[ it is quiet, out in the barrens. mavis shuts her eyes, hands tucked into her pockets. save for the occasional, distant murmur of a sentry or adrenaline junkie, she can be properly alone. not so different from the shadowlands, really, but for the smaller monster population.
that is not to say it is bereft of monsters. in fact, she had agreed to meet nagano here specifically to investigate one such example. will-o-wisps and chanting from behind the bone wall. she can hear it, now, standing in front of the ossified barrier. something awful screeching and wailing, something that is not sentient enough to have coherent thoughts, only emotional impressions, only pain.
she grinds her teeth. her mouth already tastes like iron, her illness worsening each day. certainly the slowly-healing wound on her arm is not helping matters along, suffocated by dirty bandages.
her eyes open when kaito approaches — she can feel him there, and his is a presence that is its own relief. to be alone enough that her mind is quiet, but to have enough company to drown the sound of her shadow as it tells her that she has destroyed her body and will not be able to break through the wall of bone and has wasted everyone's time here. you were stupid to forget tools. he will see that you are unprepared and — ]
[ The Barrens have become somewhat of a regular stomping grounds for Kaito these past weeks. Between there and the woods in Serene, he's been spending as much time as possible gathering materials—quarrying stone and chopping timber. The work is slow-going, especially since he's only really trusted Hibiki to help him along, but it's going nonetheless. It's dangerous enough with monsters out and about, and he's still on edge after the Gallows raid.
Today, however, he's here to take on a job. A pair of pickaxes rattle from a sling on his back, and in one hand he's got a weathered spear stolen from a Hierarchy guard. A stark contrast to his easygoing gait and posture, his steps follow a disciplined rhythm. There's a sharpness to his expression that he normally eschews when meeting friends.
Yet when he meets her gaze, all of that vanishes. A soft, gentle smile that doesn't belong to a warrior in this wasteland full of threats finds its way to his visage. ]
Hi, Mavis. [ His other hand lifts—not to greet, but to wiggle a brown bottle. ]
I managed to get an extra-large serving of that concoction for you.
[ she had forgotten the offer. she takes the bottle from his hands, turns it over in her own with a studious eye. ]
What do I owe you?
[ she doesn't have much in the way of barter or coin, but the question must be asked. she could at the very least run some errand. she is not so invalid that she can't manage that, yet. ]
[ the frown tells all. he may say it's not pity, but it feels a lot like it. in a lot of ways, the notion of repayment is more about her dignity and comfort than about his need. she tightens her fist on the bottle, waffling over it.
it's not until he offers the pickaxe out that she gets an idea. ]
I want to try something else, first. [ she turns to look up at the substantial bone barrier. it resists being looked at, the white too blinding.
if she is going to fight aristaeus, though, she need to be able to do this on purpose. she needs to have some kind of control over it. and surely, it would make quick work of what was in front of them. spare them the fatigue of their illness, and potential injury. ]
[ He can't blame her for the indignant spike that follows his request. However, taking care of oneself is a task many people here struggle with... Himself included, sometimes. ]
Something else? Powers, or...?
[ He's curious either way, lowering the offered pickaxe to follow by her side. ]
[ she nods, confirming it's the same thing as 'powers' in the general sense. she tucks the bottle away into her jacket to free up her hands, as if she will need them.
this has only happened a few times. in each, she has drawn on strong emotions. panic. overwhelm a sense that she will die. she reaches for the thoughts of the screaming thing beyond the barrier, tries to test out if the answer lies in some of that, but ...
it's not human enough. not for her to really use it, connect with it. she huffs through her nose. ]
I'm not good at this. If something goes wrong, you should probably knock me out. [ she looks back at him, at the pickaxe. ] That should work.
[ He echoes the word. It resonates strongly in his mind; not because he understands what she's referencing, but because raw fury is an emotion he has always known how to weaponize.
[ she scrutinizes him a moment, skeptical or at least confused by the alternative methods, by the eerie glow of his eyes. in the end, it hardly matters. she does not mean to fail, even if she hardly knows what to do.
she draws on what she does know — on the breathing pattern that aristaeus had shown her, forced upon her, at the harvest festival. her lungs strain with the effort, with the urge to hack and cough against the itch and flutter of her illness.
she makes fists of her hands, tries to imagine the explosive force that had killed ta'ghul, that had hurt those adolescents in stygia when she set fire to the dumpster. every weapon she had turned on others. the case of cornmeal in the kuruko camp, that had covered her escape with mitzli.
a tension winding tighter and tighter inside her, building brighter and brighter until it had nothing to do but explode.
instead of the wall of bone, however, it is the dead trees nearby that shatter into a thousand wooden shards from the sudden telekinetic burst, and no small number of them come flying towards mavis and kaito both. ]
[ He watches quietly. Emotions ring in the back of his skull, steadily growing in pitch and volume until it feels like his eardrums might burst despite the lack of actual physical stimuli.
And then, something snaps. Kaito feels the trees wail just moments before they shatter, and his body does the rest. A quick pivot places his body between Mavis and the wooden shrapnel, but instead of crossing his arms over protectively, his hands thrust out and the energy gathered around his eyes sparks to life.
A thin, translucent silver barrier sprawls out from over his palms, tall and wide enough to shield them from the shower of bark. The sound of glass splintering and the sight of cracks are worrying, but his construct holds just long enough to survive the onslaught before dissolving.
Slow, shuddery breaths escape his lungs as the tension unravels from shaking hands. Concentration remains written over his features, but there's frustration woven in his frown.
[ mavis' eyes snap wide when he steps in front of her, and she does not flinch away from the wooden shards or the silver shield that protects them from it. intuitively, she knows there is no need.
instead, her lips part slightly, all wonder and awe over the beauty of it. ]
It's not just you. [ that's what she says, when she finally speaks. she clears her throat. that tickle is ever present. she responds to his thoughts as if they were words: ] Sometimes, it's quiet for me, even in Stygia.
[ but not in a dependable way. not in a way that makes her able to brave the crowds. she draws her gaze back to him, head tilting. ] What was that?
[ He's become more used to having the telepath in his head. It helps that Hibiki lives there rent free, too.
Focusing on what he can't control will only make him more agitated. Kaito splits a smile instead, then snaps gloved fingers. Silver sparks eventually transform into a visible aura emanating around his body. It's bright, but not painfully so. There's a warmth to it. ]
This is aura—a tangible energy that exists in all living things. I've mentioned it once or twice by now, I think. Aura's what I draw upon to perform most of my antics. I can normally do cooler stuff than just barely withstand an incoming rain of splinters, but it is what it is.
[ she looks away from him as she says it, feeling ... vulnerable, more than anything. the kind that anticipates a negative reaction. she wants to keep looking at the aura, the enchanting silver glow about him, but instinct tells her to avoid his face.
as if that has ever helped. as if she hasn't ever had unfettered access to people's honest reactions, telegraphed directly into her mind.
but her people had exiled her for it, and that experience sticks with her. she cannot help but shy away from it. ]
Same as reading your thoughts. [ she wrinkles her nose. ] Sounds like the same. But I don't glow.
[ she had meant to return to her home in serene. 'home' was a word doing a lot of work, of course, in that it described only a general area of a forest that had already become inhospitable even before their duel over frozen grave dirt.
she never went back.
instead, she has made a bed of blankets in a corner of his basement, somewhere distant enough that she is not intruding upon him, but close enough that she can watch him. it suffices for the thin powdering of snow that starts the season.
it's no longer sufficient when she comes back in, damp up to her ankles in the veritable blanket of snow depressing the netherworld. teeth chattering, she goes to her little corner, pulls her blanket around herself, and finds that even as she strips off her boots, she isn't really warming up.
aristaeus, of course, hasn't moved. he has been sleeping more than not lately, recovering from the injuries she'd left him with. he lies there on the cot now, back to her. she shuffles off her pants as well, because they're wet anyway, and it's only making her colder. they go in a pile with her socks and boots, and if she can get a fire lit, they'll dry faster, but that's a task for after she can feel her fingers and her nose again.
she sits there for a time, watching him. talking herself out of it.
then she moves to the cot and lies beside him as she had that first night, and not a single night sense. stretching out makes her colder. she wants to curl in on herself. instead, she curls around him, burying her cold face against his back. ]
( the cot was clearly meant for a smaller man. that being said, he's managed to fit himself onto it, more or less, with his long legs tucked under the covers. he looks like a child while he sleeps, young and vulnerable.
his breathing is deep and even. this, in itself, is unusual. a light sleeper by habit, he should have stirred long before she drew near — much less flipped the covers back, joining him. )
[ his back feels hot against her nose, his arms warm beneath her fingers. the kind of warm that should wake him, she thinks, but he doesn't stir. for the better. she doesn't want to have to explain herself.
her knees bend into the space behind his until their bodies are flush. he still stinks of iron and salt.
it is some time later, when his neck and shoulder have warmed her nose, when it occurs to her that he has still not stirred, that his breathing is still slow and even, despite the raggedness of injury and illness. he's barely even coughed, so deep asleep is he.
she props herself up on her elbow to peer down at him.
he looks softer this way. pitiful, in a way. embarrassing that she had been bested by one with such smooth skin, even if his beard is growing in around the parts he'd tidied up. she reaches up to brush hair out of his face, soft now that it has lost the oils that usually keep it styled and slick and manicured. ]
( that gets a reaction: a slight furrowing of dark brows. as if, even asleep, he can't quite parse the gentleness of the gesture. the casualness of it.
there are some signs of his condition improving, sparse as they are. his color is no longer quite so pale, nor is it tinged too pink or too yellow. bruises still shadow his eyes, though. and there's a sharpness to his features that hint at the cost of his illness ㅡ the thing they don't tell you about kossians, about their remarkable resilience, is how heavy a toll it takes on the body.
he will not recognize himself upon waking at this rate. there's a feral quality to him, now. a raggedness he looks ...human. )
[ she studies the softness of his face, the slope of his cheekbones. it would be easy to spend hours like this, but her gaze lingers on the color of his mouth. she can remember the blood there, the baring of his teeth as he held her.
he'd looked fierce then. like someone she could stand to lose to. she had imagined in that moment a closeness of their bodies, not unlike this, an interlocking of two people that she had only ever witnessed when challenges had deteriorated quickly into passions. brutal and pushy acts of violence and grief and frustration vented.
and little moments of softness, too.
she draws her mouth close to his. presses their lips together. soft at first, then pressing, hard. she sinks her teeth into his lip, like she might tear away a piece of him and keep it to herself. ]
( for a few seconds, the kiss doesn't appear to have done much of anything. then, there is the press of teeth against his lower lip ㅡ and perhaps it makes sense that this, this of all things, would be what prompts him to stir. an awkward jerk of reflex as he becomes aware, rather suddenly, of the body hovering over him.
a threat.
so the long fingers threading through her hair aren't doing it with gentle intent. they coil, tight, as his head lifts from the pillow. )
[ the by-now-familiar sting in her scalp draws a reedy little whine out of her throat as her lips separate from his. it fills the narrow space between them, humid compared to the stark cold of the rest of this basement.
rather than retreat, she curls her fingers, gripping the ratty bedding. she hovers there, over him, eyes opening to fix on his. ]
[ she wets her lips. hovers there over him, trying to figure out that very answer for herself. she's doing things she's only ever seen, heard about, dreamed about. nothing she's ever done herself, before. ]
Getting warm. [ she retreats some, then, loosens her grip on the sheets. his grip, however, hasn't loosened. to some degree it means he's now holding her there, even as she leans back slightly into his hand as if she means to settle back down onto the mattress. ]
( a divot forms between between his brows. he's missed a step somewhere, clearly. )
With your mouth?
( he hasn't let go of her hair, yet. on some level he knows that id he does, she'll retreat and he won't get answers. not unless he digs in and rips them out. )
[ this, more than anything else, finally forces her to consider that she'd misread. that he hadn't been the one who'd wanted her, not like this. that it had been her all along, shameful as it was. that maybe it was her desire that had leaked across the bond and spilled flower petals and thorns into his chest as well as hers.
the possibility does more to warm her cheeks than kissing him had. ]
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closed —
THE BARRENS | LATE NOVEMBER
[ it is quiet, out in the barrens. mavis shuts her eyes, hands tucked into her pockets. save for the occasional, distant murmur of a sentry or adrenaline junkie, she can be properly alone. not so different from the shadowlands, really, but for the smaller monster population.
that is not to say it is bereft of monsters. in fact, she had agreed to meet nagano here specifically to investigate one such example. will-o-wisps and chanting from behind the bone wall. she can hear it, now, standing in front of the ossified barrier. something awful screeching and wailing, something that is not sentient enough to have coherent thoughts, only emotional impressions, only pain.
she grinds her teeth. her mouth already tastes like iron, her illness worsening each day. certainly the slowly-healing wound on her arm is not helping matters along, suffocated by dirty bandages.
her eyes open when kaito approaches — she can feel him there, and his is a presence that is its own relief. to be alone enough that her mind is quiet, but to have enough company to drown the sound of her shadow as it tells her that she has destroyed her body and will not be able to break through the wall of bone and has wasted everyone's time here. you were stupid to forget tools. he will see that you are unprepared and — ]
Nagano. [ she turns and nods to him. ]
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Today, however, he's here to take on a job. A pair of pickaxes rattle from a sling on his back, and in one hand he's got a weathered spear stolen from a Hierarchy guard. A stark contrast to his easygoing gait and posture, his steps follow a disciplined rhythm. There's a sharpness to his expression that he normally eschews when meeting friends.
Yet when he meets her gaze, all of that vanishes. A soft, gentle smile that doesn't belong to a warrior in this wasteland full of threats finds its way to his visage. ]
Hi, Mavis. [ His other hand lifts—not to greet, but to wiggle a brown bottle. ]
I managed to get an extra-large serving of that concoction for you.
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[ she had forgotten the offer. she takes the bottle from his hands, turns it over in her own with a studious eye. ]
What do I owe you?
[ she doesn't have much in the way of barter or coin, but the question must be asked. she could at the very least run some errand. she is not so invalid that she can't manage that, yet. ]
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Take care of yourself and we'll be square. And don't take that as me pitying you, because that's not what that is.
[ Straightening up, he reaches behind him and offers one of his pickaxes. It's fairly rugged and sturdy. ]
Here. There's gonna be a lot of rubble in the way. Don't overdo it if the coughing starts to get real bad, though.
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it's not until he offers the pickaxe out that she gets an idea. ]
I want to try something else, first. [ she turns to look up at the substantial bone barrier. it resists being looked at, the white too blinding.
if she is going to fight aristaeus, though, she need to be able to do this on purpose. she needs to have some kind of control over it. and surely, it would make quick work of what was in front of them. spare them the fatigue of their illness, and potential injury. ]
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Something else? Powers, or...?
[ He's curious either way, lowering the offered pickaxe to follow by her side. ]
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[ she nods, confirming it's the same thing as 'powers' in the general sense. she tucks the bottle away into her jacket to free up her hands, as if she will need them.
this has only happened a few times. in each, she has drawn on strong emotions. panic. overwhelm a sense that she will die. she reaches for the thoughts of the screaming thing beyond the barrier, tries to test out if the answer lies in some of that, but ...
it's not human enough. not for her to really use it, connect with it. she huffs through her nose. ]
I'm not good at this. If something goes wrong, you should probably knock me out. [ she looks back at him, at the pickaxe. ] That should work.
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[ He echoes the word. It resonates strongly in his mind; not because he understands what she's referencing, but because raw fury is an emotion he has always known how to weaponize.
A̷n̴d̸ ̴o̸n̴e̸ ̷t̵h̸a̶t̸ ̶y̸o̶u̸ ̶h̴a̴v̵e̸ ̸m̶a̷d̶e̸ ̸g̸o̸o̷d̵ ̶u̶s̷e̷ ̷o̶f̷ ̶r̸e̶c̸e̸n̸t̸l̵y̷.̸
When she advises him, he nods—yet he puts the pickaxe away. Sparks of silver-white energy begin to dance around his eyes. ]
I have gentler methods.
Go ahead.
I've got your back.
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she draws on what she does know — on the breathing pattern that aristaeus had shown her, forced upon her, at the harvest festival. her lungs strain with the effort, with the urge to hack and cough against the itch and flutter of her illness.
she makes fists of her hands, tries to imagine the explosive force that had killed ta'ghul, that had hurt those adolescents in stygia when she set fire to the dumpster. every weapon she had turned on others. the case of cornmeal in the kuruko camp, that had covered her escape with mitzli.
a tension winding tighter and tighter inside her, building brighter and brighter until it had nothing to do but explode.
instead of the wall of bone, however, it is the dead trees nearby that shatter into a thousand wooden shards from the sudden telekinetic burst, and no small number of them come flying towards mavis and kaito both. ]
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And then, something snaps. Kaito feels the trees wail just moments before they shatter, and his body does the rest. A quick pivot places his body between Mavis and the wooden shrapnel, but instead of crossing his arms over protectively, his hands thrust out and the energy gathered around his eyes sparks to life.
A thin, translucent silver barrier sprawls out from over his palms, tall and wide enough to shield them from the shower of bark. The sound of glass splintering and the sight of cracks are worrying, but his construct holds just long enough to survive the onslaught before dissolving.
Slow, shuddery breaths escape his lungs as the tension unravels from shaking hands. Concentration remains written over his features, but there's frustration woven in his frown.
Are my powers wilting even more? ]
Whew... close... That's some strength.
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instead, her lips part slightly, all wonder and awe over the beauty of it. ]
It's not just you. [ that's what she says, when she finally speaks. she clears her throat. that tickle is ever present. she responds to his thoughts as if they were words: ] Sometimes, it's quiet for me, even in Stygia.
[ but not in a dependable way. not in a way that makes her able to brave the crowds. she draws her gaze back to him, head tilting. ] What was that?
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[ He's become more used to having the telepath in his head. It helps that Hibiki lives there rent free, too.
Focusing on what he can't control will only make him more agitated. Kaito splits a smile instead, then snaps gloved fingers. Silver sparks eventually transform into a visible aura emanating around his body. It's bright, but not painfully so. There's a warmth to it. ]
This is aura—a tangible energy that exists in all living things. I've mentioned it once or twice by now, I think. Aura's what I draw upon to perform most of my antics. I can normally do cooler stuff than just barely withstand an incoming rain of splinters, but it is what it is.
Your turn. What was all that?
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[ she looks away from him as she says it, feeling ... vulnerable, more than anything. the kind that anticipates a negative reaction. she wants to keep looking at the aura, the enchanting silver glow about him, but instinct tells her to avoid his face.
as if that has ever helped. as if she hasn't ever had unfettered access to people's honest reactions, telegraphed directly into her mind.
but her people had exiled her for it, and that experience sticks with her. she cannot help but shy away from it. ]
Same as reading your thoughts. [ she wrinkles her nose. ] Sounds like the same. But I don't glow.
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MIRTH | DECEMBER
[ she had meant to return to her home in serene. 'home' was a word doing a lot of work, of course, in that it described only a general area of a forest that had already become inhospitable even before their duel over frozen grave dirt.
she never went back.
instead, she has made a bed of blankets in a corner of his basement, somewhere distant enough that she is not intruding upon him, but close enough that she can watch him. it suffices for the thin powdering of snow that starts the season.
it's no longer sufficient when she comes back in, damp up to her ankles in the veritable blanket of snow depressing the netherworld. teeth chattering, she goes to her little corner, pulls her blanket around herself, and finds that even as she strips off her boots, she isn't really warming up.
aristaeus, of course, hasn't moved. he has been sleeping more than not lately, recovering from the injuries she'd left him with. he lies there on the cot now, back to her. she shuffles off her pants as well, because they're wet anyway, and it's only making her colder. they go in a pile with her socks and boots, and if she can get a fire lit, they'll dry faster, but that's a task for after she can feel her fingers and her nose again.
she sits there for a time, watching him. talking herself out of it.
then she moves to the cot and lies beside him as she had that first night, and not a single night sense. stretching out makes her colder. she wants to curl in on herself. instead, she curls around him, burying her cold face against his back. ]
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his breathing is deep and even. this, in itself, is unusual. a light sleeper by habit, he should have stirred long before she drew near — much less flipped the covers back, joining him. )
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her knees bend into the space behind his until their bodies are flush. he still stinks of iron and salt.
it is some time later, when his neck and shoulder have warmed her nose, when it occurs to her that he has still not stirred, that his breathing is still slow and even, despite the raggedness of injury and illness. he's barely even coughed, so deep asleep is he.
she props herself up on her elbow to peer down at him.
he looks softer this way. pitiful, in a way. embarrassing that she had been bested by one with such smooth skin, even if his beard is growing in around the parts he'd tidied up. she reaches up to brush hair out of his face, soft now that it has lost the oils that usually keep it styled and slick and manicured. ]
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there are some signs of his condition improving, sparse as they are. his color is no longer quite so pale, nor is it tinged too pink or too yellow. bruises still shadow his eyes, though. and there's a sharpness to his features that hint at the cost of his illness ㅡ the thing they don't tell you about kossians, about their remarkable resilience, is how heavy a toll it takes on the body.
he will not recognize himself upon waking at this rate. there's a feral quality to him, now. a raggedness he looks ...human. )
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he'd looked fierce then. like someone she could stand to lose to. she had imagined in that moment a closeness of their bodies, not unlike this, an interlocking of two people that she had only ever witnessed when challenges had deteriorated quickly into passions. brutal and pushy acts of violence and grief and frustration vented.
and little moments of softness, too.
she draws her mouth close to his. presses their lips together. soft at first, then pressing, hard. she sinks her teeth into his lip, like she might tear away a piece of him and keep it to herself. ]
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a threat.
so the long fingers threading through her hair aren't doing it with gentle intent. they coil, tight, as his head lifts from the pillow. )
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rather than retreat, she curls her fingers, gripping the ratty bedding. she hovers there, over him, eyes opening to fix on his. ]
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What ㅡ ( the word comes out bleary and sleep-rough. the thought not fully-formed; he feels like everything is heavy, woolen.
he swallows thickly, tries again: ) ㅡ what are you doing?
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Getting warm. [ she retreats some, then, loosens her grip on the sheets. his grip, however, hasn't loosened. to some degree it means he's now holding her there, even as she leans back slightly into his hand as if she means to settle back down onto the mattress. ]
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With your mouth?
( he hasn't let go of her hair, yet. on some level he knows that id he does, she'll retreat and he won't get answers. not unless he digs in and rips them out. )
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[ this, more than anything else, finally forces her to consider that she'd misread. that he hadn't been the one who'd wanted her, not like this. that it had been her all along, shameful as it was. that maybe it was her desire that had leaked across the bond and spilled flower petals and thorns into his chest as well as hers.
the possibility does more to warm her cheeks than kissing him had. ]
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( he's studying her, now. a clear-eyed predator assessing potential prey. taking note of those flushed cheeks, the stuttering of her heartbeat.
she's not afraid, he doesn't think. no more than she ever is where he's concerned. )
Explain it to me.
( an order rather than a question. )
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