mrtyu had welcomed him with a piece of fruit she knew he'd politely accepted, and then he'd slunk away to the most quiet corner of the Garden he could find to wait.

For her.

Twenty some years, he'd been sleeping in the tree she now stood before. Did time pass the same here as it did back home? Had it felt like an eternity? A blink of an eye? Exactly as it should've felt...? Certainly not a blink, something told her, because he was sleeping to pass the time, and oh did that realization make her choke on a sob.

The willow's curtain parted to reveal not silence within, but a facsimile of chirruping crickets and toads. It sounded so much like the environs of Citadel Darvhage once the sun began to set she could only smile even as her cheeks grew drenched with her silent tears. No, she was certain it was exactly the same—as he remembered it.

Yet, he was not here. She stopped, filled with a sudden panic and terror that there was no figure lying on a bough, peacefully asleep. There was no sign that there was anyone here, or that anyone had been here save Mrtyu given the red rose petals on the spongy garden soil here and there. Only by focusing on that insistent thread did she keep from falling apart, the line of it leading not to any branches or boughs but a hollow in the trunk she hadn't noticed before. Small. A squirrel could make a home in it, but anything else? Still, the thread led there, and so did the the Usher's fallen petals. Her boots settled into previously formed prints, where Death's Consort had also certainly come to peer inside to check on his solitary ward at times. Both beings beheld the same thing: inside the hollow lay a barely glowing mote of purple-tinged grey, like a self-contained ball of smoke.

Only then since ascending fully to her role as The Inevitable Paradox, did Minovae Arangeir find her lips pulling into a smile; warm, so filled with affection at how her prickly love had decided to while the years until she could come for him. Even more so, as, when she reached to retrieve and wake him, his dreams traveled from the first fingertip that grazed him to suffuse her thoughts like warm golden rays.

She laughed as much as she sobbed, sinking to her knees with him cradled in her hands. Reducing himself to a blob of quintessence and hiding himself in the most solitary place he could so no one could disturb him as she passed the twenty years just reliving their shared life again?

"Oh, Regill...", she gasped, her smile still strong as she choked around tears.

A part of her felt guilty for waking him, but she knew how incensed he'd be if she let him laze about in metaphorical bed when she was finally, finally here. Their shared promise of what they would do filled her heart and thoughts like song. It was time to wake. It was time to start again.

And so, without wasting a single second more, like a smoldering cinder in need of just a little fuel, she blew gently unto the soul that would be her Herald life and light and shape once more.

[The song that inspired this is I, Carrion (Icarian)]

[silversiren1101]

For the Hellpair:

9. Do they discuss big issues? Religion? Marriage? Children? Death?

22. Does their work ever interfere with the relationship?

Hey Dujour! Thank you for asking these delicious questions!

Questions here

9 - Do they discuss big issues? Religion? Marriage? Children? Death?

Oh ALL of these. Absolutely...! Save for children, except that one comes as a surprise for later (lol).

Religion Minovae is an atheist. Regill is a Godclaw Knight by the time they reunite nearly a century later. Needless to say they have very different views and beliefs regarding the gods for the most part.

Younger, more energetic, I think he was more actively devout, putting his belief in the gods that embody Law in the middle of Cheliax's awful civil war and he trying to find his own place in the world. I make this distinction because, honestly, by the time we see him in WoTR I really wouldn't call him devout at all - he pays little lip service to any of the gods, really only talks about the Godclaw in terms of martial excellent and a model to follow (kind of like an Art of War), and even outright speaks rather uncommittedly about Iomedae when she appears right before you! ("Technically she is part of my Order's pantheon..." something like that). Why exactly he's in the Godclaw is a mystery save for they're one of the major Worldwound Orders and he needed to transfer to one of them out of the Scourge... but why the Godclaw? Pyre would honestly fit him way better! There's an implication to me he was more devout all those decades ago and has lost it over time being there, which is the one I'm using for my own personal canon.

Let's go back to the civil war though: when they first met as armigers, he actually asked her outright why she was not a paladin. She had all the trademarks of a "perfect paladin" in his mind: merciful yet righteous when pressed, kind, patient, brave/courageous unto foolhardiness, dutiful, hardworking, charismatic with a smile everyone seemed to go weak-kneed for... He couldn't understand why she wasn't one.

Imagine his surprise when she gave him a cold look and said something about the gods never being there for her, why would she ever pledge herself to one of them? Loyalty and respect is a two-way street, and she'd never felt such a thing from any divine. It struck him! He was so quietly insulted that he could only ask with acid: "Do you feel yourself too good for the gods?" She merely said something about mortals only needing to be good enough for themselves and their fellows, and turned and walked away.

They had a pretty rocky start, lol.

His views on her regarding her atheism gradually changed over time, of course. He went from seeing her as arrogant and self-important to something unfortunate: the gods would've been lucky to have a paladin such as her. If Minovae hadn't lost her faith, she could've been a paladin of Iomedae or Abadar, and what a paladin she would've been. She was a matter of unfortunate loss in his mind, but it never detracted from her own qualities. She was every bit what everyone said a paladin should be like, and a cautionary tale in the same breath: did the gods even know what they'd lost?

Then, by the time they reunite nearly a century later, he himself has lost so much of his own faith. He's been in the Worldwound for so long, seen what little influence the gods have had against the Abyss, the failings of the Crusaders and all their paladins, Minovae's disappearance (though it's a quiet gnawing feeling he never consciously acknowledges)... He's a Godclaw Knight now, and he pays heed to the martial tenants the pantheon says and the overall lawful edicts... but does is there really any fervent faith there?

The events of the Crusade whittle it down even further - The Hand of the Inheritor being abandoned by Iomedae just like her predecessor did Arazni; Iomedae's complete dismissal of Minovae's mythic powers and judgement of all she'd done so far; the revelations of House Thrune's treachery and the assassins he died protecting Mino against; the audacity they have to put her on trial for the crime of EXISTING as the Inevitable Paradox despite closing the Worldwound and ending the damn war! The latter caused in him such a feeling of betrayal and rage towards the gods like he'd never felt before.

He may not be an atheist like her by the end but, damn, does he no longer have the reverence he did toward them all like when he was younger.

Marriage (!!!!)

Do they discuss it so much as she quietly freaks out over it for months after they get together, wanting to get married so so badly, only for him to nonchalantly drop a 'not-proposal' on her?

Picture this: it's the end of a particularly exhausting day. The two of them are on the battlements overlooking the ruins of Citadel Darvhage they've just barely started clearing out to claim as their own for their new/rebuilt Order of the Vice, covered in monster blood and dirt, looking over Lake Sorrow glowing with the light of the setting sun... It's silent, save for the cicadas and whatever is beginning to howl in the Barrowood close by...

All of a sudden, he breaks the silence with "It has been on my mind for some time, but.. while I know that neither of us have families or estates... nonetheless we need to officially declare our union. If I am to be Lictor and you wish to stay Exalictor, we must be public about our relationship."

She stares at him in complete shock, a mix of being so suddenly nervous she might throw up, excited beyond belief, and a little horrified she had no time to prepare. He also gets a little nervous as he realizes what he's done, especially as she chokes out a "Did you just ask me what I think you did...?"

He has to spit it out, admitting, yes, he's asking to marry her, followed by a muted: "I apologize it's not some grand gesture like you truly deserve-" Only for her to practically tackle him, squealing and crying. "You idiot! All I've ever wanted is you, and you've just given me exactly that for the rest of our lives! How could I ever ask for anything more?!"

Children (!!!!) Conversation doesn't come up until she unexpectedly and miraculous becomes pregnant! It was an impossibility in their minds: he's a gnome and she's a human ganzi, so surely they aren't compatible in that way. Yet... well Mino isn't totally human anymore. She's a Protean Lord, though a nascent one, and guess what? Protean Lords procreating with mortals create... little ganzi babies.

The talk isn't under the best terms obviously. There aren't any hypotheticals because oh this is happening right now. It's a long a difficult conversation for the both of them... ending with them deciding to try.

Of course they both adore their little girl when she arrives!

Death:

Of course they have. They're both in the line of combat often. It's probably one of the first things they really talk about: what happens if one or the other dies.

It's more complicated depending on who falls: if Regill perishes, she will do whatever she can to resurrect him. But if Mino falls...? She can't be brought back, given she is more divine than mortal. Regill only survives because of her link to him, halting his bleaching with a subtle stream of chaotic energy, so if she falls he is very close behind.

They're both of the mind though that they only wish to be in a world where the other is. They have a shared feeling toward death - wanting to go out together and fall together if they can.

[In fact, have some very secret canon lore for them on what happens to them: eventually Regill does die in battle... and he doesn't come back. Minovae lives on for the sake of their daughter, so that she doesn't grow up having lost them both. Jesyll knows her mother loves her more than anything but also knows it's a matter of time until she grows up and and mother will also 'move on'. When the time comes, Jess is ready, a fully grown adult eager to make the world a better place in a way her parents would be proud of her for. Minovae gives her her father's hooked hammer before she goes, ascending to full Protean Lord and claiming Regill's (waiting all this time) spirit from the Boneyard to be one of her Herald. They occasionally send Jess dreams or messages... reminding her they aren't fully gone and are still watching over here]

22- Does their work ever interfere with the relationship?

BOY DOES IT. Never in a way that comprises them splitting up or anything, just they can't be fully public about it for some time and they're busy as hell. Mino has to travel a lot for her diplomatic work and is away for weeks at a time... but absence makes the heart grow stronger you know!

[silversiren1101]

THEM

(Part of a larger, spicier sketch page from tinyfratboy)

[silversiren1101]

Naturally ruminating more on the implication of the piece I wrote today - on Mino and Regill's 'ending'.

After his tragic death in battle, she fully ascends to the Inevitable Paradox (a lawful protean lord) after Jesyll is fully grown and leaves to take on the world. Given Mino's status as lawful protean lord, I doubt she'd be welcomed in Axis among other Inevitables/Axiomites, and she wouldn't fit in the Maelstrom either. Given Ssila'meshnik's own "wild card" role in the Boneyard and relationship to Pharasma, Minovae to me is prime Psychopomp Usher material.

Her unique characteristics, devotion and reverence of mortality and mortals, and of course the familial relation leads to Pharasma asking her to accept a Court of her own, to which she tentatively accepts as she realizes she has no real place for her (and Regill!) to go. It ends up being exactly where she needs to be, a perfect afterlife where she gets to work, fight for what she's passionate for, and also spend it with her favorite person (heh). Her court specifically deals with souls wronged in the name of the divine: anyone killed by an outsider that has left them particularly distraught in death; those who lived miserable lives shaped by the machinations or actions of a greater power that would've been completely different otherwise; those that died cursing their own god in death feeling wronged or abandoned by them; etc.

She doesn't see a lot of cases, but it fulfills a niche that neither Mrtyu, Phlegyas, or Saloc cover (of which she works closely with and finds great kinship with in their shared concerns over souls).

Thinking of her 'divine' form, she looks mostly the same save for some key differences:

Her protean crown is always active

Her tail has an illusion of infiniteness - it always seems to be growing and shrinking, twisting unto itself for eternity yet also perfectly contained about her space. She has no throne either for when she's arbitrating cases; it grows long enough and coils to be a suitable enough throne for her.

The crackling, fracturing pink constellations are near constant around her eyes, and spark furiously around her when her emotions are flaring. They also constantly flit about subtlety in the facets of her scales.

Her feathers have a slight chromatic aberration about them at the edges.

Any Hellknight iconography on her armor is replaced instead by her own symbol - a stylized version of her crown over a shield

Regill's own 'herald' form is that of a spectral looking owl with glowing, wispy, piercing yellow eyes; the horned kind of owl that always looks like it's glaring. His feathers are pale, especially at the tips, and he has strangely white talons instead of black. Mino can peer through his vision by manifesting the central prong of her crown above his head - the one that contains the single protean-like eye. He usually takes this form when out on 'herald' business and is known simply as The Old Owl, but back at home in her Court he assumes his mortal form without issue (and so can she).

Just imagining stylized divinity artwork of them now - The Inevitable Paradox with her infinitely shifting tail behind her, crown flaring and the eye in the center seeing through to the truth, intimidating ghostly owl perched on her arm...

[silversiren1101]

Back early from a diplomatic gala, not quite ready to take off the dress just yet but eager to surprise a certain someone with a little size-reduction magic ;)

[Commissioned from UwU on twitter]

[silversiren1101]

Filled out this OTP template for the Hellpair :3 - open image in new tab to see all the details at a decent size!

[From this template on twitter!]

[silversiren1101]

A Matter of Trust

So fixated on tending to her tail—preening those feathers that'd come loose, polishing her scales lustrous, and brushing both to a brightness—that he hadn't noticed at all.

A gentle breathing sounds from behind him now. Rhythmic. Peaceful. Her tail still lays across his lap, patient under his care, yet, he turns and confirms what he's already realized: Minovae has fallen asleep. Eyes closed lightly—not scrunched in the way of worry or nightmare or pain—she looks comfortably at ease in a way he's come to prize knowing what's plagued her restless nights since coming to share a bed together. That easy breathing whistles from between parted lips, almost inaudible, which themselves reveal the tips of her upper fangs, and firelight from the hearth dances across her scales, the motes of flame seeming to emanate from those pale greenish depth. Regill can't help but think her gorgeous—though he does often anyway, even without the peaceful sight and warm lighting.

A sight which makes him pause in his almost meditative care.

That she'd fallen asleep in the middle of her reports—of which she has, for the report that'd been in her hand now lies across her chest and is at threat of a wayward glob of drool dripping upon it—strikes him. It isn't just that it'd happened in the middle of her work, no, but in the middle of this... he strokes her tail down the feather ridge. It only slightly shifts in response, like she herself would murmur if he were to touch her cheek or brush those strands of wayward platinum from her face.

Comfort. Security. Safety. Trust.

His thoughts flash with unwelcome reminders of what he'd seen in her Dreamscape, that realm of all her life's torments as he resumes brushing—there's only a short stretch left. He sees a butcher's blade in a cruel crone's hand brought down on this tail's base, then belonging to a young girl, so brave and yet stricken with a fear most adults have never suffered. He sees it run over by a wagon cart and the bones crunching after she'd refused to join one of the gang's in Westcrowns shadowed alleys. He sees ghouls bite into it and rake their claws down its length, taunting her that they would fall out rotten soon enough when she became one of them.

He himself remembers watching helpless, yet in awe and horror both, as she brings her hammer down atop her shield poised over it to sever where the osyluth's venomous stinger had bit deep into its flesh; all to buy her just a little more time. He recalls the handful of other times she'd lost it during the Civil War, and how she'd gone back for it only to recover the valuable blackened plate armor from its ridge. Decades later, he remembers the shrill voice of Camellia Gwerm, calling the naturally shed feathers that'd gotten mixed up into her belongings filthy and dumping them into Minovae's lap during breakfast that one time, and how sparse her tail feathers had looked when next he'd seen her that day, so stressfully preened and brushed she'd torn some right out. And then he remembers it tinted Abyssal purple, laden with corruption as her ganzi blood hadn't been able to fight back the foul air there; and after that, covered in sores and stretches of rot and pus where swatches of those corrupted scales had peeled off, leaving the tender flesh beneath sick and exposed.

It's grown back every time. It always heals. No blemish lasts for long. Not even scars remain from what it's all been through.

It doesn't undo all that's been done to it. What scars it should have run spirit deep, haunting her in the night and in every interaction with someone she has yet to trust, waiting for the hurt to come.

That it doesn't leap from his lap is a wonder in and of itself, he knows. As friendly as she is with others, giving playful touches and swats, they're merely fleeting things. He's seen the discomfort when it's grabbed or stared at overly long; how she's always reassured anyone looking to heal it because 'it'll heal on its own, don't worry, focus on everyone else.'

It lays across his lap, a patient and trusting beast beneath his now trained hands, which brush and clean and polish and preen just as she'd taught him to do because he'd asked, of his own volition, how to make her routine just a little bit easier for her... because he wanted to care for her in this way he knew no one else ever had... to show her with action how he loved her, because he ever worried that his own means until then had not been enough to keep her reassured.

And for his efforts, she now sleeps, so at ease and peace.

He's seldom been more pleased.