So, seeing as this page is definitely turning into a Warframe-specific blog (not that I hadn’t completely intended for that to happen, but that’s beside the point lol), I figured I’d post a little bit of a Warframe-specific introduction, to go along with my main one. I’ll probably try and update this somewhat frequently with any new links/posts/etc that I come up with, just so it’s easier for people to find things on my page.
For right now, I won’t be sharing my IGN, but that’s more because I don’t really tend to friend or chat with people that I don’t know well, so I don’t want an influx of random messages or requests lol.
Mastery Rank: I’m currently LR 5, though funnily enough, I somehow spent my first 3 to 5-ish months as a Warframe player absolutely refusing to craft or use any Warframe other than my starter. Seriously…my second frame was Excalibur Umbra…I did not build a second frame until I played The Sacrifice quest, and at the time, if I could’ve avoided it, I would’ve.
Main Warframes: I’m a Mag, Saryn, and Valkyr main at heart. Mag was the frame that I started out with, and I absolutely fell in love with her gameplay. I got into playing Saryn due to a friend’s recommendation for Steel Path, and honestly wasn’t expecting to enjoy her gameplay as much as I do, but I actually find her quite fun to play. Valkyr is one that I somewhat overlooked when I was first farming frames, but then, probably a year later, after her rework (and after Tennocon 2025), I got really into her play-style, because I’m a huge fan of frames that are more melee-focused.
In general, I tend to enjoy the crowd-control frames or the ones that can do a ton of damage super quickly. I don’t usually enjoy support-type frames as much, but that’s just because my gameplay style tends to be more ‘Shoot/stab first, ask questions later’. Other frames that I like but aren’t my mains include: Gyre, Nokko, Dante, and Revenant. Titania’s fun too, though I’m not nearly good enough to play her without bashing into every single wall on the map.
Although the frames listed above are ones that I like, I’ll never criticize or fault to someone for liking another frame. My view on the game is very much along the lines of “there’s a playstyle for everybody, and there’s no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ Warframe”.
Main Weapons: I absolutely love using the Nataruk. I really enjoy bows for whatever reason, and so this has been my go-to ever since I completed The New War. For melee weapons, I quite like the Harmony (as well as most other Scythes, if I had to pick a favorite type of melee weapon, it would be Scythes), but honestly as long as it isn’t a Glaive-type weapon, I’ll probably enjoy it (learning the Xoris was…more of a struggle than I’d care to admit). I never really care that much about my secondaries, so usually I use whatever, though lately I’ve become a big fan of using the Laetum’s Incarnon version, and I really like a few of my Kitguns that I’ve built.
Other Game-Related Info: I play on iOS! When I first started back in October or November of 2023 (I think, at least), I was genuinely shocked at the quality of the game and the fact that there’s so much content, with it still being free to play. The app is definitely still a little buggy, but that’s to be expected, and it still runs better than the vast majority of other mobile games I’ve played.
I tend to enjoy a little bit of everything the game has to offer. One week, I’ll be super into farming Duviri stuff, the next I’ll be focused on Railjack. Or maybe one day I’ll be cracking relics nonstop and then switch to working through the Steel Path. I never really know what I’m going to do on any given day lol. I don’t usually play the Conclave, but that’s mostly because I can never figure out how it actually works (and…also partially bc I don’t like Teshin and the way that he treats/acts towards Lotus).
Now, onto the ‘fun’ stuff! I’ve been writing little things for my Operator since I started playing, and so sometimes I might post some things here relating to her or my Drifter. I also have an AO3 account, so I’ll post any fanfics on there as well.
Characters: Mag (Operator); Lēna (Drifter)
A lot of what I write has to do with exploring the relationship dynamics between Lotus and my Operator, Mag, especially as they—and the other Tenno by extension—become more of a ‘family’ after The New War, however, I have also written some more Lotus- or Mag-centric fics that don’t dive into that dynamic. I’ve also created a few that explore the dynamic between Lotus and my Drifter, Lēna. Other than those three, I also write about Mother/Gomaitru Entrati’s character and her relationship with her family (can we sense a theme here? XD). In general, I don’t tend to write a lot of shipping stuff, I like to focus on platonic/friend/familial relationships lol (I like to read that sort of stuff, I just don’t write it for whatever reason, or when I write it, it isn’t the main focus of the story).
My pieces of writing can be on the longer side, so my fics will always have a Word Count at the top. For the longer ones, I’d probably advise heading over to my AO3, though that’s because I personally prefer the structure of AO3 as opposed to Tumblr when reading for longer periods of time. With that being said, my AO3 is set so that only registered users can see my works. All that means is that you will need to be logged or create an account in order to view my writing.
Disclaimers: Please do not repost my works or any of my other posts onto other sites. This Tumblr profile and my AO3 (which is linked below) should be the only places where my writing is found. If any of you do find anything of mine elsewhere, please let me know. Thank you!!
Also, do not feed my works into AI. I am extremely anti-generative AI and everything on this page is the work of one incredibly sleep-deprived, hyper-fixated human who loves the process of writing and creating art more than the story or art itself half the time. Whoever does not abide by this will be blocked, as I have zero tolerance for people who decide to steal from artists.
My Writing: AO3 or mist’s writing
Ongoing Series: Petals May Wilt (But We Can’t Let Them Wither); Clawing Through The Ruins (Of That Veil Of Deceit)
Clawing Through The Ruins (Of That Veil Of Deceit)
When long-buried truths are finally forced to the surface, suspicion begins to rot the halls of House Entrati once more. As tempers flare and their Matriarch slips into once-abandoned habits, one question remains on the minds of every soul involved.
What are they to do now?
Even A Fading Light Still Casts Its Shadows
After weeks of quietly observing the Necralisk, questions continue to thud against the back of Lyon’s mind, ones which can only be answered by a certain Entrati matriarch. When he manages to engage the reticent being in conversation, will he be granted what he seeks? Or will the silent surfacing of too-painful memories threaten to shatter the tentative peace entirely?
Word Count: 8,199 words.
TW(s):
Somewhat-graphic references to the canon-typical child abuse that Lyon experienced from his parents.
Somewhat-graphic references to the canon-typical domestic violence that has occurred within the Entrati family.
Depictions of visual, auditory, olfactory, and tactile hallucinations, as well as mentions of the visions that Lyon experiences.
Brief depictions of religious imagery, due to Lyon being a priest.
Depictions of memory loss.
Depictions of anger issues, paranoia, and feelings of betrayal.
Depictions of Infestation-related mental health issues.
Mentions of a certain Albrecht Entrati being a terrible and neglectful parent.
As with the rest of this series, this will contain spoilers for the Reunion ending of ‘The Devil’s Triad’, as well as general spoilers for the Entrati family’s storyline up to and including Rank 5. This installation specifically will also contain some spoilers for Lyon’s KIM storyline.
Also, just a small note: I am *not* a physicist, theoretical or otherwise. Biology has always been more my speed (and it is the topic that my degree mainly revolves around). I *did* try to make the physics/Eternalism logic as accurate as I could using real-world concepts to tie into what we already have in the game (…and I might have been reading various studies at 2am the night that I wrote this), but I am sure that there are errors. It is what it is XD. I’m writing about blue people that have been turned into weird Infested, flower…things, I think we’ve gone past the point of ‘realism’.
Finally, there *is* a POV shift a bit less than two-thirds of the way through the fic. It isn’t explicitly marked, but I’ve made it as obvious as I possibly could while still allowing the story to flow smoothly.
With that out of the way, the fic begins under the cut. Hope y’all enjoy!!
Most days, he finds himself wondering if this madness is all nothing more than a dream, nothing more than the too-vivid visions which have tormented his mind for as long as he can remember.
For how else, Lyon wonders, would he ever explain his current predicament?
The Necralisk was a sight to behold, once. Or so he has been told. And, to the credit of those who have spoken with him, he can recognize the opulence in the remaining gilded etchings on the walls, in the ornate fixtures littered amongst the crimson Infestation. He is certain that it was once a mansion that would put to shame the farm on which he spent his childhood.
However, that knowledge does not make the pulsating nodes beside him any less…disconcerting.
More than once now, Marie has made it a point to drag him—sometimes in the very literal sense of the word—from Le Cathédrale. Her excuse is two-fold; they must watch over the devil and, now that they have more freedom than when their Brothers and Sisters helped to conceal them within the crypts, they might as well utilize it.
He knows that she is rather enjoying herself greeting those whom she has only heard stories about. Thus, he never finds himself complaining…much.
At least it gives him a change of scenery as he reads over the familiar scripture which has been a centerpiece of his very life for so long.
Conversations are difficult for him. They have always been. Thus, Lyon evades the opportunity, most days. He is far more content to remain in the atrium of the strange new place, closer to Roathe as well as to the doorway which leads to the Sanctum—and with it, Le Cathédrale—, than he would be to wander the halls attempting to find the proper words.
The Tenno do not pay him much mind, at least; he remains tucked to the side, away from any of the true reasons that would draw them to this particular hall.
At least one of those is just as content to remain in solitude as he is.
Even now, weeks after the revelation which expanded their range from two sets of walls to three, he remains uncertain of his position regarding the Entrati. He is…pleased that Monsieur Loid is able to reconnect with them, of course. The man does not deserve all that he has gone through, and it is no secret that the ability to see his family again has lightened his mood significantly.
They were certainly not what he had been anticipating, however.
Even with the warning bestowed upon them by the Drifter, it would have been nigh impossible to properly prepare himself for the sight of the Infested Orokin.
For the only ones of their kind that he has ever known were quite different.
Still, Lyon supposes that, at least some of the members of the family seem amicable enough.
The matriarch, however, is another tale entirely. She is a reticent being, especially with them, hardly deigning to say a word if it does not pertain to that which she deems important.
He concedes that that trait has seemingly taken a turn for the worse after that…ill-fated attempt at conversation between her and the Sister of his soul. Marie had been quick to tell him of the goings-on when she returned from the Necralisk that day.
Truth be told, a piece of his heart had ached for both of them; for he understood his Sister’s argument well. Yet, he does not have her—at times unwavering—faith in Entrati. Even with the Drifter’s words and the agreement that they had settled upon, there are still days where his good deeds far outweigh his sins in her mind. A part of him cannot fault Marie for that.
But he is also keenly aware of the struggle of a child…estranged from their parents.
Some actions cause far too much harm to ever consider reconciliation.
Some actions cause the threads of familial loyalty to snap as if they have been burned above a roaring flame.
Who are they to decide which acts should or should not be forgiven?
In any case, the tale of Gomaitru’s reaction had granted her few favorable marks in his mind, if any at all. He had been warned of her…temper by the Drifter, and he had seen the wounds that the Orokin woman had left on her husband.
There was a moment, in the very beginning, when he had just barely stepped foot into the atrium and had noticed that the two were seemingly caught in a discussion. It was not a productive one, he had presumed when he noticed the furrows of their brows and the frustrated tones of the man’s voice.
When he connected the numerous, seemingly healed gashes—they were large enough for him to decipher, even at that distance, even with his sight being what it is, and that had told him all that he needed to know—marring Vilcor’s flesh to the hinted-at point which had been made about her, his skin had crawled with memories far too unpleasant to think about for long, his back aching with phantom lashes and scars too deep to forget.
His hands were already trembling as Lyon had forced himself through the doorway back towards the Sanctum. Frustratingly, the thoughts did not leave him be as quickly as he had hoped.
After hearing what had happened between her and his Sister, Lyon forced himself not to imagine what could have happened, had things gone far more sour than they already did.
Perhaps he should have found some other area of the Necralisk in which to spend his time. Yet, he did not.
He is still uncertain as to why.
So there he stays, a few feet away from where Roathe seems to enjoy taunting the Tenno as they return from their excursions out into the Cambion Drift, his ‘good’ eye—not that it is much of a competition. Most things would be more ‘effective’ than the empty socket on his left side—poised so that he keeps the blurred form of the Entrati matriarch in his sight, even as he reads from his book.
It is a habit which has served him well over the years. He would rather be too vigilant than be caught unaware.
Admittedly, he is curious about her, or rather, about her work. The Drifter had informed him that Gomaitru studies the very same science that he had found himself so fascinated by when Entrati had spoken of it. That intrigue has only continued to gnaw at his mind with the changes that have befallen it since he had taken the serum.
How can he recall his life as it was, and yet, also as it was not?
What is the explanation behind the two souls whom have been bonded to his own?
He finds himself curious of what conclusions someone of that discipline might come to, what theories she might have as to the science of it all.
But, seeing as she seems to keep many things unspoken—to them, at least—, Lyon presumes that that is a question to which he may never find an answer.
Thus, when Roathe shoots him a rather feline-like smirk, his tail flicking in the air as he states that he is going for a ‘walk’, Lyon simply sighs, shaking his head in exasperation, though he stays put as the Orokin stalks off.
So long as he does not provoke anyone, he supposes that a bit of socialization might do the devil some good. Then again, he wonders, how likely is it that he will not cause trouble?
With a quiet exhale, his focus turns back to the scripture; at least there are no pastries around for him to steal, a part of him remarks with a mild hint of amusement. At least, he hopes that there are not.
He does not particularly wish to think about what sorts of…other changes the Entrati have gone through.
It is quiet, the priest realizes. The dull hum of voices has slowed, the ever-present stream of the Lotus’s war-children trickling down as it seems that most of the groups have returned from their outings and have accomplished what they came to the Necralisk to do.
It is almost…peaceful.
If he had not lived through what he has in the past few years, Lyon would swear that he has lost his mind.
Yet, when the Tenno have gone, when the atrium has fallen into a near-silence, it does not seem quite as daunting as it often does. It is never still, he has noticed. The Infested boils lining the floors never truly stop their pulsing movements; the vines creeping up the walls always sway in a breeze that he cannot feel.
But it is an interesting type of calm, he supposes. The only sounds are the low rustles of pages turning under his touch—Mother Lua’s words often ground him, even if he has had every line of the page memorized for many years now—, as well as something slightly different, coming from the direction of the Infested woman several feet to his right.
Finding his periphery ineffective in pinpointing the source of the quiet scratching, Lyon turns his head slightly, his eye squinting in its attempt to bring the scenery into focus faster. It is then that he notices the book resting atop one of the many large ‘petals’—whether or not that is what they truly are, he does not know. But that is what they appear to be, and he has chosen not to inquire further—which surround Gomaitru. The Orokin in question seems to be deep in thought, quilled pen held in the smaller of her two hands, intermittently shifting to scrawl something across the page in front of her.
Despite himself, curiosity laps at the edges of his mind, though he elects to simply turn back to what he had been doing. The thought of attempting to start a conversation sends discomfort rippling down his spine anyhow, especially if the other participant is one who most definitely would not take kindly to it.
So, the relative silence stretches on.
“Why are you here?”
Until it does not.
The sharp, level voice causes Lyon’s muscles to jolt, a faint hitch of his form reacting to the sound as it startles him from the words on the page. It takes a moment to register the fact that the Entrati matriarch is speaking to him.
Forcing his head to move, he notices that her gaze remains on the parchment in front of her, as if she does not care enough to deign to look at him when she speaks.
Curious.
Still, his voice does not seem to wish to work, the words not appearing within his mind with the clarity that he wishes they would.
He settles for a simple response.
“I am ensuring that Roathe does not do anything…foolish.” He can just barely make out the shift of one of her brows, as if it quirks upwards at the sentence.
“You say that, yet he is not here. So I ask again, why are you here?” Gomaitru picks apart his words with the precision of a falcon swooping from the air to catch a wayward mouse.
Somehow, he has the distinct impression that there is a reason for the words that her mildly irritated tone seems to emphasize.
His mind drifts, attempting to string several thoughts together in a way which will not invoke the other’s ire. As such, Lyon does not realize that he is taking far too long to answer her.
“If you have any intention of following in your ‘companion’s’ footsteps and attempting to gossip about that which you have no right to speak on, then you can find conversation with anyone else. I have little reason to permit you in my halls as it is, I would advise you not to give me a reason to see to it that you are confined to the Sanctum.” A chill drapes itself over the Necralisk, ice-coated words stated just as matter-of-factly as if they had been speaking about something far more benign.
Yet, the tone remains dagger-sharp, each syllable a blade’s edge pressed against his throat in an almost-tangible warning.
It is one which forces Lyon to compose himself, to reel his thoughts back to the moment enough to pry an answer from the conflicted depths of his mind.
“That…is not my intention, no. We were tasked to watch over Roathe. I am simply doing so in the way that I see fit.” She does not believe him, he presumes. The way that her gaze bores into him—not unlike how a cat might watch from the rafters of an old building, judging silently before it chooses to pounce—is a challenge. One which he can very well decipher the meaning of.
He doubts that she will hesitate to do what she speaks of. It would be far from the most severe reaction that she could have.
There is, begrudgingly, a small flicker of a thought within his mind, one that finds it almost amusing how thin her tolerance seems to be for lies, when compared with her silver-tongued predecessor. The observation is dismissed shortly thereafter.
After all, with little more than a moment’s thought, the connection makes far more sense than the absence of it would.
Still, Lyon is not entirely certain that he has found the proper words when he continues. But they are the ones that he has. That will have to be enough for now.
“I do not make a habit out of making assumptions about others’ lives. I would much rather preserve the little peace and quiet that I still have left.” Hence why he often finds himself here, of all places. The stream of Tenno entering and exiting the atrium is somehow less of a menace to observe than those who enjoy testing out their…weapons—their strange, strange weapons—with Vilcor, or the excitement that surrounds the Entrati children and their seemingly-endless supply of creatures.
His head seems to throb with a phantom pang at the very thought.
Despite the others being far more agreeable, oftentimes, it is all simply too much.
As a low-toned huff acknowledges his statement, Lyon attempts to decipher the being to his right, attempts to read into her movements in a way that should be almost second nature to him. Yet, the endeavor proves fruitless. Her posture is poised, stiff in a way which is not dissimilar to Monsieur Loid’s at times.
There is a part of him which wonders what reasons she might have for that. Until he recalls what little information Roathe has let slip about the society in which they once lived.
A society in which rewards were bestowed upon whoever dealt best in toying with their peers.
Her expression is largely unreadable, the lines of her features sharp, yet not in a way which seems different from any other time that he has seen her.
Well, he amends, perhaps there is more irritation within her gaze. Even that does not tell him much.
At any rate, it seems that Gomaitru has deemed the conversation to have reached its conclusion, because her attention turns, shifting back to that almost-neglected book, which still lies resting atop its petal. She adjusts it, moving it away from the edge—it might have shifted when she had turned, he presumes—before those quiet scratches of the quill resume themselves.
For a moment, his curiosity gets the better of him, and Lyon attempts to catch a glimpse of the page; of course, the blurred image does not grant him anything useful. It is too far away to make out anything other than the change of color where the burgundy-hued Infestation gives way to the pale parchment.
Thus, he too directs his focus elsewhere, his gaze scanning the words which he knows in his very soul, his thoughts drifting silently between Mother Lua’s wisdom and…elsewhere.
Flickers of memories that are not his lap against his mind.
The ringing of chains is just as unnerving as it always is. He can feel their heft as the links sink around his form.
Children’s laughter roars in his ears, a cruelty to the sound, twisting the jeering taunts until they are unrecognizable, a mangled language which he does not know the translation for.
The acrid tang of iron burns his nostrils, just as vividly as if he is witnessing the rending of flesh with his own eye.
His chest seems to tighten, the air within his lungs almost agonizing.
Then, it all fades, drifting from his focus until all which remains are whispers of laughter. Even that is quiet enough that it can be overlooked with a small effort.
It is as if his mind is the sky during the summer months that he recalls from his childhood, as unpredictable as the storms which used to appear then disappear within minutes. It roars with thunder, drowns him with rain enough to soak his flesh to the bone, yet the thoughts leave him nearly as soon as they arrive.
They do not disappear from his memory, however. Just as one cannot suddenly conjure a dry set of clothing when their own has become sodden with rain, he cannot forget the horrors that he has been shown.
With a few blinks, Lyon brings reality back into focus, the words in front of him becoming clearer now that his attention has been directed at them once more.
‘—, the lost shall find their way home.’
In little more than an instant, he recalls the passage which he had been reading before his mind brought him elsewhere. Celestine 18:19. It is one which has survived the trials of time, to his surprise but not his dismay.
He still recalls how strange it had been to hear the words from the Drifter, of all beings. To know that the words which ground him have survived, if not to this future, then at least to the one in which she lives, is a feeling that Lyon doubts that he will ever be able to fully discern, nor will he even attempt to describe it to another person.
There is only one other who may understand anyhow.
As his senses return to him—or rather, as he begins to process them properly again—, the quiet sounds of quill to parchment form a predictable rhythm, one which works in tandem with the undulating Infestation that he can glimpse from the corner of his sight to re-orient the priest to his surroundings.
Perhaps it is the vision which grasps his tongue. Perhaps the almost-tangible reminder of the other souls entwined with his own sends his curiosity into the still air of a place where even the walls seem to have a beating heart.
“May I ask what you are writing?”
The Orokin hardly skips a beat with her reply, her gaze scarcely moving from the page for more than the faintest hint of a second, the movement of her writing implement never pausing even as her voice cuts the inquiry from the very air.
“I fail to see how that is any of your business.” Every fiber of his being screams for him to leave this attempt at ‘conversation’ be. He will simply have to deal with his desperate wish for answers.
But it seems that something within the depths of Lyon’s mind has other plans, the memories that were never his to know seeping into the folds of his mind like an elixir, loosening his tongue for what he knows should be the final time.
“It is not. May I ask something else then? The Drifter has told me about your work and I…find myself with a question which I am told that you might have an answer for.” As he turns to face her, he notices that the scratching of the pen halts, just the briefest absence of sound as her gaze shifts, icy irises fixing in his direction. The Orokin’s brow quirks upwards, the action sharpening her features.
Yet, her bladed tongue returns—not that it had ever truly disappeared, he amends—, again poised as a reminder.
“That is wholly dependent on what information you wish to know, priest. I have dealt with plenty of beings disregarding the validity of my research. I have little interest in debating the natures of science and religion with you.” His jaw tightens somewhat at the assumption, at the disdain with which Gomaitru speaks the title. With more effort than he would care to admit, a response is ground out through his teeth, though he forces himself not to react with as much of the irritation which curls through his veins, whispering amidst his very blood.
“I would appreciate it if you did not presume that I wish to do that either.” After all, while he is certainly no stranger to those with other viewpoints, and while he is open to learning from said beliefs, this is not the time, nor the place, to do so. Especially when it is clear that the other would view such a conversation as something to be won, as opposed to something which could provide a mutual understanding of one another.
At the very least, it is difficult for him to come to any other conclusion. Perhaps he is misjudging her. But, he has not yet experienced anything which might prove otherwise.
With those unnerving eyes seemingly piercing his own, Lyon continues, noting how, with his earlier statement, the Orokin had neither seemed to relax, nor become angered further.
“It is my understanding that you are a scholar of the Void, and that you have dedicated many years to the study of the laws of time and reality.” At that, something shifts, the change scarcely visible. It is just a faint lowering of the petals around her, just a slight twitch in the muscles of her brow, just enough to betray something that does not seem to quite be confusion, nor intrigue. Perhaps it might be a mixture of the two, he wonders.
Her tone remains matter-of-fact, with the same professional neutrality that he has heard in her conversations with some of the Tenno.
“That is the basis of much of my research, yes.” By Lua, he does not know how to word what he is truly desperate to ask. He hardly knows where to start.
He knows even less of how to begin to address the souls entwined within the roots of his own without sounding like a complete mad-man.
When Lyon finds himself once again stuck attempting to string simple words together, a huff from the woman to his right forces his attention outwards.
“If you are going to ask me something, do so. I have little patience for wasted time.” A part of him wonders if this will even be worth the effort, if attempting to speak with the reticent Orokin will garner him any sort of answers or if it will leave him more befuddled than he already is.
But, it seems that his voice has managed to find its footing, for now.
Out with it, he supposes.
“When I became…what I am now, I was suddenly bonded…molecularly, spiritually, I am not certain, to two others. It was as if my memories were re-written, two versions of events happening simultaneously, one how I remembered it, the other not. I have never been able to decipher the science which is at the root of what has happened.” He trails off, the question on the tip of his tongue but refusing to move into the air. His gaze fixes on Gomaitru, attempting to decipher anything within her blurred expression which might clue him in to how she is going to react.
For a moment, near-silence fills the atrium. Somehow, its weight is not such that he feels that he might collapse under it.
“You are asking for an explanation.” It is not a question, more-so a statement of fact, spoken with a nearly-hidden air of something which is not entirely irritated. When Lyon answers with a hum of agreement, he watches as her brows furrow slightly.
She does not speak for what seems like the larger part of a minute, her expression almost inquisitive as she seems to be deep in thought. When she does, it is only to ask a simple question.
“You are aware of Eternalism, I presume?” As soon as his nod enters her vision—she does not seem surprised, Lyon notices. Then again, why would she be?—, she continues.
“In theory, I suppose that it should not be impossible to presume that the changes that you underwent would be enough to create this. If what was used to transform you into this w—” A sudden pause causes confusion to twist within his thoughts, though he notices her narrowed gaze widen for only the faintest moment, almost as if in realization. Her eyes turn back to the book, still lying neglected where she had left it, her fingers deftly turning the pages, searching for something that only she knows the identity of.
The murmured ‘Fascinating’ which falls from Gomaitru’s lips is one that he almost does not catch; in fact, he doubts that it had been intended to grace the air at all.
Equally so, Lyon doubts that she would desire for anyone to hear the strange tone which the word takes, something which is somehow equal parts a quiet amazement, barely-hidden frustration, and an intrigue that he likely should have anticipated.
After all, the priest muses, she is cut from the very cloth which had begun this endeavor in the first place.
He has not known her long, but he can see the familial similarities to the man who once called himself ‘le Cardinal’, both from what he has observed by simply being in the same room as her, as well as small scraps of information that he has gleaned from those who know them both. The parallels are there in the way that they both mull over their work for hours, in the diligent—bordering on obsessive, as many seem to believe—focus which absorbs every waking thought.
The thoughts fill his mind as he notices a faint shift of the Infested woman’s expression, a faint strand of tension releasing itself from the collection which draw her features taut. He is so occupied with the minute, hardly noticeable difference that the sound of her voice is almost lost on him.
“Do you know of any others who are like this?” The question is unexpected, though at least it is one which he knows the answer to, somewhat.
“To my knowledge, there are none who exhibit the same traits of the serum as I do. The Drifter has mentioned other aspects of the Infestation that have transcended my presumption of ‘time’, but it is not the same. It seems that the others do not have this change to adapt to. I…wonder if a part of that reasoning might lie in the fact that, from what I have been told, one of the beings bound to me was a Tenno who had already entangled himself with every Harrow that would exist.” A low sound escapes her, one of near-curiosity.
She does not know of Rell, he presumes. Why would she? It is his understanding that she did not work closely with the Tenno ‘program’, if at all.
Then, as if she is thinking aloud, Gomaitru’s voice emerges again, quieter this time, a tinge of realization lapping at its edges, dulling the blades—slightly, at least—which have been poised against him all throughout this…discussion.
“If the Infestation produced slightly different results within each individual, then that would make sense as to wh—” She pauses, seemingly remembering that he is still there, her gaze drifting in his direction again.
“This requires far more research to know with any amount of certainty, though I suppose that I can theorize as to what occurred to contribute to the state that you are in now. You have the samples of a Warframe’s biology within you. Equally, you have that of your own, that of the Tenno, and that of the Infestation. It is possible that the Infestation’s hive-mind aided in the process, leading any connection between your molecules to become more permanent than they should have been.” A low, thoughtful sound escapes the Orokin, one of the fingers of her larger hand tapping quietly against the book in front of her, the sound of her long nail striking the page barely audible.
He is able to make out the movement of her eyes as she must scan whatever writing is on the parchment, but only just.
“The structure of the human mind does not lend itself particularly well to quantum entanglement in practice, but it should be possible in theory. Once that had happened, under Eternalism, there would be versions of reality in which they exist, as well as ones in which they did not. But both should not be accessible simultaneously, unless that is also due to that particular Tenno’s involvement.” Her voice lowers, again as if it had not been entirely meant for another’s ears. His head spins as he attempts to process what is being said.
It is not as if he does not understand the concepts. Entrati had told him about them. But he had not had the chance to inquire about their relevance to the situation within his mind before the man had disappeared.
Intriguingly, despite her earlier demeanor, Lyon notices that the Orokin has a skill for explaining her area of expertise. Her words are clear, poised, yet comprehensible for one such as himself, and he recalls the work that he has read, the book which she had written in order to aid children in strengthening themselves against the Indifference.
He is not certain that he had ever presumed that she would also be adept at teaching.
Now, however? He can certainly picture it.
It is not often that those who are blessed with knowledge have the skills to articulate it to those who are not similarly inclined.
It is almost as if she is completely separate from the woman with whom he had spoken earlier. There is a faint glow of passion within her expression, the barriers to visualizing it having dropped briefly. Even the Infestation which surrounds her seems to hold itself in a different manner, the petals simply flowing slowly like the rest of their brethren within the once-grand halls.
Perhaps that is what guides him to lend an offering of intrigue, his words reaching out—somewhat tentatively, but they still do so—towards the being whom he is still uncertain of his thoughts on.
“I admit, I am curious about the science behind all of this. We…did not have this knowledge where I am from. Would you be open to sharing more of what you know?”
He does not know how his words echo.
He has no way of knowing that his voice is not the only one which seems to drift through the air.
But, in an instant, the doors to her expression seem to slam shut, the edge of her jaw clenching beneath her skin, so much so that the rigidity is obvious even to him. The intrigue which had planted itself across her features is forced away as if a massive gale has suddenly appeared to blow all traces of anything that was not neutral from sight.
Before he can speak, those blades settle themselves back against his throat.
“No. I am not.” The words slam against her mind with a ferocity that she had not anticipated, the tendrils coiling through her thoughts, whispers taunting her with their self-satisfied jeers.
‘You know better.’
‘What happened the last time that you did this?’
She had dropped her guard for only a few minutes, Gomaitru attempts to reason with herself. She had only wished for knowledge.
She had let her curiosity get the better of her, she had sworn that she would not speak with them unless necessary, and certainly not about something like th—
Why can she see a much shorter being in front of her, an unruly head of auburn curls tilted to look upwards, gold and emerald eyes staring up at her with a nervous excitement hardly hidden within them?
‘Would you be open to teaching me a bit about Eternalism? I…I really want to understand it.’
The question tangles with the priest’s and, for a moment, Gomaitru finds herself stuck in time, past and present braiding themselves together until a piece of her cannot decipher which is her current reality. The memories stick in her chest like daggers, twisting themselves within each wound until she swears that she can feel the blood dripping from them.
She hardly notices the other’s low-toned acknowledgment of her refusal, hardly notices him turn his focus back to the book that has been firmly planted within his grasp this entire time.
She simply attempts to ensure that the turmoil screeching within her mind does not wrench its way forth.
Why does this hurt?
The question slams through the barriers within her mind as if she has been struck by one of the beams fired by the massive wyrms which wage war just beyond her doors.
As much as the Orokin does not wish to admit it to herself, she had been curious about what he spoke of, she had wanted to know more, she had wished that there was a way for more research to be done on the topic—perhaps that is something which she will think about further, in time. She had not known the specifics of how the serum had been created until the information within this conversation gave her the remaining knowledge that she needed to discern it—, so what happened?
Why does the prospect of sharing her knowledge feel as if there are thousands of shards of glass embedded just beneath her skin, digging in further whenever she so much as attempts to breathe?
She forces herself to turn her attention back to the page in front of her, turning it to what she had been working on prior to the interruption, familiar diagrams and equations poised as tethers, allowing her to keep her thoughts somewhat rooted in reality.
But the pain does not fade away as she had hoped that it would.
Even as the time ticks past, even as the priest’s ward returns, even as they both leave to begin their journey down those stairs which had been hidden from her for so long, she cannot fully distract herself.
Once they leave, Gomaitru takes her notes in-hand, forcing herself down into the tunnels for some peace, feeling the Infested petals fold themselves closed around her.
She is fine, she fervently informs herself as she settles back into her work. She is fine.
But she betrayed you. She lied to you.
The saccharine cruelty within her mind only sends those shards of glass digging deeper past her flesh, memories that she never wished to relive thudding against her thoughts, threatening to break through the barrier which her research has always provided.
She has never disliked sharing her knowledge before. She would have never chosen teaching as a career, but she remembers that she had done a few series of lectures before the Old War had forced her to move her entire family to Deimos permanently.
Why that is one of the scraps which the Infestation has left within her mind, the Orokin is not entirely certain.
She is adept at it, in her opinion. Besides, she would be remiss to turn down an opportunity to talk about that which consumes nearly every waking moment—and many of the unconscious ones as well—of her life.
That very trait is what had led Gomaitru to begin teaching her A—the Tenno in the first place.
Of course, the Orokin had told herself that it was simply more exercise for her mind, more work to strengthen her memory against the disease which threatened to steal every last scrap of her identity from her. Well, it would not take this. Not if she had anything to say about it.
Images burn themselves across the backs of her eyelids, quiet moments of intrigue filling her thoughts, a familiar scarred expression screwed up in concentration as the other had attempted to recall what she had been taught.
The diagrams in front of her suddenly seem far less concrete than they had a mere half an hour ago.
Her gaze drifts, landing on her quill, then on some of the instruments which she utilizes to conduct her studies of the items which are brought back from the Vaults beneath the planet’s surface.
Gomaitru’s inhale catches in her chest during the agonizing moment that she recalls ‘loaning’—she had never truly expected them to be returned, if the Orokin is honest with herself. She does not wish to be—a few spare instruments to the Tenno for use on her ship. She had no use of them anyhow, and the other being was curious.
Why does this hurt?
She should be angry, she is angry, she is furious that she had been lied to for so long, so why does it HURT?!
The Infestation swirls within her mind, hissing paranoia—is it if it has all turned out to be true, a part of her wonders bitterly—, the vines that tangle along the walls of the tunnel drawing themselves closer to her. Her hand twitches, forcing the Orokin to put her notes and writing implement down before they are ruined.
She attempts to calm herself, attempts to run through the script which keeps her grounded to reality, but the Infestation shrieks before she can even answer the first question, the hive-voices within her mind seemingly intent on driving her utterly mad as their cacophony only grows more thunderous by the moment.
The revelation happened weeks ago, she should not be having this absurd reaction. She should have forgotten it all by now, she should ha—
Why does a part of her still care?
The question lurks within her thoughts, a challenge in its presence, seeking an answer. An answer which Gomaitru finds that she does not have.
The walls of the tunnels suddenly feel as if they are suffocating her, memories flickering within her mind despite the fact that, for once, she wishes that the rot had stolen them from her.
Does she truly, a fragment of herself wonders, though the thought is lost amidst the noise within every fiber of her being.
Why had she allowed herself to let the Tenno see such an important facet of her identity?
Ragged scraps dart past her grasp, almost too swiftly for Gomaitru to process, faded images of a lifetime ago, of her children, of arguments, of the gnawing ache of disappointment and her own voice dripping with an ice which a part of her wishes that she had never used in that way.
Neither of them were ever going to follow in her footsteps.
She has learned to be somewhat content with that fact now, but there was a time when she had not.
The rot snarls at her, a biting insult snapped through her mind as the Orokin attempts yet again to listen to it, to force herself out from the memories and back into the burning safety of her rage.
She had only wanted to share her work with someone.
The familiar heterochromatic gaze taunts her even when her eyes squeeze shut for a moment in an attempt at resetting her vision.
She opens her eyes and, for a single moment, Gomaitru is struck with that resounding fact that she is alone. Alone in the tunnels, alone in her work.
That is what she wanted, is it not? For ages, she has been wishing that others would leave her be, so that she could focus on that which has always been more necessary than even oxygen to her mind.
The vines next to her lash fervently, coiling themselves against her flesh, just as the murmurs within her thoughts snarl venom poised as honey, the disease incessant in its attempt to convince her to listen.
But if she is supposed to be angry, then why does this feel as if her still-beating heart is being torn from her chest?
Why can she not just hate them all?
Why can she not just be furious and that be the end of it?
Her chest tightens, the pressure within her mind doing the same as each and every tendril snakes itself into crevices that she had never known existed. Claws seem to dig into her flesh, the sensation replacing the subtle lumps and veins within the vines serpentining themselves around her arms.
She swears that she can feel where her skin gives way, where the viscera beneath is slowly ripped to jagged shreds, the scorching flames of an emotion which has always been familiar drowning beneath one which has sharpened into something that she finds herself unable to ignore.
Her thoughts swim, colliding with each other, conflict brewing, bubbling, overflowing past the mask which has always been an essential part of her being.
Gomaitru’s gaze locks onto the parchment on the floor of the tunnel, visualizing the diagrams, mentally repeating their equations in an effort to drown out everything else.
But they only begin to blur as the current which she had not anticipated needing to fight drags her beneath it.
When the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, the Orokin finds herself unable to dispel them. Instinctively, her hand darts to cover her lips, her jaw tightening as the muscles in her chest begin to constrict.
The emotions hardly make a sound as they spill forth, scarcely-audible gasps and hitches of her breaths the only clues that something is not as it should be. They are stifled as if their existence is some great sin, as if the mere notion of the drops rolling down her cheeks and the shudders of her shoulders are to be concealed even within the enclosed tunnel, where the only witness is already privy to her thoughts anyhow.
Briefly, the walls begin to crumble. Briefly, each and every thought which has been forced into the depths of her memory since it was revealed that her father still lives—that Loid still lives, that she has been made a fool of by her own family—rushes forth.
Briefly, just this once, Gomaitru Entrati shatters.
Jagged shards of her heart, of her mind, lie crushed into dust under the weight of it all.
Betrayal lodges itself in the wreckage, leaden distrust sinking down into her very lungs, forcing air from her in a shaking breath, the sound melding into a nearly-silent approximation of a sob.
She does not notice how the writhing Infestation next to her has slowed in its movements. She does not notice how the thrashing of the vines has become far less aggressive than it was.
Her muscles jolt when she feels the brush of something along her arm, her cries choking themselves within her throat as the Orokin distantly wonders if she has been discovered. After all, just because her family does not venture into this particular branch of the network often does not mean that it would be impossible for them to do so.
But, she finds that she is still alone.
Again, the sensation repeats itself, this time curling against her skin; when Gomaitru manages to turn her gaze in the direction of the touch, she can just barely make out a shape through the dark crimson light of the tunnel and the curtain of emotion which sticks to her lashes in clumps and causes her vision to blur.
Confusion slices through the agony within her mind as, for a moment, she attempts to piece together what she is seeing.
There is a single Infested vine creeping around her forearm, though, somehow she manages to comprehend the notion that it does not seem to do so in an attempt to bind her. The contact is loose, and it curls back onto itself before it is able to fully encircle her limb.
Why?
A strangled sound manages to force itself into her throat, disease-ridden vocal folds betraying her as their vibrations form something that is audible.
Why have the whispers quieted themselves somewhat? Why is that venom not nearly as potent as it had been mere minutes ago?
The Orokin feels her muscles shudder with the effort of silencing herself, hand clamped across a rigid jaw, fingers feeling the expression beneath them crumpling.
The ache of something which she cannot name—something which she refuses to name despite knowing, deep within herself, what its identity truly is—has transformed, a serrated edge driving itself further into her being, sharp pangs emanating outwards into her lungs, her cells, her nerves.
She hates the small droplets that roll down her cheeks. She was taught better than this. She knows better than this.
The hollow of her throat stutters as a splintered inhale attempts to jolt into her lungs; the breath is soon shoved right back out in a fractured facsimile of a sob, just barely slipping through her gritted teeth, the sound muffled against her palm.
Distantly, Gomaitru feels the raised lumps along the Infested tendril around her arm shifting, rubbing against her skin in a manner that a very quiet part of herself recognizes as almost familiar. Ragged shreds of memories flicker through her thoughts, darting past her reach in only an instant. Said instant is long enough for her to catch a glimpse of a recognizable pale pelt, a lithe form weaving itself around a figure whose identity is certainly not her own.
She cannot think about him. Not at this moment.
Not when everything suddenly feels so raw once more, as if the once-healing wounds have been torn asunder, jagged edges pried away from each other with no consideration as to her opinion on the matter.
The movement along her skin continues slowly, a mannerism which the disease has never once afforded her before.
The Orokin does not know why it is doing this, why the rot is not screeching at her—rather, why it is not doing so as loudly, at least—that she should have listened, that she should not trust them, that she should lean into that rage which she knows so intimately. But, even so, she finds herself focusing on the feeling of the oddly-textured vine curling against her forearm, and she forces her mind to tether her to the sensation.
Soon—perhaps far too soon, some might say—, Gomaitru straightens her spine—not that the action is necessary. Her posture had scarcely changed from what it should be—, a sharp huff entering the air. She does not wish to acknowledge how the sound shakes just the faintest amount as it does so. Once she is certain that her outburst has concluded itself, she removes her hand from across her mouth, brushing the edges of her fingers across her cheeks; inwardly, the Orokin curses at the dampness that the action meets.
That does not stop her from continuing the motions until she is satisfied that the evidence of what has occurred has been utterly destroyed.
A breath drags itself deep into her lungs, the oxygen expanding the organs and, in turn, coiling itself around the leaden emotions which threaten to drown her.
With a still-shaken exhale, Gomaitru feels some of those escaping her being. It is not effective enough, in her opinion. But it will have to suffice for now.
She blinks, feeling the dull pain of pressure behind her eyes, the presumption that their edges are rimmed with scarlet sinking against her thoughts. Her cheeks feel warm, and she knows that there is likely a slight violet flush that has been left behind.
Her arms shift, her larger hand brushing away the vine while the other lowers to collect her notes from the tunnel floor.
At the very least, she is not needed for much else tonight. It would be far from the first instance during which she has neglected to spend her precious time with her family. At any rate, she has time enough to collect herself, to reform that mask of mildly disdainful neutrality.
At any rate, she has time enough to stoke the embers of her anger before they burn out completely.
Thus, that is what Gomaitru resolves to accomplish as her clearing gaze fixes itself on familiar equations, on the one thing which she has always valued above anything that she should have.
The tendrils twist and pull at her mind, resuming their incessant attempts at leaving pieces of herself shredded beyond recognition. Their murmurs lap at the edges of her thoughts, steeling them to what she should do.
Hidden amongst the rest, in the very depths of her consciousness, concealed amidst memories deemed too painful to think about, comes the faintest whisper of a question.
Why can she never truly loathe those whom she deems to be family?
No matter how hard she tries, no matter what she deceives herself into believing, why can she never entirely despise them?
Why is she so utterly, agonizingly unable to hate her?
Eva Stratt does NOT need a redemption arc. Eva Stratt did EVERYTHING WRONG so that no-one else would have to. Her hands are permanently stained with blood so humanity gets to keep on living.
That was the main issue that I had with that movie. I thought the movie as a whole was really good/fun to watch, although there were other things from the book that I wish they could’ve added, but I understand it’s difficult to adapt a book that complex into a movie anyhow, so things had to get cut. However, I think the decision to make Eva Stratt more ‘palatable’ and to almost completely cut out the more morally-grey decisions that she had to make was the wrong choice.
This is the woman who agreed to pave over the Sahara. This is the woman who agreed to have Antarctica bombed. This is the woman who sacrificed everything on the whisper of a chance that Earth and humanity could be saved.
This is the woman who knows for a fact that, when all is said and done, she will be the scapegoat. She will be put in prison for the rest of her life for what she’s done to keep humanity from going extinct.
And she’s made her peace with that. If humanity lives, everything she’s done will have been worth it.
She was given the ultimate power above every government to do whatever it took. She did things that no one ever wants to even think about, because it was either try something, no matter how unethical, or just sit back and watch as the world fell into ruin and humanity died of starvation and in-fighting.
And if someone hasn’t read the book, they’re not going to grasp just how complex of a character Eva Stratt is. They’re not going to understand that she’s doing everything with the knowledge that she’s going to be tried by probably every nation once it’s all said and done, and then she will spend the rest of her life in a prison cell. And she’s fine with that, because it means that she has done everything that she can possibly do to ensure humanity’s survival.
Yes, I realize that out of every character in the book, she was likely the most difficult one to translate to the screen. Yes, I realize that a part of the reason why they did what they did was likely in order to make the big ‘twist’ at the end more surprising (which…I have other thoughts on that, like why the hell they didn’t talk about the coma resistance gene at all).
But I think sanitizing Eva Stratt did the film a disservice.
There are so many facets to her character and without knowing those, you cannot truly understand why she made the choice that she did regarding Grace.
The world needed a scapegoat. The world needed someone to blame for doing the awful, unethical things that needed to happen in order to give them a chance at surviving.
And Eva Stratt saw that need and did what no one else would have been willing to do.
Clawing Through The Ruins (Of That Veil Of Deceit)
When long-buried truths are finally forced to the surface, suspicion begins to rot the halls of House Entrati once more. As tempers flare and their Matriarch slips into once-abandoned habits, one question remains on the minds of every soul involved.
What are they to do now?
How Much Regret Can A Mortal Truly Hold?
After placing himself in the crossfire of an argument that should have ended long before it was able to reach his senses, Loid finds himself alone with the one member of his family whom he has, regrettably, been avoiding. Caught in the wake of a betrayal that he had a hand in creating, will he begin to atone for his mistakes, or will a history’s worth of words remain just as unspoken as before?
Word Count: 4,392 words.
TW(s):
References to the canon-typical child neglect and child abandonment that is characteristic of Albrecht Entrati’s parenting.
Depictions of memory loss.
A brief, non-graphic reference to the canon-typical domestic violence that has occurred within the Entrati family.
This fic picks up right where the previous part of the series, ‘Absolution From Abandonment, What Callous Advice’, left off, so if y’all haven’t read that, I’d suggest doing so for more context.
As with the other parts of this series, this will contain spoilers for the Reunion ending of ‘The Devil’s Triad’, as well as general spoilers for the Entrati family’s storyline up to and including Rank 5.
With that out of the way, the fic begins under the cut. Hope y’all enjoy!!
He is a coward.
Even now, with the family—his family—aware of his continued existence beneath their halls, he is still such a damn coward.
They’ve known about him for just under a week. In that time, Loid has shed more tears than he ever knew he could.
Some of joy, others of pain.
At one point he’d even broken down in front of the children—well, they aren’t anymore, he reminds himself—, relief flooding his thoughts as he heard voices that he swore he’d only ever revisit in his dreams.
But through it all, there is one whom he had not spoken to.
He told himself that he was merely giving her space, that she needed time to come to terms with the betrayal that he was certain she felt, not only in regard to the part that he played in deceiving her.
But, in truth?
He was afraid. Not that she’d harm him, at least not physically—though he’d heard about what had happened to her husband—, but that he would see what his decision had done to the daughter of the man he loved.
Perhaps there was a small, childlike part of him that wanted to close his eyes and pretend that, if he couldn’t see the effects, they didn’t exist.
But when he heard that shout, when he’d sworn that he felt the very walls of the Necralisk shuddering before he even crossed the threshold, Loid knew that something wasn’t right.
His footsteps had quickened, forcing him to the very edge of the doorway that separated him from the argument.
Her fury slammed against his mind as those Infested petals surrounding her lashed like the tails of a dozen Kavats.
Marie’s response had only caused their movements to harshen, the tendrils writhing as the words seemed to sink in to their host.
Suddenly, he found himself unable to see the towering, Infested woman before him.
Instead, the scene had shifted, furiously narrowed eyes transforming into features screwed up in that barely-hidden irritation which he’d once known so well.
Was it ever truly irritation, a part of him wondered as he recalled the setting for the look, as he recalled getting young Euleria settled into bed at night, or sending her off to lessons every morning, or even simply expressing pride when she’d placed highest amongst her peers in her academics.
Regrettably, Albrecht had never paid even her highest achievements much mind. No. He was far too busy ‘making history’, as he would tell them both.
To him, nothing of value would be achieved anywhere but in his laboratory.
Thus, his daughter had internalized that view as well.
As Loid stared at the scene, it only escalated, Gomaitru’s hand clenching into a twitching fist, the writhing of the petals around her becoming almost violent in nature, as if they were suddenly entirely out-of-control.
Most would’ve stood down far before this point. Unfortunately, he’d mused, Marie was not ‘most’.
Granted, she also had little experience to know that the torrent of fury was not all that it seemed, that anger wasn’t the sole emotion thrashing within the other’s mind.
But he knew.
Her ‘tells’ were still there, even after all of these years, even after the changes that the Infestation had made to her mind and body. The tone of her voice, the twitch of her fingers, the set of her jaw, all signs of that ‘perfect’ Orokin mask—that ‘perfect’ Entrati mask, Loid amended bitterly—splintering.
He knew, but only just.
He was already stepping forward when another shout began to wrench itself into the tense air.
His own voice managed to raise itself just enough to interrupt the curse spilling from Gomaitru’s lips.
Those petals froze, though only for a moment.
A part of himself froze as well, apprehension chilling his bones as she’d turned to face him.
But this was not the time to be a coward.
When he sent Marie away—he didn’t lie, the priest had asked to speak with her—, Loid did so in a way which would draw the least attention possible to the weight hanging over them.
It would seem that some old duties don’t disappear completely.
Embarrassment was never a small matter to an Orokin. Even removing pride from the equation, one wrong move could render one ousted from their social circles at best.
It was a dance that he’d had to perform quite frequently with Albrecht, given his…eccentric nature.
His daughter was generally adept at managing herself, though sometimes her—at times—flaming temper did not meld ‘suitably’ with her brilliant mind, nor the strict expectations placed on women of her standing.
Thus, formulating quick excuses, creating swift exits to a conversation, was second nature to him.
But even afterwards, old habits found themselves in new positions, his gaze dropping from Gomaitru’s as he moved aside. It wasn’t often that she spoke of what was bothering her, but he’d learned long ago that quiet patience would get him far further than directly inquiring for answers.
If she wished to speak, she would. She just needed time.
He would give her all the time in the world, if that was what she required.
Now—after only a handful of words spoken by each of them—, he stands, wishing that he had anything to say that could make this ‘better’.
How, a part of him wonders with far more bitterness than he wants to accept, could anything make this ‘better’?
It would be like attempting to put out a fire with parchment.
She was asked to forgive a father who had abandoned her—in all meaningful senses of the word—from the day that she was born.
Although he knows what it’s like to be cast aside, he will never know what that feels like.
At least he knew that Albrecht was alive. She had to accept his death—at least once, from what he’s been told by the Tenno, as well as the rest of the family—, only to be told that what she thought was the truth wasn’t.
A part of him hopes that his presence is a comfort, even if only somewhat, as silence draws itself around them so tightly that the air feels almost too difficult to force into his lungs.
But Loid knows the truth.
He knows that his presence hurts her, knows that everything he’d tried to avoid is now coming to fruition, that the outcome was—in some ways—worse than he had imagined because of the sheer amount of time that she’d been lied to.
Gomaitru might be difficult to read—intentionally so—, but so was her father. He’s had quite a bit of practice discerning those stony features.
The way that her expression twists just for a moment whenever he’s too slow to pass by the doorway of the atrium in which she spends her time is proof enough. Each time he sees the split-second look of betrayal, another piece of him shatters.
Although the decision to reside in the Sanctum wasn’t his, although he wasn’t conscious for the majority of the time after Albrecht truly left, his choices have still harmed her.
He was afraid, yes. But his fears could very well have cost him a member of his family.
In his mission to protect the very few remnants of his Albrecht that he still has, he hurt her.
That, Loid knows, is something he doesn’t know if he can forgive himself for.
He should leave, his mind mutters.
But damn it all, he’s been gone for long enough.
He won’t leave her again. Not unless she truly wants him to.
Selfishly, there is a part of him which knows the likelihood of that isn’t as high as one might think. Gomaitru might have a temper at times, but she isn’t rash; she might refuse to speak with him personally, but she won’t prevent the rest of her family from doing so. Unless, of course, he were to commit a crime so heinous that she’d render him ousted from her halls entirely.
So, Loid stays, the corner of his gaze trained on the gently-flowing tendril of Infestation growing from one of the large boils at his side, though he cannot help but glance in her direction once or twice, only for a moment at a time.
The once-writhing petals have stilled somewhat, drawing themselves closer to her body. For what purpose, he isn’t certain, but they almost remind him of the near wall they’d formed when she first learned the truth of everything.
Almost.
He catches how a few of the outer petals slump slightly—hardly enough to be noticeable if one wasn’t looking—, as if a sigh somehow came to life.
“I hate you.”
The mutter isn’t filled with the vitriol of earlier, but instead with a bitterness which somehow digs itself far deeper into his chest than her wrath ever could.
Even as he glances in her direction, Gomaitru still doesn’t turn to face him, her narrowed gaze staring straight ahead at the massive, ornate door which separates the Necralisk from the rest of Deimos.
Loid feels his heart shatter as guilt, as resignation, fill his voice.
“I…” Of course, his words crumble like sand on his tongue, drying up anything that could’ve been uttered until the remains of the sentence almost resemble the cliffs outside the Sanctum. For what can he say to that?
‘I know’?
‘I never wanted this’?
Or, most dreadful of all, ‘I’m sorry’?
It’d all be empty platitudes anyhow; he still abandoned her. Even if it wasn’t initially by choice.
She should despise him, Loid knows.
She has every right to.
So why, he wonders, does the confirmation tug at every bone, every cell, every nerve, within his weary frame?
Her bitter tone is neither ice nor flame, yet it simultaneously forms itself into something worryingly distinct from the veil of moderate irritation that she often dons.
“Did this family’s creed mean nothing?” He doesn’t know how to answer that.
Albrecht had always preached the importance of knowledge, yet he deliberately misled his own daughter.
And he went along with it.
What else could he have done?
The damn bastard never listened to him anyhow. Not about Euleria.
Not for the first time, frustration bubbles amidst the guilt within Loid’s chest.
How many times had he tried to remind Albrecht that she was only a child? Furthermore, how many of those had actually succeeded?
He could have done more. He should have done more.
But he can’t answer her. Not when the only answer that he knows is, presumably, the one that she anticipates.
She always was far too intelligent for her own good.
Out of the corner of his eye, Loid notices those petals drawing themselves closer to her.
Perhaps he’s just being a bit melodramatic, but there’s something about the Infestation’s action which almost reminds him of an embrace, not just a barrier between her and the world.
Perhaps that’s simply the part of him that has always hated seeing her upset, even if it was a rare occurrence.
Perhaps that’s simply the part of him which wants her to have even the smallest bit of comfort. Even if it can’t be from him.
“You should have told me.” The mutter barely crosses into the air, sounding as if it hadn’t been intended to be uttered aloud.
Gomaitru still doesn’t look at him.
Not that he’d expected much different.
He’s always suspected that there’s a reason for that. It’s far more difficult to tell when appearances drop if one conceals their expression, after all.
She has always been so incredibly similar to her father.
A sigh wrenches itself from his lungs.
“I know.” There’s so much more he needs to say, yet, it’s as if his words have flown away on wings that they hadn’t had before.
A lump forms in his throat, his gaze fixed on hands that have come to fold themselves neatly in front of him, as poised as an Orokin’s ‘assistant’ should be.
Why can’t he just tell her?
He’s waited for so long to see her again, to see the family—his family—again, he’s replayed the moment over and over in his mind so many times now.
Yet, when it all matters most, his eloquence seems to be for naught.
“Leave me. I—” The low-toned command—is it?—pauses, causing Loid to glance over, noting how a few more tendrils of the Infestation have slumped slightly.
Gomaitru’s back remains stick-straight, a tactical poise to her form, one that he knows, in another world, was her survival.
An exhale blankets them, its weight as if the entire Necralisk has suddenly collapsed around them. The sound is far closer to a sigh than he ever thought possible.
This time, he doesn’t take his gaze from her, catching the way that those piercing azure eyes remain fixed on a point meters away—he isn’t sure what, not exactly. He doubts that it matters much, so long as it isn’t him—, catching the rigid lines of her features, which seem as if a bow has been strung between the muscles of her jaw and those at her brow-bone.
“I have had enough of this for one day.” The sentence seems so heartbreakingly simple.
But it also sounds as if she’s suddenly aged centuries in just a few short moments.
It isn’t exhaustion that laces her tone. Not quite, at least.
It certainly isn’t anything close to what he’s used to, even during the countless sleepless nights spent with her research.
With a quiet sigh, Loid nods, despite how every part of him shrieks about how wrong this is.
“Alright.”
His heart thumps within his chest; one beat, two, three.
His feet don’t move. They can’t. A part of him swears that the Infested vines across the once-grand floor have wrapped themselves tightly around the toes of his boots, creeping towards his ankles to hold him firmly in place.
He curses the stammer that tangles within his voice.
“If…If it’s worth anything at all, Gomaitru, I—” That name still feels strange on his tongue, Loid muses. Only three syllables instead of four, yet it doesn’t roll nearly as smoothly as ‘Euleria’ once had.
Guilt gnaws at his bones at the thought. Yet, he isn’t left with much time to dwell on it, as another example of that not-quite-exhaustion interrupts him.
“Loid.” It’s only his name. So why does it sound so wrong?
If he wasn’t looking at her, the trace of something almost resigned within the single word would cause him to swear up and down that he was listening to someone else’s voice.
That tone isn’t befitting of an Orokin. It isn’t befitting of an Entrati. It certainly doesn’t suit the woman that he watched grow into someone who could end debates with a quickly-spoken remark, who would devote herself to her studies with a fervor that would rival those more than twice her age.
But he knows what lingers in the space that it leaves.
He knows, from a lifetime spent with her family, when not to press an issue.
So, he doesn’t.
“Alright. I…will see you tomorrow, then.” He doesn’t exactly know why the quiet promise is added, his words escaping before his mind can catch up with him. Perhaps it’s simply a way that he can tell her that he won’t leave again, that she won’t be abandoned again, at least not by him.
Nothing that he saw or heard today would change that. None of it would be enough to drive him away.
Regardless of his intent, the only response is a wordless, flat-toned huff as Loid turns away to go back downstairs to the Sanctum.
His feet aren’t even fully on the other side of the threshold before the quiet rustling of petals shifting closed reaches his ears.
His heels click slowly against the gilded steps, legs moving mechanically as his mind throws itself into disarray. Without comment, he passes by the Necraloid, his head held low to avoid spotting those eight images set into the walls.
Suddenly, his toe catches on the edge of one of the stairs, his eyes widening in surprise as his attention snaps back to the present moment, a quiet yelp escaping him as his hand darts to catch the railing, his feet stumbling over each other in his body’s attempt to balance itself.
After a brief struggle, Loid finds himself staring into the stairwell, both sets of blanched knuckles starkly contrasting the dark, wooden tones of the railing, chest heaving as he takes in the monumental drop that a fall from that height would’ve caused.
His eyes slip shut, heart hammering against the walls of his chest as he attempts to force his breaths to calm down. Once he can stand unaided without his limbs shaking, he drags an inhale into his lungs, steeling himself as the trek begins again.
This time, he keeps one hand loosely gliding against the railing, just in case his thoughts begin to wander again.
Soon, he arrives in the Sanctum, his shoulders slumping only the slightest amount as he makes his way to his workbench. Fibonacci says something, though he can’t muster up the energy to give more than a half-hearted hum of acknowledgment to…whatever it is that the fish wants him to know.
With a sigh, Loid almost collapses into one of the chairs, his elbow resting atop the polished wood of the desk as his hand brings itself to support the too-heavy weight of his skull, its index finger resting against his brow-bone as his thumb almost digs into the side of his cheek.
The day has already stretched on long enough, yet he knows there’s more work to be done.
There always is.
Without seeking his approval on the matter, his free hand shifts towards the stack of books in front of him, pulling a large, rosy-hued tome out from the middle of the pile. The rest of the books thud against each other, though, to his relief, the stack as a whole only wobbles slightly. His fingers flick against the pages, feeling where they hold just the faintest gap between them, and he opens to a chapter in the very middle of the book.
‘The Present: Changing the Frame of Reality’, is its heading, Loid knows even without seeing it. He knows the chapter by heart, having scoured its pages countless times in his search for answers.
But lying atop the page, somewhat obscuring the jargon that he’d grown so accustomed to deciphering over the years, is something far more precious.
Something that was almost lost. A relic that has somehow survived amongst the tomes and numerous piles of research notebooks.
His Albrecht would likely say that he’s being far too sentimental about the small piece of parchment.
But he finds that he can’t bring himself to mind as his gaze drifts to the true treasure of the page.
The small drawings seem to stare back at him, tiny faces peering up from their little corner, only a short ways away from scribbled diagrams and scrawling equations in a slightly less tidy version of a familiar cursive script.
The day that he’d found it, Loid had sworn to himself that it would be kept safe. Every day since, its presence has served as a reminder of what he’s been working for this entire time.
Sometimes, the drawings hurt to look at, knives of regret stabbing into him at the reminder that she was a child, once. A child who, despite her upbringing, did, on occasion, act as all children do.
A child who scribbled little versions of herself, her father, and him, alongside the exercises that Albrecht had given her in order to ‘keep her mind active’.
As well as to keep her out of his way until he deigned to demand her assistance in his laboratory.
Today, the sight of the figures only worsens the raw despair coiling through his thoughts, little Euleria—Gomaitru, he corrects himself—staring up at him with an almost accusatory look, instead of the concentration that he knows is on the penciled-in face.
His thumb drifts against the edge of the page, feeling the parchment beneath his skin.
She likely wouldn’t even recognize the drawing now, Loid muses. The sudden thought catches him off-guard for a moment, sending tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Even if she were the type of person who would have before—which she is absolutely not—, the Infestation has stolen so much. He recalls a mention by the Tenno, one of faint confusion flickering across Gomaitru’s expression when she’d held up an, albeit damaged, copy of ‘The Tales of Duviri’.
He still remembers the ache in his chest when, on the day he finally crossed that threshold, she’d hesitated before addressing him. He knew the reason for the momentary pause, even if she’d never admit it.
Despite knowing that it’s perhaps a bit ridiculous—he was warned beforehand. The Tenno was clear about that—, it still hurts to know that there’s so much of her life that she can’t remember.
He suspects that there may be more gaps than any of them will ever truly know.
But she doesn’t even know her own name anymore.
The story behind her new one is bittersweet, in his opinion. ‘The goblet refilled’. It’s…surprisingly fitting, although there’s a part of him that aches whenever he thinks too much about how it came to be, about how she’d had to accept her father’s death and begin to live for herself.
What would have come of that conclusion, had he told the truth from the start, Loid wonders. Even if ‘the start’ was when he’d awoken from the slumber that his Albrecht put him into, could he have helped her come to terms with the fact that he was gone?
At the very least, she wouldn’t have had to learn that Albrecht still lives after finally beginning to accept that he did not.
Then again, a thought wonders, if he was around to keep reminding her of her name, would she have done all that she has?
She’s her own person. She always has been. But he isn’t a fool. He doubts that it was ever easy, both being Albrecht’s daughter and having a passion for the same field of study as he did. Especially when it was a sub-sect that he pioneered.
With her father disappearing the way that he did, Loid finds that he isn’t at all surprised that Gomaitru spent years searching for him. Even if, a part of him remarks bitterly, that same courtesy might not have been extended if the roles were reversed.
Immediately, he scolds himself for the thought.
In any case, it doesn’t matter. He chose not to tell the family the truth of what had happened. There’s a small part of him that wouldn’t have done anything different, had he known what he does now.
But that piece wars with the section of his mind that’s filled with so much regret.
There’s so much lately that it almost chokes him.
He thought that she’d be angry with him, that she’d surely feel betrayed. Of course, he wasn’t wrong.
But whenever he’d pictured himself reuniting with the family—with his family—, Loid had never imagined just how much he’d hurt her.
Looking back, that was perhaps too naive of him.
Despite her attempts at concealing it, he’s well-versed in discerning the stony features that Gomaitru and her father both share. As of late, there are times when her anger is barely a veil for what this revelation has done.
He never wanted her to get hurt. But fear causes one to make choices that will haunt them for the rest of their days.
The drawings in front of him begin to blur as damp patches roll silently down his cheeks and he shifts how his head is supported by his hand, fingers curving slightly to push up the brim of his glasses in an attempt to barricade the droplets. That task soon proves fruitless and his grip shifts again, this time covering his mouth to muffle any possible sounds that might escape him. A shuddering exhale forces itself through his nostrils, his shoulders shaking with the force of a few silent sobs.
How grateful he is that the Sanctum is relatively quiet today. At least there aren’t hordes of Tenno crowding around his workspace.
Words won’t even be enough to help. No apology that he can utter will ever be enough. Not for this. Not when he can tell, somewhat—by certain brief reactions that she’s had over the past several days—, that the disease within her mind has begun to twist anything that is said to her.
All that he can do is what he should’ve done this entire time.
He can be there for her; he can be there for her family.
A sniff escapes him as Loid manages to calm himself down enough that he isn’t outright crying anymore. He forces himself to place the parchment in his hand back atop the page where he’d left it, though doesn’t close the book just yet.
His gaze remains fixed on the small images, even still.
Perhaps it’s strange, having such a strong reaction over this. After all, he reminds himself, he never allowed himself to view Euleria as a daughter. That wasn’t his place.
But she’s still his Albrecht’s daughter.
She’s still his family.
With a sigh, Loid recalls what he’d said just before he left.
‘I…will see you tomorrow, then.’
That was a promise. If she doesn’t wish to speak with him, he will accept that, but he isn’t going to abandon her. Not without trying.
She likely needs space, as well as time to properly process everything. Void knows, he understands that.
But he’ll be there tomorrow. As well as the next day, and the day after that. He’ll make the trek upstairs as often as he needs to.
Any verbal apologies might be meaningless, at least for now, but he knows that actions tend to prove far more than words to her. They always have.
So, he can offer quiet patience, he can offer company—if she accepts it—without expectations attached, if she isn’t ready to speak with him yet.
Clawing Through The Ruins (Of That Veil Of Deceit)
When long-buried truths are finally forced to the surface, suspicion begins to rot the halls of House Entrati once more. As tempers flare and their Matriarch slips into once-abandoned habits, one question remains on the minds of every soul involved.
What are they to do now?
Absolution From Abandonment, What Callous Advice
All that Gomaitru wishes to do is carry on with her life, feigning as if nothing has gone awry. That includes refusing to acknowledge the looming presence which lurks at the edges of every thought, a presence which she had finally learned to live without. A certain newcomer seems to be on a mission to make this task significantly more arduous than it ever needed to be.
Word Count: 4,388 words.
TW(s):
References to the canon-typical child neglect and child abandonment that is characteristic of Albrecht Entrati’s parenting, as well as the complicated emotions that Gomaitru has regarding their relationship, her childhood, and her identity, due to said neglect.
Depictions of memory loss.
Depictions of anger issues, paranoia, and feelings of betrayal.
Depictions of Infestation-related mental health issues.
Somewhat-graphic references to the canon-typical domestic violence that has occurred within the Entrati family.
As with the other parts of this series, this will contain spoilers for the Reunion ending of ‘The Devil’s Triad’, as well as general spoilers for the Entrati family’s storyline up to and including Rank 5.
With that out of the way, the fic begins under the cut. Hope y’all enjoy!!
Nothing has changed.
The lie twists through her thoughts with more difficulty than she will ever be comfortable admitting.
Even still, the Orokin forces herself to keep working, refusing to acknowledge the change within the walls of the place which her family calls ‘Home’.
Rather, she attempts to.
Certain newcomers have been making that rather difficult.
She does not trust the Orokin. Granted, there is no trust inside of her being for most, as of the current moment. However, he is what he is, and Gomaitru agrees with the whispers within her mind when they scream that he is to be held at arm’s length—if that—and nothing more.
She cares not if she knew him, or knew of him in the past. Even if she recalled that information with clarity, he is still an Orokin.
Gomaitru knows well what that entails. She had never much cared for interacting with her peers beyond what was required of her standing, but she had been taught mastery of conveying messages hidden within pointed words, had been adept at the cruel game that her people played amongst themselves.
She had to be, of course.
So, when another of her kind emerged from that place which had been hidden from her, offering ‘aid’ for herself and her family, distrust had immediately clawed its way down her spine.
There, it has remained, lingering like shards of ice prodding against her nerves when she so much as dares to remember the insufferable situation that she has found herself in.
She has made the mistake of allowing others in before.
Never again will that failure befall her.
Yet, it seems that her family does not believe the same. Yes, perhaps they are somewhat wary of the newcomers—especially him—, but they do not dismiss them as she does.
That, the Orokin presumes, is why that woman continues to linger in her halls, spending her time engaging with Otak and the Necraloid, as well as with her daughter and mother-in-law.
She calls herself ‘Marie’, Gomaitru knows, from the meager introduction that she had allowed before curtly excusing herself to return to her research.
There is a reason that she avoids her in particular, a warning spoken by Loid that she had hardly deigned to listen to.
A warning in regard to one aspect of this situation that she will not allow herself to think about.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that floating woman pause, her journey from where Kaelli spends much of her time to that door which conceals what he had constructed beneath them halting momentarily. To the Orokin’s chagrin, her path redirects itself, soon leading Marie to drift in front of her.
Her voice comes as a dagger, though its edge is not intended to maim.
Yet.
“Unless you require something, I would suggest that you find entertainment elsewhere. I am busy.” The other’s brows furrow only slightly, though the look does not have the desired irritation held within it, simply curiosity, as well as perhaps some small amount of frustration.
With a shake of her head, the woman speaks, her unfamiliar accent curling through the air between them.
“I do not mean to disturb you. I…only wish to speak with you.” Despite the part of her that desires nothing more than to force the woman to leave, Gomaitru simply responds with—mostly—single-toned neutrality, her words having obvious meaning.
“I do not have time for idle chatter. If gossip is what you desire, speak with Grandmother.” Yet, again, it seems that the other will not listen.
“I wish to speak with you. I have heard such intriguing things from Loid and the others, about le Cardinal’s daughte—” For a moment, she simply resolves to ignore the continued attempt at conversation.
Until a familiar name is followed by a title that does not connect to anything within her memories.
Until that title is followed by a word which causes something within her mind to scream, rejecting the very sound as it twists through the air.
Is that what they think of her?
That she is just his daughter?
The already-distrusting tendrils coil through her thoughts, purring antagonistic fury amongst them, adding to the emotions that she will not allow to free themselves.
You are a brilliant scientist in your own right.
How fitting that they all seem to forget that.
That is all that you will ever be to them.
A hiss is ground out from between gritted teeth, her narrowed gaze fixing on the woman in front of her.
“You will refer to me by name or not at all.” After all, the Orokin muses, if the other truly wishes to speak with her, if she wishes to interact with her, it will not be via that lens.
When Marie responds, she doubts that the other has truly understood.
For if she had, she would not still be attempting to speak with her.
“I…am sorry. That was not appropriate of me to say. I know that le Cardinal caused you harm. I did not mean to suggest tha—” That wretched title appears again, this time causing her muscles to stiffen as her mind connects it to a man that she has spent so much time attempting to be free of.
A mutter forces itself from lips that do not wish to speak.
“You refer to him as if he is some form of a deity. He was, is, and always will be, only a man.” That is all that she will say on the subject, Gomaitru affirms to herself, readying a snap in case the shorter woman attempts to continue the conversation.
She notices a slight furrow of Marie’s brow, something which almost seems defensive.
“You speak about him as if he has done immeasurable evil. But that is not all that he is. Would it not be…more healing for you to let go of that hurt and hold forgiveness within your heart?”
Her thoughts come to a screeching halt as her mind attempts to process the absurdity which has just entered the atmosphere around them.
“How dare you.” The hiss escapes before she can stop it, before she can force down the emotions which flood her thoughts, before she can force every response to simply be shielded within that carefully-constructed mask of irritation.
The rot within her mind seems to grasp her fury, her thoughts flaring as she feels the writhing petals around her do the same.
“You know nothing. Do not speak about that which you do not know, you are only making a fool of yourself.” From the twitch of the other’s features, she knows that she has hit a nerve with the insult, and Gomaitru continues, intending on driving her away so that she will never think of approaching her with this topic of conversation again.
“You dare to come into my Necralisk and lecture me on something that does not concern you? Let this be your warning, Marie—” The floating woman’s name falls from her tongue, the sound drenched in disdain.
“—. That topic is not to be entertained here. If you wish to gossip, do it elsewhere. My family is not here for you to cast judgement upon.” Something pitying drifts across the other’s features, sending discomfort rippling down the Orokin’s spine.
“I simply…It is rather sad that you would deprive yourself of a father if he returns, nón? All because he has had to do impossible things to keep the Indifference at bay.” Time seems to stop entirely, her thoughts freezing as her mind attempts to catch up to the words that have been spoken.
Surely she has heard incorrectly.
Scraps of memories force themselves through a mind overrun by disease, brief images, words, emotions, flickering by for only moments before they disappear once more.
The movement of the petals swarming around her halts.
How dare she, the Infestation growls, the rot’s fury harsh in a way which Gomaitru finds herself unfamiliar with when compared to that manipulative honey that lingers within her mind.
She knows nothing of him, of you, of how you were raised.
Her lip curls, a snarl twisting her features, her azure eyes narrowing as she glares at the woman.
Her mind screams, a silent war raging amidst her thoughts, a conflict which she has never quite had the words for.
She has never had the desire to search for them.
But her father had made his decisions long before his actions provoked that untime being.
“Do not presume to know my actions when you do not know the faintest thing about me.” The snap escapes her, clipped and rigid, leaving absolutely no room for argument.
A part of her wishes to scream, to forgo any and all of the teachings that she had received in order to ensure that the foolish woman knows to never speak of this to her again.
But that mask must remain.
Marie’s brows furrow slightly, though the Orokin notices that the infuriating look of pity in her gaze only grows stronger.
It creeps into the other’s voice, wrenching forth faint images of academic conferences, of strange glances shot in her direction, pulling forth nearly-lost wefts of the ‘polite’, demeaning tones which her people knew well.
Those linger a few seconds longer than her memories normally do.
Those related to her career are often slightly clearer.
Gomaitru refuses to allow herself to dwell on the fact that those are, therefore, not the only memories which the rot has allowed her to revisit most often.
“It is better to have a father who has made mistakes than none at all. Is it truly that grotesque to be forgiving?” That word tangles through the air, twisting through her senses, fury and betrayal burning within her very nerves.
Her hand twitches, fingers subconsciously tightening around the gleaming—yet forgotten—specimen held within it.
Her skin crawls, emotions that she has never once wished to discern clawing at her bones, digging into her ribs as the Infestation swarms around her.
“Holding onto the suffering that he has caused you will only hurt you more.”
CRACK!
Her grip tightens inadvertently, though the Orokin hardly feels the ceramic shifting beneath her hold as the evidence of her fury causes a fracture to snake itself through the object.
Her voice must drop the temperature of her halls to frigid degrees, forcing a chill through it that does not exist on Deimos.
“Get out.” The floating woman’s eyes widen slightly, though there is something that reeks of defiance in her expression.
The murmurs within her mind stoke the flames as she interrupts any attempt at argument.
“No. I have been exceedingly reasonable thus far, despite your continued efforts to speak on a topic which you know nothing about. I told you that I will not entertain this nonsense and I—SILENCE!” That practiced, faithful mask cracks when Marie attempts to interject, and suddenly the cacophony within her mind forces itself into the air as her voice raises into a shout.
The very walls seem to rattle as the sound reverberates through them, her tone shifting as half-Infested vocal cords send a near-growl through the single word, deepening its timbre in the mere second that it fills the air.
“Who do you think that you are, to not only disturb me while I am busy, but to demand that I forgive a man whom you know NOTHING ABOUT?! You do not have the faintest idea of what my upbringing was like, so do not DARE to impose your morality on something which does not involve you.” The air around her burns, her thoughts cascading through her mind almost too quickly to grasp any of them.
With her attention solely fixed on the being who has dared to cross her, Gomaitru does not notice the eyes which fall upon the scene.
Voices lash her thoughts as if they are a whip, clawing through her mind as the scene before her shifts, as the unanticipated ‘discussion’ drags forth those uncomfortable thoughts from a point in time when her mind had been at its darkest.
‘Move on.’
The now-fragmented artifact in her hand seems to take on a different weight, turning heavier, more solid.
‘Move on.’
If she were to force her gaze downwards, there is a part of her which is certain that she would see a jagged edge stained with crimson viscera.
‘Move on.’
A defensive tone interrupts the Orokin’s screeching thoughts, though it only causes her practiced neutrality to crumble further.
“I knew le Cardinal for three years, do not say that I do not know him. All that any of you can ever do is speak about how much you have suffered instead of attempting to understand that he is fighting a war! Would it not be better for you to move on instead of dwelling on what he has had to do for the greater good?!” A duo of words grabs onto her attention, slashing through her mind just as easily as a dagger through flesh, Marie’s voice tangling with the memory of another.
‘Move on.’
‘Move on.’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Move on.’
Whispers jeer amidst the shredded scraps which force themselves painfully through disease-ridden walls. Snide comments, pitying glances, actions which were poised for one purpose but were intended for another.
‘Poor thing.’
‘Have you heard?’
‘What a shame. She was destined for so much more.’
She can hardly feel the ceramic splintering further as her muscles twitch, recalling the nauseating—for far too long, she had not allowed herself to view it as such—feeling of forcing their weapon through skin, sinew, muscle, then skin again.
There is a part of her that screams to feel it again, if only to stop the incessant taunting.
It takes far more effort than she ever wishes to admit to prevent the rot from twisting through her bones, to push past everything that just needs this to end, regardless of what that might entail.
It shrieks even still.
How dare she?
How dare she?
How DARE SHE?!
A torrent flies past lips that do not wish to speak.
“That is ENOUGH! I do not have the time for an insolent whelp to lecture me on how I should feel about my FATHER. You act as if the Indifference i—No.” Her exclamation halts, her narrowed gaze fixed on the woman floating before her.
“You are not entitled to know why I made my decisions, you are NOT entitled to demand that I ‘forgive’ him, and you will GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU ABSOLUTE FUC—”
“Enough!”
Her head whips around to face the source of the somewhat-rasping shout, her frenzy of vitriol disrupted momentarily as a once-familiar spectacled gaze stares at them.
As she does so, the Orokin notices him stiffen slightly, notices a flash of an emotion that seems abnormally close to fear dash through his eyes, albeit only for a brief moment.
She does not know how to feel about that observation. Even if fury did not currently twist its talons amidst her thoughts, even if the rot did not purr saccharine deception—is it, she wonders—into every crevice of her mind, she would not know what to think of it.
Her jaw tenses, the blade within her voice swiftly switching targets, though before she can demand to know how dare he insert himself where he is not welcome, Loid’s gaze shifts from her to Marie.
Before Gomaitru can berate him for daring to shout at her when she is not the one who is to blame for this nonsense, a somewhat-stern sound forces itself into the air.
Small wefts of memories drift forward, though they are stolen away before she can truly recall anything other than the same exasperation directed elsewhere, the context long-lost.
“That’s enough.” The—much calmer—repetition of his earlier exclamation is met with a defiant furrow of the floating woman’s brow, though it seems that she might have some amount of self-preservation remaining, because with a sigh and a shake of her head, Marie turns to move towards that path which leads to the once-hidden place beneath the Necralisk.
As she does so, Loid calls out, his voice low as it often is.
“Oh, Marie? I believe that Lyon wishes to speak with you, when you have a moment to spare.” She is not certain if his words are true, but she finds that it does not matter.
At least the other is gone.
At least there is silence in the Infested halls which surround her, even if her mind still screams.
Even if her thoughts are filled with shards of memories that a part of her wishes did not exist.
Even if she wishes to think about something else, anything else, anything other than every single moment wh—
“May I ask what happened?”
A moment passes, the Orokin’s thoughts attempting to collect themselves, attempting to process the low-toned question which escapes a man whom she still does not know how to regard.
The concern in his worn, tired gaze strikes her as loathsome. She should put an end to it.
Yet, Gomaitru finds that she cannot.
Not at the current moment, at least.
The bitter chill has not retreated from her voice, however.
“I presume that you witnessed it.” The sentence is not an accusation, not truly. It is simply a statement of fact.
He must have. It is not as if the atrium in which she spends the majority of her time is unexposed.
Discomfort burns through her spine at the thought, clawing from the base of her skull downwards, sending nearly-electric jolts through her nerves.
The Infestation draws itself closer to her, despite her attempt at preventing it from doing so.
A quiet hum escapes the man in front of her, a sigh following suit.
“I did. But I’d like to hear it from you.” The muscles of her jaw tense, a curt snap forcing itself into the air.
“Then draw your own conclusion. I am not going to add context to a situation which requires none.” Nothing but a heavy exhale answers her.
At last, silence falls upon the small area of the Necralisk in which she resides.
Her hand unfurls itself, revealing the now-shattered artifact held within her grasp, cracks weaving through the gilded edges like cobwebs. As the pressure that had been keeping it together finally subsides, a large piece of the ceramic comes crumbling free, dropping to her palm with a barely-there—yet somehow mocking—thump.
The urge to scream, to curse, to do anything in order to dispel the fury coiling within her washes over Gomaitru as if it is one of the tremors caused by the massive Infested beasts right outside her doors.
Instead, the only thing that is allowed to grace the air is a somewhat frustrated huff as she turns to place the object down atop one of the solid masses beside her for later study.
That, of course, is what she does best. Her research is what keeps her sanity somewhat intact, most days.
If she did not have that, if she did not have her intellect, if she did not have the faint fragments of once-flourishing ideas amidst the tendrils overtaking her thoughts, she would likely be a husk of herself.
She has always been far too similar to him.
The thought stabs into her, digging itself so far beneath her skin that, for a brief moment, Gomaitru’s instincts screech that the sensation is real. She manages to stop herself from searching for a wound that does not exist, but only just.
Only because she wishes to believe that she still has some semblance of dignity.
The quiet shuffling of robes, the faint clicks of heeled boots upon the once-grand floor alerts the Orokin to a shift before her.
For a moment, she presumes that she will be left alone, that she will finally have the true silence that she desires.
But Loid merely steps to the side, positioning himself near one of the writhing balls of Infestation, his back as straight as a board, his posture almost too ‘perfect’.
Old habits die hard, she muses. Perhaps some do not die at all.
The action strikes her as oddly familiar yet, again, Gomaitru finds that she does not have the context for the feeling. Even as she wracks her mind for the faintest details, the memories that do remain have been torn to shreds, their pieces almost impossible to reconnect into anything useful.
But perhaps her body recalls what her mind does not. Perhaps memory of the quiet presence twists within the bands of her vocal cords.
She cannot think of any other explanation for the mutter that shoves itself into the air without her approval.
“Three years.” The only response is a low sound of acknowledgement.
Another bitter mutter falls free as her mind begins to process what had been said, now that the rage is not directed at a tangible being in front of her.
“She knew him for three years.” The reality of the situation thuds against her thoughts, burying itself within the crevices of her mind, tearing through what she had thought was the truth.
Her father is alive.
Yet, despite every effort, despite the countless days, hours, months, years, spent attempting to search for him, she had never found even a trace.
Not a single meaningful trace.
All that she had were the proofs, the equations, the writings from his first excursion into the Void, the shard, the research which she could have recited in her sleep. As well as the notes that he had left, his claims that he had ‘given up’.
His decisions reek of hypocrisy, of cowardice. Yet, there is a part of her which finds itself unsurprised.
His research was always the most important thing in his life. There is a reason that the only memories of him which remain relatively untouched by the disease ravaging her mind are related to their work.
She has never faulted him for that; how could she?
It is what she has always known.
So why is her chest suddenly filled with a mass of emotions which she has never been able to name?
Why is it so difficult to simply be furious at his betrayal?
Why does the idea that he spent three years interacting with people whom he had no business being near feel as if the part of herself which had begun to accept that he was gone is being torn open again?
Is it because a stranger seems to have more memories of his so-called ‘kindness’ than she ever had?
Or is it the fact that he could have returned at any point during those three years, that instead of masquerading as a ‘Cardinal’—whatever that may be—in a timeline that was not his, he could have taken just a moment to reveal to his family that he was alive?
He could have done it. He simply did not wish to.
He did not find that important, Gomaitru presumes. It would hardly be the first time.
But, for the first time, the idea that her father wants nothing to do with her gnaws at her bones, crawling into the spaces between her ribs as if it belongs there.
Somehow it aches more than accepting that he was ‘dead’ had.
That thought is swiftly discarded, is shoved to the back of her mind in hopes that she will forget it by tomorrow.
There is a part of her which screams that she does not truly want that, that she does not wish to lose even one more thought to the tendrils which shadow her mind.
Silence blankets the room, its weight enough that she has almost forgotten that she had spoken.
Until Loid finally replies.
“Your reaction was completely understandable, even if not…‘proper’. I…apologize, Gomaitru. Marie comes from a place of wishing to see the ‘good’ in others, and while it’s an…admirable trait, there are times when, perhaps she isn’t open to…different sides of the story. The conversation was longer than I saw, I presume?” The silence that follows serves as a reluctant answer to his question.
Her jaw remains tense.
She does not look at him.
She is aware that her reaction was improper. It would certainly have garnered stares and snide remarks had it occurred in the world in which she was raised.
“She was told that the topic was not up for discussion. She did not listen. I refuse to hold my tongue when I am being disrespected.” Again, other than a quiet sigh of acknowledgment, the tentative conversation falls still.
It leaves Gomaitru in conflict with her thoughts once more.
She has questions, ones that she doubts that anyone will be able to answer.
At least, none other than the man who refuses to.
It would be logical to believe that his ‘kindness’ to Marie was only to serve his own ends. It is what she is familiar with, after all. Every being has a purpose that they must serve; it would have been easier to bestow such a task on someone willing, on someone trusting.
The Orokin drives away the whisper which wonders if any of it was genuine. The thought still lingers for far longer than she will ever admit.
She had finally stopped searching.
She had finally begun to accept the fact that her father was dead.
Her light was finally entirely her own.
A thought drives itself like a dagger into her chest, momentarily causing the haze of anger—why? He always lectured her about knowledge, why would he intentionally mislead them all?—to give way to a grief that she has never truly allowed herself to feel.
She had always presumed that he had never wanted children. She is not an idiot, she knows that he was held under the scrutiny of a society which did not value his research nearly as much as they should have.
She had always presumed that he had never wanted children.
The thought amends itself, tearing through jagged memories, scars flaying themselves apart despite Gomaitru’s attempts at shoving those pointless emotions back where they belong. Bloodied moments fill her lungs, choking her with something that none can see, once-forgotten words wrapping themselves around her chest until she swears that she cannot take even a shallow breath.
Why does this feel as if he simply never wanted her?
Since The Old Peace introduced the Xenoflora, we wondered how Lotus managed to survive as she does now, far away from home, in an Origin System without the Tau Blooms.
This line of hers in the Dark Refractory explains everything:
I know I ask much of you. Yet, you rise to the challenge. Always. What sustains me? It is you.
Like how the Holdfasts are given strength by the Tenno to resist the call of the Void Angels, the Lotus system is being sustained by their surrogate Void children.
Either in a literal sense: being a source of energy for Lotus to passively "feed" upon... Or in a more abstract sense: by allowing Lotus the protective strength of love for her children that keeps her safe from the Indifference.
So when we think of the Tenno and the Lotus as synonymous, symbiotic beings working in tandem... We can infer that by willingly putting her children in cryosleep after the Old War, after the Night of the Naga Drums, the Lotus was also willingly weakening herself to other hive minds, influence, and outside control.
She, Natah, must have known that she could gather ambient strength from the Tenno. This would add even more layers to her decision to defect from her birth's purpose. She must have known it was a huge risk for her to take: to seal this newfound alternative for Sentient strength - her Tenno - away on Lua, sending the entire moon to the Void with herself in it.
If the Void is truly as toxic to Sentients as we were led to believe, Natah was taking a calculated risk doing what she did to protect the Tenno. Regardless of her success as a spy in the Origin System, her body would have always been on the line: in danger of being reclaimed by her father, into another hivemind without the Tau Blooms, or in danger of being reprogrammed by the Orokin.
When Hunhow's plan was in motion, Natah knew her role as a spy was integral, but she saw different paths to take:
She could follow the plan: kill the children and return to Hunhow. But she risks being "reclaimed" into another hivemind should she disobey more orders.
She could save the children by hiding them in Lua - sealing away her source of power, keeping the children safe from harm. But she again risks being reclaimed into another hivemind OR by the Orokin, without Tenno strength.
She could join her children in hiding in the Void - allowing herself to suffer from Void poisoning for decades and generations during her long vigil for her children. BUT, she keeps her individuality as a (relatively) lone Sentient.
This third option was a calculated risk. For her to defect, to betray her father, to live as the woman she wants to be. A mother, despite her barren self. With children who love her, who give her strength in more ways than one.
Against the odds of her pre-determined fate, the desperate misery of her people after catastrophic Orokin sabotages, Natah saw an opportunity for new life, and took it.
Her adoption of the Tenno was as much an act of love, as much as it was an act of survival.
It was an act of someone who saw more to Sentient suffering, who saw a way to, in time, heal and return what was stolen from her people.
This extends to her acceptance of the Margulis within her. To the Lotus system... Their love, their children, the love for themselves, and their survival... They are synonymous.
To teach the Sentients of Tau that they can heal from Orokin cruelty... To love her children, to protect them, to show her people that it's possible to live in peace, to give each other strength... For Tenno and Sentient to ally as a family...
So I was listening to ‘Achilles Come Down’ by Gang of Youths today for the first time in…probably close to six years or so. It just…appeared as I was shuffling things around trying to find something good.
And I swear, all that I could think about while listening was the Operator and Adis.
Spoilers below for ‘The Old Peace’, obviously.
Also, just in case, here are a few TWs for some stuff I’ll be talking about in this post:
Mental health issues, including depression and thoughts of suicide.
Grief and the loss of a loved one.
The trauma that the Operator has experienced throughout literally their entire existence.
Memory loss.
Imagine an Operator who is just…so tired. Of the killing, of the loss of the people they love, of the weight of the entire System resting upon the shoulders of someone who likely never, in their wildest dreams, imagined needing to undertake that burden. And every memory that they manage to recover reveals more trauma than the last.
They had a friend.
They had someone around whom they could just be themselves, they could act like the child that they were, they could play with him, they could laugh with him.
They had a friend.
And, the very same day that they remember that, the Operator is forced to re-live how they lost him.
They’re forced to re-live how Adis sacrificed himself for them.
And their heart bleeds as memories that they’d only just discovered are tainted by the fact that he’s gone.
And they’re so sick of losing people. They’re sick of watching the people they love get hurt, or die, or sacrifice themselves for them like their own lives don’t matter.
Because Adis wasn’t the first. And the Operator wonders if there will ever be a last. If there will ever be a time when they aren’t desperately trying to keep the System and their family from unraveling at the seams.
Will there ever be a time when they aren’t the monster that bedtime stories warn against?
Will there ever be a time when their hands don’t feel stained with the blood and viscera that drip from their Warframes and weapons?
…What would he think if he saw what they’ve become?
Imagine a tiny voice in the Operator’s head, one deep in their subconscious, feather-soft and unfathomably gentle as it tells them to keep going. Maybe it’s just their mind’s way of coping, but it sounds so familiar, it feels so familiar.
He said that his light was with them, now.
Would it be foolish to hope that they carry a part of him always?
And when the thoughts become too much, when they get too careless on missions, when they’re left wondering if it’s even worth it to keep fighting, the Operator swears that they can sense something from that tiny part of their mind.
They can’t hear it, not really, but they can feel the way that it hums through their thoughts, once-familiar notes inaudible but still somehow comprehensible.
And when they’re stuck in their head, questioning if their only purpose is to drown in the blood of family, friends, and enemies alike, that quiet melody blankets them in an embrace that they haven’t felt in so, so long.
Just as a general reminder, not that anyone on this site needs it because I believe the majority of Tumblr users are in agreement, but: DO NOT FEED MY WRITING INTO AI. Generative AI is a goddamn plague that is hell-bent on making humanity less intelligent and destroying the planet, and if you have so little respect for both yourself and others that you would resort to that, then I don’t want you anywhere near my page or my writing.
Clawing Through The Ruins (Of That Veil Of Deceit)
When long-buried truths are finally forced to the surface, suspicion begins to rot the halls of House Entrati once more. As tempers flare and their Matriarch slips into once-abandoned habits, one question remains on the minds of every soul involved.
What are they to do now?
Just How Veridical Is The Voice Of A Star?
It has taken time, but Gomaitru has gradually begun to find herself growing accustomed to the changes that her Ayatan had brought to the great halls of the Necralisk. Yet, when reality itself is turned on its head, when everything that she thought was true is shredded before her very eyes, the Entrati Matriarch finds herself questioning far more than she had ever wished to.
Word Count: 3,502 words.
TW(s):
Depictions of memory loss.
Depictions of anger issues, paranoia, and feelings of betrayal.
Depictions of Infestation-related mental health issues, including a character questioning reality.
Depictions of the not-particularly-healthy familial dynamics within the Entrati family.
Very brief, non-graphic references to the canon-typical domestic violence that has occurred within the Entrati family.
Also, this will contain spoilers for the Reunion ending of ‘The Devil’s Triad’, as well as general spoilers for the Entrati family’s storyline up to and including Rank 5.
With that out of the way, the fic begins under the cut. Hope y’all enjoy!!
He is alive.
She had not heard the footsteps, had not noticed more than a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, had not presumed anything to be amiss as she bade ‘Farewell’ to yet another quartet of Tenno. She had held in her hand the fruits of their labor, something which she could study, that she could attempt to glean some meaning from.
He is alive.
Ideas had thundered across her mind as the gilded objects lay in her palm, though her attention had drifted to the inscriptions on one of them. Inscriptions which meant nothing to all but a select few.
He is alive.
The corner of her lip had quirked upwards only the slightest amount as the rot gnawing at her skull subsided just enough to give way to intrigue.
For a moment, everything was as it should be.
For a brief moment, the scratching of the tendrils was quiet.
For that fleeting moment, it was as if nothing else existed.
“Eule—I mean…Gomaitru?”
Until a voice broke the Orokin from her thoughts.
A voice which, while not immediately familiar to her, stirred something within her mind, awakening those shredded scraps of memories that the disease had not yet stolen.
Yet, she could not place it, even still.
Irritation had coiled itself within her bones and she had turned, anticipating one of the many Tenno that drift through her halls. She was eager to see them on their way and away from her.
Her research pauses for none. Not even them.
But, standing before her, his expression meek—an image had darted through her mind at the sight, one of her children peeking around a doorway, as if they would have been scolded for disturbing her. Before the fleeting memory was pulled out of her reach, Gomaitru silently mused that the expressions appeared rather similar—, was a human male. He clutched a tablet tightly against his chest, as if the device was a lifeline.
His presence was strange enough.
Her jaw had tightened, her narrowed eyes fixing on his.
Why did the spectacled gaze look upon her in such a way?
As if she should know who was standing before her?
At once—she is not an idiot; she recognized the look. It was the very same that her family gives her when she has forgotten something which they have not—, the Orokin began scanning her memories, began attempting to dig through the layers of rot within her mind.
It had seemed to take an eternity, long enough that she knew that it would have been improper in the world in which she was raised.
In reality, only moments passed before a flicker of an image and the faintest whisper of a name were discovered.
Gomaitru snatched them, wishing to learn before the Infestation could rip even more of herself away.
It was not difficult to connect the man in her mind to the one who stood before her. Even with his long, blonde hair now streaked with grey, even with the wrinkles beneath his eyes seeming to age him decades, the man was the same.
Of that, the Orokin had no doubt.
Equations ran within her thoughts, connecting the image to the man, then the man to the name. Then, the name connected itself to small scraps which the Infestation had not yet deemed important enough to steal from her.
Finally, the image of the man standing in front of her merged with the memory of one who was not a stranger at all.
“Loid.” Her voice did not waver. It rarely did.
She was taught to act properly, to think of one’s standing before she speaks—even if she chose not to care about that as much as others did—, to never show what she might truly be thinking, lest it be utilized against her. Those, along with other such lessons, are embedded within her very being so deeply that it would be impossible for those tendrils to tear them away.
Thus, the screams echoing inside of her mind, the questions, the confusion, all forced themselves into a single, stiff-toned utterance of a name that had not been used to refer to him in what some may describe as an eternity.
She had noticed his expression shift, relief mingling with the apprehension that tightened every line of his features.
“May I speak with you?”
Despite everything within her that screamed at her to refuse, Gomaitru agreed.
She should not have.
He spoke, and she found it more and more difficult to keep that mask of neutrality tied tightly onto her features.
He spoke, and she found that more and more anger slipped through the cracks.
Her voice rose into a snap.
Her family heard.
He is alive.
The thought slams against the confines of Gomaitru’s mind, thudding and thudding and thudding until she cannot think about anything else.
Loid is alive.
That is not the only thing which the conversation has revealed.
Her father is alive.
They had been working right beneath the Necralisk all along.
The voices purr that ‘they were right’, that she ‘should have known’ and, for the first true instance since she had begun to work her way out from that tunnel of all-encompassing paranoia, Gomaitru finds that she believes the murmurs far more than those speaking to her.
The Infested petals behind her curl defensively, the innermost pieces of the flower closing against her back—the idea that they might be doing so in order to prevent something from coming up behind her does not escape her notice—, the broader ones flaring upwards as if the disease seems to notice some primal need to seem threatening.
With her height, that has never been a difficult feat to accomplish.
Then, a second set of footsteps comes from the same direction that, by now, she knows that Loid had.
The metal thumping of a Warframe’s boots against the ground halts, the air distorting around the verdant being as it slumps slightly.
She had expected to see confusion written upon her Ayatan’s features.
Something within her knows the moment that her gaze fixes on the nearly-desperate way that the other’s eyes widen as she runs forward.
The rot hisses, saccharine lies thundering within her mind as the Orokin attempts to convince herself that she is simply falling into old habits again.
It would not be the first time, after all.
A third admission enters the air, frantic explanations falling on ears that are ill-prepared to hear any of it.
She pretends not to notice how her family looks at her, pretends not to see that insufferable worry, nor the infuriating pity—the two emotions are one and the same, in her mind—which paint themselves across their features.
Their Ayatan knew. She knew about everything.
Her Ayatan knew.
Suddenly, a mind that seems as if it is being torn from one thought to the next snaps.
Suddenly, it falls back onto what it has always been far too adept at.
Anger has always been her weapon of choice, and her voice the hand that wields it. Frigid words that cut far deeper than a blade ever could. Scathing comments which burn wounds of the third degree without ever needing to touch the flesh that they singe.
Her tongue slices through tension-thick air, confusion and betrayal coating themselves in that emotion which is far more comfortable for her to express.
It poses the only question that both her mind and the whispers within it truly agree upon.
“How long? How long have you kept this from me?” Perhaps the rigid snap seems as if it is directed towards both of the beings standing before her.
But there is one other who knows that it is not.
After all, Gomaitru muses bitterly, she would be a fool to have expected anything different from Loid. He is loyal to her father above all else. It had always been that way.
She ignores the hurt which stabs itself through her being at the thought.
Her narrowed gaze bores into that of their Ayatan, challenging the heterochromatic eyes to look away, challenging her to try to lie further.
A part of her screams at how the Tenno’s expression seems to be drenched in guilt.
“Gomaitru, please, I—” Her lip curls into a snarl as her name tumbles desperately into the air, paranoia coiling between everything that she had thought to be the truth.
She refuses to hear those empty apologies any longer, refuses to hear anything other than what she had asked for.
“Answer the question.” When her hiss is met with only more silence—if the Tenno believes that she is foolish enough to overlook the glance that she shares with the man next to her, then she is sorely mistaken—, her interrogation continues.
This time, her anger voices something that a part of herself shrieks to keep hidden.
“Was any part of this ‘real’?” Without allowing for more than a moment for the other to speak, a scoff escapes the Orokin, her head shaking slightly whilst those objects in her grasp suddenly feel as if they have transformed into weights as sizeable as Fass and Vome themselves.
“Of course not. Was even my name just part of this little game that you have decided to play in order to keep me placated and ignorant of what was happening beneath my OWN CHAMBERS?!” The walls seem to shudder as her voice raises, her fury heightening alongside it, whispers lapping at now-tainted memories.
They were all lies, the rot purrs.
They betrayed you.
They were fooling you.
You should have trusted Us.
The turmoil within her mind is silent—thankfully so—as a scarred expression twists with horror, as the being whom she had deemed to be part of their family shakes her head frantically.
“No, Gomaitru, no, I—That was real, that was real, I promise, I—” As the words fall clumsily into the air, a thought strikes her with unexpected precision.
They do not matter. Not in the way that they likely should.
Not when every syllable seems to be taunting her, not when that horror in the Tenno’s expression seems to shift far closer to something malicious.
Not when, with each second that ticks by, her memories are being re-written.
Not when, with each second that ticks by, her reality is twisted into something that she does not recognize anymore.
Not when there are six pairs of eyes fixed directly on her, and she wants nothing more than to make them stop.
The Orokin’s voice harshens as she interrupts the rambling excuse for an explanation.
“Get out of my sight, Tenno.” A piece of her screams as hurt fills the other’s expression.
She elects to ignore it. She elects to allow her fury to drive her words.
It is easier that way.
It has always been easier.
Then comes an addition, interrupting Loid’s attempt at defending the Tenno, at explaining that it was he who made her keep the secret—Gomaitru finds herself unwilling to care. She has her own mind, she could have chosen to tell the truth—, only due to the fact that she is not an idiot.
She knows that it would be foolish to break her family’s allegiance with her completely. They would have far more to lose than pride if their partnership were to become hostile.
Despite herself, there is something buried deep within Gomaitru’s mind which is unwilling to allow that.
“If you must continue your dealings with us, you will do so with Grandmother. Do not speak to me again.” The half-hearted look of disapproval that her mother-in-law shoots in her direction is softened by that insufferable concern.
She has half a mind to snap at the older Orokin, has half a mind to snap at all of them to just leave her alone.
There must be some piece of her, amongst the wreckage, that is still attempting to hold on to the decision that she had made, the choice not to harm her family further than she already has.
She can feel the Infested petals against her back, can see some of the larger ones out of the corner of her gaze, can see how they almost puff up around her to keep everyone away.
The moment that her Aya—Do not call her that, the tendrils purr, silken paranoia dripping from every inch of her thoughts.
The moment that the Tenno’s expression crumples, that small part deep within her mind screeches with an emotion that she cannot name.
It screeches at her, begging to be heard above the rot, pleading to be heard above the suspicion that has always been lurking deep within her mind even before the disease ravaged it.
The effort is largely in vain.
“Please, I—” Her lip curls into a snarl as the other being’s voice shatters, as a sheen is cast over her heterochromatic gaze, as the air thickens with the aura of tears that have not yet been shed.
She is being cruel, the lingering scrap of rationality shrieks.
But the anger is louder.
You are right to be cruel, those voices murmur.
You warned her.
Memories slam against Gomaitru’s mind, words that she had spoken—had she? Or are those too false?—forcing themselves into her senses.
Her voice is just as frigid as it should have been all along.
“I told you not to think of betraying me. Get out of my sight.” There is a finality in the command which she is certain that none who are listening can ignore.
Loid’s expression is an amalgam of guilt, worry, and an emotion which seems all-too similar to fear.
But there is something else within it, a glance that digs itself deep within her mind, wrenching forth shredded images of conversations that she cannot recall the context of.
It disappears the moment that the Orokin extends her glare in his direction as well, silently informing him that he has long overstayed his welcome.
Just before the Tenno is pulled back into her Warframe, Gomaitru notices how the crimson light of the Necralisk draws attention to the tears which have begun to trickle down her cheeks.
She forces herself to ignore the twinge of an emotion that is uncomfortably close to guilt when it seems to tug at her chest.
Once the now-unwelcome visitors have disappeared back to the place where Loid and her father—she refuses to allow herself even a moment to think about his involvement in this situation. Not now. Hopefully, not ever, if she has her say—had been lurking all of this time, she almost relishes the silence.
Until four sets of eyes remind her that she is not alone.
Her mother-in-law and husband attempt to herd the children away, seeing as they all must know by now how little tolerance she has for situations such as these.
But of course, her daughter—her far too enthusiastic daughter, most days—refuses, her expression far more furious than Gomaitru has seen in a very long time.
Curtly, she reaffirms her stance, that the Tenno will speak with Grandmother now.
She does not care if Kaelli is angry with her. Or so that is what she forces herself to believe.
In her fury, the Orokin overlooks the slight subtleties which might suggest that her daughter’s emotions are not directed at her.
Still, when she begins to protest, she can feel those clouds within her mind darkening, a storm brewing within the confines of her skull; one which she is not entirely certain that she can stop.
She is not entirely certain that she wishes to stop it either.
“Mother, wh—You can’t just shut Ayatan out!” Her brows furrow further at the mention of the name which had been given to the being whom she had once considered family.
Her husband had given the Tenno that name.
She had thought it perfectly suitable for the star th—
It was all a lie, the whispers remind her.
Betrayal fuels the harsh tone which answers Kaelli. A large part of herself cannot be bothered to feel guilty when her daughter’s muscles stiffen.
“I can do as I please, especially with what she ha—” This time, it is her son who interrupts, his voice quiet, low as it often is.
“It isn’t h—” Gomaitru finds that she is not in the mood to hear any of the feeble defenses that any of them might attempt to come up with.
If they wish to associate with someone who clearly will only lie to them, then that is their decision.
Her spine crawls, something within her feeling cornered as those eyes fix on her, as the concern fades to malice, as her mind rewrites her very reality.
Discomfort slams into her, momentarily knocking the fury from its pedestal as the sole veil behind which her thoughts are to be concealed.
The rot within her mind only purrs louder, saccharine cruelty whispering in her ear just as clearly as if there were truly someone over her shoulder, and Gomaitru forces away the urge to spin around and ensure that that there is not.
The petals surrounding her tighten slightly, those at her back curling against her flesh as if they are a wall, while the outermost parts of the flower flare to their full height, ensuring that none can even come close to her.
A shout forces itself almost painfully from her throat, intent on driving away those prying eyes, her fingers twitching against the now-forgotten objects in her grasp.
“SILENCE. I will not discuss this further. Leave me.” Their protests fall on deaf ears, narrowed eyes glaring at them until finally, she is left alone.
That is what she wants, Gomaitru firmly reminds herself.
Immediately, once she is certain that there are none to witness her doing so, the Orokin forces herself into those familiar tunnels, feeling the Infestation closing around her.
At least now she is surrounded by something that she can predict.
A part of her knows that she was cruel, that her aggression was largely unnecessarily, especially when directed towards her family.
But those murmurs will not stop.
They lied to you.
Everything that you knew was a lie.
It was just to keep you ignorant.
Do not trust her.
Do not trust her.
Do not believe a word that any of them say.
Do n—
With a near-growl, she attempts to force the Infestation into submission, to force her thoughts to obey, repeating the same reminders that she has done for months now, if not longer, in order to determine which of her memories are real.
She is a scientist.
Simple. True.
She is an Entrati.
True.
Her name is Gomaitru.
Her muscles tense, constricting themselves so tightly that it is almost painful as the reminder of her name wrenches forth memories that she does not wish to relive, given their new context.
The Orokin forces herself to respond to her silent statement in the way that she always has.
True, though not entirely.
Her father is dead.
The tendrils seem to taunt her as Gomaitru is forced to amend the answer which she had just begun to accept.
False.
Loid is dead.
Her fingers fold so tightly against the objects within her grasp that she is almost unable to set them down.
False.
Their Ayatan is a part of her family.
Betrayal gnaws at her bones as the poison within her mind answers for her.
Lie.
Their Ayatan aided them when they could not bridge the gaps left in the wake of suspicion and hatred and everything that they had done to one another.
Again, the Infestation purrs something that she does not wish to believe.
Lie.
Her Ayatan can be trusted.
Her mind screams at the next thought, alarms sounding from each and every fiber of her being.
Lie.
She does not know which screams are her own and which are the mocking tones of the disease that ravages her mind and intentionally twists her thoughts, her ideas, her memories.
Lie.
But as the Orokin attempts to find a proper answer, a single thought keeps thudding against the confines of her skull, the pressure so unfathomably strong that she swears that it is going to break it open entirely.
Lie.
Her Ayatan can be trusted, she is her family, she is the little star that brought them back together, sh—
LIES!
It is as if the tendrils weaving through her mind have been coated in thorns, their ends stabbing through every scrap of thought—even those which have always agreed with the suspicion—and Gomaitru finds herself falling into that anger.
She lied.
She does not know what else to do. She cannot allow herself to succumb to the other emotions that lurk within the depths of her mind, cannot allow herself that weakness lest this betrayal mark only the beginning.
Even still, a part of her screams in protest; its pleas are suffocated by the thundering of something which had prophesied this all from the very start.
Is It Wise To Deal With The Devil (When You Aren’t The One Caught In The Crossfire)?
Drifter Lēna has been busy recently, what with the trio of newcomers that Loid had asked her to help with. Yet, when her counterpart begins to suspect that something is amiss, she finds herself having to defend a decision that was never hers to make.
Word Count: 4,341 words.
TW(s):
Abandonment issues and a fear of losing people.
Brief, non-graphic mentions of canon-typical violence.
A brief mention of memory loss.
A very brief, non-graphic reference to the canon-typical domestic violence that has occurred within the Entrati family.
Mentions of a certain Albrecht Entrati being a terrible and neglectful parent.
The Operator is not dealing with the events of ‘The Old Peace’ particularly well. As such, this fic contains instances where she is clearly sleep-deprived and overworked.
Also, this fic will contain small amounts of spoilers for ‘The Old Peace’ and ‘The Devil’s Triad’, as well as general Entrati family-related spoilers.
With that out of the way, the fic begins under the cut. Hope y’all enjoy!!
The tug in her head is a bit unexpected when it comes. The kid’s been…busy, as of late.
But its meaning is unmistakable.
‘Dormizone. Now.’
With a quiet sigh, Lēna can do nothing else but allow herself to drift, allow herself to be brought back to that place where it all went wrong.
She won’t keep the kid waiting. Not when whatever she needs seems so urgent.
When she opens her eyes again, she’s there. At that table, across from her counterpart. Just like back when they first ‘met’.
The first thing that she notices is the exhaustion. Mag looks as if she’s been through hell and back, her usually-unwieldy auburn curls lying flat and dull with what seems to be neglect, her mis-matched eyes rimmed with scarlet, made only more prominent by the dark circles beneath them.
And for a second, the Drifter sees a soldier far more easily than she normally can.
And for a second, she almost wants to apologize.
For what, she doesn’t know yet.
Maybe it’s for how her own skin is a little cleaner than it used to be. Maybe it’s the lack of new blade-wounds across her flesh. Maybe it’s because of the little bit of fat that’s starting to cover the muscles in her stomach now that she’s actually taking care of herself better than she has her entire life.
But all that escapes her lungs is a heavy exhale, her voice caught within it.
“Kid…”
Those tense brows furrow slightly as the Operator looks her up and down, and Lēna suddenly finds herself almost wanting to turn away from that almost Kavat-like stare. The very same stare that her own gaze holds.
And, for a moment, all is silent. Twin halves of the same light, together again, neither really sure of what to say.
“Your hair’s different.” The murmur seems to escape the shorter of the two without her expecting it, Lēna notices as her eyes widen when the words fall from her lips.
Her answer holds far more meaning than just its words.
“Yeah, I’m…letting it grow out a little, I think.” A quiet hum falls into the room.
“It looks good.” She can only force out a small sound of acknowledgement, though the Drifter pleads with herself to say something, anything, else.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Do you need my help?’
‘Are you okay?’
Before she can command her dried-up vocal cords to utter something that resembles concern, a quiet huff breaks the tentative silence, slicing through it like a Kunai.
“Look, I…I don’t have time to talk. Not really. I just…Something’s been tugging at my head. Whispers of something that I can’t really catch, and it’s coming from you. An—And all that I can sense is ju—” Her counterpart interrupts herself, shaking her head.
When those piercing eyes fix on her again, the voice that follows is much more level. Much stronger.
She wants answers.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
And Lēna freezes, all of her muscles seemingly tensing up, her index finger twitching slightly against the fabric of her tunic.
She knew this was coming. She knew it was only a matter of time before something bled through their connection and the kid got suspicious.
But damnit, she doesn’t know what to say yet.
“I…” The words dry up before she can say anything substantial. And Mag’s brows furrow, her frown deepening, her voice forming a wall of stone between them.
“What are you hiding from me?” Something happened, the Drifter realizes. She can read it in the tension of the other’s form, in the eyes that momentarily dart from her towards each of the doors in the room—as if she believes something’s going to burst through them—, in the building flames of an emotion that isn’t quite anger within her gaze.
“Kid, it’s okay, really. I’m handling it. Just let me handle it.” If she wasn’t looking, if she hadn’t begun to learn how to read other’s expressions in the time that she’s been in Höllvania, Lēna would’ve missed the slight twitch of her counterpart’s upper lip, would’ve missed how that flame in her eyes burns a bit brighter.
Without a doubt, she would’ve missed all of it.
“Tell me.” Gods, the kid can be as stubborn as a rock.
“Mag, it’s fine. Let m—”
BANG!
The Drifter jumps—seems her reflexes are just as fast as they used to be, at least—as Mag forces herself upright, her palms slamming atop the table between them, tendrils of thick, emerald energy curling from beneath her fingers, weaving themselves between the digits and into the air.
“TELL ME!” Her breath comes quickly after the outburst, her forearms shaking slightly as she glares daggers in her direction. Lēna opens her mouth to talk, to ask if she’s okay—she very clearly isn’t, you idiot, her mind scolds—, to do something, though again, she can’t speak fast enough before the not-quite anger makes its way into the air.
The Operator’s voice is a bit quieter than the shout that came before it.
“Ju—Just tell me what’s going on. Please…” It’s the break in her voice that shatters the Drifter’s resolve. It’s the way that the one word wobbles in just the wrong cadence that makes her wonder if the kid’s gonna crumble right there in front of her.
When she reaches out a hand—only to at least try reassure the other that it’s okay, that she’s here, that everything’s gonna be okay…even if that last sentiment might be a lie right now—towards Mag’s twitching forearm, it’s pulled out of her reach so quickly that it’s as if the limb was never even there.
Those narrowed, multicolored eyes shine brightly enough that the green iris almost looks golden.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll tell you. You…might wanna sit down though.” That almost-wary expression doesn’t change as the other lowers herself back into the chair, scarred face looking at her expectantly.
Oh gods, where does she even start?
“Albrecht’s back on his bullshit again.” The sigh leaves more questions than it answers and Lēna knows it even before the Operator’s brow raises slightly.
“And that means?” She drags a deep inhale into her lungs, forcing herself to answer, even if she doesn’t want to yet. Not without knowing more, not without having a plan for how to address this with the other being.
“He’s made more people into Protoframes. They’re from some…religious group way before even Höllvania’s time, is what I’ve gathered. Well…two of them are, at least. The third…” For a moment, her voice trails off as she attempts to figure out how to word it.
Well, she’s never been one to beat around the bush. Best to get it out in the open.
“He’s Orokin—” She doesn’t pause for the snarled ‘What?’ that slices through the air.
“—, and he hates Albrecht. He asked me to help him recover his memories and…he’ll ‘help’ Loid reunite with the rest of the family.” Mag’s expression darts through so many micro-emotions that she can barely keep up, before landing on something almost disgusted.
The scoff that escapes her might be one of the coldest things the Drifter’s ever heard from her counterpart. Aside from any time that she’s spoken to or about a certain…other Orokin.
“What the fuck? Who the hell does he think he is?” For a moment, she really doesn’t want to tell the truth. But she knows she needs to.
“I said ‘Yes’, Mag. To the deal. To all of it.” If she thought the other’s eyes burned before, then they’re ablaze now, that gold-green glow somehow harsher than it was, almost blinding her if she looks the other in the eye.
She can almost hear the Void tangling through her vocal cords.
“You WHAT?!” Lēna tries to keep her head.
“Mag, listen. I don’t like it any more than you do. I don’t even know how he knows about them being in the Necralisk. But I don’t think he’s someone that we should piss off. Albrecht must’ve done this for a rea—” A snap interrupts her.
“Don’t start defending Albrecht like he’s done anything good for anyone. It’s because of him that everything’s going to shit. It’s because of him that my moms can barely hear themselves think, and it’s because of him that I HAVE TO CONSTANTLY RELIVE THESE FUCKING NIGHTMARES!” The shout catches the Drifter off-guard, her brows furrowing.
“Are you o—” Again, she can barely get two words out before a hiss slices them from the air.
“Don’t. If you’re that worried about him being a threat if you don’t agree to the deal, just kill him. It doesn’t fucking matter anyway. We’re not letting him anywhere near the family.” Her teeth grit against each other as she fights against the urge to let her irritation show more than it already is.
“Be reasonable. Yeah, it’s sketchy as hell, I’ll give you that, but don’t they have the right to know that Loid’s alive, at least? Don’t you think Gomaitru’s got the right to know that her father’s alive?” Something cracks in the other’s expression, the muscles of her jaw tightening enough that it’s visible beneath her skin.
“She’ll never speak to me again, Lēna!” Confusion and annoyance and emotions that she still can’t find the words to name force themselves from her in a curt mutter.
“Oh, so you only care about how this affects you?” Immediately, the Drifter regrets the words as they taint the air, as they cause Mag’s glare to harden.
“NO! I care about her, I care about them, I just—” And then, her voice shifts, getting louder, transforming into a raw, ragged, broken scream, her expression crumpling, something shining within her eyes.
Worryingly, the sheen isn’t from that Void-touched glow.
“WHY DO YOU GET TO BE HAPPY AND I CAN’T?!” The near-sob that tears apart the ending of the screech sends alarms blaring in Lēna’s mind and she immediately forces herself upright, rounding the table in only a few strides.
When she goes to comfort her, the Operator jolts away from the near-touch as if it had burned her, words tumbling unevenly from her lips in a maelstrom that she’s not even sure the other could’ve predicted.
It’s a maelstrom that seems long-overdue.
“No! You get everything, you have friends, you have a partner, you’ve got a family now an—and you don’t care that this’ll make me lose some of the few people I have that haven’t fucking DIED!” For now, Lēna bites her tongue at the fact that she doesn’t have ‘everything’, that she didn’t for a long time.
It’s not the time.
She doesn’t know if it’ll ever be the time to go back to that.
She doesn’t know if it’d even be worth whatever argument and tears and resentment that it would undoubtedly cause.
“Mag, it wasn’t a good idea to keep it from her anyway and you knew that.” And that just makes everything worse, somehow.
She notices those thick tendrils of Void energy twisting from the other’s palms, their light growing stronger as her emotions do.
A part of her wonders just how exhausted the Operator is if she’s losing this much control over the burning energy that resides within them both.
Something almost mocking forces itself into Mag’s tone, fury and betrayal and guilt mangling the sound even still.
“What the fuck else would we have told her?! ‘Hey Gomaitru, so it turns out that the person who fucking ditched you for gods-know-what your entire life is actually alive and just didn’t care enough about you or your family to actually say anything’?! Are you serious?! The last time she even thought someone was gonna betray her, she cut him to fucking pieces!” Suddenly, her voice thickens, a sob forcing itself between the words as tears finally start to roll down those scarred cheeks, streaking the marred skin with shining paths that almost seem to reflect the light emanating from her counterpart’s hands.
“Sh—She’s finally healing, Lēna. They’re all finally healing. She finally let go of him. Wh—Why would you…” With furrowed brows, the Drifter stands helpless in the wake of something that, even with everything she’s learned, she doesn’t know how to fix.
“What did he tell you that made you agree to this without even talking to me about it first?”
The whisper causes any reassurances, any apologies, any explanations, to burn up on her tongue, leaving her throat as dry as if she’d choked down a mouthful of sand.
Those angry—confused, betrayed, guilt-ridden—eyes bore into her own, seemingly daring her to speak.
No, Lēna corrects herself.
Begging her to speak. Begging her to explain, to tell her that everything’s just a big misunderstanding, to somehow say it’s all going to be fine.
When she can’t get even the smallest sound out, a shuddering breath drags itself into Mag’s lungs, though the Drifter watches as her counterpart attempts to blink the tears from her eyes.
The action doesn’t do anything to clear away those shining streaks running down her face.
“You…You don’t know them. You don’t know her. You had no right to make choices for us and play with our lives with a goddamn Orokin. Especially not one who already has a vendetta against her father.” Why her next words fall from her lips, Lēna doesn’t know.
But she knows they’re the wrong ones the moment they hit her ears.
“He seems to know a lot about her. About Albrecht, about her mother. About Vilcor. He knew them before everything collapsed. They weren’t close, but he did know them.” The tendrils swirling from her counterpart’s fingers twitch, spiraling through the air like a living creature as the other’s jaw tightens.
“And you think that makes him less dangerous?” The question should be simple.
A ‘Yes’.
Or a ‘No’.
So why does she find herself stuck at a crossroads?
“Mag, I don’t know. But what if this ends up being good for all of them? I mean, you can’t seriously think th—” Immediately, the moment that her tone shifts, the moment that the slight hint of annoyance at the Operator—why can’t she just trust her? Why does she need to be involved in everything?—manages to escape into the room, the sentence is interrupted, a hiss cutting it off as swiftly as a Spira might fly through the air.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.” Lēna has to pause for a second, has to temper herself before she says something that she doesn’t mean.
Before she digs this pit deeper than she already has.
With a heavy exhale, she tries to continue, tries to explain herself.
“Even if his reasons aren’t great, is it really so terrible to think of them being reunited with Loid? He misses her. He misses all of them. He’s depressed down in the Sanctum and you know that.” Mag’s response is ground out through her teeth, her tone venomous.
“Orokin lie. You know that. And if his motivation for this is to get back at Albrecht, it’s gonna get them hurt.” Something that Roathe had mentioned stands out in her mind, taunting her.
‘I knew I would find a way back here. To this time. To this place. To where Albrecht had left all his most precious things. Because I am not done living my life. But by the Void, I am going to ensure he is done living his.’
She isn’t sure if he still thinks that way, not with the discussions they’ve had about him coming to terms with what happened and moving on from it.
But she still keeps it close. Her counterpart doesn’t need to know. Not yet.
A mutter tugs her from her thoughts, causing her eyes to dart back to the wary stare across from her.
“Why didn’t you talk to me about it first?”
There are so many reasons. But the Drifter settles on the easiest one.
“…Loid told me that you were dealing with a lot. I…didn’t want to put more on your plate.” The tiniest twitch in the corner of Mag’s lip serves as a momentary warning just before a hiss escapes her.
“Does Loid know that he’s been offered up as a fucking sacrifice because you made a deal with a literal devil?” There’s nothing she can say to that.
And the Operator knows it.
The silence that covers the room is uncomfortable, heavy like the quilts that Quincy and the others sometimes find when they’re searching for supplies out in the city.
She likes the quiet normally. Especially with the kid. It always feels calm.
Now, it’s stifling, filling her lungs and causing the muscles in her chest to tighten as if she’d just run for miles; it blankets them, not in a grounding way, but one which crushes every gasp of oxygen until Lēna swears she’s going to suffocate beneath it.
As her gaze drops to the table in front of them—fixing on a scratch that must’ve been left on the surface ages ago—, the Drifter doesn’t catch the subtle shift in her counterpart’s features, doesn’t catch how that blinding, burning anger changes to something…colder.
Until the silence is torn apart like paper, tense, unmoving air shattering around them as if it was shot by one of those arrows that Mag’s so fond of.
“That’s what I thought. You make choices for other people without thinking because if you fuck up, you can just loop everything back to the way it was. Nothing ever has permanent consequences for you.” And the breath that was dragging itself into her lungs freezes abruptly, its shards seeming to scrape at the inside of her throat.
Hurt thuds into her chest like a grenade, the force so impossibly strong that Lēna wonders how she isn’t sent stumbling backwards.
And that hurt? The deep, gnawing pain of something she can’t quite place?
It forces its way into the air before she has a chance to stop it, before she can remind herself that she doesn’t want to fight, that Mag doesn’t mean it.
She doesn’t mean it.
Does she?
“Are you serious right now?! I’ve never Reset anything unless I had to. Duviri, Höllvania, they’re both like that because I didn’t have a choice.” With a scoff, the Operator shakes her head, that glow in her eyes—which had been subsiding, somewhat—almost blinding now, her muscles tense as her nails dig into the table.
A tiny flick of her gaze towards each of the doors is lost in the thick, dual-edged atmosphere of betrayal.
“Oh, shut up with your stupid moral bullshit, Lēna. You can’t say I’m wrong. You’d turn back time in an instant if something happened to one of your new family members. And you wouldn’t care how much it’d fuck with their minds afterwards.” A sharper-than-normal ‘Wouldn’t you?’ forces itself from her lips before she can think, before she can argue that no, actually, she wouldn’t commit the act that she’s being accused of.
And Mag stiffens, every muscle in her body visibly drawing itself as taut as a bow-string, those winding, weaving tendrils of the Void freezing mid-air.
A bitter mutter escapes the shorter being, fury combining with an emotion the Drifter can’t discern.
“That doesn’t matter. Because I can’t.” And that feeling, that sense that there’s something wrong, that something happened and she doesn’t know what, just gnaws at her mind, working itself into the spaces between her thoughts, between the anger, between the hurt.
And despite the part of her that’s still a bit too similar to her counterpart, she tries again to figure out why the other is acting like this.
Roathe had mentioned memories, the Operator herself had uttered the word ‘nightmares’, but this seems…different.
She just wants to know what’s going on; she just wants to know how to help.
“Mag, are you oka—” The question doesn’t even have time to fully grace the air before a hiss replaces it.
“What’s his name?” She isn’t quite sure why that matters.
But there’s no way she knows about what he did…
…Right?
She’s already lied enough. Might as well come clean now.
“Roathe.”
The single word sends an emerald beam searing through the table as her counterpart’s fingers constrict, fist pressing itself against the ceramic tile while Void-tinged wefts lap from between the digits.
A part of her wonders yet again why the other can’t seem to show her usual restraint, why she can’t exercise the control which she and the other Tenno had been forced to learn.
With a furrowed brow and a jaw so tense that the Drifter wonders how she hasn’t cracked a tooth yet, a near-snarl seems to scorch the air.
“You are an idiot if you think for a second that I’m letting him anywhere near my family. Any of them.” Again, that hurt tangles amidst the maelstrom of emotion within her thoughts.
Although she knows that it’s in vain, a feeble explanation tries to salvage any semblance of peace left in this conversation.
“That’s their choice to make, Mag. He’s already met the Cavia and Loid, he—” The slip happens before she even knows the thought was there, words sliding from her lips, revealing something she’d been told to keep secret.
The gilded flame in the other’s gaze only burns hotter.
“He what?! H—” Suddenly, that amalgam of anger and betrayal stops, half of a word hanging frozen in the air as Lēna watches something in the other’s expression shift.
As she watches the pieces fall into place.
“You said that he asked you to get his memories back.” It isn’t a question.
It’s an accusation.
“Yeah. I did.” Thoughts slam against her mind, warnings, ways to steer the conversation in a direction that isn’t this one, so much chaos running through her head that she almost can’t breathe.
A part of her knows the damage has already been done, that the confirmation has already been exposed, that her fate was sealed the moment she’d spoken those words earlier.
They were just waiting to be put into the right perspective.
“Get out.”
The snap seems to echo off of the walls, the Dormizone shuddering as if the sound rumbles through its very being, as if it’s rejecting the near-snarl that’s drenched in the thick, unnatural tone of the Void.
The glow in those Kavat-like eyes is dangerous, rage bubbling within them, her temper fire-hot, and suddenly, Lēna feels a tug of something new within her mind.
It’s far too similar to the icy chills of fear that used to ripple down her spine, back before that period of time when she was too desensitized to feel it.
“What? Mag, this is my space t—” Her attempt at rationalizing with the other is interrupted almost immediately by an astonished scoff, the sound just barely caught between a laugh and something far worse.
The Operator’s finger twitches slightly against the table and, for a moment, something deep within her mind hones in on the action, her muscles tensing as if she’s suddenly crouched behind one of those ornate buildings that she used to know so well, wondering how long it’ll be until she needs to bolt.
“No.” Fury drips from the word, those dull, auburn curls moving with her counterpart’s head as she refuses to hear her.
There’s a tinge of betrayal hiding just beneath the tone.
“Your home is with them. You’ve made that real fucking clear. Get out.” Those verdant wisps between her fingers stalk through the air just above her hands, the motion almost reminding Lēna of a Kexat right before it pounces.
She’s long overstayed her welcome.
And, the Drifter realizes, there’s no way this conversation can turn ‘positive’. Mag needs space. And she needs to give her that.
So, she backs up—momentarily, there’s a part of her that’s unwilling to turn her back on the other, despite knowing that she won’t hurt her. Or, she’s pretty sure of it, anyway—, though a murmur falls from her lips as she moves towards the door.
“Okay. I know you said you were busy, but if you ever want to talk, I’m here.” For a moment, she doesn’t think she’ll get a reaction.
As she feels her mind pulling her from the Dormizone, a hiss—a warning—curls through the Drifter’s senses.
“If he hurts any of them, he’ll wish that he’d never survived the Night of the Naga Drums.” She knows that her counterpart means every word.
With a start, Lēna’s eyes force themselves open—she isn’t quite sure when exactly in the last several seconds she closed them, but that isn’t abnormal—, her breaths quickening slightly as she takes in her surroundings, adrenaline pumping through her veins as if she’d just outran an army of Dax soldiers.
Her shoulders lower as she spots the familiar walls of the place that she now calls ‘Home’, as the postered plastered onto them paint a stark difference to the almost-sterile walls of the Dormizone.
Guilt tugs at her thoughts when she forces herself onto the last patrol of the night, when she meets up with the others at the bar afterwards, when she finds herself lying on the couch with her partner in a world that she can call hers.
As the days go on, it stays there. Whispering.
But she’s doing the right thing, Lēna tells herself.
It isn’t right to be hiding everything from Gomaitru and her family.
And the threatened recourse for going back on the deal might far outweigh any potential fallout of the reunion.
But, maybe two weeks later, when Roathe finally puts that plan into motion, when Loid airs his fears and asks for a bit of reassurance, when everything is as ready as it was ever going to be, the Drifter hopes against everything that it’ll go well.
Late that night, a thought that isn’t her own drifts into her head, accompanied by such a strong sense of despair that it probably would’ve bowled her over if she’d been standing.
Very vague spoilers below for some new voice lines that were added in the new update.
We not only get new Entrati family lines, but NEW LOTUS ONES TOO!!
There are about 10-11 new (post-‘The Devil’s Triad’ storyline) lines for each member of the Entrati family (at least, that I could tell, there might be more), and about 17-ish lines for Lotus down in the Dark Refractory.
Did I spend way too much time listening for them? Probably.
Do I have thoughts on MANY of them? Yes.
Will I perhaps work said thoughts into a post eventually? Possibly.
Some of the Entrati ones give me PERFECT fuel for a project that I’ve been working on since December hehe.
I’m also just happy that we get to sit with Lotus and listen to her talk again. I’ve missed that ever since she got moved from the cliff.
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
It’s very clear that you all have strong feelings about Tumblr and about this change. We hear you. The passion people have for how Tumblr works is one of the things that makes this place special.
As this rolls out over the next few days and you explore it, we’ll keep reading your replies and reblogs, so please keep sharing your questions, concerns, and ideas.
Your creativity has always been the heart of Tumblr, whether you’re the original poster or adding something brilliant in the reblogs, and nothing about this change is meant to limit that.
If you’d like to talk directly beyond the comments, leave a reply and we’ll follow up with as many of you as we can. We want to work with you to make Tumblr better.
Update: Glad it’s been reverted (for now), but I am not understanding what needs to change about how the reblog system works (and how it has worked for years). Leave it alone and start dealing with the real problems on the site, not the one feature that actually makes being on here worthwhile.
And what is with this whole ‘make sure everyone in the chain gets the credit they deserve’ thing? That’s…already a thing, I fear. When something that a person reblogs gets a note on it, both that person and the OP get notified. And you can see the username of whoever reblogged something in the chain anyway. What about that needs to change? Currently you do get ‘credit’ for reblogging and commentating on someone’s post, in multiple ways. They’re trying to fix a problem that factually does not exist.
And also, even if that feature DID NOT ALREADY EXIST, taking away credit to the OP does the opposite of solving that. In what world does THAT make sense? In what world does it make more sense to essentially give ALL the credit to the person who didn’t even make the post?
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
It’s very clear that you all have strong feelings about Tumblr and about this change. We hear you. The passion people have for how Tumblr works is one of the things that makes this place special.
As this rolls out over the next few days and you explore it, we’ll keep reading your replies and reblogs, so please keep sharing your questions, concerns, and ideas.
Your creativity has always been the heart of Tumblr, whether you’re the original poster or adding something brilliant in the reblogs, and nothing about this change is meant to limit that.
If you’d like to talk directly beyond the comments, leave a reply and we’ll follow up with as many of you as we can. We want to work with you to make Tumblr better.
