price of resurrection.

THE HIGH PRIESTESS LEVANA MORRIGAN. 220. COURT NECROMANCER. REVOLTER YOU DON’T GET TO DIE AND BE REBORN THE SAME. YOU COME BACK, BUT YOU COME BACK WRONG. THIS IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR RESURRECTION.

[lxcuna]

I am my father’s image: a stubborn will to survive; skin-deep beauty too thin to hide the ugliness buried inside. I am my mother’s epitaph: a rage ready to ignite; this warped resilience the only poison keeping me alive.

I am everything you never wanted me to be | l.x. (via aangsarchive)

[undyingpriestess]

THE DEVIL. 

Their existence had always been a crime. Necromancers may have been considered holy, gifted their abilities by the Undying, but no one saw Inferni like them that way. They didn’t need to be reminded of it, the terror in the eyes of those around them the first time they fell out of existence and into the void, reappearing several feet away. They remember the sound of screams as clear as anything. But there is a constant reminder, anyway, in the way people look at them as they walk by. The sneering of the cleric who thinks their existence a curse, the fearful aversion of young noble girls to whom they represent some kind of storybook monster lurking in the shadows. The fiery rage behind Kithri’s eyes when she thinks no one else is watching her, subjected to all of it and more than they are because her powers are seen as an entertainment instead of a boon, instead of a scalpel.

Inferni had been hanged for less than failing to predict an assassination attempt on the king. Inferni had been hanged for the crime of existing, long before Wraith ever set foot in court. The line that separates them from the bodies in the ground is a narrow one, a tightrope they walk every day, and one they came dangerously close to falling off of, today. Comfort had nothing to do with it; it was fact. 

    “As long as that neck isn’t my own,” they reply quietly. It isn’t noble. It isn’t right. It’s survival, pure and simple, the single force that has driven them this far, that has kept them alive and safe and favored enough not to spend every waking moment looking over their own shoulder for danger. 

    As long as that neck isn’t my own. Ah, the familiarity of self-preserving inclinations. Levana remembered well what such instinct had been like -- how she had lived it day after day before her gifts were discovered. But that instinct had quickly been smothered out when she realized that she had never been meant to exist for herself -- she was meant to be the sword that the Undying God wielded, the vessel in which They could pour their divine will into. The drive to preserve the pieces of herself that she could -- that weren’t of her parents making, weren’t tainted by the ghost of a sister she had never known -- was dashed in the span of a few seconds. One would have thought that it had been reignited over the years, when they sought to burn her, crucify her, remove her from the earth because she was a direct abhorrence of nature. But how could she preserve something that was never hers to begin with? 

    She hummed, as though in thought -- eyes narrowing as she gently held their chin between her fingers, turning their head to look at their neck. After a moment, she nodded. “It is a rather lovely neck. It would be a pity for Septimus think to ruin it.” Her gaze flickered between theirs, eyes alight for a breadth. A half-second. But she turns her face away, to look back out over the balcony. “If we need to find a lamb to lead to the slaughter, then so be it.”

    We, she said. So quick to tie the two of them together. Already, she listed the names of others that she could lead Septimus and his little gaggle to. They weren’t entirely deserving of having their lives taken from them, but if they were to quickly assuage Septimus’ fears of an assassination then she would do what needed to be done. 

[undyingpriestess]

THE EMPEROR. 

The fight was his doing. Of course it was his doing, cruelty finding this growing prince as easily as puberty stretched his limbs. If he was to be a man, he’d seen from his father’s demeanor, he’d demand the respect of one, but such things were easier said than done at this tavern. Reynaud had thought it a shit hole, but it was the exact sort of shit hole his father’s men wouldn’t bother to check for his presence, and threatening his own men to keep their mouths shut about the ordeal was working well for him thus far. Reynaud was not often quite a rebellious young man – he didn’t want the attention he gained from his father to be negative, after all – but everyone had mischievous itches beneath their skin, and it just so happened his was ale and some company he could easily kick around.

After all, the tavern couldn’t refuse the Prince, lest Reynaud make good on his threats to burn the whole place down (which wouldn’t take very long given its size, he pointed out). But the people here were some that only saw him as a spoiled brat, and the respect he was beginning to demand would be far from easy to pull from the patrons, save for a few women who saw some positive side in being near him (even then, that was still far from respect in their eyes). The ale only made easier his ability to march to other tables and find reason to display his power over the regular people who visited. Combine that with an atmosphere already growing rowdy on its own and Reynaud was bound to find someone with a mouth so disrespectful it didn’t need the alcohol to loosen its lips.

It was he who delivered the first blow, a show that he was not to be trifled with. But the message was not received, and soon a brawl had begun, the Prince becoming eager to show the combat skills he’d been learning all his life, preparing him for wars more vicious than this. But he had not been to one yet, and so outside the tavern where this fight had clumsily spilled into was his battlefield, and this dagger pulled from his pocket was his sword. Blood flowed outside these walls as freely as ale flowed inside, not his own but of his adversary, and it was only then the magnitude of the situation settled down atop him.

Had he meant to take a life? Certainly not. And yet that did not stop the vicious way he fought, trained for no mercy from both the guardsmen who taught him to fight and from his father who showed him how to be. Reynaud had not quite prepared himself for this moment – in his mind, there was quite a bit of difference between the cruelty he enacted, the cruelty he sent others to commit, and having this much blood on his own hands. If others did this job for him, he simply could have walked away with little remorse, and yet at his own hands, it feels different, feels personal, as if this soul steals something from him as it drifts away from its mortal tether to join the Undying God. Reynaud is left with heaving breaths as he sinks to his knees beside the corpse, his mind unsure of the solution.

He’s still there when Levana arrives, though he hadn’t called for her. One of his men had mentioned something about going back to the castle to fetch help, and Reynaud was simply too overcome with what he had done to stop him. It’s when she makes her offer he notices the dead man can’t be more than his own age, foolish and brash and thinking himself invincible all the same as Reynaud. And yet, that does not awaken empathy in him, only fear, and fear is quote the effective tool. “He’ll remember, won’t he?” Reynaud asked, unable to meet Levana’s eyes as he began to rise to his feet.

    He’s being quite dramatic about it. 

    Levana looks at the corpse, bowing over it and taking the face of the dead man in her palms to examine him more thoroughly so that she might know at what points to place her hands so that the soul might gain purchase and slip into the body once more. For some, it was their stomach. These were the people that had laughter in their belly and constant merriment in their eyes. For other’s, it was their eyes. Their soul was reflected in them, glinting and light, reflecting the many ages that they had lived. There were few who held their soul in their hands; these were the craftsmen, the artisans, the musicians and sometimes, too, she would do this with soldiers. 

    Her lips twitched as she heard him take another heaving breath. He was breathing from his mouth and it was beginning to distract her. She considered telling him to blow his nose or shut his mouth and see what happens, but he questioned her before she could make her request. He’ll remember, won’t he? She blinked at him, wondering what answer he intended to receive. It was clear that he knew the only one she could give. The dead always remembered, when Levana beckoned their souls back to their bodies. It was the price that one had to pay when they leave the Undying God’s mantle. They did not barter with offerings and coins, like other foreign gods did. The Undying God’s currency was remembering -- and having such memories haunt you until you are rejoined with Them again. 

    “If you wish it, Prince Galien, I can lie to you,” she hums, kneeling down beside him. It took great effort, the shifting of weight, the cogs of her iron legs groaning from the mist and cold, but she finally kneeled beside him, as though the two were paying homage to the gutted man that bled out before them. And perhaps they were, in a way, paying homage not to the man but this moment that was shared between them: the first time the great Prince Galien murdered someone. A special moment indeed that deserved to be committed to both their memories. “But what would be the point, then? It’s like asking for a shield made of wicker. The sword will pierce through, anyway.”

    Instinctively, her hands move over the man’s face, fingers brushing against his eyes, shutting them so that they may see no more. It had become a ritual to her. brushing her fingers over the faces of the dead. Her fingers still had their nerves, for the most part. She was able to feel their blemishes, the last vestiges of warmth, the light brush of their lashes. With their eyes closed, it could be so easy to imagine that her gift was nothing more than beckoning them from their sleep. She sat quietly, placing her hand over the open, weeping wound. The blood was beginning to cool beneath her fingers. “What happened, then?”

[undyingpriestess]

OUT OF PATIENCE. a playlist for levana morrigan

i. o canto de cisne negro, w122, heitor villa-lobos.  ii. the paths of the dead, howard shore.  iii. vortigen and the syrens, daniel pemberton.  iv. kala, danheim.  v. if i had a heart, fever ray.  vi. resan, forndom.  vii. calypso, hans zimmer.  viii. lacrimosa, wolfgang amadeus mozart.  ix. handel / orch. hale: keyboard suite in d minor, hwv 437: iii. sarabande, george friideric handel  x. underwater march, klaus badelt.  xi. blood on the cobblestone, mikolai stroinski.  xii. eyes on the wolf, mikolai stroinski.  xiii. the devil & the daughter, daniel pemberton. 

click here for the playlist!

[undyingpriestess]

JUDGMENT.

“Yes,” Francis replies, impassive, as if Levana’s statement is obvious. It is obvious, at least to them. The Undying God sees all. This is as true as the air they breathe, as real as the ground upon which they walk. “She is with us through all things; even those that are ugly.” Their right hand moves subconsciously to rest on the Book of Undeath in their lap. They can nearly feel the words flowing through them, beginning from their fingertips and spreading to their temples and their toes. They take a deep breath, eyes closed, as if they are inhaling the words, before looking back at Levana.

“The Undying God honors death just as She honors life,” Francis continues. “One cannot exist without the other.” Their voice is measured, as it always is when they share the wisdom of the Undying God. It is in this state that Francis feels most true, most alive. “Both are necessary,” they finish.

Very rarely does someone enter the Sanctum to inquire about Francis’ well-being. More often than not, they come to absolve themselves, using Francis as the tool with which they can achieve it. They do not mind, of course; that is what the Sanctum, and Francis, are for. They admire Levana’s effort, though she cannot be further from the truth.

“Content?” Francis repeats with the ghost of a laugh. “Perhaps I should play more games of Fox’s Gambit.” They set the Book of Undeath back down on the pew and rise, pacing the length of the chancel. 

“Content is far too pretty a word to use,” they say, their footsteps echoing through the empty Sanctum. “I mourn unnecessary pain and suffering, as does the Undying God.” Francis stops where they stand, turns to face Levana once more, and adds, stone-faced: “I pray that our King learns to follow the right path.”

    Levana hums thoughtfully, eyes glancing down as she ruminates on their words. She wonders if they hear the fissures in the words, but, after a quick glance along their visage, it is clear that they do not. They don’t hear how innately wrong it is that the Undying God would guide the hands that slit throats, that stole away food from the mouth of babes, that shoved food into the gluttonous maw of those like Septimus. The truth was this: the Undying God was only heard by select few -- all others knew not Their touch, Their voice, Their grace. They were the ones that had glazed eyes during Francis’ sermon. 

    “So the evils of man are as allowable and intentional as our acts of charity,” she concluded, lips twitching upwards. “If the Undying God is to be present, watching us, as we commit these sins. Both are necessary, after all.”

    At their scoff, she can’t help but let the curve of her lips grow. What it was about the religious that called to her so, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was their familiarity, the diversity that can be found in such zeal. There was the rigorists, the zealots, those who were more charismatic, the scholars who knew every prayer from memory alone, and the politicians. 

    “I am sure there are a number who would enjoy your company playing such a game.”

    Where Francis fell on this spectrum of the Undying’s devotees, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that their devotion was pure. 

    And such purity was something so rarely witnessed that she couldn’t help but indulge in it. The phantasm of a smile slipped off of her lips, eyes shifting over the planes of their face. “Is it really unnecessary, Francis? There are some pains that the Undying God shows us, when we are young and ignorant, that is meant to teach us. The pain of burning when our hand strays too close to fire. The ache of loss so we cling onto the fleeting moments of happiness tighter.”

    “He follows no path but the one he himself creates.”

[undyingpriestess]

THE MOON.

at the spine-height of summer, where heat licks its rough cat tongue across the necks of every salted body and drips the tastings down their back, death comes to her in the form of a woman.

her ears are submerged below the waters, but she feels her approach the way a fir feels the earth shudder. a tremor runs through the roots of her, rattling leaves from their place and rumbling into the spaces between rings of life. when she lifts her head to acknowledge the arrival of levana morrigan, darkened and shadow-pinned as she is by the sun at her back, it stays fixed in place. she does not look away. 

decay has never frightened maiden. 

she stands half-raised in the waters, bare-breasted and with remnants of flowers stuck to her body like silk-coloured leeches, each bud and leaf desperate for her blood. she, too, is wearing signs of death — in her own colours. 

the necromancer asks for grounds of concealment, and maiden thinks it is as clear a question as it is a concealed one. her heart is a betrayer in her own body, but no truths pulse across her face. 

“the hare has a thousand tricks, but it cannot outrun a hawk.”

in the kingdom of the undying, life and death face one another with a great chess board between them. life makes its first return. 

“some perils necessitate a burrow, lady morrigan.”

    She really is quite a fetching thing. 

    A stark contrast to the necromancer’s very being; the embodiment of life and vitality while Levana illustrated the ever-looming promise of death. Just as the sunshine seemed to kiss this mage’s skin, the darkness seemed to cling to Levana’s, draping her in shadows even when the setting sun’s rays still stretched across the sky. Where Maiden’s tongue curled comfortingly around lies and words of deceit, Levana preferred the bitter taste of truths and the metallic tang of blunt, unfettered honesty. 

    Norn snorted as Maiden stood, water glistening and dripping off of her figure, and Levana’s head canted thoughtfully as she clasped her hands behind her back. Some perils necessitate a burrow, Maiden said. 

    “And what,” she sighed, “or who, would force you to burrow so adamantly?” 

    Levana shifted her weight, taking a handful of steps closer so that the water lapped at the toes of her boots. So keen was she to look upon the visage of the woman that studiously eluded Levana’s attempts to know her, to understand her, to see her as she deserved to be seen. Empty eyes lifted to meet Maiden’s, flickering between the other’s. 

    “A hawk, you said. Tell me about this hawk, then. What color are their feathers? How sharp are their beaks? How large are their talons?”

    A pause, a beat, a breath. 

    “Have you ever thought to clip their wings?”

[undyingpriestess]

THE CHARIOT.

Valeria is not one for children. She does not understand their wild laughs and freely-reaching hands. They pull on her cape and Valeria struggles to keep her spine straight. They shout from every direction and do not seem to mind that Valeria has been silent all the while. Do they see the apprehension in her eyes, the gentle frown on her lips? She looks to Levana; Levana smiles with the eery serenity that Valeria has become familiar with. It is a vulnerable thing, to be openly uncomfortable. Every time she regains control, it leaps out of her hands. The children break through her defenses every time.

A sword is a welcome distraction, wooden or steel. Valeria accepts it with relief. This, she knows; here, she excels. “Show me your might, little one.” She treats the little boy as if he is Aurelia, though he is far younger and not quite as pretty. It’s the only tenderness she knows; the gentlest part of her unfurls and steps forward to bask in the light. The children marvel at the difference; they each bear witness to the true Valeria, with a weapon in hand and a spark in her eyes.

Ask a dragon to hold back its fire; ask a beast to step into chains willingly. They will do their best, but they will fail. Likewise, Valeria begins with slow swings and gentle steps, but they cannot quiet the champion that dwells in her bones. Victory is their legacy and their birthright, both, and once Valeria makes the decision to win, it comes swiftly. Valeria sidesteps a swing from not-Aurelia and taps their sword against the child’s chest lightly. “You are a powerful opponent,” Valeria says solemnly. Their lips do not bear a smile, but there is a quiet warmth in their eyes. “In one year, I will return and you will beat me, yet.”

The way he beams reminds them so much of Aurelia, Valeria decides they are finished. They move to return the wooden sword — a toy in their hands, really — to Levana. “It is an unfair match,” Valeria explains half-heartedly. “I would rather stand with you than teach them what it is to lose too soon.”

    Overwhelmed is perhaps a kind word to use for the expression that colors Valeria’s face. It was not something that she would have expected from one so bold and sure-footed, but it seems that Levana has taken her out of her element. Perhaps she had grown used to the finery of court, had begun to grow lazy from the rich food and the mind-numbingly mundane talk of the latest fashions and policies. Regardless, it made Levana more sure than she had ever been that it was time for an upheaval -- and who better to ready Valeria for such a thing than these wild children who had never known stability a day in their lives? She was like a tree, firmly rooted in her confidence and intellect. The children came at her with axes, determined to fell her with their pink cheeks, wide eyes, and hopeful expressions. 

    She takes the wooden sword from their hand as the bout of playfighting concludes. She had expected the young boy to look a little put-out but instead, he only beams, his friends elbowing him and clasping him on the soldier. She wonders if Valeria realizes what they have promised to the little gaggle before them, she wonders if Valeria is aware that they will be raised from the dead time and time again to ensure that they see it through. These children have had their hopes dashed far too many times, have had too much taken from them, for being so young. 

    And it is not pity that she feels. Not sorrow or anguish, anger nor rage. 

    There is only the cold, frigid snap of her patience. 

    “They have known loss more intimately than you ever will,” Levana sighs, the words carrying on the soft gust of breath. She says they -- not we because she does not wish for Valeria’s thoughts to turn to her. The focus is on, and will remain on, the children that are being shepherded by one of the caretakers into the hall for lunch. Morrigan leans the sword against the wall, clasping her hands behind her back once more. “Which is why, when you make promises to these children, you keep it. That boy -- I recommend you find out his name and see if you can make him a squire of some sort. A kitchen boy, perhaps.”

    Her eyes flicker between Valeria’s. They really are quite beautiful. It is easy to imagine a kingdom falling before their feet. Her head cants as she looks over Valeria with the same, serene smile. How many times did she have to practice it in the mirror this morning? “I believe it is time we meet my companion for lunch. I would hate to miss it. It’s so rare that the nobles of the King’s court visit.” Her words are laced with shards of glass and thorns. I am no longer tolerating their abandonment. 

    “Hm. I hope she remembered that I enjoy spiced tea.” And with that, she turned to make her way to the Western Wing of the orphanage. 

[poirot]

“In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He’d have loved it all right.”

[undyingpriestess]

WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

     Iron and silver rings in the cold air like a battle hymn, because that is precisely what swordplay is. Metal strikes metal and in the prang it makes a song; it beats one’s breast for the dead, rising up from the alloy, away from the stiff bodies that wrap their cold fingers around their weapon — even now. And then it dissipates into the air. Vasylia watches the battle closely and with an assured distance: the way Koldam’s warriors stumble backwards, clumsily defend themselves, allow their chainmail to be pierced through with steel as they raise their swords above their head in a sweeping motion. They are callow. They never had a chance.

     Vasylia has learned that rebellions rise, one after the other, in swift and incendiary succession, but their dreams of deposition sink as quickly as they gain tract. Tyrholm ensures it. She has seen her fair share of beaten mutinies and revolts, but there is something different about this one. Something desperate, something melancholic; something, quite frankly, miserable. The battle blurs with sheer speed, with bloody carnage, and she resolves it is akin to watching silver veterans make battle with boys with wooden swords. Nevertheless, she should delight in it, should she not? She supposes she does, though the thought curdles on her tongue like sour milk while she concedes it. A squashed rebellion keeps Tyrholm recognisable. It kept it immutable. She watches as souls leave bodies and bodies become nothing more than vessels, a piece of mutilated flesh laying limply on the grass. She watches as the dirt drinks up the blood, as if forging for the fallen a timeless grave beneath the soil.

     The earth is the only thing that will remember these men.

     But the magi do not come to ogle the dead, to pass between themselves impressions on the morality of war-making — they come to resurrect them. To augment the forces to Tyrholm, to bolster them to success. As if by second nature, Vasylia mirrors her teacher’s movements to a fault, slipping from the side of Hel and ruffling her pale mane emptily with her fingers. She’s a convincing shadow, is she not? Levana’s fingers brush over her hand and she feels herself stirred by the touch—cold, colder than her own, even, but warm, somehow—and, like the faint outline of an entirely different person, she follows. Together, they stand amongst the fallen, and they have the look of strange soothsayers; like sibyls of Death. It is a strange thing, Vasylia had thought once, to be so hardened to the bloody loss of life, like a piece of armour made impassible: but here she is, curved over bodies like they are nothing. Without them, of course, they are nothing; they are only flesh and bone, their last gasp wrangling free of their lungs, leaving their skin to the dirt. Vasylia turns her head to Levana, watching for her next command. 

     She waits.

    Where Levana goes, Vasylia follows faithfully. 

    And, while the faith was appreciated, it was the confidence that she longed for -- the confidence to pour one’s heart into the wasting corpse, so much so that the Undying God has no choice but to heed the prayers of Her blessed. What kept Vasylia’s heart locked within its ivory cage, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was the fear of being consumed or the apprehension of wielding such unnatural powers, but there was no disguising it, once it was unleashed there would be nothing to keep her from swallowing the world whole with her ravenous mouth. The hunger that twisted and yawned within Levana was the very same that would eat away at Vasylia, eventually. Until then, though, she was content with being patient, with watching as the young mage ritually stepped closer to glory, only to shy away. 

    They made their way to the medic tent, eyes roaming over the soldiers that bemoaned their loss of appendages, the gaping holes in their sternum or limbs, and the loss of blood. The hem of her cloak would no doubt be soaked in it by day’s end. The air was heavy with it. The dirt began to pool with it. There was nothing they could do to muffle the pained cries that permeated the air -- though it was something that, in her 200 years of living, she could never quite get used to. No matter which court she served, which country she traveled to, which language they spoke, the cries of agony were always the same. The clamor of their suffering always had a way of haunting her, of growing just loud enough, when she was on the precipice of sleep. Among them all she could hear the whispers of the Undying, straining to be heard in the cacophony of anguish. And then she’d awake with a start. 

   She pulled the hood of her cloak down with a sigh. 

    The corpse was laid before them, a young soldier who looked as though he had his belly cut open. The medic, mousy and uncertain, tried quickly to suture the gaping hole in a timely fashion so that the necromancers that looked on could begin their work. Not for the first time, she wished for the company of an adept vitalus. How quickly these shoulders would rise at her becoming. They would be like a second wave, crashing over what was left of the Koldam forces -- laying slaughter to them all. Ritualistically, she rolled up her sleeves, the ever-familiar craving stretching to the tips of her fingers giving her the warmth that she was so sure she had forgotten. One side-long glance makes her pause, brow curving upward as she motions to the body, silently telling Vasylia to try her hand. 

    She clasps her hands behind her back, eyes straying to the empty ones of the corpse that gaze back at her. They do not look so unlike her own. 

[undyingpriestess]

THE DEVIL.

They reach back, behind their own head, loosening the bindings that keep their mask firmly in place; Levana is the only one who will see them here, and Levana has already seen them at their worse. It is easier to breathe, without it, and so they let the molded leather and sheer fabric fall into their hands, let the cold air light their skin aflame, the kiss of the Undying against their tired flesh.

They know there is nothing wrong with their face. It was all but identical to what it had been before, at least from a foot or more away. From an objective standpoint, they were perhaps more handsome than they had been before they had lost a piece of themself and Levana had replaced it. Their jaw a little wider, their face a little more symmetrical; if anything, she had done too good a job with the repair.

That didn’t make it any easier to look at their own reflection; that didn’t mean that showing their altered face didn’t still feel like weakness.

     “Thank you,” they said, whisper-quiet, before they turn to look at her again. “I fear sometimes the King believes it is a crime for me to do anything besides roll over like a well-trained dog.” 

Still, they long for her numb detachment. They always do. Hers, or Naenia’s—two different kinds, like day and night, like fire and ice. Levana’s the pleasant dulling of pain that comes with good wine, Naenia’s the precise razor-sharp numbness of frostbite. It was one thing to know that Septimus was wrong and another not to bear the brunt of his blame and feel it, so sharp and so keen, that it ached and sparked. 

     “I will try to keep your counsel in mind, but I fear I won’t be sated until I know who was behind this myself.” 

    She understood why they preferred to shield their face in shadows, leather, and bindings. It was for the same reason she took the time to paint her face as she did, why she bothered to pull at the forgetful muscles that found it difficult to feign a smile and furrow her brow. Hers was a mask of her own making, but, as she felt the muscles of her face relax into something less fetching -- however, it was far more serene -- she felt as though it were slipping off of her face as well. If they were to make themself so vulnerable before her, then she would pay them the respect of doing the same. 

      She was divesting herself, just as Wraith was. 

    Though she was not able to empathize with them, to feel the pain they felt -- in this, they could share. It was not all she wished that they could share in, though. What if it were possible to turn the roiling of emotions elsewhere? To act as the wind and turn these flames to the direction that she so pleased. But that is not what they needed of her. What they needed was the soft lull of a quieting breeze that would turn such tumultuous wildfire into something more tamed, like the warming flames of a hearth. 

    ... I fear sometimes the King believes it is a crime for me to do anything besides roll over like a well-trained dog...

    It was well known how Septimus treated his dogs. 

    Carefully, her fingertips brushed against theirs before slipping into the empty spaces. Though she didn’t know whether or not the comfort of touch was necessary, it would be there all the same. “When did you grow so comfortable knowing that you commit a crime simply by being as you are?” Her gaze flickered between theirs, wide-eyed and curious. Levana knew very well of living as an abhorrence of nature; her parents being so kind as to waken her to that reality the moment she was born. But to willingly submit to such subservience when such power was at the tips of their fingers...

    “I cannot blame you for searching for answers, Wraith. You know as well as I that every answer that you give to the King will tighten the noose around someone’s neck.”

[undyingpriestess]

JUDGMENT.

A comfortable silence befalls them as Francis ponders Levana’s question. Instinct urges them to deny the claim. Their relationship with the Undying God has been unwavering for years, just as palpable in a crowd as it is when Francis is alone, but they have not forgotten– will never forget– when Undeath first came to them.

Undeath materialized before Francis at their weakest moment, when a storm threatened to drown all of Tyrholm and they along with it. Francis would have surely died, right there on the same streets they were born, had She not brought them to Her statue, given them refuge in that pocket of safety. With this, they think, Levana’s words ring true.

“She is always with us,” Francis comments after a long stretch of silence. They speak familiarly with Levana, but their distance is measured. A precaution. While she rises from her knees at the altar, they remain seated at the pew where they’d been reading. Even when empty, Francis finds great comfort in the Sanctum. 

“Perhaps it is only when we are alone that we notice,” they add, closing the book and resting it on their lap. They look up at Levana, curiosity in their eyes.

“Is there something on your mind?”

    Thoughtfully, she looks at them, slowly clasping her hands behind her back. Francis isn’t the first devotee that she has met, nor are they the most zealous -- in her eyes, they are one of the fixtures of life. There will always be those, in every lifetime, in every world, that turn their eyes up to the sky and try to discern the God that hides between the stars, carefully pulling a veil of darkness between Them and Their creations.   

    Her brow curves upward deliberately as she listens to them, chin inclining in consideration as she turns their words over in her mind, measuring them against the sermon that they had given at the pulpit; Septimus’ eyes had glazed over, and she couldn’t help but wonder what a godless king had to fear if not the judgment of someone on high. The people? The court? His own fatal flaws? No, she had seen enough monarchs to know that if they believed the Undying God couldn’t hold them beholden to their crimes against their people, then no one would. 

    Save for her, the instrument of the Undying God. 

    “If that is true then that means she’s with us when we lie. When we murder. When we commit our most grievous and heinous sins.” Empty eyes and even emptier thought for the suffering that others have undergone. She has felt death a thousand times over -- it was difficult to feel pity and sorrow stir when these were simply the consequences of life and living. 

    “Her blessings are woven into my being, Francis, it is impossible not to acknowledge Her with every breath I take.” Her head canted, silver strands brushing against her cheek as her gaze drawled over them, their calm demeanor quite unnatural. Should one be so calm when their king has nearly been killed? “But moral theology is not why I see you. I wanted to see if you were well, considering what we all bore witness to.”

    “Perhaps in vain. You seem quite content.”

[undyingpriestess]

A STUDY OF LEVANA MORRIGAN

“She is not afraid of the darkest dark, in fact she can see in the dark. She is not afraid of offal, refuse, decay, stink, blood, cold bones, dying girls, or murderous husbands. She can see it, she can take it, she can help.”

moral alighnment - celtic astrology - mbti - zodiac - temperament - seven roles

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

The Black Unicorn: Sequelae by Audre Lorde

[undyingpriestess]

look at, talk to and breathe next to - the royal brats :) resending this bc ur a dumb

Look at (while she studies) -- Aurelia Talk to (about farmgirl life) -- Valeria Breathe next to (sometimes) -- Galien

[undyingpriestess]

JUSTICE.

When Levana pulled her horse to a stop, Viktor was quick to do the same, the response as innate and natural as that of shadow slotting itself against light. Yet where she retreated into the caverns and crevices of her mind, he merely lingered at the forefront of his, toeing at the threshold and running phantom fingertips along the entryway without venturing beyond. Levana’s actions, driven as they were by the mere simple, senseless act of clutching at the reins, were the only indication he had needed in order to be certain that his words were heard and understood. And so, Viktor didn’t feel the need to continue reflecting on it or pull them further along the lull of kindling tension.

He hadn’t intended for his words to prove a point or drive an argument; he had only meant for them to be heard. Because it was only ever Levana who stuck around to listen; to grant breathing room for his truth to be spoken. It was a gift that she offered time and time again without fail, and this instance was no exception. With that, the purpose of his words had been achieved, and Viktor was willing to let that mark the end of the conflict – at least until it was inevitably roused into being once again. And it would, but not today. Not if he could help it.

Taking a breath, Viktor willed the long stretch of Levana’s silence to center him, tugging his focus outward and looking upon their surroundings to ground himself in the moment. Reaching behind him, he dipped his hand into the saddlebag of his mare, pulling out an apple. He bit into it then kept it anchored to his teeth while he reached in again and pulled out another. He threw it at Levana, sweetness-slick lips curving in a mild yet warm smile at his companion’s adversely sour words. “Only you would employ a metaphor and then go on to explain it at length,” He muttered with a snort. “Going through two lifetimes certainly highlights the inferiority of others, doesn’t it? I mean… otherworldly powers aside.”

His smile dissipated, sputtering away like fickle candle-flame on a storm-swept night. A sigh locked itself in his throat; held down until it choked. “You have every right to question what happened, but not in regards to the duty I fulfilled. The man’s blade could have very well struck true, and Tyrholm would have still devolved into chaos.” He turned to look at Levana, gaze solemn. “There is another factor at play here other than your allegiance and my own, and just because it aligns with yours, doesn’t mean that it’s not a threat to be looked out for.”

Then came Levana’s answer to his question, and it lanced through his heart with the flit of an arrowhead, caught crooked in its gnashing mass and left to crumble. “I have already found it, Levana. Long ago. I thought you had, too.”

    It was there for a moment -- a smile on her face, lips tugging upward begrudgingly, the motion causing a slight ache as muscles felt pulled in a rather odd direction. Unpracticed, she found the motion unfamiliar, but it was easy to maintain. Few seemed ready to acknowledge the many lifetimes she has lived, and even fewer were intent on teasing her for it but Viktor held no such qualms. He needled her, and in response, she couldn’t help but smile. Belatedly, she caught the fruit before it could fall to the ground -- her muscles slow to react to her request but blessedly catching the crimson apple. Norn took a half step closer to Viktor and his mare, air blowing out of his lips as he shifted his weight and stomped, making it quite clear that he wasn’t ready to settle for so long. 

    “I wouldn’t call you inferior,” she corrects, turning the apple over in her hand, her smile fading as she remembers that she can’t recall what it tastes like. Had it been sweet to her? She had liked the green ones, recalled how they had been awfully tart; but they had been her favorite, nonetheless. There had been long, warm days spent in the fields and she would bite into the crisp flesh of the apple, had hummed with contentment as the flavor had burst on her tongue. Her gaze returns to his, thoughtful as her eyes flicker along the planes of his face. There was too much understanding between them for that would to ever be used. There was too much sameness. There was too much pain. Quietly, she repeats herself once more, “I would never call you inferior.” For once, she would not mind if her voice would remain unheard. 

    She watches the smile slip from his lips, watches him shutter before her. He was adept at locking himself up tight, at throwing away the key. Whenever the topic was broached, she could not help but liken him to the churches that she had tried to enter across the Sahrnian sea. They had shut their doors to her and she had pounded her fist against it but to no avail. Levana had wanted to pay her respects to the foreign gods that they had, and her, being the abhorrence of nature could not be allowed to sully the hallowed ground. There was less maliciousness to be found in Viktor, he harbored no malcontent, but all the same, whenever she beat against the door of his honor and duty she found her fists bloodied and bruised. 

    “Your definition of a threat and mine are not the same,” Levana says, grabbing the strap of her leg and heaving it over the horn of the saddle, balancing on the stirrup carefully before sliding onto the ground. She stumbles, quick to grab onto Norn as her iron casts nearly make a fool out of her. After a moment, she looses a sigh, testing her movements -- one foot, then another...leg, knee, foot -- before glancing up at Viktor. Gently, the tugs at his leg and begins to make her way on foot. “Simply because it is novel and unheard of, unknowable and unpredictable does not mean it is inherently a threat. Is not every second unknowable? Should we consider our very existence something to fear because it is chaos?”

    “An understanding of ideals,” her voice isn’t quiet, isn’t muted. It is soft. “I am not questioning whether or not you understand...” me. She knows he does. Her knuckle raps against his chest, the small tap jostling the necklace that he wore beneath his shirt. On it, a ring. “Don’t be so quick to doubt, Viktor. You, with your short life span, cannot afford to doubt things you know to be irrevocably true.” 

[undyingpriestess]

STATUS: for @emperorvalmont

DATE: flashback 

TIME: ungodly hours of the morning

LOCATION: the rosewood maiden

TW: death (accidental murder), mentions of abuse

    She wished that she could say she had been roused from her sleep, but she hadn’t had the chance to shut her eyes. Levana had been looking at her reflection, tugging at the edges of her lips, pulling at her brows to see if they would arch still. It seemed that the wearier she was, the more difficulty she had maintaining her facial expressions. Her head had canted thoughtfully, she remembered, as she had recounted how easily smiles had painted across her lips -- even in the face of her mother’s fury, the sound of ruthless, backhanded slaps striking her ears even to this day. Often followed by the sound of her father’s bellows, his worn leather belt making an appearance; rarely used because of how he would totter on his feet, far too drunk to do anything other than slip into his long-sought-for stupors. 

    And now, in the midst of idle contentment, she was unable to smile as she remembered. But it’s difficult to long for something that had no use for her now. What was a pretty little grin going to earn her except the leers of nobles who thought to court “Death” itself? Who hoped to add one member of King Septimus’ menagerie to their sad list of conquests? Levana had pressed her fingertips against the tired bruises of her eyes and at that moment there had been a knock. A hurried, terse demand for her to quickly go to the docks. 

    Quickly she had pulled on stockings, strapped her legs into their iron casts -- crutches tucked under her arms because she was feeling particularly exhausted -- and found herself standing outside the door of the...what was this? A tavern? A brothel? It seemed oddly subdued. Carefully, she examined the exterior, noting the individuals that loitered outside. They looked unperturbed, perhaps a little melancholy at having their night of debauchery come to an end. Sailors likely frequented it, but a soldier wouldn’t have dragged her here just to mingle with them. The young woman nodded down the way, weight shifting uneasily, eyes flickering away from Levana, clearly ill at ease. 

    The mist hung heavy in their air, but it seemed to cling to a figure that was hunched over a lifeless corpse, kneeling next to it as his shoulders shook. Levana did not need to glance at the wet cobblestone to know that it was likely stained in blood -- nor did she need to think twice about who had summoned her. Her eyes drifted between the corpse and Septimus’ son. “May I offer my services, Prince Galien?” Another reputation saved another debt that will be owed. And another piece of her soul that she would have to bid farewell to. 

[undyingpriestess]

👀 bang list

OKAY YOU WANNA GET DOWN AND DIRTY?

OH WOW

Levana would contentedly cuddle with/sleep next to Wraith and Viktor.

AWW

She would probably rest her head on Armel, Valeria, Francis and Calliope’s shoulders.

CUTE

She would play with the hair of Maid, Marceline and Kithri.

LOVELY

She would gently hold the hand of Zoya, Aurelia and Tasmin.

RIP

She would breathe around Galien, Naenia, Saif, Meraud, Feivel, Canis and Cleo (?). Still under deliberation -- subject to change at Necromancer’s will.