Saint Trina of The Cradlesong @thesleepdeity - Tumblr Blog

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

Would it have changed things if he simply had agreed to Miquella’s plea? No, both of them would suffer a loveless union to a pointless cause, some bitter part of himself thought. It was mean to think of it that way, but it reassured some part of himself that following through the whims of someone he wasn’t even that close with would not do him good.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Amras was well aware he himself wasn’t a good man, but it didn’t feel right to leave Miquella like that on such a lonely place in bitter terms. But he knew he can’t do anything about it for now, not while the Empyrean refuses to be seen.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

No matter how much Saint Trina tried to ignore it to make it go away, the pain continued to haunt him even though it was not his own. No. Lord Miquella's emotions pierced the too thin barrier between the two consciousnesses, no matter if the deity reinforced that barrier as much as possible. One soul, two bodies. Lord Miquella could not escape her just as she could not escape him, always connected by a thin thread that would never disappear.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

It could not have gone well. Saint Trina didn't need the pain to understand it, because she knew Lord Miquella too well and knew how the conversation was going to end. In a misnamed tantrum, perhaps, or simply in a breakdown from which they would both end up suffering the consequences. Amras had no way of winning that argument no matter how hard he tried.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

"Please, do not take his meanings in consideration," they said, placing a gentle hand on Amras' shoulder in a comforting gesture. "He is hurt, and hurt people make big mistakes, sometimes. He is grateful that you spared him the same fate of a marriage without love."

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

It had taken him a while to be able to answer her, lifting his head from the table and sighing. “I didn’t know how to say anything else but to refuse him. And now he’s gone off somewhere and I won’t be able to find him for a while.” He ranted to Trina, though it was much more a lament than a rant if anything else.

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“He told me his body would not be able to handle Godhood, and I did not want him to destroy himself as much as I did not want him to marry me out of that desperation. He was—“ he cut himself off to sigh again. “Not thinking clearly.” And I didn’t want to take advantage of him, went unsaid.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

The Gates of Divinity were known to be harsh on those attempting to reach divinity, and would likely taste Lord Miquella's desperation in the air, causing his body to be absorbed without being able to contain the power of divinity within.

The Lands Between told stories of people who failed in their attempts. Lord Miquella was destined to be one of them if he did not continue to gather enough power to reach the Gates of Divinity, and that was only possible by breaking his curse or finding a Lord to share the crown with him. Clearly, Amras had refused, but the rejection had sat so badly with Lord Miquella that Saint Trina didn't know if he was going to recover from it any time soon.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

"It is special. The ring. I remember Radahn himself creating it before gifting it to Lord Miquella as a promise ring. I guess it does not make sense to keep wearing it. The Age of Compassion is no more."

Failed before it even started.

She let out a small sigh before averting her gaze from Amras, in an attempt to sever the connection between their minds. Amras' thoughts always went too fast, with an intensity that the deity didn't know how to handle, and he doubted the boy wanted to know that she had been reading his every thought all that time.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He exhaled. “I messed up badly didn’t I?” He chuckled sardonically. “I doubt he’d want to see me for a while after that, if he even wants to at all.” It sounded like a whine almost, he’s unable to stay calm after what had just happened, the event too fresh.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

He realized he must have looked like he was about to lose it though, and cleared his throat. “Sorry, that must have looked so strange.” He said, averting his eyes again as the familiar feeling of embarrassment creeped through his bones.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Oh by Marika’s tits I messed up.” He grumbled, hopefully not loud enough for Trina to hear— it’s not even about just Miquella alone now, but rather also Trina seeing him like this.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

The boy blamed himself for what had happened, even though Lord Miquella's mental state had not been stable to begin with. The curse caused him to not process emotions as well, his reactions bordering on the tantrum that a small child might do. However, he was far from resembling a tantrum.

Lord Miquella's mind was covered by a cloud of darkness that only Godwyn had managed to calm sometimes with his words and gestures, taking the young Empyrean in his arms to walk around the capital in an attempt to make him forget what had bothered him. And most of the time it worked.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

"It is okay to... be compassionate with Lord Miquella's situation," Saint Trina said, her gaze softening in an attempt to make Amras understand that she was not scolding him. "It is not a good situation, I admit, but you have tried everything to help him. We cannot do more than wait for the time when he will ask for our help, if that happens at all. Me and him..."

The deity sighed.

"...He would have died if not for Radahn. Marika's children are not meant for godhood. Their bloodline has been... too tampered with. Nothing that comes out of Marika's womb turns out to be right, because they stray from their own paths to follow their mother's footsteps. And Lord Miquellla would have followed her footsteps, I assure you. You would have to have... put him down like a rabid dog then."

The thought of Lord Miquella becoming something contrary to what he preached made Saint Trina feel a shiver in her body, and so, she hugged Amras as if she could be protected from those visions of an uncertain future. Her arms did not let go.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

What would Godhood cost him? If Marika’s children failed, then could he ascend himself? The calling of the tarnished was to fix the Elden Ring and usher in a new age— could he do it really? A simple boy like him?

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

“Would you still stick with me even if I were to bathe in the blood of many others to pave myself a path to becoming a Lord in the new age?” He asked her, gently touching her arm with his hand as he looked vulnerable almost.

“Miquella will not have to suffer then.” There is a failed age yes, but there will be a new one to come to replace it. It’s a little vile; even Amras was aware of that as he thought that he’s kicked Miquella’s chance for the throne and burned away at every single one of his plans, his efforts.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

“My hands will not be clean at the end of this journey— I knew it wasn’t going to be if I were to restore death in these lands.” He sighed as he leaned in more, smelling the traces of lilies and seeing the color of Trina’s lavender hair at the corner of his eyes.

“But it seems that it requires a God too.” He frowned. “That blasted Ring has done enough damage to this place…. If I were to be a god, would that be fine with you?” I am stealing his dream too, after all, went unsaid.

Would she?

Saint Trina carefully observed and studied the boy who so clung to her words, but whose affection was not shown in the form of adoration. Amras truly considered her a friend, someone to confide in in a place as hostile as the Lands Between. And even if the deity couldn't quite express what the boy meant to her, at that moment, she wanted to make the effort to calm him down.

Saint Trina's hand rested on Amras' cheek, and she caressed it with the same love a lover might have for their other half. The boy's eyes sparkled. She looked into them and saw a stable future that would be slow in coming, but it would come.

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

"Men are unpredictable. It will be hard. People will oppose your authority, but you can prosper if you do not get rid of the compassion and the love that makes you human." They gave him a soft smile. "And I will be there to see it, as long as you allow me to be by your side."

An Age of Men.

The thought was so strange. One that was led by someone who was not born a god, someone who knew what it was like to starve and cry. An age led by demigods was always doomed to failure, but Amras could change everything.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

“I don’t plan on losing myself, don’t worry.” And he’ll make sure he won’t. Briefly, he wondered what Miquella’s Age of Compassion would have been like had he been a Lord and remembered Trina’s words— another Marika, Miquella would have become another Marika.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

“It’s a rather tall order.” He said with a light huff. “Not even halfway there and I already have a list of people I need to get rid of.” Miquella would have looked unnerved at that statement, he briefly thought. He hasn’t known him for very long, but it was clear the empyrean didn’t like blood or bloodshed.

He removed Trina’s hands from his cheeks and held them tenderly instead. Now that his negative feelings had gone away, he became a bit more specially aware of how /close/ Trina was to him— he doesn’t look at her, still.

“It will be… nice, at least. I think people have stayed stagnant here for too long.” Amras thought of the rather miserable expressions a lot of the folk he encountered had plastered on their faces. There were others who chose to make the best of what they had, including himself, but there was always something so strange about the exhaustion— maybe one day he’d be able to grant Miquella that proper rest too, but not now.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

He thought of those words, the feeling of only being stuck in one place and utter silence and loneliness of that dreamlike realm and being stuck in a childish body. It’s idealistic, he knows, but he hoped that he’d be able to do something about it once he gets the Elden Ring.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

“I’ll be using your arrows on the way on that journey as well, I hope that is alright with you.” He looked at her again, pushing down the growing shyness under her gaze, his draconian pupils slightly expanding without his knowledge.

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

It was strange to think that it would have been the same fate for Lord Miquella, had his vow with Radahn continued without someone interrupting. The gates of the Lands of Shadow would open, letting Amras enter certain death, and Saint Trina...

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

The Lands Between had been too long stuck in a loop that did not end, a loop in which beings could not find the eternal rest that souls sometimes needed. It was a madness that gradually took over their mind, to go on without feeling like it, to feel Death escaping from their fingertips without being able to do anything to prevent it. Many times, the concoction of her lilies had been used to put crying babies to sleep and help the sick, but other times, when Saint Trina tried not to look, the concoction was used to escape from the world.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

"Use as many as you need," Saint Trina replied, a small smile appearing on her face. It was tired, somewhat sad, but it was genuine. "When you ascend to the throne, I hope I can stand beside you and call you Elden Lord."

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

“Hmm. Maybe it will.” He hummed in agreement, returning her smile and letting go of her hands before gently shifting to stand from his chair, glancing at the bed he hasn’t quite used in a while.

Half the time he slept outside or simply on the chair, if not either then he’d always end up in Fia’s chambers for a semblance of a companionship— a security of some sort.

Dreams of deathblight typically invaded him in his sleep when he did so, but it did not bother him much, not even as Fia was taking some of his vitality from him. It wasn’t a bad trade, he had plenty to spare anyways.

He walked over to the bed, eyes tracing over the patterns on sheets of his own making before he sat down, patting the spot next to it absentmindedly. He looked at Trina and remembered how she looked tired; the bed was big enough to handle two people comfortably for a nap. He didn’t know if she’d be fine with that, though.

“Are you tired?” He asked. “You can rest here if you’d like to.” That must have sounded wrong, and so he cleared his throat, glancing away as he patted the spot next to him. “I’ll make sure to stay as far away, don’t worry.” Because if she desired to sleep too, she didn’t deserve to sleep on the floor.

In truth, Amras had an ulterior motive too— he didn’t want Trina to leave, not yet, but he’s unable to ask her that directly for some reason, the proper words for that request for more of her time stuck in his throat. He felt as though he needed her presence near there— needed a /friend/ near him, at least for a while until he could gather himself properly.

It felt selfish, to ask her for more when she’s given him more than enough by showing her support without anything in exchange but to simply stand beside him. Embarrassment crept up in his bones again and he settled himself in before she could answer him, face close to the wall as his ears reddened as he thought he should have worded his invitation differently.

Saint Trina was exhausted.

Maybe she wouldn't say it out loud. She never would. The deities did not feel exhaustion, their energy flowing like a torrent of water in a river that kept changing day after day. However, she felt a kind of fatigue in her soul that she had never experienced before, something that clouded her mind and forced her to ground herself as best she could.

It was because of Miquella. Saint Trina did not need to be naive to understand that the fatigue did not come from herself, but from the nausea of Miquella himself, who was desperately seeking to disappear from the world for a few moments. She understood him, though he wasn't going to get it. The dream palace had dug its claws into Miquella's soft flesh, anchoring him to the world of dreams without the possibility of returning without a body. At least, for now.

She understood him.

She didn't want to think about how it felt to be trapped in a place that sought to punish you, to shed your skin for how it had been mistreated in the real world.

Sometimes, Saint Trina wished to find Miquella's body and give him a proper burial. Anything to give him just a little peace.

...But they could not.

Perhaps with Amras the deity might find some solace, an ephemeral moment in which to rest.

"Yes. Yes, please." Saint Trina took a step forward, approaching the bed. Their hand went to Amras' hair to gently arrange it. "I..."

She looked down.

"I feel like something is fading. Out there. And I do not know what."

Finally, the deity entered the bed, right next to Amras. The boy emanated a warmth that helped keep them comfortable.

“Would talking about it help?” He softly asked, he doesn’t look at her still, but knows she is troubled. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

He knew well enough to know there’s just some things that shouldn’t be talked about, and he wasn’t going to pry it off of her. He had his fair share of things he refused to talk about too, not even with his friends, not even with Kale whom lended him an ear whenever he needed it.

A reassurance always helped in some way though— while simple as an offer, it helped alleviate some heaviness knowing they weren’t alone.

He wanted Trina to know that.

Amras shifted and turned so he could look at her, head half buried in one of the pillows as he reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

“If you need to speak— if you /want/ to speak, I’m here to lend an ear.” He said to her, holding the same gentleness as he did earlier. Wordlessly, he brushed a stray lock from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Or we could just sleep, it may clear our heads better like you said.” He smiled, small but warm as his hand retreated between them.

"It just..."

Saint Trina focused on Amras' chin, purposely avoiding looking directly at him.

"It is strange. To not feel the bond to the dream palace," she tried to explain, though she doubted her words made much sense. Amras was listening to her, however, and that was enough to make her feel ready to speak. "And... there is another land, far away from here. It was unreachable for a long, long time."

The deity buried their face in the pillow, gently, finding Amras' scent concentrated on it. The boy always slept there, right where they were, and they knew his scent would cling to their skin quickly. Saint Trina would begin to smell like Amras, a mark that while not permanent, helped her feel safe.

"It is called the Lands of Shadow..." Before Amras could retract his hand, she took it between hers, squeezing it gently. "And there is a place in the Lands of Shadow, a place that should be completely sealed but is not. The Gates of Divinity. It is at the top of a tower, in a region called Enir-Ilim. It is a wicked thing. A wicked thing that can whisper sweet things to you, to sacrifice all of yourself to reach godhood."

A shudder ran through the deity completely, from top to bottom.

She did not like to talk about it, but it was necessary. Because Amras had to know.

"Miquella managed to reach an entrance to the Lands of Shadow... but everything got complicated, afterwards. Maybe it is for the best, after all."

Power was something a lot of people wanted in some form— Godhood even more so in some others. Images of a bloodied gate flashed in his mind’s eye, screaming, glowing, whispering— he felt though as if he’s feeling the red ground beneath his feet— sticky and warm, the bodies of that gate calling out to him to become a god.

A dream. It was one of his strange dreams, one of the stranger ones he had as a child aside from the golden fields and and the Elden Ring. He doesn’t know how and why he’s made the correlation somehow with what Trina had told him, about the very place he’s never even been in and the one inside of his dreams.

“He will have to sacrifice what makes him himself.” Amras murmured. “Is that why you were afraid of the change it would bring to Miquella?”

Shedding one’s own being was a terrifying concept to someone like Amras— he couldn’t comprehend it, losing everything that made him himself to be born anew as someone who valued and prided himself with his own identity as Amras, as a man.

Inheriting pieces of the Elden ring was different, not really overwhelming as he just took runes and stored it in his being, mending it in a way that doesn’t tear him apart.

He didn’t have to change.

He doesn’t have to shed his own skin, leave pieces of himself out to rot for a gate that would not guarantee him his wish anyways.

He understood now, what would happen to Miquella. And as foul as his thoughts were, he was glad he had taken that opportunity away from the empyrean.

Saint Trina closed her eyes, but no matter how much she wanted to make Miquella's terrified face disappear from her mind, she did not succeed. The memory was permanently embedded in her being, not by herself, but by the piece of soul they both shared. Miquella's memories were intermingled with hers, and there were times when the deity was unable to tell when they were her memories and when they were Miquella's.

Miquella, at some point, would also see Amras through her eyes.

"I... do not have the full picture of what he was planning to do," Saint Trina said, her voice sounding unsure and uneasy despite the exhaustion that threatened to make her collapse from one second to the next. "But that... that was not him planning. It was like watching someone else. Miquella would have sacrificed everyone, including himself, just to bring a new age."

It was not the first time Miquella had harmed himself to achieve his goals.

"...He cannot reach godhood. Not like that. There has to be another way to break the curse."

Except that Miquella seemed to have exhausted all his options.

Saint Trina let out a soft sigh before shifting closer to Amras, needing the comfort his presence provided. Maybe she looked too needy, but...

Amras was so different from what they already knew.

"I am sorry. I do not intend to make you feel responsible for us. We are our own person and we need to... to find answers by ourselves, rather than finding answers in others that may not have them."

Tw: Descriptions of murder, and Thiollier being creepy (excuse if ooc)

“You’ll be able to figure it out someday.” He said as he adjusted the blanket so that it would cover her properly. “We should sleep-“ he cut himself off, noticing her soft breathing and smiled.

“Good night, Trina.” He murmured before he too closed his eyes.

The peace didn’t last for very long, though as he was awoken by a presence lurking outside. People should not even be near the area unless they got an invitation— and very few got them.

Amras’ eyes opened, frowning as the haze of sleep slowly started to wear off. Trina was still asleep and it was already night time, one of her arms loosely holding him.

He sat up from the bed, careful not to wake her up as he gently slipped from her grasp to clearly see who could be outside.

Sure enough, there was the lurker. With a white mask on his face and light lavender hair, he stood there, pensively, as if waiting for someone very patiently. Amras noticed he was standing near Trina’s lilies near the window and wondered where the flowers had come from but shook the thoughts out of his head.

He had a bad feeling.

He’d like to give the benefit of the doubt though, and chose to play a little game.

“Good evening.” He greeted, a small smile plastered upon his face at the taller man.

“Hello.” The man spoke to him softly, giving him a curt nod.

“Is there something that you need?” Amras asked innocently, the smile remaining on his face as he assessed him further.

“Yes…” the lavender haired man replied as he picked up the flower that grew on the cracks on the ground. “I believe you have something I desire, hidden behind these walls…”

Desire? Amras’ face went blank, a creeping feeling crawling up his chest.

“The one who shall grant me velvety sleep.. I believe she is there, inside. I need to see her.” The man doesn’t stop speaking, breathing shakily almost. “I need to feel her, her scent, so she may grant me slumber.”

Amras didn’t like the way he shivered.

“I see.” Amras said, though his eyes have darkened. While his intentions are vague, it didn’t stop the feeling of something wrong.

“She is not allowing visitors right now, she is asleep.” He continued with a firm tone, the man didn’t seem to take it well.

“Who are you to say such a thing? It is me who she will only need to speak to— it will do you well not to lie to me.” The man’s voice trembled, voice raising a pitch or two.

“I am her friend, and it will do you well to stay away from her.” Amras glowered. “This is your last warning.” The game was nearing its end.

“I will not forgive you. Y-you— a mere boy, not even a follower—“ The man paused, shaking, before erupting to a frantic swing that Amras was caught off guard by. “You smell like her— I can smell on you her blessing.”

The needle had pierced Amras’ shoulder as the man did not cease to mumble frantically, shakily, that Trina only belonged to him. Her love, her power, her voice. And that it was unfair for someone like Amras to get it.

Amras scowled, disgusted as he pried the man off of him. His intentions have been made clear, while he considered sparing him in the first few words exchanged, he wasn’t going to let him have that option now.

He removed the needle from himself with a grunt, he’ll make this quick.

The night was filled with the sounds of thudding, muffled screaming, and a disgusting squelch before something snapped and fell.

Amras huffed, shaking his head as he turned away to go back inside of his room. He closed the door, quietly stepping in as much as he could to not wake Trina as the scent of blood not just his own faintly wafted in the air.

Something in the movement of the wind had awakened her.

Saint Trina's eyes threatened to close again at any moment, her eyelids too heavy to continue awake. However, every time she tried to go back to sleep, a rustling in the land they were on and the tinkling of the lilies born around the settlement they were in would once again cause her to lift her head from the pillow, visualizing the starry sky in her mind's eye.

It was still night.

The stillness of the Lands Between when darkness reigned had always been something that made them want to hide, such a human desire for a deity.

Animals retreated to their burrows quickly, leaving behind only their tracks in the earth, and even beings that did not do good decided to remain still in the presence of the moon in the sky. Night, ironically, could be the quietest time of the day... especially when she was standing next to Amras.

Saint Trina moved her hand slowly, feeling the place beside her, but Amras' presence had disappeared from her side. Immediately and fearing the worst, she opened her eyes wide and made the effort to try to listen around her for any movement that would give away the boy's presence nearby.

And she heard it.

A voice she knew all too well. The blood rushing to the floor. a snapping sound that caused the deity to flinch, before she clasped her hands on the pillow in an attempt to find comfort in the scent Amras had left behind. Saint Trina's body continued to tremble for a few moments until she heard Amras' return.

And, though she tried to pretend to fall asleep by closing her eyes tightly, she was unable to do so.

Saint Trina thought of the stars, of the soft light her lilies emitted and how Amras had said her singing was beautiful. She thought of anything but the scent of someone else's blood on the boy's body.

Amras had noticed it, with the way she looked too tense when he had glanced at her as he wiped the blood off of his hands and tended to the poison on his shoulder— surprisingly it had not killed him, despite the spread of purple veins around it.

He’ll have to wait and see.

He dumped his bloodied clothes at the corner of the room and changed into something lighter, the bandages that covered his shoulder strapped tight under the soft clothes before he made his way to the bed and caressed Trina’s hair.

“He’s gone now.” Amras said to her softly, not wanting to scare her. “You won’t have to worry about him coming in.” He continued, shifting, the bed dipping under his weight before placing his hand on top of her own, attempting to soothe her.

“Nothing will hurt you for as long as I’m here.” He placed a soft, brief kiss to her head— an attempt at comfort, gentle reassurances slipping past his lips as he hoped Trina would not be afraid of him after this.

“I won’t hurt you, don’t worry.”

He never would, he would never find the heart to do so.

Saint Trina's hand slowly relaxed, letting go of the pillow so she could entwine her fingers with Amras'.

Amras smelled of comfort and security. The figure that had haunted her for so long no longer existed, reached by someone who sought to protect her from those hands. The hands that would not have stopped until they could touch her. For a few moments, the deity took only a shaky breath, filling her lungs with air even if she had to endure the scent of blood.

She was safe. Amras had helped them stay safe. Even when they were both asleep and Saint Trina didn't notice the presence outside, the boy did, and it hadn't taken him long to make it disappear for both their sakes.

"...I am sorry."

The deity's words were only a hidden whisper, fearful that she had caused Amras to have to deal with the blood of someone he did not know on his hands. However, judging by the bandage under the boy's clothew, his follower had been the first to attack. Amras only found a way to defend himself.

Saint Trina pulled him towards the bed, hugging his body as if nothing else existed in the world. She needed that source of contact that calmed her and made her see that everything was okay.

"...He hurt you. I am sorry."

Amras was not to hurt himself to protect her. The very thought made Saint Trina's body tremble.

“I’ll be fine.” Amras sighed against her, hiding the pink in his cheeks that surfaced upon her sudden action.

“There’s no need for you to apologize for this, it’s not your fault.” He whispered, although Trina was not warm like him, her presence brought him some comfort, alleviating the numb and pain along his injuries.

A reminder that he had succeeded in keeping her out of harm’s way for now.

He was just happy that Trina was not afraid of him, even though she knew of what he did outside of the safety of their room.

The sounds of the night had returned as he drowsily basked in her presence, hoping that no one will bother them so that he could pretend it’s just the two of them in the world, safe and sound.

In that moment he thought of wanting to protect Trina even more so that she wouldn’t have to be afraid of anything anymore. So she could sleep without being afraid of something having to come after her due to their obsession, so she could simply exist without the worry of people wanting to tear a piece of her.

He cannot always be there for her, nor could he solve her problems along with the problems of everyone else, but the least he could do for her willingness to even deal with him, to not run away from him or use him was to simply try to make life easier for her.

Amras doesn’t quite realize that the gentle buddings in his heart, the small, meaningful thoughts, were from a place of something else other than friendship.

Amras took a deep breath, taking in the scent of lilies and thought of the words uttered by that man earlier— ‘Blessing huh? What a funny way to describe being friends’ he thought, smug almost despite the sleepiness.

“I think,” he began, looking at her. “I think it’s safe for both of us to sleep now.” He told her, half a statement and half a promise, face still pink while a tired smile plastered itself upon his face as he felt the effects of the poison properly without the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Strangely enough there was no shortness of breath, nor blood waiting to eject itself out of his mouth, only the enticing embrace of sleep.

He will not die tonight after all.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Even if Amras said that, there was a certain uncertainty in Saint Trina's mind that would not let her rest. The encounter with her follower had awakened a long dormant feeling of panic, accustomed to disappearing into the dream palace when something caused her insecurity.

However, the dream palace had closed, its gates rejecting anyone who wished to enter it; and although Amras took care of her follower, there were so many other dangers in the Lands Between that sometimes the deity only wished to take care of them herself. Except that if she did... her enemies would end up in a very deep sleep from which they would never awaken. And Saint Trina was incapable of allowing herself to do that.

"...Allow me. It will only hurt for a moment."

That was all the deity said, her hands carefully pulling apart Amras' clothes to reach the bandage covering the wound.

She knew the weapon, and she knew the poison. She could feel it on the tip of her tongue.

The wound would not close. The poison would prevent it, keeping the wound open, a weak point for the one who had received it. Little by little, the poison would begin to run through Amras' body completely until numbing his senses and finally make him collapse. So Saint Trina didn't wait any longer, pulling the bandage aside to attach her lips to the wound and suck.

The boy's skin was warm under her mouth, and the wound oozed blood and poison. Her hands gripped his arms to keep him from moving.

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

Half the time he slept outside or simply on the chair, if not either then he’d always end up in Fia’s chambers for a semblance of a companionship— a security of some sort.

Saint Trina was exhausted.

She understood him.

She didn't want to think about how it felt to be trapped in a place that sought to punish you, to shed your skin for how it had been mistreated in the real world.

Sometimes, Saint Trina wished to find Miquella's body and give him a proper burial. Anything to give him just a little peace.

...But they could not.

Perhaps with Amras the deity might find some solace, an ephemeral moment in which to rest.

"Yes. Yes, please." Saint Trina took a step forward, approaching the bed. Their hand went to Amras' hair to gently arrange it. "I..."

She looked down.

"I feel like something is fading. Out there. And I do not know what."

Finally, the deity entered the bed, right next to Amras. The boy emanated a warmth that helped keep them comfortable.

“Would talking about it help?” He softly asked, he doesn’t look at her still, but knows she is troubled. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

A reassurance always helped in some way though— while simple as an offer, it helped alleviate some heaviness knowing they weren’t alone.

He wanted Trina to know that.

Amras shifted and turned so he could look at her, head half buried in one of the pillows as he reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

“Or we could just sleep, it may clear our heads better like you said.” He smiled, small but warm as his hand retreated between them.

"It just..."

Saint Trina focused on Amras' chin, purposely avoiding looking directly at him.

A shudder ran through the deity completely, from top to bottom.

She did not like to talk about it, but it was necessary. Because Amras had to know.

"Miquella managed to reach an entrance to the Lands of Shadow... but everything got complicated, afterwards. Maybe it is for the best, after all."

“He will have to sacrifice what makes him himself.” Amras murmured. “Is that why you were afraid of the change it would bring to Miquella?”

Inheriting pieces of the Elden ring was different, not really overwhelming as he just took runes and stored it in his being, mending it in a way that doesn’t tear him apart.

He didn’t have to change.

He doesn’t have to shed his own skin, leave pieces of himself out to rot for a gate that would not guarantee him his wish anyways.

He understood now, what would happen to Miquella. And as foul as his thoughts were, he was glad he had taken that opportunity away from the empyrean.

Miquella, at some point, would also see Amras through her eyes.

It was not the first time Miquella had harmed himself to achieve his goals.

"...He cannot reach godhood. Not like that. There has to be another way to break the curse."

Except that Miquella seemed to have exhausted all his options.

Saint Trina let out a soft sigh before shifting closer to Amras, needing the comfort his presence provided. Maybe she looked too needy, but...

Amras was so different from what they already knew.

"I am sorry. I do not intend to make you feel responsible for us. We are our own person and we need to... to find answers by ourselves, rather than finding answers in others that may not have them."

Tw: Descriptions of murder, and Thiollier being creepy (excuse if ooc)

“Good night, Trina.” He murmured before he too closed his eyes.

The peace didn’t last for very long, though as he was awoken by a presence lurking outside. People should not even be near the area unless they got an invitation— and very few got them.

Amras’ eyes opened, frowning as the haze of sleep slowly started to wear off. Trina was still asleep and it was already night time, one of her arms loosely holding him.

He sat up from the bed, careful not to wake her up as he gently slipped from her grasp to clearly see who could be outside.

He had a bad feeling.

He’d like to give the benefit of the doubt though, and chose to play a little game.

“Good evening.” He greeted, a small smile plastered upon his face at the taller man.

“Hello.” The man spoke to him softly, giving him a curt nod.

“Is there something that you need?” Amras asked innocently, the smile remaining on his face as he assessed him further.

“Yes…” the lavender haired man replied as he picked up the flower that grew on the cracks on the ground. “I believe you have something I desire, hidden behind these walls…”

Desire? Amras’ face went blank, a creeping feeling crawling up his chest.

Amras didn’t like the way he shivered.

“I see.” Amras said, though his eyes have darkened. While his intentions are vague, it didn’t stop the feeling of something wrong.

“She is not allowing visitors right now, she is asleep.” He continued with a firm tone, the man didn’t seem to take it well.

“Who are you to say such a thing? It is me who she will only need to speak to— it will do you well not to lie to me.” The man’s voice trembled, voice raising a pitch or two.

“I am her friend, and it will do you well to stay away from her.” Amras glowered. “This is your last warning.” The game was nearing its end.

He removed the needle from himself with a grunt, he’ll make this quick.

The night was filled with the sounds of thudding, muffled screaming, and a disgusting squelch before something snapped and fell.

Something in the movement of the wind had awakened her.

It was still night.

The stillness of the Lands Between when darkness reigned had always been something that made them want to hide, such a human desire for a deity.

And she heard it.

And, though she tried to pretend to fall asleep by closing her eyes tightly, she was unable to do so.

He’ll have to wait and see.

“I won’t hurt you, don’t worry.”

He never would, he would never find the heart to do so.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Saint Trina's hand slowly relaxed, letting go of the pillow so she could entwine her fingers with Amras'.

"...I am sorry."

Saint Trina pulled him towards the bed, hugging his body as if nothing else existed in the world. She needed that source of contact that calmed her and made her see that everything was okay.

"...He hurt you. I am sorry."

Amras was not to hurt himself to protect her. The very thought made Saint Trina's body tremble.

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

Half the time he slept outside or simply on the chair, if not either then he’d always end up in Fia’s chambers for a semblance of a companionship— a security of some sort.

Saint Trina was exhausted.

She understood him.

She didn't want to think about how it felt to be trapped in a place that sought to punish you, to shed your skin for how it had been mistreated in the real world.

Sometimes, Saint Trina wished to find Miquella's body and give him a proper burial. Anything to give him just a little peace.

...But they could not.

Perhaps with Amras the deity might find some solace, an ephemeral moment in which to rest.

"Yes. Yes, please." Saint Trina took a step forward, approaching the bed. Their hand went to Amras' hair to gently arrange it. "I..."

She looked down.

"I feel like something is fading. Out there. And I do not know what."

Finally, the deity entered the bed, right next to Amras. The boy emanated a warmth that helped keep them comfortable.

“Would talking about it help?” He softly asked, he doesn’t look at her still, but knows she is troubled. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

A reassurance always helped in some way though— while simple as an offer, it helped alleviate some heaviness knowing they weren’t alone.

He wanted Trina to know that.

Amras shifted and turned so he could look at her, head half buried in one of the pillows as he reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

“Or we could just sleep, it may clear our heads better like you said.” He smiled, small but warm as his hand retreated between them.

"It just..."

Saint Trina focused on Amras' chin, purposely avoiding looking directly at him.

A shudder ran through the deity completely, from top to bottom.

She did not like to talk about it, but it was necessary. Because Amras had to know.

"Miquella managed to reach an entrance to the Lands of Shadow... but everything got complicated, afterwards. Maybe it is for the best, after all."

“He will have to sacrifice what makes him himself.” Amras murmured. “Is that why you were afraid of the change it would bring to Miquella?”

Inheriting pieces of the Elden ring was different, not really overwhelming as he just took runes and stored it in his being, mending it in a way that doesn’t tear him apart.

He didn’t have to change.

He doesn’t have to shed his own skin, leave pieces of himself out to rot for a gate that would not guarantee him his wish anyways.

He understood now, what would happen to Miquella. And as foul as his thoughts were, he was glad he had taken that opportunity away from the empyrean.

Miquella, at some point, would also see Amras through her eyes.

It was not the first time Miquella had harmed himself to achieve his goals.

"...He cannot reach godhood. Not like that. There has to be another way to break the curse."

Except that Miquella seemed to have exhausted all his options.

Saint Trina let out a soft sigh before shifting closer to Amras, needing the comfort his presence provided. Maybe she looked too needy, but...

Amras was so different from what they already knew.

"I am sorry. I do not intend to make you feel responsible for us. We are our own person and we need to... to find answers by ourselves, rather than finding answers in others that may not have them."

Tw: Descriptions of murder, and Thiollier being creepy (excuse if ooc)

“Good night, Trina.” He murmured before he too closed his eyes.

The peace didn’t last for very long, though as he was awoken by a presence lurking outside. People should not even be near the area unless they got an invitation— and very few got them.

Amras’ eyes opened, frowning as the haze of sleep slowly started to wear off. Trina was still asleep and it was already night time, one of her arms loosely holding him.

He sat up from the bed, careful not to wake her up as he gently slipped from her grasp to clearly see who could be outside.

He had a bad feeling.

He’d like to give the benefit of the doubt though, and chose to play a little game.

“Good evening.” He greeted, a small smile plastered upon his face at the taller man.

“Hello.” The man spoke to him softly, giving him a curt nod.

“Is there something that you need?” Amras asked innocently, the smile remaining on his face as he assessed him further.

“Yes…” the lavender haired man replied as he picked up the flower that grew on the cracks on the ground. “I believe you have something I desire, hidden behind these walls…”

Desire? Amras’ face went blank, a creeping feeling crawling up his chest.

Amras didn’t like the way he shivered.

“I see.” Amras said, though his eyes have darkened. While his intentions are vague, it didn’t stop the feeling of something wrong.

“She is not allowing visitors right now, she is asleep.” He continued with a firm tone, the man didn’t seem to take it well.

“Who are you to say such a thing? It is me who she will only need to speak to— it will do you well not to lie to me.” The man’s voice trembled, voice raising a pitch or two.

“I am her friend, and it will do you well to stay away from her.” Amras glowered. “This is your last warning.” The game was nearing its end.

He removed the needle from himself with a grunt, he’ll make this quick.

The night was filled with the sounds of thudding, muffled screaming, and a disgusting squelch before something snapped and fell.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Something in the movement of the wind had awakened her.

It was still night.

The stillness of the Lands Between when darkness reigned had always been something that made them want to hide, such a human desire for a deity.

And she heard it.

And, though she tried to pretend to fall asleep by closing her eyes tightly, she was unable to do so.

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

Half the time he slept outside or simply on the chair, if not either then he’d always end up in Fia’s chambers for a semblance of a companionship— a security of some sort.

Saint Trina was exhausted.

She understood him.

She didn't want to think about how it felt to be trapped in a place that sought to punish you, to shed your skin for how it had been mistreated in the real world.

Sometimes, Saint Trina wished to find Miquella's body and give him a proper burial. Anything to give him just a little peace.

...But they could not.

Perhaps with Amras the deity might find some solace, an ephemeral moment in which to rest.

"Yes. Yes, please." Saint Trina took a step forward, approaching the bed. Their hand went to Amras' hair to gently arrange it. "I..."

She looked down.

"I feel like something is fading. Out there. And I do not know what."

Finally, the deity entered the bed, right next to Amras. The boy emanated a warmth that helped keep them comfortable.

“Would talking about it help?” He softly asked, he doesn’t look at her still, but knows she is troubled. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

A reassurance always helped in some way though— while simple as an offer, it helped alleviate some heaviness knowing they weren’t alone.

He wanted Trina to know that.

Amras shifted and turned so he could look at her, head half buried in one of the pillows as he reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

“Or we could just sleep, it may clear our heads better like you said.” He smiled, small but warm as his hand retreated between them.

"It just..."

Saint Trina focused on Amras' chin, purposely avoiding looking directly at him.

A shudder ran through the deity completely, from top to bottom.

She did not like to talk about it, but it was necessary. Because Amras had to know.

"Miquella managed to reach an entrance to the Lands of Shadow... but everything got complicated, afterwards. Maybe it is for the best, after all."

“He will have to sacrifice what makes him himself.” Amras murmured. “Is that why you were afraid of the change it would bring to Miquella?”

Inheriting pieces of the Elden ring was different, not really overwhelming as he just took runes and stored it in his being, mending it in a way that doesn’t tear him apart.

He didn’t have to change.

He doesn’t have to shed his own skin, leave pieces of himself out to rot for a gate that would not guarantee him his wish anyways.

He understood now, what would happen to Miquella. And as foul as his thoughts were, he was glad he had taken that opportunity away from the empyrean.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Miquella, at some point, would also see Amras through her eyes.

It was not the first time Miquella had harmed himself to achieve his goals.

"...He cannot reach godhood. Not like that. There has to be another way to break the curse."

Except that Miquella seemed to have exhausted all his options.

Saint Trina let out a soft sigh before shifting closer to Amras, needing the comfort his presence provided. Maybe she looked too needy, but...

Amras was so different from what they already knew.

"I am sorry. I do not intend to make you feel responsible for us. We are our own person and we need to... to find answers by ourselves, rather than finding answers in others that may not have them."

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

Half the time he slept outside or simply on the chair, if not either then he’d always end up in Fia’s chambers for a semblance of a companionship— a security of some sort.

Saint Trina was exhausted.

She understood him.

She didn't want to think about how it felt to be trapped in a place that sought to punish you, to shed your skin for how it had been mistreated in the real world.

Sometimes, Saint Trina wished to find Miquella's body and give him a proper burial. Anything to give him just a little peace.

...But they could not.

Perhaps with Amras the deity might find some solace, an ephemeral moment in which to rest.

"Yes. Yes, please." Saint Trina took a step forward, approaching the bed. Their hand went to Amras' hair to gently arrange it. "I..."

She looked down.

"I feel like something is fading. Out there. And I do not know what."

Finally, the deity entered the bed, right next to Amras. The boy emanated a warmth that helped keep them comfortable.

“Would talking about it help?” He softly asked, he doesn’t look at her still, but knows she is troubled. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

A reassurance always helped in some way though— while simple as an offer, it helped alleviate some heaviness knowing they weren’t alone.

He wanted Trina to know that.

Amras shifted and turned so he could look at her, head half buried in one of the pillows as he reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

“Or we could just sleep, it may clear our heads better like you said.” He smiled, small but warm as his hand retreated between them.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

"It just..."

Saint Trina focused on Amras' chin, purposely avoiding looking directly at him.

A shudder ran through the deity completely, from top to bottom.

She did not like to talk about it, but it was necessary. Because Amras had to know.

"Miquella managed to reach an entrance to the Lands of Shadow... but everything got complicated, afterwards. Maybe it is for the best, after all."

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

Half the time he slept outside or simply on the chair, if not either then he’d always end up in Fia’s chambers for a semblance of a companionship— a security of some sort.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Saint Trina was exhausted.

She understood him.

She didn't want to think about how it felt to be trapped in a place that sought to punish you, to shed your skin for how it had been mistreated in the real world.

Sometimes, Saint Trina wished to find Miquella's body and give him a proper burial. Anything to give him just a little peace.

...But they could not.

Perhaps with Amras the deity might find some solace, an ephemeral moment in which to rest.

"Yes. Yes, please." Saint Trina took a step forward, approaching the bed. Their hand went to Amras' hair to gently arrange it. "I..."

She looked down.

"I feel like something is fading. Out there. And I do not know what."

Finally, the deity entered the bed, right next to Amras. The boy emanated a warmth that helped keep them comfortable.

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

How nice to have yet another person to believe in what he wanted to do. With that thought, Amras smiled.

He averted his eyes from Trina, cheek leaning into the hand that touched him— he promptly ignored the slightest increase of the beating of his heart as he sighed.

Maybe it was better this way, for him to usurp that plan, Miquella’s plan.

Unlike Amras, the empyrean did not get to live the way he truly deserved to.

It’s the least he could do for rejecting him.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

So many people had lost their way in trying to reach the goal.

Saint Trina had little idea what would have happened to her by interfering with Lord Miquella's plans.

It was not the goal. The heart of the deity suffered.

Perhaps the promise of a new era ruled by Amras was the only option they had to bring everything back to what it was before.

But that was a long time away.

The deity let out a small sigh.

"...You should rest. The dream palace is not accessible right now, and it won't be for a long time. Maybe a dreamless sleep will help you think better."

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

It took him a few moments to think again as he leaned on Trina’s arms.

“Would you…” he paused, as he thought of his own goals, Miquella’s cries, the age that had failed and her words that one night.

He’s sworn to bring the age of men, an age of impermanence and death, but what would it cost him? If not himself then the blood of others then?

He apologizes to Miquella in his head, as a plan began to form in his mind. Trina’s words and embrace had cleared the clouds somehow as he thought of it over and over.

And yet a small part of himself knew it wouldn’t have ended well if he had agreed to be his Godfrey to Marika.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Would she?

"Your time will be the Age of Men."

The deity continued her caresses on Amras' cheek, softly, their faces being barely inches apart.

An Age of Men.

"Death is the only thing that can truly purify the Lands Between. It's time for it to come back. Every human being needs to rest."

Even Amras.

Amras, at some point, would die.

Saint Trina maybe too. When everyone would forget about her for a second time, when there would be no more prayers to answer, then she would die, become one with the air, with nature.

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He wanted his mind to be quiet for once, and so he looked at Trina again.

“Are you up for some soup or some food?” He felt like eating his feelings out of frustration right now, and thankfully cooking would keep his mind out of it.

“If you’re not, I can teach you how to sew instead.” Clearly, Amras was exasperated and confused and it was showing more and more with every moment that passed.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

"Amras..."

Saint Trina's face darkened.

Except that Godwyn was no longer among them, his body a twisted and completely different version of what everyone knew.

The deity sighed.

"I do not want him to die, and I do not want him to suffer the change. Maybe that makes me a bad person, after all."

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

“Seeing him plead like that was terrifying.”

He was horrified, admittedly.

His brows furrowed as he remembered Miquella’s exact expression; that desperation, the haggard look and the plea as if resorting to a last minute attempt at making a futile plan work.

Right now he could still feel Miquella’s hands on his face.

He placed the ring inside of a drawer, hoping he would forget it for a day. He wouldn’t want to admit he’s been honestly a little hurt by what Miquella said, but what choice did he have?

“He offered himself up to me, you know. To become the Elden Lord of the Age he wanted to bring. It’s what I refused.” He elaborated, frowning.

“What a troublesome boy, really.” He huffed, it was not meant to be malicious.

Amras was sad and concerned about him as much as he was upset about what happened, but the sadness prevailed somehow, seeing him like that didn’t feel right.

He didn’t often seek out comfort, but for now he thought he could use one of Fia’s hugs. He didn’t want to bother Trina, and he’s ran out of favors done to ask that of her.

He’s already been shameless enough.

The thought however, still rang inside his mind.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Lord Miquella was right. His body would not have withstood divinity.

That was no mere rant or temper tantrum. The deity was able to feel the tornado inside her, a tornado of emotions that barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts. It was something darker.

"...He gave you his ring."

It was strange and Saint Trina couldn't help but point it out.

Failed before it even started.

Deity life was... incredibly difficult in some ways.

He banged his head on the table and he thought of the events that had just transpired in his sleep.

What was he going to do now? He questioned himself. It had been days since then, and Amras never really got a proper lick of sleep at the feeling of guilt that ate away at his bones.

It would feel like he was taking advantage of Miquella too if he hadn’t refused it, he reasoned to himself, thinking of how utterly vulnerable he looked.

So much for being a friend.

Somehow, Godwyn crossed his mind. He had an inkling that their brother would have been able to fix it, but that man’s not here now, not anymore.

The golden ring sat heavy between his fingers, the cold band starting to feel surprisingly sharp as if it knows his offense against its previous wearer.

He was lost in his head, not really bothering to acknowledge the presence in the room the moment it came.

@thesleepdeity

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

The headache had gotten worse as time went on.

From that, she knew that the conversation between Lord Miquella and Amras had not gone well.

As soon as Amras woke up, returning from the dream palace, Saint Trina appeared beside him.

"...I am sorry."

At times, all they could do was apologize for Lord Miquella's behavior, which they doubted would change any time soon.

Perhaps Lord Miquella did not understand at the time, but sooner or later he would see that Amras had saved him.

"Please, Lord brother..."

His half-brother's dark gaze rested on him, plunging dagger after dagger deep into his soul. Daggers, knives with a too-sharp point, piercing hot flesh and covering everything in blood. Miquella's hands trembled in his lap, hidden from judging eyes.

"I must ask thee for more time, again," kind Miquella kept his tone of voice soft and his gaze innocent, as he tried to stomp out the feeling of dread that resurfaced deep in his chest every time Radahn made the pretense of moving. Radahn would not lose his temper with a child. There was no need to panic. "Our promise..."

"Our vow," Radahn interrupted him, with a growl that echoed through the throne room.

"...Our vow," Miquella corrected himself after a few moments of silence. His eyes burned with unshed tears. "I have not forgotten our vow, Lord Brother, I promise. But I need more time than what thou have given me..."

His half-brother did not look convinced.

Something in the chest of the young Empyrean threatened to explode. His heart, perhaps, which sought to flee far away, away from words that hurt too much to say, from a sick body that would not allow him to defend himself under the watchful eye of the person who kept him pinned. Miquella held back a shaky sigh, knowing it would only make Radahn's attitude worse, and decided against it.

His legs threatened to be unresponsive as he slowly descended from the throne, the offspring of royalty prostrate on his knees like a low servant. No stain had splashed Miquella's hands until then, clasped in front of his face lowered into supplication. The ring on his finger felt like a brand burned into his skin.

"Lord brother..."

The young Empyrean ducked his head, a gesture that did not fit the most important child.

"I will definitely—" Miquella drew a shaky breath. "Definitely become a god, so— so... if we… if I… honor our part of the vow, please..."

He closed his eyes tightly, almost as if the figure of Radahn might disappear in those moments and be replaced by Godwyn, who would take him in his arms and comfort him, wiping away his unshed tears.

"Promise me thou... will be my consort. I... just want to make the world kind."

@whenbonestellhistory

He had awoken with a gasp, tears streaming down his face as he was reeling from the all too vivid vision to be just a mere dream.

He felt like he was going to throw up from how fast his heart was beating and how cold his hands had gotten. He swallowed, and sat there for a few moments in his own bed, knees disturbingly positioned similarly to how it was like in the dream as he let himself release shaky little whimpers and cried.

It felt so real. The dream feeding into a former memory all too familiar with him— wait. He thought, as a creeping realization made dread settle into his stomach.

The boy in his dream, the poor boy who had begged in his dream, was none other than Miquella.

He heaved over a sink, brows furrowed as he thought of an explanation as to why he would dream of such a thing. It’s too vivid to be just a dream, but how does he know that exactly? He’s… confused.

It was almost as if it was a plea— to give him a reason, or perhaps it was just born out of the unpleasant feelings he had regarding a conversation with Trina about it the day before. It was strange though, it was Miquella in that dream, not her so it wouldn’t make any sense unless….

It was a cry for help.

He knew he can’t jump into assumptions, but he remembered Trina’s expression— they looked afraid, ready to flee like they’ve seen or heard something horrifying and it was coming for them and Miquella in that dream, whose feelings of sorrow and terror still lingered in his heart.

Amras remembered a ring and grew sick to his stomach again.

He groaned as he slumped his shoulders before grinding his teeth as he thought of it again. Consort…. A promise— a vow. Then the gift.. Torrent… the ring..

He frowned as he felt the telltale anger simmering in his veins as he remembered feeling a similar helplessness, a similar situation.

If what he’s thinking is true, then he’ll have to make some arrangements with some people soon.

The memory repeated itself in a constant loop in Saint Trina's mind.

Inescapable, tireless. Every time she felt Radahn's dark gaze on her she couldn't help but start to tremble, even though it came from deep within her consciousness. Radahn was not in the dream palace, and was a long way from reaching it. However, the survival reactions in the deity's body were...

They were almost instinctive. Learned from long ago.

Saint Trina observed the sleeping body of Lord Miquella on the bed of the master bedroom in the Lord's Keep, and traced with one of her fingers the frown he wore. Her lips struggled to speak. I am sorry you keep being chased in your dreams by a shadow that will never stop until it finds you. I am sorry you do not get a single moment of calm. I am sorry I cannot do anything to help you.

Then, the ringing in Saint Trina's ears increased.

It was time.

The festival was about to begin.

Leaving a soft caress in Miquella's hair, Saint Trina disappeared into the air like smoke.

Hit after hit, Amras did not cease to even rest as he snapped one of the arrows that had gone through his hand and removed it with nothing more than a grunt.

He ripped a piece of his clothes and wrapped the injury quickly as Blaidd bought time for him and Millicent watched his back before he was in the field again after no more than a moment.

The serrated blade found themselves digging through Radahn again, some of the armor he had worn violently chipped from him by the blows of the three champions that participated in this battle. Rip and tear was the objective.

The general had been… mad, in the sense that he’s unfortunately lost his wits for him to feel the grudge of Amras’ blows and spells cast with the look in his green eyes that made even Blaidd slightly shiver. The bloodlust was strong in the air as the battle continued on for hours before it finally came to an end.

Amras’ dress was ripped in places, singed and stained with blood both his own and the demigod’s as he rested on the hilt of his blade after taking Radahn’s great rune from him. Blaidd and Millicent had left to camp as per his request despite their worry for him— they knew to leave him alone for that moment.

Blankly, he stared at the giant unmoving mass fading to dust and nodded before he turned his back away and limped his way to the camp, slumping as the stars kept moving and moving, finally removed from their prison that was Radahn’s magic.

Curious though, the camp had gone silent, not a single sound that indicated that his companions were awake in the tents they’ve set up. They must be very tired, he thought.

With a huge sigh, he sat down near the site of Grace, sensing a familiar presence nearby.

Were they watching him?

Leaving the dream palace had been difficult.

Saint Trina could feel the exhaustion tugging at her muscles as if it didn't want to let her go, one of the few things that screamed Lord Miquella needed some time off for both of them. Her vision was blurred at the edges, it was hard for her to concentrate, but finally she appeared in the place where she needed to be.

The air was covered with a scent of blood and viscera that made the deity feel the desire to disappear, to flee the scene before whatever had caused the massacre decided to go after her. However, that scent of blood... Saint Trina recognized it without having to stick out her tongue to try to taste it in the air. And that worried her, even though she knew Amras could not die.

Radahn was dead. The stars had moved too fast. The Lands of Shadow would be unable to be reached now, not without a consort.

Saint Trina held a hood over her head, hiding her purple hair, and sat next to Grace where Amras was sitting.

The piece of memory floated between them, materializing as a thread of tension that bound them together. The deity watched Grace's glow as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, before allowing the words to begin to leave her lips.

"...Thank you. For your deed."

The camp was silent, purple smoke billowing around the tents of those who had stayed behind after the festival. The stars were back, but that didn't mean the participants wanted to go home happy that they had given Radahn a heroic death.

"...I heard the voice calling you for the festival, and I thought I had to see you afterwards."

“So you were watching after all.” He chuckled quietly, smiling as he let himself relax a bit more.

“He’s dead now.” He said. “You do not need to worry about him anymore,” he paused, grunting as he repositioned himself to make his body feel a little less sore.

“I do not have dominion over sleep, but if he plagues your dreams, come and see me, maybe even summon me, and know I am the one that killed him.” He doesn’t know what pushed him to say those words in the haze of his own injuries, but he hoped it conveyed the message that Trina was safe with him, that there was no need for the to be afraid and want to flee anymore.

It’s not an easy thing to move on from whatever it was that they’ve been through, Amras understood that far better than anyone else would. But it helped when there would be someone to reassure you.

“Trina,” he called out to them after a few moments. “Can I…” it took him a while to formulate his words properly, with the adrenaline finally wearing off, he wanted nothing more to do than just… lay down. “Lay my head here?” He didn’t properly realize that he’s crawled his way to her sluggishly and laid a heavy hand on their knee.

If he was a bit more conscious he would have thought himself utterly shameless, no better than those strange deranged perverts he so hated— right now he’s tired, and the sand was not a good place to lay his head down on and he doesn’t want to get up.

He’d apologize to her perhaps, later when he’s a bit more lucid so that he doesn’t run his mouth on accident.

Saint Trina looked down.

Radahn was dead. Time continued to pass as if nothing had happened in those sands, the landscape oblivious to the massacre.

The festival would have happened even if Amras had decided not to participate in it; however, this was far more than a festival planned to free Radahn from his stormy life. Amras had ended in one night with that which plagued the nightmares of both Lord Miquella and herself, and he bore in his flesh the fruit of that fight. Saint Trina's hands itched with the need to clean the blood, to spread some salve on the wounds he had after the fight.

However, Saint Trina only received one request for a job well done.

"...Please."

In front of them was not only a champion, but the only person who had seen their memories and had decided to do something.

Saint Trina arranged the skirts of her dress gently, getting rid of any piles of sand that might have clung to her after she sat down, and guided Amras to place his head in her lap, serving, hopefully, as a comfortable pillow.

The purple smoke thickened around them, though it did not come close to them.

"You may rest here and share my warmth all the time you need," the deity let her tone of voice sound soft, like a lullaby to a small child who refused to close his eyes. "I will be here in the morning, waiting, and we will talk."

In other circumstances, Saint Trina would have urged Amras to treat his wounds.

However, she too was so exhausted. A nap wouldn't hurt.

Sleep claimed him all too easily after his head was settled into their soft thighs, the scent of lilies helped him be lulled to slumber, much like their voice that became muffled in his ears as if he was underwater.

In his slumber, he dreamt of the same field of wheat again, a sight all too familiar as again he spotted that figure cradling the stalks in their arms in the distance. Not a memory this time, he’s concluded in the brief moment of lucidity in that dream.

Then he woke up. Trina was still there, and he’s very much alive. Injured, but alive. He had grace to thank for that perhaps.

Then he also realized he’s made the mistake of being shameless, the tip of his ears started to warm along with his cheeks even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the light— it was still dawn.

Trina looked asleep though, peaceful almost that he doesn’t dare move, afraid to wake them and rip that peace from them.

And so he laid there, a bit stiff as he stewed in the thoughts of his own embarrassment, his hands clammy as he clasped them together to calm his own nerves as he too thought of ways of how he could apologize to her for such a shameless request.

He turned his head away, as carefully as he could to not wake her but head still remaining in her lap as he gazed into the fragment of grace instead.

Sleeping and waking was always an arduous task for her.

Their eyelids weighed heavily, even though the tugging on the thread linking them to Lord Miquella had stopped at some point in the night, leaving only silence and a sense of deep emptiness. Saint Trina didn't worry about it, however, knowing that it meant Lord Miquella had needed a time-out. She didn't blame him. Sometimes, she, too, felt the need for a time-out.

The deity's eyes slowly opened at the subtle movement in her lap. Her body did not ache, even having remained in her sitting position all night, her hands paused on either side of Amras' cheeks. And, the first thing she saw when she awoke, was the face of the festival champion who had ended Radahn's life.

Saint Trina took a deep breath, filling her lungs with fresh air. Some lilies had magically grown around them, a protective barrier against those who would want to harm them, but the only ones left in the camp were them. No one else. Clearly, the rest had not stopped to observe Amras and Saint Trina, continuing with their respective goals.

"...Apologies. I fell asleep."

She blinked several times to shake off the last ravages of sleep.

As much as she wanted to continue sleeping close to Amras, she knew he needed urgent attention. Such big fights caused wounds, wounds that tended to get infected quickly, and Amras had gone straight to sleep without even changing his clothes. Clothes which were half torn.

Saint Trina made a small sound, similar to that of a small animal.

"...You need a bath. And a change of clothes. And to watch your wounds closely," she said, somewhat scolding Amras. "Radahn was afflicted by the Scarlet Rot. I do not want you to be afflicted by it, too."

“Mmm.” He made a sound of agreement, groaning as he got up. “…sorry about last night.” He trailed off awkwardly, not really even looking at her as the embarrassment still crept into his bones.

It felt nice though, that she cared enough to not want him to be infected by the rot too. It made him feel warm.

“I’ll call Torrent.” He said as he searched for the little ring that would summon the steed once more. He paid no mind to the fact that his companions have left, but he knows he’s not going to be hearing the end of it from them once they meet again— especially Blaidd.

He felt his face grew hot at the thought that he’d tease him for asking to sleep on the lap of a beautiful girl after a battle well done, he knows the half wolf meant well, but the thought made him strangely jittery still.

He summoned Torrent, the steed appearing from below him then he offered his hand for Trina to take.

“Let’s go home, I don’t think I want to bathe here.” Caelid and it’s acrid waters weren’t appealing, especially since his wounds ran the risk of infection which would unfortunately hinder him for a while if it settled in.

The way back would thankfully be quicker thanks to Torrent, but he thought they might have to stop on a lake or a river outside of Caelid to at least wipe himself.

"...It is of no consequence."

Saint Trina hoped Amras would not regret it.

She had left her lap for children, sick people and merchants who were about to leave life, even though they didn't know it. She accompanied young mothers desperately seeking to soothe their crying children, and held babies by their cribs in an attempt to keep them from waking their parents who rarely got a moment's rest.

That used to be. It was no longer happening. Neither the crying nor the laughter of infants could be heard in all Lands Between.

The deity tried not to think about it.

Once Torrent was summoned, she left a gentle caress on his back before climbing onto him with her legs to the side, the most comfortable position for her long dress. The weight shouldn't have felt too much for Torrent, but Saint Trina made a mental note to give him a treat when they reached their destination, a more appropriate place where Amras could wash up.

After a few moments of travel, the spectral steed came to a stop next to a pond that looked clean, hidden among some bushes and large stones outside of Caelid's territory.

As soon as she got off Torrent's back, she pulled a fruit from her robes, which she left under the steed's muzzle so he could eat calmly.

"This is a good spot," the deity said, looking around the place. It looked like something out of a dream palace, and apart from a couple of turtles hiding in the bushes, there was nothing that could hurt them there. "Please, wash the wounds so I can spread some salve on them."

He didn’t complain much as he carefully got off of Torrent. Furrowing his brows, he sat on a rock and took off his boots with some effort, then his torn clothes and left them in a pile before dipping his feet into the cold water.

Taking a deep breath, he walked further and further, gritting his teeth at the sting of the cold water touching his wounds. He coughed, beginning to rub the dried blood off in places that he could reach, the somewhat clear water staining red as some of his wounds reopened.

He frowned, gazing at his hands after he washed his face, the sun was out in the horizon now, the light of the sun beautiful as the morning light started to bathe his bare body.

He tried to reach for his back and winced, that won’t do, he thought as the skin of an open wound stretched with the effort. It’ll make it worse.

He looked at Trina who was with Torrent and pondered over his options. Clicking his tongue, he knew this was not the time to keep his pride and dignity intact, swallowing that pride, he called for Trina.

“Can you…. Help me wash the things off my back please? I can’t reach it.” He bashfully requested, this is already a lot he’s asking of them.

He’ll make it up to them at some point, but for now, he needed their help.

Torrent seemed calmer, somehow.

Saint Trina thought of Lord Miquella, of what that weight disappearing from his shoulders meant after so long. Perhaps Lord Miquella felt liberated, as did Torrent; or perhaps he would lock himself in a room in the dream palace, away from travelers and the stares he thought he had on him. The young Empyrean felt paranoid about strange things: stares that didn't exist. Murmurs coming from nowhere. Bloody visions that would not go away.

Hopefully, the short time-out would make him feel better.

The deity kept her gaze on Torrent, letting Amras have that privacy that all humans seemed to desire, even though nudity was not uncommon among gods and demigods. It was natural, part of life.

But Saint Trina wasn't going to turn around if that was what Amras wanted.

Until she heard her name being called, and then, she looked.

"...Yes. Yes, of course."

Saint Trina left the rest of the fruit on the ground to slowly enter the water of the pond, which welcomed her as if it had always been part of her. Water was one of those natural elements that kept her alive, and it did not bother her to feel it wetting her skin and clothes, which took on a darker color. The deity's hands itched to clean the stains on Amras' body, the blood that mingled with Radahn's blood. "...I am going to touch you now," she warned, before resting her hands delicately on the boy's skin.

Lord Miquella was particular about blood and all those strange stains, but Saint Trina had gotten used to it, and her fingers gently wandered over the skin of Amras' back to the dried blood that still remained on him.

It felt strange, to be this vulnerable in front of someone after such a long period of time. Trina’s touch reminded him of when they had first met, when he felt as if he was bare for her to see. Right now, he was, in a literal sense than a figurative one.

He felt their hands ghost over the huge, jagged scar on his back that resembled a rune and a centipede at the same time, then over to the spots where the blood had dried, they’re so gentle, he thought as guilt set into his bones, holding back a shudder.

Now they got dirty too.

At least now, the blood was gone from him and he felt less.. filthy, sticky.

“Thank you.” He said, truly grateful before he washed himself for the final time and exited the water.

Thankfully he had brought supplies, just one pair of spare clothes and some rolls he can use to cover up the cuts. Not enough though, but just enough that he won’t infect himself further going home.

He took the towel from the bag he’s strapped on Torrent and sat down on a nearby rock, consciously ignoring that Trina was there to see all of himself to wipe the droplets of water from his skin.

He felt himself getting shy again, he really shouldn’t be anymore, but for some reason he does feel that he needs to.

Amras' skin felt warm and alive under her fingers.

It was a strange feeling, but not unwelcome. Saint Trina thought of the fight, of Radahn's skin torn to an empty carcass that vanished into thin air like the rest of his brothers. She thought of Amras exhausted, covered in the blood of himself, his allies and his enemies, and how he would have seen the movement of the stars returning to their original position.

When Amras' skin was finally clean, the deity walked away, returning to Torrent's side as if the scene had not been so intimate. He had turned his back on her, unafraid that she was going to stick a knife in him.

There wasn't so much intimacy in the world that could compare to that moment, and Saint Trina's body tingled.

As much as she wanted to keep her eyes on Torrent, she couldn't keep her gaze from straying to the drops of water falling down Amras' exposed body. One look, just one look she promised herself. Nudity was not uncommon among deities, but he made it look so sensual. Saint Trina quietly chastised herself, remembering the wounds on the boy.

"May I help you with your wounds?"

The silence between the two was strange, and the deity was unable to interpret whether it was a good or bad thing.

Maybe Amras had questions. Maybe he didn't have them and wanted to forget everything that had happened, ignoring it.

"...I have some healing salve."

He exhaled a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you’re a real life saver.”

There’s a towel around his waist now just enough to cover the bits that should be covered— but still, his cheeks were very much warm.

He turned to look at her, seeing the white of her dress slightly pinkish from the blood in some spots and how the cotton had clung to her legs— she must be cold, he thought, ‘I’ll make her soup once we get back to the hold.’ He told himself internally.

“Sorry, I know I’ve been asking a lot from you.” He said with a guilty look on his face. “Please know that I really am very thankful for your help.” He casted his eyes off of her as he shifted to bare what he allowed himself to bare for her to see— it was still so strange to be seen with nothing else but a cloth to cover his waist, especially since he fully realized he in fact still needed for her to touch his back and other places he could not reach.

“I uh.. know this isn’t the best thing to be looking at—“ nor was it appropriate for him to show himself like that, but once again he swallowed the almost rapid beating of his heart at the person who only sought to aid him and nothing more.

“-but I do hope I don’t look too gnarly to you.” He half heartedly joked, hiding the fluster that threatened to bubble inside his chest.

"Gnarly?"

Saint Trina tilted her face, her expression full of innocent confusion.

"Why?"

The scars and marks on Amras' skin looked like many she had seen on other people's bodies, and to her, it was nothing to be ashamed of. In one way or another, it meant that the person had looked death in the face and turned their back on it. Although death no longer bathed the Lands Between, dangers continued to lurk around every corner.

"...I only see you," was all the deity said, without elaborating on her words.

From her robes, she pulled a small bottle of transparent purple oil. The contents were viscous, a texture Lord Miquella hated but it mixed perfectly well with her own nectar to create a sort of numbing effect.

Saint Trina highly doubted that Amras would want to stop on his journey to rest for a few days until his wounds were gone, so that was the only remedy she had.

She put some of the oil on her fingers and pressed gently on the first bruise she saw, on his ribs, spreading it carefully to keep Amras from feeling sore.

"...You may feel the area a little numb," she said, concentrating on the oil between her fingers. "Don't worry about it. It's normal."

Concoctions were a curious thing, and the purple vial that Trina had carried is the first he’s ever seen. He’s a little wary of it, but he trusted her enough to know that she won’t do anything bad to him.

He inhaled sharply at the spot she had pressed— thankfully that was just a bruise, not a broken rib.

It had taken a few moments for the wounds and bruises to numb just like they said it would. He’s pouting almost, the shyness hasn’t disappeared from his veins yet as he felt Trina’s gaze on his skin; not malicious, just… curious, perhaps from the amount of injuries he’s sustained from that fight— but still, their eyes on him made him feel… shy.

“This works quick.” He said, in an attempt to distract himself and to also tell her it’s in fact working.

“I think I’ll be able to.. move properly,” he paused, ears burning red. “In just a bit after you’re done.” It took a lot not to stutter, both from the pain and the way their gentle hands spread the oil on him.

"People use it as a... vision inducer. Or drug."

Something that made Saint Trina grimace every time it happened, because giving the salve a single lick was like making a tea of only purple lilies. The effect became stronger and more aggressive the purer the substance, and so she had diluted the lily petals with a little water and a lot of patience.

Amras wouldn't fall for something so weak. And even if it was really strong, Amras probably wouldn't be that affected.

The deity continued their work on the wounds near Amras' ribs, careful not to spread the contents into the wounds directly, but around them to avoid infection. It was the only thing they could do for him, since they had not appeared to fight alongside Amras against Radahn. The thought of the man's shadow gave them chills.

"You need to know that..."

Saint Trina avoided Amras' gaze as she spoke.

"I... We feel very much grateful for your deed. I haven't got the time to thank you properly for it." Perhaps, if she kept talking, she could enjoy Amras' skin a little longer despite having finished tending to the wounds. "It is... not something I could have done alone, or at all, to be honest."

Opening up to the boy was not difficult.

Amras had that effect on her, the effect of wanting to talk and explain quickly before being consumed by silence.

“Oh.” He blinked at her explanation of what the oil was. That was in fact new, and if he’s thinking about this correctly then the oil was made of the lilies too— the same that Trina had given him when they first met before, turned into a paste and spread on the same arrows he still kept.

He listened to Trina, looked at her, and observed at the way she paused in her words to say thank you. Suddenly, the dream he had about Miquella made more sense now.

It was a cry for help indeed, and he was right to follow his instinct and the anger that came with it.

He’s never felt even better at murdering Radahn like that, at giving the people he recently met and cared about some semblance of peace at least that they know the person they feared isn’t around to potentially harm them anymore.

Against his better judgement, his arms wrapped around Trina, shyness forgotten as he thought of only comforting her at that moment.

The embrace took her by surprise. So much so, that she couldn't stop a gasp from escaping her lips.

Amras' body was much warmer up close, and Saint Trina was able to feel every breath his chest gave. A constant movement, a little faster than usual, but alive. The deity held back the urge to bury herself even more until she became one with Amras' skin, to feel his heartbeat next to her ear.

However, Saint Trina was content to have him by her side with only a few scratches as a reminder of a battle that had not only been physical, but emotional as well.

"...I like your hugs," she murmured. "You are so... warm..."

Maybe that wasn't the best way to put it.

Saint Trina closed her eyes, burying her face in Amras' shoulder as if she could escape the universe that was especially out to get them.

But Radahn no longer existed.

"...Radahn was the only one to respond to Lord Miquella's call a long time ago," the deity said, in barely a whisper. Maybe those secrets could stay between them. "And there was a vow. Marriage for an heroic fight. There is not a god without a Lord, nor a Lord without a god. They go together. Radahn was older, stronger, and he could have been a good consort, for his part of the vow was a small price to pay. But Lord Miquella died before he could honor his part of the vow, and the entrance to the Lands of Shadow was sealed."

“I see.” He hummed, expression unreadable as he recalled this story told in the lens of a young boy with green eyes instead of gold.

He rubbed Trina’s back, a comfort, for both himself and her.

Older did not mean wiser, and Radahn would have looked for more war even if he got what he wanted and had married Miquella. He knew the story from Jerren— Radahn was a good general, he said, a man that idolizes Godfrey himself.

Amras was reminded that his father wanted nothing more than battles, bloodlust ran in their veins and he himself not an exception to that lineage. If someone like Radahn idolized that figure, then it would have been just futile in the end, knowing it is not only one battle that he would look for.

He wasn’t going to say those things to Trina though, but he does know more than anyone else that the small price to pay would result only in misery and unnecessary bloodshed.

He understood, he knew. Because he was also like Miquella before.

He saw a vision in his mind’s eye, the image of Radahn’s imposing figure and the man that Amras was bound to as a young boy overlapping, words slurring together, but the message being mostly the same.

He felt a sick sense of joy knowing both of them were dead.

“Would Miquella be alright?” He asked, voice quiet as he continued to embrace her. The wounds on his skin do not hurt, and the hole on his palm was a reminder of what it was that he had rid the world of.

"...I do not know."

It was hard to think of what would happen next with Radahn's death so recent.

The bond between Lord Miquella and her had not changed, still strong and resilient against any natural law. However, the tugging she felt had faded, probably because Lord Miquella was in such a deep sleep that he wasn't even able to reach the surface.

Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps, in dreams, Lord Miquella would not regret Radahn's death, thinking that the easiest path to godhood was to marry someone like him. Marriages of convenience were still marriages, and Lord Miquella would have been expected to fulfill his marital obligations just as in a real one.

The thought gave them chills.

"He will feel better soon," Saint Trina tried to put an end to Amras' doubts, without separating from him. "He just needs some... time."

Lord Miquella was going to be in mourning for a life he had not lived, but divinity was not what he expected. The world would not be fixed because he wanted it to be fixed.

Saint Trina knew that.

Time… yes, time would hopefully heal him.

Time would make him numb to it like it did with Amras, and he hoped that Miquella too would find solace in being free in some way.

Reluctantly, he parted from Trina. The light of the morning was a lot clearer now as he grasped her shoulders, looking at her with a firm smile.

“Let’s go home, I think we’ve spent too much time here.” He softly said before gathering his clothes and quickly dressing up himself— he didn’t bother to tie anything to not irritate his injuries and then gave Torrent a sugar coated rowa fruit as a reward for waiting.

There was going to be quite a long journey ahead.

“We’re at least two days off before we reach Leyndell, we’ll be stopping at Liurnia at nightfall.” He said while packing up the scraps of fabric of what remained of his previous clothes. With some effort, he hauled himself up on Torrent, and offered his hand for Trina to take again.

“Let’s go?”

Home.

Amras said it so easily.

Saint Trina had gone so long without spending more than a day in reality that it was strange, but at least her own body kept her from feeling the extreme cold or heat that lashed the Lands Between from time to time. Perhaps, even on the road, they might meet one of the merchants who would greet them as calmly as they always did.

With Lord Miquella sleeping soundly, Saint Trina's vision had returned to normal, and with a soft smile on her face, she took Amras' hand and rode right behind him on Torrent.

Maybe she could stay a while.

The deity's hands rested on Amras' waist, wrapping around him gently as she dropped her cheek on his shoulder.

"...Thank you. For letting me go with you."

Her hands wanted to continue exploring every part of Amras' body, curious about what she might find, but in those moments she stopped before she could.

They had time.

He giggled. “Of course. You’re more than welcome to barge in as much as you please there too.” He didn’t say much of anything else as the day was spent with traveling to Liurnia.

There was a lot to see; the trees, the lakes, and even the meadows were relatively peaceful that day.

Strangely enough nothing bothered the three of them even as they stopped to have a short break before going to the road again.

By the time the sun had started to set, Amras had already set up a fire. His injuries were still sore, but it wasn’t as bad as the night before.

He stared at his bandaged hand and sighed, the wound was going to take a while to properly heal but thankfully he could still use the hand. He shifted around the blanket he had set down on the grass and dirt to sleep on, with Torrent on the side where his head would be if he laid down and looked at Trina.

Their dress had long since dried, and he noticed that the pinkish stain it had earlier had turned to brown as it dried. In a brief moment he thought of washing it for them when they get back to the hold too— hopefully she wouldn’t mind having to wear one of his dresses again.

“Are you tired?” He asked; with the knowledge that she didn’t really need to eat it was the only thing he knew how to break the silence with.

“We had a long day on horseback after all.” He said as he turned his head away to idly watch the fire, mindful of her in the corner of his eye.

The day was, fortunately, uneventful.

They did not cross paths with Saint Trina's faithful, which made her relax little by little. Although she knew that her faithful would not dare to harm her, every time she thought of their hands trying to touch any part of her like a blessing it made the deity feel the need to recoil. However, it seemed that very few people in the Lands Between retained their reasoning.

If only she could do something to get everything back to normal, to the days when the only screams were those of children playing back and forth at being soldiers, and the Lands Between thrived.

When night fell, they made camp.

"I am not... very tired," Saint Trina replied, hesitating on how to explain to Amras that deities did not need sleep to be rested. "But my legs feel sore. A good kind of sore."

Although they had not walked, riding Torrent for a long time also formed certain pains in her legs, especially since she was not used to it, unlike Amras and Lord Miquella.

"Are you tired?"

Amras' face was illuminated by the fire of the campfire, making his features sharper as blades. Saint Trina looked into the fire then, a small blush appearing on her cheeks.

He didn't know what was wrong with her.

Maybe Spring was getting to her a bit.

"...Torrent must be tired, too. We should let him rest until late tomorrow. Are you in a hurry for reaching Leyndell?"

“I’m not really that tired.“ He said while he gently shook his head. “I’m not in a hurry either— seeing as well,” he gestured to himself. “I’m not really dying that much anymore.” He smiled at his own strange joke.

“Though, all three of us can just stay still here.” He plopped himself down the thick blanket, spread like a starfish almost as he looked at Liurnia’s night sky. “Like this, because this way you can see the stars.”

“Very different from Leyndell, the good kind though, I think.” He said as he looked at the stars wistfully as if he was remembering a memory from a bygone time.

It was nice to have company though, one that would choose to go out with him in smaller moments like this aside from his own horse. While Trina’s mouth did not move when she spoke, her words meant a lot to him, as few as they were.

Trina listened to him without asking for anything in return. The people who would be willing to extend that courtesy to him could be counted by his own ten fingers, it’s a little sad to think about, but it was simply the way things were.

"The stars..."

Saint Trina looked up at the sky, noticing the little things twinkling in the darkness.

The stars had always been something she loved. Perhaps it didn't make much sense, but in a place like the Lands Between, finding companionship in the stars was not uncommon. Many travelers used them as guides, while others just looked for them in an attempt to tell themselves that they were not alone.

"...Do you like the stars, Torrent? I hope so," she said, reaching to the steed to stroke his back for a few moments before lying down next to Amras, their bodies so close together that they were touching. Amras' clothes brushed against her bare legs, her own dress lifting a little due to the movements. "They look so beautiful from here..."

The dream palace had never been able to recreate the real glow.

Lord Miquella would try from time to time, creating small fireballs that he would then attempt to hang in the sky of the dream palace, but it would never be a replacement for the real stars.

Gently, Saint Trina moved to lie on her side, watching Amras' profile.

"I have not experienced this. Sleeping under the stars," the deity commented in barely an intimate whisper. "Well, yes, I did, but not... not here, in reality. It makes me feel... unsafe, to know I am resting with something unknown out there."

Unsafe… he frowned.

He turned to his side so he could face her, green eyes half lidded as he looked at Trina with concern. He wanted to hug her again, his fingers twitching at the hesitation of that gesture as he struggled to form words to let her know he would not allow anything to bring harm to her here.

Not while he’s around.

Instead, he tucked a stray lock of silvery hair behind her ear and smiled. “Nothing bad can touch you here,” he doesn’t want her to worry, while idle, he had always been far too aware of his surroundings when he laid himself out in the open. “I’ll keep them off of you, so don’t be afraid.”

He didn’t really know what pushed the uncertainties out of his head as he carefully positioned himself so that they would be eye level to his neck, then hesitantly, wrapped his arm around them, pulling them close to him but not enough that they’d suffocate.

Maybe it was because she looked afraid, as if something was coming out there to get her— something that wasn’t Radahn. Trina looked as if someone was seeking her, following her wherever she went that they’d dislike being in an open space alone.

He understood that sentiment.

And so he’s there, arm around her and positioned as if he wanted to protect them from the world— and he /would/.

“You can count on me to keep you away from anything creepy, I can scare them off, I’m sure.” He patted her back gently as he said those words; they weren’t lies, if he could kill Radahn then he was sure he could scare off much of anything else.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Don't be afraid.

Saint Trina closed her eyes at those words, burying her face in Amras' chest as if she could truly disappear from the sight of anyone who wished to perceive her. Being alone frightened her, but she was not alone. Amras was beside her.

His warm body enveloped her with exceptional care, something she had never felt before. It was not worship. The adoration came with so many other perceptions— lustful love, glittering eyes watching her as if she were a prize they had earned after a lifetime of suffering. Saint Trina was not a prize for her entourage, and Amras understood that because he was not part of it.

The deity felt more comfortable with Amras in just a few moments than she had in her entire life.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the boy's scent mixed with the grass around her. Liurna had a very different smell from the rest of the Lands Between, more natural, and the pools of water were always good for getting their feet wet. Perhaps they could stay there for a while.

"...May your dreams be filled with promises," Saint Trina said in a whisper, pressing a soft kiss against Amras' robe. He probably wouldn't notice, but her words were the same ones she used with those who had trouble sleeping. She only hoped to be of some help. "Promises of a good future, and health. You will become Elden Lord, Amras. ‘Tis not a hopeful wish, but an oath. You will be the new Elden Lord, and will begin a new age."

Lord Miquella's Age of Compassion was no more.

Soon, it would be replaced by a completely new one. Saint Trina felt it in how the wind moved around them.

"Please, Lord brother..."

"Our vow," Radahn interrupted him, with a growl that echoed through the throne room.

His half-brother did not look convinced.

"Lord brother..."

The young Empyrean ducked his head, a gesture that did not fit the most important child.

"I will definitely—" Miquella drew a shaky breath. "Definitely become a god, so— so... if we… if I… honor our part of the vow, please..."

He closed his eyes tightly, almost as if the figure of Radahn might disappear in those moments and be replaced by Godwyn, who would take him in his arms and comfort him, wiping away his unshed tears.

"Promise me thou... will be my consort. I... just want to make the world kind."

@whenbonestellhistory

He had awoken with a gasp, tears streaming down his face as he was reeling from the all too vivid vision to be just a mere dream.

It felt so real. The dream feeding into a former memory all too familiar with him— wait. He thought, as a creeping realization made dread settle into his stomach.

The boy in his dream, the poor boy who had begged in his dream, was none other than Miquella.

It was a cry for help.

Amras remembered a ring and grew sick to his stomach again.

He groaned as he slumped his shoulders before grinding his teeth as he thought of it again. Consort…. A promise— a vow. Then the gift.. Torrent… the ring..

He frowned as he felt the telltale anger simmering in his veins as he remembered feeling a similar helplessness, a similar situation.

If what he’s thinking is true, then he’ll have to make some arrangements with some people soon.

The memory repeated itself in a constant loop in Saint Trina's mind.

They were almost instinctive. Learned from long ago.

Then, the ringing in Saint Trina's ears increased.

It was time.

The festival was about to begin.

Leaving a soft caress in Miquella's hair, Saint Trina disappeared into the air like smoke.

Hit after hit, Amras did not cease to even rest as he snapped one of the arrows that had gone through his hand and removed it with nothing more than a grunt.

He ripped a piece of his clothes and wrapped the injury quickly as Blaidd bought time for him and Millicent watched his back before he was in the field again after no more than a moment.

Curious though, the camp had gone silent, not a single sound that indicated that his companions were awake in the tents they’ve set up. They must be very tired, he thought.

With a huge sigh, he sat down near the site of Grace, sensing a familiar presence nearby.

Were they watching him?

Leaving the dream palace had been difficult.

Radahn was dead. The stars had moved too fast. The Lands of Shadow would be unable to be reached now, not without a consort.

Saint Trina held a hood over her head, hiding her purple hair, and sat next to Grace where Amras was sitting.

"...Thank you. For your deed."

"...I heard the voice calling you for the festival, and I thought I had to see you afterwards."

“So you were watching after all.” He chuckled quietly, smiling as he let himself relax a bit more.

“He’s dead now.” He said. “You do not need to worry about him anymore,” he paused, grunting as he repositioned himself to make his body feel a little less sore.

He’d apologize to her perhaps, later when he’s a bit more lucid so that he doesn’t run his mouth on accident.

Saint Trina looked down.

Radahn was dead. Time continued to pass as if nothing had happened in those sands, the landscape oblivious to the massacre.

However, Saint Trina only received one request for a job well done.

"...Please."

In front of them was not only a champion, but the only person who had seen their memories and had decided to do something.

The purple smoke thickened around them, though it did not come close to them.

In other circumstances, Saint Trina would have urged Amras to treat his wounds.

However, she too was so exhausted. A nap wouldn't hurt.

Then he woke up. Trina was still there, and he’s very much alive. Injured, but alive. He had grace to thank for that perhaps.

Then he also realized he’s made the mistake of being shameless, the tip of his ears started to warm along with his cheeks even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the light— it was still dawn.

Trina looked asleep though, peaceful almost that he doesn’t dare move, afraid to wake them and rip that peace from them.

He turned his head away, as carefully as he could to not wake her but head still remaining in her lap as he gazed into the fragment of grace instead.

Sleeping and waking was always an arduous task for her.

"...Apologies. I fell asleep."

She blinked several times to shake off the last ravages of sleep.

Saint Trina made a small sound, similar to that of a small animal.

It felt nice though, that she cared enough to not want him to be infected by the rot too. It made him feel warm.

He summoned Torrent, the steed appearing from below him then he offered his hand for Trina to take.

The way back would thankfully be quicker thanks to Torrent, but he thought they might have to stop on a lake or a river outside of Caelid to at least wipe himself.

"...It is of no consequence."

Saint Trina hoped Amras would not regret it.

That used to be. It was no longer happening. Neither the crying nor the laughter of infants could be heard in all Lands Between.

The deity tried not to think about it.

After a few moments of travel, the spectral steed came to a stop next to a pond that looked clean, hidden among some bushes and large stones outside of Caelid's territory.

As soon as she got off Torrent's back, she pulled a fruit from her robes, which she left under the steed's muzzle so he could eat calmly.

He frowned, gazing at his hands after he washed his face, the sun was out in the horizon now, the light of the sun beautiful as the morning light started to bathe his bare body.

He tried to reach for his back and winced, that won’t do, he thought as the skin of an open wound stretched with the effort. It’ll make it worse.

“Can you…. Help me wash the things off my back please? I can’t reach it.” He bashfully requested, this is already a lot he’s asking of them.

He’ll make it up to them at some point, but for now, he needed their help.

Torrent seemed calmer, somehow.

Hopefully, the short time-out would make him feel better.

The deity kept her gaze on Torrent, letting Amras have that privacy that all humans seemed to desire, even though nudity was not uncommon among gods and demigods. It was natural, part of life.

But Saint Trina wasn't going to turn around if that was what Amras wanted.

Until she heard her name being called, and then, she looked.

"...Yes. Yes, of course."

Now they got dirty too.

At least now, the blood was gone from him and he felt less.. filthy, sticky.

“Thank you.” He said, truly grateful before he washed himself for the final time and exited the water.

He took the towel from the bag he’s strapped on Torrent and sat down on a nearby rock, consciously ignoring that Trina was there to see all of himself to wipe the droplets of water from his skin.

He felt himself getting shy again, he really shouldn’t be anymore, but for some reason he does feel that he needs to.

Amras' skin felt warm and alive under her fingers.

There wasn't so much intimacy in the world that could compare to that moment, and Saint Trina's body tingled.

"May I help you with your wounds?"

The silence between the two was strange, and the deity was unable to interpret whether it was a good or bad thing.

Maybe Amras had questions. Maybe he didn't have them and wanted to forget everything that had happened, ignoring it.

"...I have some healing salve."

He exhaled a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you’re a real life saver.”

There’s a towel around his waist now just enough to cover the bits that should be covered— but still, his cheeks were very much warm.

“-but I do hope I don’t look too gnarly to you.” He half heartedly joked, hiding the fluster that threatened to bubble inside his chest.

"Gnarly?"

Saint Trina tilted her face, her expression full of innocent confusion.

"Why?"

"...I only see you," was all the deity said, without elaborating on her words.

Saint Trina highly doubted that Amras would want to stop on his journey to rest for a few days until his wounds were gone, so that was the only remedy she had.

She put some of the oil on her fingers and pressed gently on the first bruise she saw, on his ribs, spreading it carefully to keep Amras from feeling sore.

"...You may feel the area a little numb," she said, concentrating on the oil between her fingers. "Don't worry about it. It's normal."

He inhaled sharply at the spot she had pressed— thankfully that was just a bruise, not a broken rib.

“This works quick.” He said, in an attempt to distract himself and to also tell her it’s in fact working.

"People use it as a... vision inducer. Or drug."

Amras wouldn't fall for something so weak. And even if it was really strong, Amras probably wouldn't be that affected.

"You need to know that..."

Saint Trina avoided Amras' gaze as she spoke.

Opening up to the boy was not difficult.

Amras had that effect on her, the effect of wanting to talk and explain quickly before being consumed by silence.

He listened to Trina, looked at her, and observed at the way she paused in her words to say thank you. Suddenly, the dream he had about Miquella made more sense now.

It was a cry for help indeed, and he was right to follow his instinct and the anger that came with it.

Against his better judgement, his arms wrapped around Trina, shyness forgotten as he thought of only comforting her at that moment.

The embrace took her by surprise. So much so, that she couldn't stop a gasp from escaping her lips.

However, Saint Trina was content to have him by her side with only a few scratches as a reminder of a battle that had not only been physical, but emotional as well.

"...I like your hugs," she murmured. "You are so... warm..."

Maybe that wasn't the best way to put it.

Saint Trina closed her eyes, burying her face in Amras' shoulder as if she could escape the universe that was especially out to get them.

But Radahn no longer existed.

“I see.” He hummed, expression unreadable as he recalled this story told in the lens of a young boy with green eyes instead of gold.

He rubbed Trina’s back, a comfort, for both himself and her.

He wasn’t going to say those things to Trina though, but he does know more than anyone else that the small price to pay would result only in misery and unnecessary bloodshed.

He understood, he knew. Because he was also like Miquella before.

He felt a sick sense of joy knowing both of them were dead.

"...I do not know."

It was hard to think of what would happen next with Radahn's death so recent.

The thought gave them chills.

"He will feel better soon," Saint Trina tried to put an end to Amras' doubts, without separating from him. "He just needs some... time."

Lord Miquella was going to be in mourning for a life he had not lived, but divinity was not what he expected. The world would not be fixed because he wanted it to be fixed.

Saint Trina knew that.

Time… yes, time would hopefully heal him.

Time would make him numb to it like it did with Amras, and he hoped that Miquella too would find solace in being free in some way.

Reluctantly, he parted from Trina. The light of the morning was a lot clearer now as he grasped her shoulders, looking at her with a firm smile.

There was going to be quite a long journey ahead.

“Let’s go?”

Home.

Amras said it so easily.

With Lord Miquella sleeping soundly, Saint Trina's vision had returned to normal, and with a soft smile on her face, she took Amras' hand and rode right behind him on Torrent.

Maybe she could stay a while.

The deity's hands rested on Amras' waist, wrapping around him gently as she dropped her cheek on his shoulder.

"...Thank you. For letting me go with you."

Her hands wanted to continue exploring every part of Amras' body, curious about what she might find, but in those moments she stopped before she could.

They had time.

He giggled. “Of course. You’re more than welcome to barge in as much as you please there too.” He didn’t say much of anything else as the day was spent with traveling to Liurnia.

There was a lot to see; the trees, the lakes, and even the meadows were relatively peaceful that day.

Strangely enough nothing bothered the three of them even as they stopped to have a short break before going to the road again.

By the time the sun had started to set, Amras had already set up a fire. His injuries were still sore, but it wasn’t as bad as the night before.

“Are you tired?” He asked; with the knowledge that she didn’t really need to eat it was the only thing he knew how to break the silence with.

“We had a long day on horseback after all.” He said as he turned his head away to idly watch the fire, mindful of her in the corner of his eye.

The day was, fortunately, uneventful.

If only she could do something to get everything back to normal, to the days when the only screams were those of children playing back and forth at being soldiers, and the Lands Between thrived.

When night fell, they made camp.

"I am not... very tired," Saint Trina replied, hesitating on how to explain to Amras that deities did not need sleep to be rested. "But my legs feel sore. A good kind of sore."

Although they had not walked, riding Torrent for a long time also formed certain pains in her legs, especially since she was not used to it, unlike Amras and Lord Miquella.

"Are you tired?"

Amras' face was illuminated by the fire of the campfire, making his features sharper as blades. Saint Trina looked into the fire then, a small blush appearing on her cheeks.

He didn't know what was wrong with her.

Maybe Spring was getting to her a bit.

"...Torrent must be tired, too. We should let him rest until late tomorrow. Are you in a hurry for reaching Leyndell?"

“Very different from Leyndell, the good kind though, I think.” He said as he looked at the stars wistfully as if he was remembering a memory from a bygone time.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

"The stars..."

Saint Trina looked up at the sky, noticing the little things twinkling in the darkness.

The dream palace had never been able to recreate the real glow.

Lord Miquella would try from time to time, creating small fireballs that he would then attempt to hang in the sky of the dream palace, but it would never be a replacement for the real stars.

Gently, Saint Trina moved to lie on her side, watching Amras' profile.

"Please, Lord brother..."

"Our vow," Radahn interrupted him, with a growl that echoed through the throne room.

His half-brother did not look convinced.

"Lord brother..."

The young Empyrean ducked his head, a gesture that did not fit the most important child.

"I will definitely—" Miquella drew a shaky breath. "Definitely become a god, so— so... if we… if I… honor our part of the vow, please..."

He closed his eyes tightly, almost as if the figure of Radahn might disappear in those moments and be replaced by Godwyn, who would take him in his arms and comfort him, wiping away his unshed tears.

"Promise me thou... will be my consort. I... just want to make the world kind."

@whenbonestellhistory

He had awoken with a gasp, tears streaming down his face as he was reeling from the all too vivid vision to be just a mere dream.

It felt so real. The dream feeding into a former memory all too familiar with him— wait. He thought, as a creeping realization made dread settle into his stomach.

The boy in his dream, the poor boy who had begged in his dream, was none other than Miquella.

It was a cry for help.

Amras remembered a ring and grew sick to his stomach again.

He groaned as he slumped his shoulders before grinding his teeth as he thought of it again. Consort…. A promise— a vow. Then the gift.. Torrent… the ring..

He frowned as he felt the telltale anger simmering in his veins as he remembered feeling a similar helplessness, a similar situation.

If what he’s thinking is true, then he’ll have to make some arrangements with some people soon.

The memory repeated itself in a constant loop in Saint Trina's mind.

They were almost instinctive. Learned from long ago.

Then, the ringing in Saint Trina's ears increased.

It was time.

The festival was about to begin.

Leaving a soft caress in Miquella's hair, Saint Trina disappeared into the air like smoke.

Hit after hit, Amras did not cease to even rest as he snapped one of the arrows that had gone through his hand and removed it with nothing more than a grunt.

He ripped a piece of his clothes and wrapped the injury quickly as Blaidd bought time for him and Millicent watched his back before he was in the field again after no more than a moment.

Curious though, the camp had gone silent, not a single sound that indicated that his companions were awake in the tents they’ve set up. They must be very tired, he thought.

With a huge sigh, he sat down near the site of Grace, sensing a familiar presence nearby.

Were they watching him?

Leaving the dream palace had been difficult.

Radahn was dead. The stars had moved too fast. The Lands of Shadow would be unable to be reached now, not without a consort.

Saint Trina held a hood over her head, hiding her purple hair, and sat next to Grace where Amras was sitting.

"...Thank you. For your deed."

"...I heard the voice calling you for the festival, and I thought I had to see you afterwards."

“So you were watching after all.” He chuckled quietly, smiling as he let himself relax a bit more.

“He’s dead now.” He said. “You do not need to worry about him anymore,” he paused, grunting as he repositioned himself to make his body feel a little less sore.

He’d apologize to her perhaps, later when he’s a bit more lucid so that he doesn’t run his mouth on accident.

Saint Trina looked down.

Radahn was dead. Time continued to pass as if nothing had happened in those sands, the landscape oblivious to the massacre.

However, Saint Trina only received one request for a job well done.

"...Please."

In front of them was not only a champion, but the only person who had seen their memories and had decided to do something.

The purple smoke thickened around them, though it did not come close to them.

In other circumstances, Saint Trina would have urged Amras to treat his wounds.

However, she too was so exhausted. A nap wouldn't hurt.

Then he woke up. Trina was still there, and he’s very much alive. Injured, but alive. He had grace to thank for that perhaps.

Then he also realized he’s made the mistake of being shameless, the tip of his ears started to warm along with his cheeks even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the light— it was still dawn.

Trina looked asleep though, peaceful almost that he doesn’t dare move, afraid to wake them and rip that peace from them.

He turned his head away, as carefully as he could to not wake her but head still remaining in her lap as he gazed into the fragment of grace instead.

Sleeping and waking was always an arduous task for her.

"...Apologies. I fell asleep."

She blinked several times to shake off the last ravages of sleep.

Saint Trina made a small sound, similar to that of a small animal.

It felt nice though, that she cared enough to not want him to be infected by the rot too. It made him feel warm.

He summoned Torrent, the steed appearing from below him then he offered his hand for Trina to take.

The way back would thankfully be quicker thanks to Torrent, but he thought they might have to stop on a lake or a river outside of Caelid to at least wipe himself.

"...It is of no consequence."

Saint Trina hoped Amras would not regret it.

That used to be. It was no longer happening. Neither the crying nor the laughter of infants could be heard in all Lands Between.

The deity tried not to think about it.

After a few moments of travel, the spectral steed came to a stop next to a pond that looked clean, hidden among some bushes and large stones outside of Caelid's territory.

As soon as she got off Torrent's back, she pulled a fruit from her robes, which she left under the steed's muzzle so he could eat calmly.

He frowned, gazing at his hands after he washed his face, the sun was out in the horizon now, the light of the sun beautiful as the morning light started to bathe his bare body.

He tried to reach for his back and winced, that won’t do, he thought as the skin of an open wound stretched with the effort. It’ll make it worse.

“Can you…. Help me wash the things off my back please? I can’t reach it.” He bashfully requested, this is already a lot he’s asking of them.

He’ll make it up to them at some point, but for now, he needed their help.

Torrent seemed calmer, somehow.

Hopefully, the short time-out would make him feel better.

The deity kept her gaze on Torrent, letting Amras have that privacy that all humans seemed to desire, even though nudity was not uncommon among gods and demigods. It was natural, part of life.

But Saint Trina wasn't going to turn around if that was what Amras wanted.

Until she heard her name being called, and then, she looked.

"...Yes. Yes, of course."

Now they got dirty too.

At least now, the blood was gone from him and he felt less.. filthy, sticky.

“Thank you.” He said, truly grateful before he washed himself for the final time and exited the water.

He took the towel from the bag he’s strapped on Torrent and sat down on a nearby rock, consciously ignoring that Trina was there to see all of himself to wipe the droplets of water from his skin.

He felt himself getting shy again, he really shouldn’t be anymore, but for some reason he does feel that he needs to.

Amras' skin felt warm and alive under her fingers.

There wasn't so much intimacy in the world that could compare to that moment, and Saint Trina's body tingled.

"May I help you with your wounds?"

The silence between the two was strange, and the deity was unable to interpret whether it was a good or bad thing.

Maybe Amras had questions. Maybe he didn't have them and wanted to forget everything that had happened, ignoring it.

"...I have some healing salve."

He exhaled a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you’re a real life saver.”

There’s a towel around his waist now just enough to cover the bits that should be covered— but still, his cheeks were very much warm.

“-but I do hope I don’t look too gnarly to you.” He half heartedly joked, hiding the fluster that threatened to bubble inside his chest.

"Gnarly?"

Saint Trina tilted her face, her expression full of innocent confusion.

"Why?"

"...I only see you," was all the deity said, without elaborating on her words.

Saint Trina highly doubted that Amras would want to stop on his journey to rest for a few days until his wounds were gone, so that was the only remedy she had.

She put some of the oil on her fingers and pressed gently on the first bruise she saw, on his ribs, spreading it carefully to keep Amras from feeling sore.

"...You may feel the area a little numb," she said, concentrating on the oil between her fingers. "Don't worry about it. It's normal."

He inhaled sharply at the spot she had pressed— thankfully that was just a bruise, not a broken rib.

“This works quick.” He said, in an attempt to distract himself and to also tell her it’s in fact working.

"People use it as a... vision inducer. Or drug."

Amras wouldn't fall for something so weak. And even if it was really strong, Amras probably wouldn't be that affected.

"You need to know that..."

Saint Trina avoided Amras' gaze as she spoke.

Opening up to the boy was not difficult.

Amras had that effect on her, the effect of wanting to talk and explain quickly before being consumed by silence.

He listened to Trina, looked at her, and observed at the way she paused in her words to say thank you. Suddenly, the dream he had about Miquella made more sense now.

It was a cry for help indeed, and he was right to follow his instinct and the anger that came with it.

Against his better judgement, his arms wrapped around Trina, shyness forgotten as he thought of only comforting her at that moment.

The embrace took her by surprise. So much so, that she couldn't stop a gasp from escaping her lips.

However, Saint Trina was content to have him by her side with only a few scratches as a reminder of a battle that had not only been physical, but emotional as well.

"...I like your hugs," she murmured. "You are so... warm..."

Maybe that wasn't the best way to put it.

Saint Trina closed her eyes, burying her face in Amras' shoulder as if she could escape the universe that was especially out to get them.

But Radahn no longer existed.

“I see.” He hummed, expression unreadable as he recalled this story told in the lens of a young boy with green eyes instead of gold.

He rubbed Trina’s back, a comfort, for both himself and her.

He wasn’t going to say those things to Trina though, but he does know more than anyone else that the small price to pay would result only in misery and unnecessary bloodshed.

He understood, he knew. Because he was also like Miquella before.

He felt a sick sense of joy knowing both of them were dead.

"...I do not know."

It was hard to think of what would happen next with Radahn's death so recent.

The thought gave them chills.

"He will feel better soon," Saint Trina tried to put an end to Amras' doubts, without separating from him. "He just needs some... time."

Lord Miquella was going to be in mourning for a life he had not lived, but divinity was not what he expected. The world would not be fixed because he wanted it to be fixed.

Saint Trina knew that.

Time… yes, time would hopefully heal him.

Time would make him numb to it like it did with Amras, and he hoped that Miquella too would find solace in being free in some way.

Reluctantly, he parted from Trina. The light of the morning was a lot clearer now as he grasped her shoulders, looking at her with a firm smile.

There was going to be quite a long journey ahead.

“Let’s go?”

Home.

Amras said it so easily.

With Lord Miquella sleeping soundly, Saint Trina's vision had returned to normal, and with a soft smile on her face, she took Amras' hand and rode right behind him on Torrent.

Maybe she could stay a while.

The deity's hands rested on Amras' waist, wrapping around him gently as she dropped her cheek on his shoulder.

"...Thank you. For letting me go with you."

Her hands wanted to continue exploring every part of Amras' body, curious about what she might find, but in those moments she stopped before she could.

They had time.

He giggled. “Of course. You’re more than welcome to barge in as much as you please there too.” He didn’t say much of anything else as the day was spent with traveling to Liurnia.

There was a lot to see; the trees, the lakes, and even the meadows were relatively peaceful that day.

Strangely enough nothing bothered the three of them even as they stopped to have a short break before going to the road again.

By the time the sun had started to set, Amras had already set up a fire. His injuries were still sore, but it wasn’t as bad as the night before.

“Are you tired?” He asked; with the knowledge that she didn’t really need to eat it was the only thing he knew how to break the silence with.

“We had a long day on horseback after all.” He said as he turned his head away to idly watch the fire, mindful of her in the corner of his eye.

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

The day was, fortunately, uneventful.

If only she could do something to get everything back to normal, to the days when the only screams were those of children playing back and forth at being soldiers, and the Lands Between thrived.

When night fell, they made camp.

"I am not... very tired," Saint Trina replied, hesitating on how to explain to Amras that deities did not need sleep to be rested. "But my legs feel sore. A good kind of sore."

Although they had not walked, riding Torrent for a long time also formed certain pains in her legs, especially since she was not used to it, unlike Amras and Lord Miquella.

"Are you tired?"

Amras' face was illuminated by the fire of the campfire, making his features sharper as blades. Saint Trina looked into the fire then, a small blush appearing on her cheeks.

He didn't know what was wrong with her.

Maybe Spring was getting to her a bit.

"...Torrent must be tired, too. We should let him rest until late tomorrow. Are you in a hurry for reaching Leyndell?"

"Please, Lord brother..."

"Our vow," Radahn interrupted him, with a growl that echoed through the throne room.

His half-brother did not look convinced.

"Lord brother..."

The young Empyrean ducked his head, a gesture that did not fit the most important child.

"I will definitely—" Miquella drew a shaky breath. "Definitely become a god, so— so... if we… if I… honor our part of the vow, please..."

He closed his eyes tightly, almost as if the figure of Radahn might disappear in those moments and be replaced by Godwyn, who would take him in his arms and comfort him, wiping away his unshed tears.

"Promise me thou... will be my consort. I... just want to make the world kind."

@whenbonestellhistory

He had awoken with a gasp, tears streaming down his face as he was reeling from the all too vivid vision to be just a mere dream.

It felt so real. The dream feeding into a former memory all too familiar with him— wait. He thought, as a creeping realization made dread settle into his stomach.

The boy in his dream, the poor boy who had begged in his dream, was none other than Miquella.

It was a cry for help.

Amras remembered a ring and grew sick to his stomach again.

He groaned as he slumped his shoulders before grinding his teeth as he thought of it again. Consort…. A promise— a vow. Then the gift.. Torrent… the ring..

He frowned as he felt the telltale anger simmering in his veins as he remembered feeling a similar helplessness, a similar situation.

If what he’s thinking is true, then he’ll have to make some arrangements with some people soon.

The memory repeated itself in a constant loop in Saint Trina's mind.

They were almost instinctive. Learned from long ago.

Then, the ringing in Saint Trina's ears increased.

It was time.

The festival was about to begin.

Leaving a soft caress in Miquella's hair, Saint Trina disappeared into the air like smoke.

Hit after hit, Amras did not cease to even rest as he snapped one of the arrows that had gone through his hand and removed it with nothing more than a grunt.

He ripped a piece of his clothes and wrapped the injury quickly as Blaidd bought time for him and Millicent watched his back before he was in the field again after no more than a moment.

Curious though, the camp had gone silent, not a single sound that indicated that his companions were awake in the tents they’ve set up. They must be very tired, he thought.

With a huge sigh, he sat down near the site of Grace, sensing a familiar presence nearby.

Were they watching him?

Leaving the dream palace had been difficult.

Radahn was dead. The stars had moved too fast. The Lands of Shadow would be unable to be reached now, not without a consort.

Saint Trina held a hood over her head, hiding her purple hair, and sat next to Grace where Amras was sitting.

"...Thank you. For your deed."

"...I heard the voice calling you for the festival, and I thought I had to see you afterwards."

“So you were watching after all.” He chuckled quietly, smiling as he let himself relax a bit more.

“He’s dead now.” He said. “You do not need to worry about him anymore,” he paused, grunting as he repositioned himself to make his body feel a little less sore.

He’d apologize to her perhaps, later when he’s a bit more lucid so that he doesn’t run his mouth on accident.

Saint Trina looked down.

Radahn was dead. Time continued to pass as if nothing had happened in those sands, the landscape oblivious to the massacre.

However, Saint Trina only received one request for a job well done.

"...Please."

In front of them was not only a champion, but the only person who had seen their memories and had decided to do something.

The purple smoke thickened around them, though it did not come close to them.

In other circumstances, Saint Trina would have urged Amras to treat his wounds.

However, she too was so exhausted. A nap wouldn't hurt.

Then he woke up. Trina was still there, and he’s very much alive. Injured, but alive. He had grace to thank for that perhaps.

Then he also realized he’s made the mistake of being shameless, the tip of his ears started to warm along with his cheeks even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the light— it was still dawn.

Trina looked asleep though, peaceful almost that he doesn’t dare move, afraid to wake them and rip that peace from them.

He turned his head away, as carefully as he could to not wake her but head still remaining in her lap as he gazed into the fragment of grace instead.

Sleeping and waking was always an arduous task for her.

"...Apologies. I fell asleep."

She blinked several times to shake off the last ravages of sleep.

Saint Trina made a small sound, similar to that of a small animal.

It felt nice though, that she cared enough to not want him to be infected by the rot too. It made him feel warm.

He summoned Torrent, the steed appearing from below him then he offered his hand for Trina to take.

The way back would thankfully be quicker thanks to Torrent, but he thought they might have to stop on a lake or a river outside of Caelid to at least wipe himself.

"...It is of no consequence."

Saint Trina hoped Amras would not regret it.

That used to be. It was no longer happening. Neither the crying nor the laughter of infants could be heard in all Lands Between.

The deity tried not to think about it.

After a few moments of travel, the spectral steed came to a stop next to a pond that looked clean, hidden among some bushes and large stones outside of Caelid's territory.

As soon as she got off Torrent's back, she pulled a fruit from her robes, which she left under the steed's muzzle so he could eat calmly.

He frowned, gazing at his hands after he washed his face, the sun was out in the horizon now, the light of the sun beautiful as the morning light started to bathe his bare body.

He tried to reach for his back and winced, that won’t do, he thought as the skin of an open wound stretched with the effort. It’ll make it worse.

“Can you…. Help me wash the things off my back please? I can’t reach it.” He bashfully requested, this is already a lot he’s asking of them.

He’ll make it up to them at some point, but for now, he needed their help.

Torrent seemed calmer, somehow.

Hopefully, the short time-out would make him feel better.

The deity kept her gaze on Torrent, letting Amras have that privacy that all humans seemed to desire, even though nudity was not uncommon among gods and demigods. It was natural, part of life.

But Saint Trina wasn't going to turn around if that was what Amras wanted.

Until she heard her name being called, and then, she looked.

"...Yes. Yes, of course."

Now they got dirty too.

At least now, the blood was gone from him and he felt less.. filthy, sticky.

“Thank you.” He said, truly grateful before he washed himself for the final time and exited the water.

He took the towel from the bag he’s strapped on Torrent and sat down on a nearby rock, consciously ignoring that Trina was there to see all of himself to wipe the droplets of water from his skin.

He felt himself getting shy again, he really shouldn’t be anymore, but for some reason he does feel that he needs to.

Amras' skin felt warm and alive under her fingers.

There wasn't so much intimacy in the world that could compare to that moment, and Saint Trina's body tingled.

"May I help you with your wounds?"

The silence between the two was strange, and the deity was unable to interpret whether it was a good or bad thing.

Maybe Amras had questions. Maybe he didn't have them and wanted to forget everything that had happened, ignoring it.

"...I have some healing salve."

He exhaled a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you’re a real life saver.”

There’s a towel around his waist now just enough to cover the bits that should be covered— but still, his cheeks were very much warm.

“-but I do hope I don’t look too gnarly to you.” He half heartedly joked, hiding the fluster that threatened to bubble inside his chest.

"Gnarly?"

Saint Trina tilted her face, her expression full of innocent confusion.

"Why?"

"...I only see you," was all the deity said, without elaborating on her words.

Saint Trina highly doubted that Amras would want to stop on his journey to rest for a few days until his wounds were gone, so that was the only remedy she had.

She put some of the oil on her fingers and pressed gently on the first bruise she saw, on his ribs, spreading it carefully to keep Amras from feeling sore.

"...You may feel the area a little numb," she said, concentrating on the oil between her fingers. "Don't worry about it. It's normal."

He inhaled sharply at the spot she had pressed— thankfully that was just a bruise, not a broken rib.

“This works quick.” He said, in an attempt to distract himself and to also tell her it’s in fact working.

"People use it as a... vision inducer. Or drug."

Amras wouldn't fall for something so weak. And even if it was really strong, Amras probably wouldn't be that affected.

"You need to know that..."

Saint Trina avoided Amras' gaze as she spoke.

Opening up to the boy was not difficult.

Amras had that effect on her, the effect of wanting to talk and explain quickly before being consumed by silence.

He listened to Trina, looked at her, and observed at the way she paused in her words to say thank you. Suddenly, the dream he had about Miquella made more sense now.

It was a cry for help indeed, and he was right to follow his instinct and the anger that came with it.

Against his better judgement, his arms wrapped around Trina, shyness forgotten as he thought of only comforting her at that moment.

The embrace took her by surprise. So much so, that she couldn't stop a gasp from escaping her lips.

However, Saint Trina was content to have him by her side with only a few scratches as a reminder of a battle that had not only been physical, but emotional as well.

"...I like your hugs," she murmured. "You are so... warm..."

Maybe that wasn't the best way to put it.

Saint Trina closed her eyes, burying her face in Amras' shoulder as if she could escape the universe that was especially out to get them.

But Radahn no longer existed.

“I see.” He hummed, expression unreadable as he recalled this story told in the lens of a young boy with green eyes instead of gold.

He rubbed Trina’s back, a comfort, for both himself and her.

He wasn’t going to say those things to Trina though, but he does know more than anyone else that the small price to pay would result only in misery and unnecessary bloodshed.

He understood, he knew. Because he was also like Miquella before.

He felt a sick sense of joy knowing both of them were dead.

"...I do not know."

It was hard to think of what would happen next with Radahn's death so recent.

The thought gave them chills.

"He will feel better soon," Saint Trina tried to put an end to Amras' doubts, without separating from him. "He just needs some... time."

Lord Miquella was going to be in mourning for a life he had not lived, but divinity was not what he expected. The world would not be fixed because he wanted it to be fixed.

Saint Trina knew that.

Time… yes, time would hopefully heal him.

Time would make him numb to it like it did with Amras, and he hoped that Miquella too would find solace in being free in some way.

Reluctantly, he parted from Trina. The light of the morning was a lot clearer now as he grasped her shoulders, looking at her with a firm smile.

There was going to be quite a long journey ahead.

“Let’s go?”

#cc rp #amras the bloodstained scholar #saint trina #:: ageofdawn

Home.

Amras said it so easily.

With Lord Miquella sleeping soundly, Saint Trina's vision had returned to normal, and with a soft smile on her face, she took Amras' hand and rode right behind him on Torrent.

Maybe she could stay a while.

The deity's hands rested on Amras' waist, wrapping around him gently as she dropped her cheek on his shoulder.

"...Thank you. For letting me go with you."

Her hands wanted to continue exploring every part of Amras' body, curious about what she might find, but in those moments she stopped before she could.

They had time.

"Please, Lord brother..."

"Our vow," Radahn interrupted him, with a growl that echoed through the throne room.

His half-brother did not look convinced.

"Lord brother..."

The young Empyrean ducked his head, a gesture that did not fit the most important child.

"I will definitely—" Miquella drew a shaky breath. "Definitely become a god, so— so... if we… if I… honor our part of the vow, please..."

He closed his eyes tightly, almost as if the figure of Radahn might disappear in those moments and be replaced by Godwyn, who would take him in his arms and comfort him, wiping away his unshed tears.

"Promise me thou... will be my consort. I... just want to make the world kind."

@whenbonestellhistory

He had awoken with a gasp, tears streaming down his face as he was reeling from the all too vivid vision to be just a mere dream.

It felt so real. The dream feeding into a former memory all too familiar with him— wait. He thought, as a creeping realization made dread settle into his stomach.

The boy in his dream, the poor boy who had begged in his dream, was none other than Miquella.

It was a cry for help.

Amras remembered a ring and grew sick to his stomach again.

He groaned as he slumped his shoulders before grinding his teeth as he thought of it again. Consort…. A promise— a vow. Then the gift.. Torrent… the ring..

He frowned as he felt the telltale anger simmering in his veins as he remembered feeling a similar helplessness, a similar situation.

If what he’s thinking is true, then he’ll have to make some arrangements with some people soon.

The memory repeated itself in a constant loop in Saint Trina's mind.

They were almost instinctive. Learned from long ago.

Then, the ringing in Saint Trina's ears increased.

It was time.

The festival was about to begin.

Leaving a soft caress in Miquella's hair, Saint Trina disappeared into the air like smoke.

Hit after hit, Amras did not cease to even rest as he snapped one of the arrows that had gone through his hand and removed it with nothing more than a grunt.

He ripped a piece of his clothes and wrapped the injury quickly as Blaidd bought time for him and Millicent watched his back before he was in the field again after no more than a moment.

Curious though, the camp had gone silent, not a single sound that indicated that his companions were awake in the tents they’ve set up. They must be very tired, he thought.

With a huge sigh, he sat down near the site of Grace, sensing a familiar presence nearby.

Were they watching him?

Leaving the dream palace had been difficult.

Radahn was dead. The stars had moved too fast. The Lands of Shadow would be unable to be reached now, not without a consort.

Saint Trina held a hood over her head, hiding her purple hair, and sat next to Grace where Amras was sitting.

"...Thank you. For your deed."

"...I heard the voice calling you for the festival, and I thought I had to see you afterwards."

“So you were watching after all.” He chuckled quietly, smiling as he let himself relax a bit more.

“He’s dead now.” He said. “You do not need to worry about him anymore,” he paused, grunting as he repositioned himself to make his body feel a little less sore.

He’d apologize to her perhaps, later when he’s a bit more lucid so that he doesn’t run his mouth on accident.

Saint Trina looked down.

Radahn was dead. Time continued to pass as if nothing had happened in those sands, the landscape oblivious to the massacre.

However, Saint Trina only received one request for a job well done.

"...Please."

In front of them was not only a champion, but the only person who had seen their memories and had decided to do something.

The purple smoke thickened around them, though it did not come close to them.

In other circumstances, Saint Trina would have urged Amras to treat his wounds.

However, she too was so exhausted. A nap wouldn't hurt.

Then he woke up. Trina was still there, and he’s very much alive. Injured, but alive. He had grace to thank for that perhaps.

Then he also realized he’s made the mistake of being shameless, the tip of his ears started to warm along with his cheeks even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the light— it was still dawn.

Trina looked asleep though, peaceful almost that he doesn’t dare move, afraid to wake them and rip that peace from them.

He turned his head away, as carefully as he could to not wake her but head still remaining in her lap as he gazed into the fragment of grace instead.

Sleeping and waking was always an arduous task for her.

"...Apologies. I fell asleep."

She blinked several times to shake off the last ravages of sleep.

Saint Trina made a small sound, similar to that of a small animal.

It felt nice though, that she cared enough to not want him to be infected by the rot too. It made him feel warm.

He summoned Torrent, the steed appearing from below him then he offered his hand for Trina to take.

The way back would thankfully be quicker thanks to Torrent, but he thought they might have to stop on a lake or a river outside of Caelid to at least wipe himself.

"...It is of no consequence."

Saint Trina hoped Amras would not regret it.

That used to be. It was no longer happening. Neither the crying nor the laughter of infants could be heard in all Lands Between.

The deity tried not to think about it.

After a few moments of travel, the spectral steed came to a stop next to a pond that looked clean, hidden among some bushes and large stones outside of Caelid's territory.

As soon as she got off Torrent's back, she pulled a fruit from her robes, which she left under the steed's muzzle so he could eat calmly.

He frowned, gazing at his hands after he washed his face, the sun was out in the horizon now, the light of the sun beautiful as the morning light started to bathe his bare body.

He tried to reach for his back and winced, that won’t do, he thought as the skin of an open wound stretched with the effort. It’ll make it worse.

“Can you…. Help me wash the things off my back please? I can’t reach it.” He bashfully requested, this is already a lot he’s asking of them.

He’ll make it up to them at some point, but for now, he needed their help.

Torrent seemed calmer, somehow.

Hopefully, the short time-out would make him feel better.

The deity kept her gaze on Torrent, letting Amras have that privacy that all humans seemed to desire, even though nudity was not uncommon among gods and demigods. It was natural, part of life.

But Saint Trina wasn't going to turn around if that was what Amras wanted.

Until she heard her name being called, and then, she looked.

"...Yes. Yes, of course."

Now they got dirty too.

At least now, the blood was gone from him and he felt less.. filthy, sticky.

“Thank you.” He said, truly grateful before he washed himself for the final time and exited the water.

He took the towel from the bag he’s strapped on Torrent and sat down on a nearby rock, consciously ignoring that Trina was there to see all of himself to wipe the droplets of water from his skin.

He felt himself getting shy again, he really shouldn’t be anymore, but for some reason he does feel that he needs to.

Amras' skin felt warm and alive under her fingers.

There wasn't so much intimacy in the world that could compare to that moment, and Saint Trina's body tingled.

"May I help you with your wounds?"

The silence between the two was strange, and the deity was unable to interpret whether it was a good or bad thing.

Maybe Amras had questions. Maybe he didn't have them and wanted to forget everything that had happened, ignoring it.

"...I have some healing salve."

He exhaled a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you’re a real life saver.”

There’s a towel around his waist now just enough to cover the bits that should be covered— but still, his cheeks were very much warm.

“-but I do hope I don’t look too gnarly to you.” He half heartedly joked, hiding the fluster that threatened to bubble inside his chest.

"Gnarly?"

Saint Trina tilted her face, her expression full of innocent confusion.

"Why?"

"...I only see you," was all the deity said, without elaborating on her words.

Saint Trina highly doubted that Amras would want to stop on his journey to rest for a few days until his wounds were gone, so that was the only remedy she had.

She put some of the oil on her fingers and pressed gently on the first bruise she saw, on his ribs, spreading it carefully to keep Amras from feeling sore.

"...You may feel the area a little numb," she said, concentrating on the oil between her fingers. "Don't worry about it. It's normal."

He inhaled sharply at the spot she had pressed— thankfully that was just a bruise, not a broken rib.

“This works quick.” He said, in an attempt to distract himself and to also tell her it’s in fact working.

"People use it as a... vision inducer. Or drug."

Amras wouldn't fall for something so weak. And even if it was really strong, Amras probably wouldn't be that affected.

"You need to know that..."

Saint Trina avoided Amras' gaze as she spoke.

Opening up to the boy was not difficult.

Amras had that effect on her, the effect of wanting to talk and explain quickly before being consumed by silence.

He listened to Trina, looked at her, and observed at the way she paused in her words to say thank you. Suddenly, the dream he had about Miquella made more sense now.

It was a cry for help indeed, and he was right to follow his instinct and the anger that came with it.

Against his better judgement, his arms wrapped around Trina, shyness forgotten as he thought of only comforting her at that moment.

The embrace took her by surprise. So much so, that she couldn't stop a gasp from escaping her lips.

However, Saint Trina was content to have him by her side with only a few scratches as a reminder of a battle that had not only been physical, but emotional as well.

"...I like your hugs," she murmured. "You are so... warm..."

Maybe that wasn't the best way to put it.

Saint Trina closed her eyes, burying her face in Amras' shoulder as if she could escape the universe that was especially out to get them.

But Radahn no longer existed.

“I see.” He hummed, expression unreadable as he recalled this story told in the lens of a young boy with green eyes instead of gold.

He rubbed Trina’s back, a comfort, for both himself and her.

He wasn’t going to say those things to Trina though, but he does know more than anyone else that the small price to pay would result only in misery and unnecessary bloodshed.

He understood, he knew. Because he was also like Miquella before.

He felt a sick sense of joy knowing both of them were dead.