[ Puzzled is good. Puzzled is much better than bleeding from her facial orifices. She pronounces Gid-e-on all the way through, and doesn't even put Nigenad after it, and he claps his hands together in satisfied pride. ]
Excellent work. Huge improvement. May I have a quick look at what's going on in there, Harrow? Just for everyone's peace of mind.
[ He steps forward, head a little bowed and one palm open, as ludicrously nonthreatening as he can manage. All he will need is to smooth a thumb at her temple, the briefest touch of skin to skin, to search for the spell and the scarring.
To Gideon, he says: ]
Oh, I believe it. But let's not go planning the mutiny just yet. I'm here to help.
Mutiny? He won't hurt me, Griddle, it's all right.
[ Her voice is weak and shaky, still, and stumbles a bit on 'Griddle,' as she raises her head and fights herself to not smile at her cavalier. Don't worry. She doesn't. That would be weird. But she's trying to grab for Gideon's hand at the same time, which is also completely weird.
Harrow still looks a bit dazed, if nothing else. Her last memories of the Emperor Undying are not the same as Gideon's, the knowledge she has quite different.
Thus, she bows her head: acknowledgement, permission. She knows what she's done. ]
"Mercy," he says, mildly, "I don't recall the last time I set foot on any planet. You will still have me beat."
This is not strictly true, because he hasn't exactly been sending his Lyctors off anywhere with recreational boating trips. But then, he doesn't know all of what she's been up to, these past few millennia; that fact hangs uncomfortably heavy between them.
Then she goes and says Canaan House and makes it hurt, in the sweetest way. He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully like it doesn't.
"Cold and dreary and grey seems to be the order of the day here, as well," he allows, "so I'm sure it will translate phenomenally. I do love to see someone else improvise for a while; I've been doing it since I arrived."
"I rather think you've been doing that for quite a bit longer, John," she says, with teeth. And oh Lord, is this what another eternity with her in another dimension is going to be like? — the gloves have come off, with simpering worship traded in for extremely passive-aggressive barbs. Each one searching for soft flesh like a cat flexing its claws, almost matter of habit.
But as if to show that it's also not a real problem (Mercy has experience working alongside someone she both hates and loves, after all), she claps her hands together: brisk, efficient.
"Let go and hand over a few of them to me. Let's say... six." And as if she's not standing there vulnerable and half-naked and looking like a drowned rat tangled in a towel, she starts to reach out for the crewmen with her own ever-burning thanergy. Mercymorn the First is a flesh magician; she can puppet meat well enough. While she noses at their rubbery muscles, she adds, offhand, "And are there any more clothes in that captain's cabin? I'll wear men's."
Now here's a wild one. He would assume they really go in for body modification around here, which is reasonable when the whole population has a knack for flesh magic; except that the God of Necromancers can see beyond skin-deep, and what he glimpses is a marvel. He doesn't know what he's seeing, which seems to be the theme of the day.
Then the guy breaks out an honest-to-god lightsaber and twirls it like a baton, and John whistles lowly.
"You know," he says, all amusement, "I've always thought we could upgrade from rapiers."
It's funny until the guy grabs him from afar and pulls.
There is a split second in which John is genuinely blindsided, and he lurches forward like any other hapless puppet. This isn't a magic he recognizes; this doesn't touch his domain. But he can match like for like: without any outward movement, he tries to seize control of his opponent's hands and slacken the muscles. It's a gamble that the man has need of gesture to work his spells— that disarming him will let John regain his footing instead of barreling rudely forward— but it'll be a tidy trick if it works.
(Even the attempt brews something in him, a low sickly hum that buzzes in his teeth. The first signs of trouble.)
Unfortunately for John, using the Force doesn't require using his hands. Granted, the visuals do help, but Maul would still be able to call upon his powers even if he had both hands lopped off. While weakening the muscles in his hands makes him drop his lightsaber, it doesn't stop Maul from still pulling the Emperor forward until he's right in front of him.
Maul holds him there for a moment, glaring at him. Not being able to use his hands make combat a bit more difficult but it's not impossible, especially given the natural rage within him. "Clever. Very clever. But not good enough," Maul growls. Then he leans forwards and bites down on the spot between the Emperor's neck and shoulder.
[A letter arrives in the hands of a mildly bewildered, well-dressed young Trenchie, who gives it to whomever (or whatever) opens the door first with instructions to 'deliver it only to the captain'. It is written on thick, cream-colored paper and sealed with red wax impressed with the emblem of a hawk. The writing inside was done by quill and ink, each letter shaped to exacting calligraphic perfection.]
TO HIS DIVINE IMPERIAL MAJESTY THE EMPEROR OF THE NINE HOUSES, HALLOWED IN NAME, THE RESURRECTING KING, NECROLORD PRIME, A SUPPLICATION FROM PAUL ATREIDES, DUKE OF ARRAKIS,
I write this missive to you under the seal and covenant of my House, which has never been broken, and in the spirit of respect and reparation, praying only for the consideration of Your Divine Imperial Majesty of my words.
I will not burden you further with apologies for my conduct in your presence, except to say that they were and remain sincere. I have reflected often since on your magnanimity in the face of my inexcusable presumption, and I may only again express my humility at your grace in answer to my offenses.
I ask this grace of you once more, knowing that it is undeserved, for my lapse in seeking your blessing for my pledges to your Houses of the Sixth and the Ninth. They, who surely number among the best and most dear of your subjects, have done me great kindnesses, and I am sworn to their service, their interests to me as my own.
Kindly Prince, King Undying, I humbly ask your leave to continue my association with your loyal servants, to serve as their ally, and therefore, to serve as yours. May your reign last eternal, your crown undimmed, and the Tomb ever sealed.
Paul Atreides
[There is a folded note as well, tucked into the letter, written with the same precision on thinner, paler paper. When opened, it reads:]
To the captain of the good ship Lonely Island, from Paul, navigator,
[ Across Trench, a man unfolds a letter and exhales an immediate little sigh. He leans against the table and rubs a thumb at his temple. At my inexcusable presumption, he sighs again; at the Tomb ever sealed, he makes a noise.
Later that day, a skeleton goes clattering politely down the cobblestone road. (A Hunter smashes it, which is deeply rude, but it waits for a quiet moment to reassemble and then sets off again.) It arrives holding a rolled letter, bound shut with a thin organic filament and a tiny clasp of bone. The material looks uncomfortably like vellum.
Printed there, in a tight and messy scrawl, is the following: ]
TO THE NOBLE PAUL ATREIDES, DUKE OF ARRAKIS, EXCELLENT NAVIGATOR AND HONORED FRIEND OF THE NINE HOUSES, WHOSE PENMANSHIP IS FRANKLY ASTONISHING AND I DO MEAN THAT IN A GOOD WAY,
I find that I so rarely write my own missives I have wholly lost the art of it. I acknowledge and respect the effort, Paul, but there's no need for such formality here.
You will be doing me an immense favor by standing beside my adepts and their cavaliers, who number among the most skilled and stalwart heroes of the empire, and who are very likely to charge off towards danger with little regard for their own safety. This is a deeply commendable trait, and one that will turn my hair grey. Harrowhark and Gideon, though born to the Ninth, are members of my own First House: they are my hallowed saints, arbiters of my word and will, my divine family. I am relieved to hear that, should need arise, you will be at their side.
If ever you have need of me or want for conversation, my door is open.
[ God looks at this text as though it just punched him in the face.
He raises a hand to scrub it across his mouth. He exhales a shudder of breath. This feels very much like the start of an avalanche; it feels like the first signs of a sea change. Some shift in gravity he's been resisting, but he knew the pull would drag him under, sooner or later.
(The last time anyone called him by his name, it was: No, John.) ]
What can I say? Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt is a heavy burden to carry.
[ John looks at this text and marvels. It is objectively hilarious that he, dread highest lord of the undying imperial fleet et cetera, is coordinating arcade rentals for a sixteen-year-old. Especially one who would never, ever request arcade games.
Kaworu did not warn him about this, but that honestly makes it funnier. ]
[ There's a note slipped under God's door, at some point during the summer. Plain bone-white vellum envelope, unmarked, unaddressed, unsealed — a single page inside. ]
I am just a human trying to avoid my certain doom. You are my sanctuary. You're holy to me. And if I repent— if I get on my knees— Will you finally tell me the truth?
[ (It isn't signed — but it's not like it needs to be, now, is it?) ]
[all of the action has happened by now. the video cuts on very suddenly to a woman that could be anna. her mouth is transforming into a vicious, toothed beak, while thick, black feathers sprout from her face, her neck, her shoulders. her eyes, and she does have both of them now, are jet black and soulless. if she could think of anything else right now, she would find it funny. her face is bleeding along the edges from where each feather has erupted, and her smile cracks the hard material of her beak before it starts to reform. her shoulders shake and her head lowers like she's trying to laugh, but all she gets out are six words.]
Nevermore, you son of a bitch.
[her omen cuts the feed as The Amaranth's black eyes stare back into john's.]
[Folded neatly, tucked under the base of a potted fern.]
Teacher,
Do you remember when I told you that everything I could say to you was something I was certain you had heard before?
I've thought about it since then. I still think I was right.
So here is all I have to say: We're leaving.
This is still yours. I'm not going to be here to take care of it for you. These are the things you should do for it.
Fern Care
∙ Check the soil every day. If it's dry, water it until it's moist, but don't let it soak.
∙ It needs light, but not too much directly on the fronds. Keep it near a window and move it with the sun as you need to.
∙ Once a month, when you make tea, set some aside to cool, and give it a few spoonfuls.
∙ Some of the fronds will brown. Let them. Observe what you were doing and consider what you might adjust. Make changes slowly.
∙ I don't believe that all of it was a lie. Most of it. But not all of it.
∙ I remember when I brought this home for you, the way you looked at it, and I think that was when I knew. I still should have asked you. I should have asked what their names were.
∙ I know it wouldn't have changed anything.
∙ Leto Atreides. Thufir Hawat. Gurney Halleck. Duncan Idaho. House Atreides.
[ He doesn't take his swords, or his blanket, or his cigarettes in their case, or anything else of value, like Cas's feathers — those, at least, he has Alfred hide away somewhere inaccessible, inside a wall somewhere, as only feels right — when he leaves the house to join those hoping to appease Mariana and end the Season of Boiling Monsoons and other plague-based forms of precipitation. He doesn't take his swords, or any other weapon — not even a nail file — as he leaves to join the peacemaking party, in the thunderous silence in the wake of John's death.
(He'd made a mistake, in hoping, just a few days previous, that he'd found something of an answer — a way of forcing John to tell the fucking truth, for once, not hedging his bets or squirreling around the point in so many circles his questioner gave up, so that then, maybe, he could rub his nose in the fact that he, Augustine, was still there, no matter how dreadful that distant truth really was — and instead, he'd barely gotten God to stand on His own two humanoid feet again, before He'd gone and gotten Himself blown to smithereens even more thoroughly than Mercymorn had managed. Somehow.)
If all goes according to plan, he won't be leaving a body behind to mourn — but that's fine; out of the original seven Lyctors, only two had managed that, anyway, and he hadn't been one of them. It's neater, this way, besides; no one needs to worry about cleanup or preservation. Still, as he takes one last glance around the room, his gaze lingers on his bed, and how he's arranged what he's leaving behind. Sooner or later, someone will come back to the house, find his door open, and see his message — someone will find the right way to care for Alfred's blades, tenderly crossed over where his heart rests when he sleeps. His May Day gift, the blanket from Bausphomette, rests carefully folded on his pillow, the death's-head-moth motif neatly (affectionately) displayed.
In the brief space between the blanket and the point where his blades cross, there's a plain bone-white vellum envelope, sealed and warded and very simply addressed, with only one word: John. ]
If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain I would trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday — But just one yesterday won't bring you back to me, will it? You were lost to me millennia ago, my friend, my king, my beloved — you lost yourself Seeking the destruction of all who opposed you — Is seven times seven generations not enough to satisfy your wrath?
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. So how did I fail you, O Beloved, that you could not turn away from this endless destruction?
How did you fail me, that this is the path you blazed for me to tread? When everyone who fucked with you is dead — Will all those you have lost lift up their heads? Will morning bring you peace, or just more dread?
Where God fell, saints and angels also bled. For good or ill, no beach-bound omen heralds your return — You were my favourite living human by far When you chose to make this frightening world less bizarre. Will you come home and stop this pain tonight? Don't waste your time mourning me; You're already the voice inside my head.
[ It's fucking nuclear, when he finds it. (And there's a good joke, right?)
Augustine has stolen thought from him, not emotion, but there is very little distinction between them now: even from such distance, the eruption is wordless with pain. The cacophony of grief obliterates all space in the back of Augustine's mind, raging hot and panicked and hurt, hurt beyond belief. The voice in Augustine's head laughs like screaming, then chokes itself out. It's like a supernova: bright and hot and then collapsed to cold, to tight stillness, to blank nothing.
He thinks: ]
That's not the right name. [ It's worse if it is, worse if it isn't. How many times can he lose the same man? How many times at once? He could— ] fucking kill you, Christ alive [ —because then it'd be him, at least, it'd be by his hand, not— ] not them, not where I can't follow, she can't have you [ —but she already does, and John has nothing and no one— ] because you all think I'm still capable of learning a lesson [ —as though Purgatory still applies to him, as though it's not— ] too fucking late, it's always been too late, it's been too late since the start [ —and he's so tired, he's so— ] fucking tired. Why do you have to lay this at my feet? What am I supposed to do with it?
[ It dies down into a hush of distance, a numb quiet. Somewhere, God sits on a bed with his face in his hands and thinks the words that feel like the clench before a dry-heave: ]
[Since she's doing this particular house call as Sailor Moon, Usagi changes her username so it's not nearly so obvious she is one and the same person. So with that done, time to make a call, one god to another.]
You're John, correct? [She's not accusatory, she's not mad or upset, she has heard enough about what others have done or have sworn to do to this man and she doesn't see the reason to pile on. She could be mistaken for bored but she is not, just... watching, for now.]
[The letter arrives addressed to "Teacher". The handwriting on both the envelope and the parchment within is clean and purposeful, with delicate spacing. It is clearly written by someone who had both been trained in handwriting and had spent time considering and choosing the words the words inked there.]
Teacher,
This week is my sixteenth birthday. People will gather at the beach on Friday a bit before the sun sets. The part of the beach near where you found me.
I am not sure what will happen there as I've never had a birthday before. But I understand that the people you care about and care for you in return are supposed to gather together to be happy that you were born. I suppose it's a way for humans to acknowledge and be happy for their own existence.
I was happy to be alive when we lived together for the first time. Teacher is someone I cared for. No one ever had looked after me like that before. Now, I don't even know if he was real. I try not to think about it yet I think about it at night when I try to think of nothing at all.
If Teacher is real, he's invited to attend the party because I still care for him. Maybe the answer, to lay it all to rest, will be a gift.
[ In the corner of the house is a fern. For weeks, skeletons have tended it; for weeks, John has stopped in the doorway to look at it, something in his eyes gone remote and faraway. On bad days, it lures him like fire for a moth: he gentles an open palm over its fronds, a half-second from yanking out its feeble thalergy at the roots. With a flare of temper he could wither it to ash.
What does it matter, right? He could preserve the fern in perfect, immaculate stasis. He could raise a dark and tangled thing in its place, and call it a better fit for the decor. He could damn it all and call it one less chore, not have to stop in the doorway to look and see whether it's wilted.
He lets it live. It stays in the corner, unruly and the wrong shade of green to fit into the crisp blacks and bone-whites of the mansion. The skeletons tend it, and nobody comments.
John is standing by the fern as he reads the letter. He passes a hand over his eyes; he makes a soft noise. In the set of his shoulders is exhaustion, and in his mind is an indistinct clench of memory, of saltwater and a body cradled in his arms. ]
It has been two months now. The last battle ended miserably.
What is the plan, going forward? I can't imagine you are particularly inclined to give up, not this early. The war has not even begun, and revenge has not even come close to being realized.
Don't forget. I remain your faithful servant.
[If Chara speaks oddly, well, their memories have been acting up a bit. It's only natural.
Still. They want to make it clear that their loyalty hasn't wavered. John's former scions all came to him looking for family, protection, guidance. Love. Chara is sick of all of that. Family, protectors, guides, they all fail you in the end. Only power matters. Only destroying the enemy. Only revenge.
There's only one sort of contract a demon and a false god might enter. The question is if the false god's ambitions have crashed now that he's surrounded himself with shackles that seek to bind him.]
[ It's a dodge, and not even an effort at explanation. What's it mean that this is the only kid who'll still call him Teacher without hesitation, without doubt? That he's got a black-eyed revenant in his corner and the whole world trying to walk him back?
He knows what it means; it's not new information. Still. The shine's gone out of bloody-minded vengeance, lately.
His problem is that he always takes the shackles gladly, and then acts like the weight is any surprise. ]
[ Here is the thing: John never gets calls. He especially never gets calls that aren't threats or bargaining. He looks momentarily baffled, and then genuinely touched.
It immediately becomes a shit-eating grin. ]
You know, I am glad to have the reminder. I'll have to send you some of my pieces as I work on them. Any requests?
[ As with every time he's blindsided by an old relic, John Gaius spends a solid five minutes being completely fucking normal about this, his face intermittently buried in his hands or turned to gaze into the middle distance. Eventually, he shoots back a reply: ]
What's this?
[ And then: ]
I always wanted a helpful ghost dog. Really should've got on that. Guess it's not too late for skeleton reindeer.
( He doesn't explicitly remember encountering the Man With Black Eyes all those months ago, but there's some piece of the ancient thing's spirit that knows. Like fleeting moments of a dream, or another life. There was a part of him (a little ghost-thing, an identity forged over thirteen human years) that met The Emperor and showed him a basket full of dead things, and felt a deep, important shudder in its spirit when the man (not a man, not really) wove his own ability to make dead things move.
The demon king finds his way back to that energy, and leaves something on the doorstep during the month in which he's learned many people give gifts. Wrapped carefully in thin cloth is an odd little doll, meticulously hand-crafted with an assortment of random bits and bobbles collected over time. It's.... strange, silly-looking, like some child's creation. Beads draped over like long hair, wings made from seashells. But there's something perhaps a bit more haunting to the fact the head is a bird's, freshly dead and magically preserved...
Set next to the doll, like a calling card, is a leaf — bearing Paimon's sigil delicately burned into it like filigree. This seal may mean nothing to the Man With Black Eyes (unless he possesses knowledge of the Goetia), but to the demon, it's a connection made. )
[ Oh, that's fun. He hasn't had a Your Majesty in a while. It's all my Lords and Teachers and John. Also, you lying son of a bitch. That one's been popular lately.
It feels, admittedly, a hell of a lot like a trap. He's had a bad month. But what else is there to do? ]
Hey, John. Hard to think it's been a year since I tried to kill you. Happy birthday to me.
We should talk. Nothing urgent, take your time. I know God works on a timeline few of us can fathom. I just figure since it's been, you know, radio silence for a while on my end... Maybe it'd be good to let you know that I'm still interested in talking to you.
Feels silly to let Apollonia be the way things end between us.
Anyway, yeah. If you still want to talk to me at all, then, like. Whenever's good.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
from the september tdm.
[ Puzzled is good. Puzzled is much better than bleeding from her facial orifices. She pronounces Gid-e-on all the way through, and doesn't even put Nigenad after it, and he claps his hands together in satisfied pride. ]
Excellent work. Huge improvement. May I have a quick look at what's going on in there, Harrow? Just for everyone's peace of mind.
[ He steps forward, head a little bowed and one palm open, as ludicrously nonthreatening as he can manage. All he will need is to smooth a thumb at her temple, the briefest touch of skin to skin, to search for the spell and the scarring.
To Gideon, he says: ]
Oh, I believe it. But let's not go planning the mutiny just yet. I'm here to help.
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[ Her voice is weak and shaky, still, and stumbles a bit on 'Griddle,' as she raises her head and fights herself to not smile at her cavalier. Don't worry. She doesn't. That would be weird. But she's trying to grab for Gideon's hand at the same time, which is also completely weird.
Harrow still looks a bit dazed, if nothing else. Her last memories of the Emperor Undying are not the same as Gideon's, the knowledge she has quite different.
Thus, she bows her head: acknowledgement, permission. She knows what she's done. ]
Go ahead.
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from the september tdm.
"Mercy," he says, mildly, "I don't recall the last time I set foot on any planet. You will still have me beat."
This is not strictly true, because he hasn't exactly been sending his Lyctors off anywhere with recreational boating trips. But then, he doesn't know all of what she's been up to, these past few millennia; that fact hangs uncomfortably heavy between them.
Then she goes and says Canaan House and makes it hurt, in the sweetest way. He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully like it doesn't.
"Cold and dreary and grey seems to be the order of the day here, as well," he allows, "so I'm sure it will translate phenomenally. I do love to see someone else improvise for a while; I've been doing it since I arrived."
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But as if to show that it's also not a real problem (Mercy has experience working alongside someone she both hates and loves, after all), she claps her hands together: brisk, efficient.
"Let go and hand over a few of them to me. Let's say... six." And as if she's not standing there vulnerable and half-naked and looking like a drowned rat tangled in a towel, she starts to reach out for the crewmen with her own ever-burning thanergy. Mercymorn the First is a flesh magician; she can puppet meat well enough. While she noses at their rubbery muscles, she adds, offhand, "And are there any more clothes in that captain's cabin? I'll wear men's."
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backdated to late september, for maul.
Now here's a wild one. He would assume they really go in for body modification around here, which is reasonable when the whole population has a knack for flesh magic; except that the God of Necromancers can see beyond skin-deep, and what he glimpses is a marvel. He doesn't know what he's seeing, which seems to be the theme of the day.
Then the guy breaks out an honest-to-god lightsaber and twirls it like a baton, and John whistles lowly.
"You know," he says, all amusement, "I've always thought we could upgrade from rapiers."
It's funny until the guy grabs him from afar and pulls.
There is a split second in which John is genuinely blindsided, and he lurches forward like any other hapless puppet. This isn't a magic he recognizes; this doesn't touch his domain. But he can match like for like: without any outward movement, he tries to seize control of his opponent's hands and slacken the muscles. It's a gamble that the man has need of gesture to work his spells— that disarming him will let John regain his footing instead of barreling rudely forward— but it'll be a tidy trick if it works.
(Even the attempt brews something in him, a low sickly hum that buzzes in his teeth. The first signs of trouble.)
cw: graphic biting
Maul holds him there for a moment, glaring at him. Not being able to use his hands make combat a bit more difficult but it's not impossible, especially given the natural rage within him. "Clever. Very clever. But not good enough," Maul growls. Then he leans forwards and bites down on the spot between the Emperor's neck and shoulder.
cw: tooth gore
cw: psychic choke, all the fighting cws for this thread really
cw: tooth gore continues
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a letter
I write this missive to you under the seal and covenant of my House, which has never been broken, and in the spirit of respect and reparation, praying only for the consideration of Your Divine Imperial Majesty of my words.
I will not burden you further with apologies for my conduct in your presence, except to say that they were and remain sincere. I have reflected often since on your magnanimity in the face of my inexcusable presumption, and I may only again express my humility at your grace in answer to my offenses.
I ask this grace of you once more, knowing that it is undeserved, for my lapse in seeking your blessing for my pledges to your Houses of the Sixth and the Ninth. They, who surely number among the best and most dear of your subjects, have done me great kindnesses, and I am sworn to their service, their interests to me as my own.
Kindly Prince, King Undying, I humbly ask your leave to continue my association with your loyal servants, to serve as their ally, and therefore, to serve as yours. May your reign last eternal, your crown undimmed, and the Tomb ever sealed.
[There is a folded note as well, tucked into the letter, written with the same precision on thinner, paler paper. When opened, it reads:]
To the captain of the good ship Lonely Island, from Paul, navigator,
If you'll still have me.
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Later that day, a skeleton goes clattering politely down the cobblestone road. (A Hunter smashes it, which is deeply rude, but it waits for a quiet moment to reassemble and then sets off again.) It arrives holding a rolled letter, bound shut with a thin organic filament and a tiny clasp of bone. The material looks uncomfortably like vellum.
Printed there, in a tight and messy scrawl, is the following: ]
I find that I so rarely write my own missives I have wholly lost the art of it. I acknowledge and respect the effort, Paul, but there's no need for such formality here.
You will be doing me an immense favor by standing beside my adepts and their cavaliers, who number among the most skilled and stalwart heroes of the empire, and who are very likely to charge off towards danger with little regard for their own safety. This is a deeply commendable trait, and one that will turn my hair grey. Harrowhark and Gideon, though born to the Ninth, are members of my own First House: they are my hallowed saints, arbiters of my word and will, my divine family. I am relieved to hear that, should need arise, you will be at their side.
If ever you have need of me or want for conversation, my door is open.
I'll keep you posted on more boat trips.
O CAPTAIN YOUR CAPTAIN
A FRIEND
pre-leviathan etc., text, un: grollschwert
You've been this dodgy over fucking JOHN?
un: first
He raises a hand to scrub it across his mouth. He exhales a shudder of breath. This feels very much like the start of an avalanche; it feels like the first signs of a sea change. Some shift in gravity he's been resisting, but he knew the pull would drag him under, sooner or later.
(The last time anyone called him by his name, it was: No, John.) ]
What can I say? Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt is a heavy burden to carry.
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text - un; bluebird69
dean's never blind dm'd someone before, so, first time for everything. ]
Hey. I was told to contact you about coordinating payment re; this kid pauls birthday party and the rental of a couple arcade games?
un: first
Kaworu did not warn him about this, but that honestly makes it funnier. ]
I'm your guy. Are the choices already lined up?
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I am just a human trying to avoid my certain doom.
You are my sanctuary. You're holy to me.
And if I repent— if I get on my knees—
Will you finally tell me the truth?
[ (It isn't signed — but it's not like it needs to be, now, is it?) ]
2022.07.06
Nevermore, you son of a bitch.
[her omen cuts the feed as The Amaranth's black eyes stare back into john's.]
a letter, after a departure
Teacher,
Do you remember when I told you that everything I could say to you was something I was certain you had heard before?
I've thought about it since then. I still think I was right.
So here is all I have to say: We're leaving.
This is still yours. I'm not going to be here to take care of it for you. These are the things you should do for it.
Fern Care
∙ Check the soil every day. If it's dry, water it until it's moist, but don't let it soak.
∙ It needs light, but not too much directly on the fronds. Keep it near a window and move it with the sun as you need to.
∙ Once a month, when you make tea, set some aside to cool, and give it a few spoonfuls.
∙ Some of the fronds will brown. Let them. Observe what you were doing and consider what you might adjust. Make changes slowly.
∙ I don't believe that all of it was a lie. Most of it. But not all of it.
∙ I remember when I brought this home for you, the way you looked at it, and I think that was when I knew. I still should have asked you. I should have asked what their names were.
∙ I know it wouldn't have changed anything.
∙ Leto Atreides. Thufir Hawat. Gurney Halleck. Duncan Idaho. House Atreides.
∙ Gideon Nav.
Paul
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dickrocket ship painted on his living room wall.It’s only semi related.]
While You Were Out (~July 11th)
(He'd made a mistake, in hoping, just a few days previous, that he'd found something of an answer — a way of forcing John to tell the fucking truth, for once, not hedging his bets or squirreling around the point in so many circles his questioner gave up, so that then, maybe, he could rub his nose in the fact that he, Augustine, was still there, no matter how dreadful that distant truth really was — and instead, he'd barely gotten God to stand on His own two humanoid feet again, before He'd gone and gotten Himself blown to smithereens even more thoroughly than Mercymorn had managed. Somehow.)
If all goes according to plan, he won't be leaving a body behind to mourn — but that's fine; out of the original seven Lyctors, only two had managed that, anyway, and he hadn't been one of them. It's neater, this way, besides; no one needs to worry about cleanup or preservation. Still, as he takes one last glance around the room, his gaze lingers on his bed, and how he's arranged what he's leaving behind. Sooner or later, someone will come back to the house, find his door open, and see his message — someone will find the right way to care for Alfred's blades, tenderly crossed over where his heart rests when he sleeps. His May Day gift, the blanket from Bausphomette, rests carefully folded on his pillow, the death's-head-moth motif neatly (affectionately) displayed.
In the brief space between the blanket and the point where his blades cross, there's a plain bone-white vellum envelope, sealed and warded and very simply addressed, with only one word: John. ]
If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain
I would trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday —
But just one yesterday won't bring you back to me, will it?
You were lost to me millennia ago, my friend, my king, my beloved — you lost yourself
Seeking the destruction of all who opposed you —
Is seven times seven generations not enough to satisfy your wrath?
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
So how did I fail you, O Beloved, that you could not turn away from this endless destruction?
How did you fail me, that this is the path you blazed for me to tread?
When everyone who fucked with you is dead —
Will all those you have lost lift up their heads?
Will morning bring you peace, or just more dread?
Where God fell, saints and angels also bled.
For good or ill, no beach-bound omen heralds your return —
You were my favourite living human by far
When you chose to make this frightening world less bizarre.
Will you come home and stop this pain tonight?
Don't waste your time mourning me;
You're already the voice inside my head.
I miss you.
And I'm sorry.
A—
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Augustine has stolen thought from him, not emotion, but there is very little distinction between them now: even from such distance, the eruption is wordless with pain. The cacophony of grief obliterates all space in the back of Augustine's mind, raging hot and panicked and hurt, hurt beyond belief. The voice in Augustine's head laughs like screaming, then chokes itself out. It's like a supernova: bright and hot and then collapsed to cold, to tight stillness, to blank nothing.
He thinks: ]
That's not the right name. [ It's worse if it is, worse if it isn't. How many times can he lose the same man? How many times at once? He could— ] fucking kill you, Christ alive [ —because then it'd be him, at least, it'd be by his hand, not— ] not them, not where I can't follow, she can't have you [ —but she already does, and John has nothing and no one— ] because you all think I'm still capable of learning a lesson [ —as though Purgatory still applies to him, as though it's not— ] too fucking late, it's always been too late, it's been too late since the start [ —and he's so tired, he's so— ] fucking tired. Why do you have to lay this at my feet? What am I supposed to do with it?
[ It dies down into a hush of distance, a numb quiet. Somewhere, God sits on a bed with his face in his hands and thinks the words that feel like the clench before a dry-heave: ]
I still love you.
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Video; UN: EternalMoon - After Healing Maul from their "fight"
You're John, correct? [She's not accusatory, she's not mad or upset, she has heard enough about what others have done or have sworn to do to this man and she doesn't see the reason to pile on. She could be mistaken for bored but she is not, just... watching, for now.]
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[ When he picks up, it's with eerily pleasant nonchalance. He has, at least, changed into less-destroyed clothes. ]
Sorry to say, I'm booked full. If you want a duel to the death, I'll have to pencil you in for next week.
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a letter delivered to the bone house
Teacher,
This week is my sixteenth birthday. People will gather at the beach on Friday a bit before the sun sets. The part of the beach near where you found me.
I am not sure what will happen there as I've never had a birthday before. But I understand that the people you care about and care for you in return are supposed to gather together to be happy that you were born. I suppose it's a way for humans to acknowledge and be happy for their own existence.
I was happy to be alive when we lived together for the first time. Teacher is someone I cared for. No one ever had looked after me like that before. Now, I don't even know if he was real. I try not to think about it yet I think about it at night when I try to think of nothing at all.
If Teacher is real, he's invited to attend the party because I still care for him. Maybe the answer, to lay it all to rest, will be a gift.
Yours,
Kaworu Nagisa
for augustine
What does it matter, right? He could preserve the fern in perfect, immaculate stasis. He could raise a dark and tangled thing in its place, and call it a better fit for the decor. He could damn it all and call it one less chore, not have to stop in the doorway to look and see whether it's wilted.
He lets it live. It stays in the corner, unruly and the wrong shade of green to fit into the crisp blacks and bone-whites of the mansion. The skeletons tend it, and nobody comments.
John is standing by the fern as he reads the letter. He passes a hand over his eyes; he makes a soft noise. In the set of his shoulders is exhaustion, and in his mind is an indistinct clench of memory, of saltwater and a body cradled in his arms. ]
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un: GoldenFlowers, text
It has been two months now. The last battle ended miserably.
What is the plan, going forward? I can't imagine you are particularly inclined to give up, not this early. The war has not even begun, and revenge has not even come close to being realized.
Don't forget. I remain your faithful servant.
[If Chara speaks oddly, well, their memories have been acting up a bit. It's only natural.
Still. They want to make it clear that their loyalty hasn't wavered. John's former scions all came to him looking for family, protection, guidance. Love. Chara is sick of all of that. Family, protectors, guides, they all fail you in the end. Only power matters. Only destroying the enemy. Only revenge.
There's only one sort of contract a demon and a false god might enter. The question is if the false god's ambitions have crashed now that he's surrounded himself with shackles that seek to bind him.]
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I'll keep you posted.
[ It's a dodge, and not even an effort at explanation. What's it mean that this is the only kid who'll still call him Teacher without hesitation, without doubt? That he's got a black-eyed revenant in his corner and the whole world trying to walk him back?
He knows what it means; it's not new information. Still. The shine's gone out of bloody-minded vengeance, lately.
His problem is that he always takes the shackles gladly, and then acts like the weight is any surprise. ]
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1/2
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well,
[Video] un: QueenCobra
[Aka hello, how are you.]
un: jingleheimer
It immediately becomes a shit-eating grin. ]
You know, I am glad to have the reminder. I'll have to send you some of my pieces as I work on them. Any requests?
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video/text; un: ghostking
Just saw this movie for the first time.
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What's this?
[ And then: ]
I always wanted a helpful ghost dog. Really should've got on that. Guess it's not too late for skeleton reindeer.
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delivery — late December (cw: dead animal parts)
The demon king finds his way back to that energy, and leaves something on the doorstep during the month in which he's learned many people give gifts. Wrapped carefully in thin cloth is an odd little doll, meticulously hand-crafted with an assortment of random bits and bobbles collected over time. It's.... strange, silly-looking, like some child's creation. Beads draped over like long hair, wings made from seashells. But there's something perhaps a bit more haunting to the fact the head is a bird's, freshly dead and magically preserved...
Set next to the doll, like a calling card, is a leaf — bearing Paimon's sigil delicately burned into it like filigree. This seal may mean nothing to the Man With Black Eyes (unless he possesses knowledge of the Goetia), but to the demon, it's a connection made. )
text; un: ghostking
So that compass we put together in the woods? It's glowing. Want to find out where it leads with me?
[ John's the one who was there when he got it, so John's the one getting the invite. ]
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Sounds spooky. When and where?
text; un: endless
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It feels, admittedly, a hell of a lot like a trap. He's had a bad month. But what else is there to do? ]
It would be my pleasure. When's good?
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text; un: JustD
I don't need to be the one holding it, but I'm not letting it out of my sight.
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Works for me. If it's anything like your flowers, I want a look at it.
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2023-06-16
Hard to think it's been a year since I tried to kill you.
Happy birthday to me.
We should talk.
Nothing urgent, take your time. I know God works on a timeline few of us can fathom.
I just figure since it's been, you know, radio silence for a while on my end...
Maybe it'd be good to let you know that I'm still interested in talking to you.
Feels silly to let Apollonia be the way things end between us.
Anyway, yeah. If you still want to talk to me at all, then, like. Whenever's good.