#sauron 01

[immanisetinanis]

@belovedmairon

Where there were hot springs, there would be metamorphic activity - and where there was metamorphic activity, there would be the production of natural materia. Sephiroth knew all of this as basic geological fact. It would just be a matter of getting deep enough to find what he was looking for.

It pained him to wander looking for that which should already be his, but he would not just sit idly by. There was no chance of him reuniting with the Masamune anytime soon. An indignity, to be sure. This was the fault of that the foolish, blonde SOLDIER who had the gall to turn his own blade against him. Even as Sephiroth plummeted to what would likely be his death, his blood boiled at the image of his weapon in the hands of the pitiful, undeserving traitor. To think about it made his pulse quicken and his jaw tighten even now, and he resolved to see the blood of that boy spilled by the blade he had stolen.

Sephiroth's fingers tightened on the dented nameplate of Jenova's helmet as he stooped to inspect a narrow opening alongside a rockwall several dozen yards out from one of the larger and hotter springs. He scowled. His own body would be too wide to fit, but someone smaller could perhaps just squeeze inside the crevasse...

For the briefest of moments, Sephiroth felt the flicker of another's presence. He spun around, dropping low and pressing into the rock, clutching Jenova's head against his chest. His face pulled into a snarl as he shot desperate glances about the landscape.

Nothing. No indication of life but a breeze too gentle to disturb even the placid of the pools around him.

Perhaps it would be wiser to mark this place and move on than to dwell on it. After all, it was possible, if not likely, that any openings in this rock would eventually lead back to a central location. Best to look for a better entrance than to waste his time and energy on this which he could not be certain would pay off.

He pulled out his phone, flipping it open and gazing tiredly at the notification which insisted that there was no signal. Would the tribulations never end?

Sephiroth put away his phone and stared down into his mother's face. To behold her loving and wise gaze soothed him. He smiled, relaxing, and stood to continue his search.

[tidecast-blog]

@belovedmairon​

Her magic is gone. It feels like hours now that she’s been going through the motions to no avail, pacing through the wide room across the bedchambers and calling on what should be coming as easy as breathing but doesn’t. Not a single flicker of fire in her hands, no barrier to bloom between herself and the world. Conjuring bread and water should come easy even to novices, yet the table before her stands empty and bare. Even frost, her favorite since childhood, refuses to come up, though were things normal she could’ve have a blizzard roaring through the room.

Her head aches. There’s an uncomfortable, ugly sort of laughter bubbling in her throat, the sort that means really Jaina, you’ve lost everything else, why would this be any different? and she doesn’t fight it, falls back on the very nice couch with her hand over her eyes, shoulders shaking with it. She feels a little better when it subsides, however long it takes, frustration buried under the more familiar tiredness, which is easier to deal with. Concentrate. Approach the problem from a different angle —

— realize someone else is in the room and start like a skittish mare, a faint blush rising to her face when she realizes he must’ve seen her lose her composure. “Oh. My apologies, I didn’t hear you come in.”

[tabardalon-blog]

@belovedmairon

What you remember is this: looking into Hadrian’s eyes and feeling the sword in your breast and not seeing Samot before the lights went out and knowing, knowing, knowing. What you remember is this: a different world overlaid, transparent gauze drifting, with Hadrian on his knees and marble crawling up his arm and blood, more blood than you had seen in years. What you remember is this: pain like a dull ache, the realisations a knife down your spine, icing over in silence.

You do not remember coming here. You do not remember dying, not really. You know it by the solemn weight, by the hole straight through you, but dead are supposed to go and meet the gods and they are not here. And you are drifting, drifting, and then waking all at once--

--and you have run as far as you can. From city-maze through structures of steel to a meadow, to clusters of trees, to the hum and chitter of birds and only now can you feel yourself beginning to settle. Breathe, Tabard, as much as you can through ossified lungs. Regain some sense of composure. Your flight must have been such a sight.

[wheelbadge-blog]

@belovedmairon:

Sauron’s smile grows at the question. What is he doing, indeed. The inquisitive man’s frame is silhouetted in light, built for strength, and his expression shows a careful balancing act of desperation and calm. He is troubled, must be troubled to be walking the streets at this hour of night. Old bloodstains lie as faint shadows on his faded robes. Sauron comes to a decision as he stares.

“I am looking for materials to build something wonderful,” he says, turning back to the rubble and inspecting a promising piece of metal. Rusty, but salvageable. He holds it aloft in victory and sends a grim smile over his shoulder. “You must have noticed by now. This place is…lacking. It is a corruption of reality, an abomination—the notes of the song are completely wrong here—and I do not intend to stay.”

He adds the metal to a small pile and then takes a step towards the man. His hair trails behind him, an unbroken connection with the building’s shadows. Slowly, carefully, Sauron takes the man’s hands in his, and his grasp is just enough to cover the hands, not to confine.

“I am building a forge where I can create anything imaginable. Through it, my will becomes tangible and I shall be empowered to break free,” Sauron has not broken eye contact since he began speaking. His grip tightens. “Would you like to help me? Would you like to be free?”

As Sauron looks him up and down Alfred has a distinct sense that he’s being measured. Evaluated, like a hunting dog. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling: in his time as a hunter, Alfred’s been tested repeatedly for viciousness like a chef tests the sharpness of their knives. Almost unconsciously he straightens up, squares his shoulders. Meets Sauron’s gaze.

He’s not prepared for what comes out of Sauron’s mouth though. A corruption of reality - what does this stranger know? Every hunter knows of the Hunter’s Dream of course, and up high in the Upper Cathedral Ward the clergy study more obscure and dangerous realms… but the stranger looks like neither hunter nor Choir member. Outside of the Church, few people know of dreams and nightmares.

“You feel it too?” Despite his best efforts, the words come out feverishly. “The strangeness of this place, like being in a dream–”

Whatever else Alfred meant to say, it dies on his tongue when Sauron folds his hands over Alfred’s. A curious blankness settles on his mind. Sauron is tall but slender, his fingers and wrists delicate when juxtaposed against Alfred’s body. Alfred thinks irresistibly of gripping those wrists and twisting, breaking the lovely things, snapping each finger. He starts to sweat, lightly.

(Revulsion. Push it back, these unclean things. His fingers twitch, and go still.)

He almost misses Sauron’s question. Freedom, escape - to be rid of this torturous purgatory, to cut down the binds that tie him here, a life suspended on the cusp of death - gods, does he want it.

“To be free,” he murmurs. “To escape this horrible dream…? I would do anything.”