If I was smart, I would've done things differently in my past. If you knew half of the things I did, I have no doubt that you'd call me a fool too.
[when his hand reaches the back of her head, morga tilts her head back into it. not a lot, but just enough to feel his talons press into her hair. see, this? it's not so different from the times jæger would sit on her shoulder and decide to turn his preening attention on her. the only difference is that julian does it with talons instead of a vicious, long beak like the eagle. still, it's... nice. shame his hands don't linger there for long, though.]
Though I'm questioning your judgement if you think I was ever safe before. You've seen the lands I come from. You've seen the remains of villages my clan picked clean like the swarm of beetles that we were. And you even witnessed it yourself when we'd be attacked by stragglers. I'm not sure if I'd know what safe is at my age, even if it came up to bite my face. So... I may be a fool, but trust me when I say I know what I'm doing.
It's different. The Devil isn't just a man with a spear in the woods. He's worse than that. Worse than the plague, even. Do you even have any idea what he put me through? And for how long? You think I just became—this overnight? And he owns me, Morga! I don't have the strength to fight him. I shudder to think what he could make me do.
( though, really, he never had to be made to do anything most of the time. all it took were the right words, the right mind games, all the most twisted plays in all the right places, and julian would succumb all on his own. he was hopeless alone, and he knew it. but what other option was there? better him than... anyone. it was the right thing to do. he'll never not believe that. )
For all we both know, my being here at all is just bait for the rest of you. There's no end to his depravity. You can't rule it out. You know you can't.
( and yet he's still hanging on, emotionally over-impassioned as ever. )
The plague wasn't his doing. That was... something else. I never managed to find the source of it, but I caught the stench in the palace on more than one occasion whenever those creatures were skulking about.
[which courtier it belonged to, she couldn't say. she'd never forget the stink of magic clinging to montag during those last few days. it wasn't the same sickly-sweet smell of death, but it came close. death, but wrong. to keep her mind off of it, morga lifts her head to look him in the eye as best she can and holds his gaze for a long minute. there was so much she wants to ask, yet... she doesn't know if she can. or if she dares.
finally, she closes her eyes and inhales. he stinks, but... there's nothing out of the ordinary. dirt, sweat, blood... and underneath it, something that's still distinctly julian. she can sense something else, too, but it's faint and buried. whatever it is, it doesn't worry her. it's still him. she's certain and willing to bet on it.
it's with some reluctance that she removes her arm from around his back, but it's for a good reason. she reaches up again to touch his face, and for the first time her brows knit together.]
Tell me how long he had you, Julian. Or... how long you think he did. For us, it's only been a few months.
( julian's mouth opens and closes. she... doesn't know where the plague came from? oh, god. it wasn't common knowledge, obviously, but he had always just sort of assumed she knew. why else would she have such a bone to pick with lucio? ...well. besides the ten thousand other things the little bastard did wrong. but that was a big one. he'd told the others, but they must not have...
he's not so sure he wants to tell her right now, anyway. what the hanged man told him and what he planned to do about it. what someone beat him to doing about it, even. frowning, he just closes his mouth again. between those two subjects, hell, he'll take the latter. it's easy to talk about his own suffering. it's easy to shit-talk lucio, too, even to his mother's face, but maybe not so much in the vein of "your son is responsible for everything wrong with the world, kinda." he'll get to that later. )
I honestly couldn't tell you. The seconds felt like years. The years felt like minutes. There wasn't any clear passage of time there. No day or night, no continuity. I'd go to sleep in one place and wake up in another. And this transformation... that started after ages and ages of struggling. Only once I accepted my place and stopped trying to fight it.
( his wings have settled, by now, to droop limply behind him as ever. they're a mess of scraggly feathers on the undersides, but he couldn't reach them to groom them without knowing how to move them and wouldn't want to even if he could. at least he isn't grabbing anymore. his arms remained draped around her shoulders, his eye contact faltering at times, but returning before long. )
It was more than months. More than years. But how long... long enough for it not to matter anymore, that's all I know.
[she could write several sagas detailing the shit her son (and by extension herself) did wrong, but that's neither here nor there. it's easier to focus on stroking his cheek and smoothing his feathers flush against skin, and easier to just kind of. look at him. look, listen, and just... be here. there's time to walk the past later, but not now. definitely not now.
what she wants to do now is... gods, morga doesn't know. on one hand, she wants to keep him right here. keep holding him as best she can. give him the comfort and support she'd never been able to give her own flesh and blood. on the other? she wants to track the devil down and take her two pounds. one for montag, and the other for julian. she's tired of losing people, you know? all her life she was meant to protect her clan. her family. those she cared for. and in the end, she failed each time, only to be left with ash, bones, and memories.
she wants to make up for past mistakes. so, while it's a small hit to her pride, morga stands up on her toes to properly throw both arms around the back of julian's neck and tugs him down to her level. hell, why not take it a step further and bury her fingers into the feathers on his head? it's not the same as hair, but it's close enough.]
I've said it before and I'll say it again. He's a goddamn coward, and you can't change my mind about that.
[what point is there in tormenting an already broken man? make that three pounds of flesh. you hear that, devil? she's gunning for your goat ass. maybe she'll even turn those horns into a coat rack.]
( oh my. well. he hasn't bent like that in a good long while. his back cricks like the old man he isn't (or is, depending on how you choose to interpret the inconclusive passage of time), but he'll take the momentary discomfort in exchange for getting to be the one to hide his face for a change. his arms slide to the small of her back, encircling both to continue the embrace and for balance, and he plants his feathery face right into the crook of her neck. or as much of it as the furs let him get to, at any rate. )
Darling, I can't disagree with you. He doesn't fight fairly in any sense of the word. Believe me, I tried. I tried everything. I tried traps and tricks, I tried brute force, I tried a duel... I even tried magic.
( oh yeah. he can do magic. )
It isn't a matter of being unable to overpower him. It's that he... manipulates you. With his words. With his illusions. By playing on your fears, your innermost weaknesses, your self-doubt. He may not be the root of all evil, but certainly fertilizes it. I'm not the first he's done it to. The realm is full of poor dumb bastards like me.
[she shakes her head, but it's to... everything. it's not quite denial, and somehow that makes the pill that much harder to swallow. he's right and morga knows it, she just doesn't want to think about what that all means. but sometimes the more you try to avoid doing something, the more it happens. so, she does the only thing that comes to mind and that... may or may not involve turning to bury her head into the crook of his neck in return. the feathers she finds there seem softer than they did when she first touched them, but she's not going to complain about that. that'd be a silly thing to do.]
...You know, I don't even think he realized I was there that night. It was probably for the best that he didn't for a number of reasons, but I would've liked to have seen his face.
[a short, dry bark of laughter into his neck and morga cinches her arms tighter. it's a moment of weakness, but one she'll allow herself just this once.]
Can you imagine what he'd have looked like if he knew you managed to coax me from the forest for his godsdamned birthday party? If he'd seen...
[them. together. sure, she'd mostly stuck to the outside edges of the room or far away from the crowds, but she couldn't deny there was a sort of thrill to standing in a far off corner murmuring all sorts of nonsense and empty threats about disappearing into the gardens if one more frilly loud-mouth stabs their elbow into her kidneys... that night, she'd been all raised hackles, bark, but no teeth to show for it.]
( the rise and fall of lucio in the devil's realm isn't even the stuff of legends. it's a sad, pathetic story. and the thing about that, too, is that it's the same story as nearly everyone else there. they're all sad, pathetic stories. because they're sad, pathetic people who dared to bite off more than they could chew and bet more than they had to their name, all for a prayer of a chance at salvation. lucio tried to save himself, or so julian presumes; he tried to save everyone else, himself. and they both failed. and it's not special. because everyone there is a failure. sad, but true.
still. a lot of the masquerade is a blur to him now, swallowed up in the dismal memory of how colossally he failed to protect the most precious people in his life, where he ruminated on it for what feels like tens of thousands of years. but at her mention, he remembers morga coming to the party. her rough-hewn mask and no gown. her practically palpable frustration with the festivities. and how badly he'd wanted to coax her onto the floor at least one dance, just one, but never got the chance before... well. in spite of himself, julian manages a rough, gravelly laugh too. )
Oh, he would have been furious. I can't tell you how many of his advances I had to shrug off the entire time we knew each other. Once or twice I had to quite literally fight him off, he was so goddamn persistent. And just repulsive. He didn't inherit any of your charm. None whatsoever.
( ok, that's not true and he knows it's not true. and he knows this because there were times... plenty of times... lots of times, when he came just a little too damn close to falling into those repugnant arms of lucio's just by virtue of him saying the right thing at the right time (ie when his self-respect was already at its lowest and he didn't think he could do any better). charm? yeah, he had that. and looks, too. but it's a lot easier to talk shit than to admit anything like that to morga, so fuck it. )
It would've been worth it to rub it in his face. On his birthday. When he couldn't do a thing about it.
He'd either have to deal with it or out himself as the son of a barbarian. Though considering how many people tried to earn my affections the first time you left me to my own devices, I can't help but wonder if that'd earn him more attention.
[seriously, what was wrong with northerners? if looks could kill, at least ten people would've dropped to the floor that night simply because they didn't understand the concept of personal space. and while morga couldn't deny that there were quite a few pretty little doves and crows flocking around her, she simply didn't have any interest. there had been a reason why she'd pulled julian aside in one of the rooms, and that maaaaaay have been it. not that she'd openly fess up about that. or admit that she'd felt like a cornered animal on one occasion. you can take the woman out of the wilds, they say.]
But... being persistent can be charming in its own right, so... I suppose he inherited that from me. The rest of it? That'd be his father.
[except lutz had been incredibly charming too, in his own way. his heart was never involved in the clan like her own was, but perhaps that was for the better - something to balance the scales, otherwise things may have fallen apart sooner. morga may have crumpled under the weight if there hadn't been someone to take over while she left to act as its protector.]
Though now I'm a little curious... How would you have done it? Something subtle? Or more straight-forward?
( a knowing little smile works itself across julian's lips and away again, and it just so happens that julian raises his head from morga's neck to look at her when he does it. you could almost blink and miss it, but it's there. and he isn't going to explain it, at least not right now, but he knew lucio was far from the polished palace "prince" he claimed to be. next to nobody in all of vesuvia could've ever guessed, but he knew. they met on the battlefield. he knows.
instead, she's free to believe the smile has something to do with her question, instead. or maybe the comment about persistence being charming. or both. whichever. then he's just plain smirking, looking every bit the cad he could be at times when he wasn't covered in feathers. hey, at least his intense emotional distress has passed (for a minute)? )
Subtle? You're asking me if I would have been subtle? And I thought I was the one with memory problems. I don't know the meaning of the word. Never did. No—I would have made it a moment to remember. Not a spectacle, ( yes, an absolute spectacle ) but an undeniable moment in history. That is...
( his head tilts, and he takes a hand from her back to gesture dramatically. the effect works wonders, really. maybe even better than it ever did with his gloves and the cape and theatrical outfit he wore. the feathers, his broad size, the way his wings flutter behind him, it all accomplishes the same thing or more. )
I would have asked you to dance. Not a simple two-step, either. A waltz. A fast one. And we would have made up our own steps. Right in the very center where nobody could miss us. Across the floor, onto the tables, up the steps and back down again. But we'd be about this close the entire time, of course. Maybe even... closer.
I'd expect you to drag me out there without warning after asking.
[she's already leaning back to look at him, flourish and all. once, she thought it gaudy — scratch that, she still does. only it's a sort of gaudy that she doesn't seem to mind. he could cut an imposing figure when he wanted to in the past, and she's pleased to see that this form makes no difference. hell, he's even able to command her attention which is no small feat in itself.
with a shake of her head and and a barely-there smile gracing her lips, morga buries her hand into the ruff of feathers in the crook of his neck. still soft? still soft. at least the ones underneath the first layer.]
You'd also wind up having your feet stepped on more than anything else. The last time I've done any sort of "proper" dancing was the night of my wedding, and it wasn't a... you said a waltz?
[that was definitely something she'd never done before. there had been so much going on that night that she couldn't tell a foxtrot from a tango, let alone a waltz. nor had she seen one until then, too. she was more accustomed to the occasional dance that would break out in bars with crowded tables. something less... civilized in high society's eyes.]
I figured you'd say that, and that's exactly why we'd make up our own steps and improvise. You don't need to be proper if you're having a good time! It's a waltz by a stretch of the imagination only, you see. Would you like me to... ah.
( forgot himself for just a brief moment there. amazing, isn't it? all that time in hell, suffering, tormented by guilt and pain and misery and humiliation, and for just a second in time he'd forgotten about all his problems. like thinking back to the likes of the masquerade before it all went awry transported him back in time. back to when he still had life in his eyes, knew how to have fun, and, well, could dance a "fast, improvised waltz."
then he takes a look down (way down) at himself, at morga's hand in his feathers, and remembers: ah, yeah. i'm a monster. and all that is long past. he can't possibly dance on legs like these, in a body like this. his brow draws together almost as if in pain, while brief flashing images of laughing and doing a jaunt up on top of a bar counter flash through his mind. offering his hand to some person and twirling across the deck of a ship—a party boat, it was, and they laughed and sang and played music through the night and...
agh. julian shakes his weakly, his smile wavering into something sad again. )
...Ah, well. It's too late now, I'm afraid. But it would have been fun, wouldn't it?
[ah. there it is. part of her was wondering when that side would be coming back, and morga clicks her tongue. abandoning his feathers for just a moment, morga reaches up a bit higher and presses two fingers to his lips. her brows furrow, and she doesn't say anything for a long while. perhaps she'd heard something in the woods with how still she is, her gaze just as intense.
and then slowly, she lets her hand fall from his mouth, curling it into a loose fist to rest over his sternum and the feathers over his torso.]
I'll allow it on the condition that I'm permitted to dip.
[hm. wait. that didn't come out right, did it?]
I won't drop you. This time.
[l o o k. she already dropped him once today. she's not going to do it again! not on purpose anyway!!]
( ah. well there's that flush again, visible in his cheeks even under the feathers. his lips move only ever so subtly when morga covers them, but other than that he holds utterly still for as long as she does, eyes a little wide. and... redder still when she takes them away and puts her hands elsewhere. flustered in a different way this time, at least, shaking his head again more quickly. )
What? Oh, no. No no, I can't. Really. I mean I—literally can't, anymore. Look at me, how am I supposed to... no, it's no good. You'd be better off dropping me, really. You did such a fine job of it before.
( honestly he's better off on the ground anyhow. or in it, if he had his way, but alas, here he is persistently one foot out of the grave as usual. will the wonders never cease? )
[now there's the part she remembers. if there was one thing that always managed to get a bark or a snort out of her, it was how easy he was to fluster. it was... cute. and maybe morga had a minor case of cute aggression that sits in the dark closet of emotions, covered in an old blanket, dust and cobwebs. hidden and forgotten, but lurking. waiting.]
And take the thrill out of it? You wound me.
[okay, now she's actually joking. patting his feathers twice, she drops her head down to rest against his chest and for a moment she's content to just... stand there. savor the moment for a time.]
I can hardly walk right, let alone dance... you'd be the one getting stepped on.
( and those are feet you don't want to be getting stepped on with, that's for sure. even without the two-inch heeled boots. those are some big bird feet. his lower half is really more bird than man by this point, especially the legs, their shape and their coloration, the skin and feathers. and while his hands still technically qualify as particularly hooked, scaly, clawed fingers, his feet have the four-toed prong of a raven proper, nasty real talons and all. alright, so maybe with proper footwear he couldn't do that much damage, but he's still a big, heavy dude. and whoever heard of a dancing bird?
but... still. maybe he can't tear up the dancefloor like he used to (not yet, anyway)... that doesn't mean he can't do anything at all, technically. after a moment's thought, he lays his hand on the small of her back. the other, he lays on her shoulder. and then? he starts to sway. and hum, once he clears his throat and finds something resembling his voice, such as it is anymore. hoarse, low and rough, but he can still carry a tune long enough to find a rhythm to sway in place to. )
[alright, he wins. for now. she turns her head and readjusts how she leans into him, and for a good long while she's actually content. the stress and tension brought on by the last few months continues to weigh her down, but if she shuts her mind off for a little bit... just for this moment... it doesn't feel as heavy. and it's fine, isn't it? julian proved himself to be trustworthy ages ago. she can let her guard down and try to relax.
listening to his heart beating in his chest seems to help too, along with the rumble of his humming. it's only when he's halfway through that she recognizes the tune for what it is — an old folksong from the south. one she'd hummed to herself one night when she'd thought he was asleep with his head in her lap, and again when she believed herself to be alone and working on... something. was she cooking? or fixing something? it doesn't matter in the end. what sticks out is he remembered it, and had always been listening in some way or another.
damn if that doesn't get her ears going pink. thank goodness for long hair.]
...You really are a man of many talents, aren't you? Flattery, tales, song...
[magic. maybe that's what she was picking up on? it'd make sense.]
( "remembered" might be giving him more credit than he thinks he's due. it just comes to him from some long-abandoned place deep in the well of his mind. guess that maybe counts as a memory, sure. where he learned it, how, when, that's all too vague to recall. but the tune comes naturally like he's known it his whole life. other than a short, soft huff of a laugh through his nose, for a little while he just goes on humming and swaying them from side to side. like the slow dances at those far-off weddings, he recalls dimly. way out in the west where the women wore all white and walked down a long aisle to meet their groom, spoke their vows before their god and then had a big helluvaparty. hardly a dance so much as a sway, hand in hand, cheek to cheek. this isn't quite that, but it reminds him of it a little.
if he can remember those places, can he remember what hjalle is like this time of year? or where exactly the hot springs he grew up around are? maybe. he strokes his hand down her back, a little less fearful of being overly careful with his touch. this can't last. he shouldn't be here. he doesn't deserve to be here, besides. but he hasn't felt this kind of peace in... so long. so, so long. )
I'm only as good as the company I keep. Which... hasn't been any. Not for a long time. If you think I've got any talent left, it's only because you're around to bring it out in me.
[try as she might, she's unable to fight back against the way her body arches to meet his touch. it's... strangely pleasant, even through her layers. only when she realizes what she did does she clear her throat and keep her gaze low. focusing on the inside of his elbow seems as good of a spot as any to look. gods, she needs to get a grip. so she found someone who is (was?) more than willing to dole out the attention she never admits to wanting. there's no need to cling to it like it's the only thing left... is there?]
Give yourself some credit, you old fool.
[is he old? is he older than she is? who knows. time? that's bullshit. this whole thing is bullshit. that's a scam. fuck the magical realms, here's 95 reasons why.]
You mentioned using magic. I don't think I brought that out in you.
[not for a lack of trying though, even if the methods were less than conventional. she could teach someone to fight, cook, and other survival necessities but magic? god, she didn't even know where to start. pro tip: do not pass off a magical spear to someone and tell them to do what she did. it doesn't end well.]
( is he old? god, who knows anymore. he feels old sometimes. and sometimes he feels like time went backwards and he's back to being a clueless whelp, on his way to prakra to study medicine because he wanted to help the sick and dying, to save lives like he couldn't—mm. whatever, never mind. his smile goes crooked as it often does now, but he lifts his chin and peels his eyes open after a moment. magic? did he mention that?
oh. oh yeah. )
Ah... yeah, that's right. That's another thing I learned the night of the Masquerade. Before everything went pear-shaped, that is. I'm a magician, if you can believe it.
( a pause for grand effect—and then his shoulders jump. the "laugh" he lets out sounds more like it could've come from malak rather than his own mouth, a pitched caw by any other name. )
I'll be honest: I didn't practice very much. But in those... days, or weeks, or whatever it was when I still had fight left in me, I worked out a few tricks. Who would've thought you can do science and witchcraft all with the same mind, hmm? Not that it did me much good in the end. Without a proper teacher, I was never going to be powerful enough to take on the Devil. Don't know why I bothered, really. Desperation, maybe. Haven't done it since I became... this, so I've got no idea if I still can or not.
[stranger things have happened in this world. especially during the time the world had been flipped upside down and twisted into twelve different knots thanks to the devil. fortunately it isn't the strangest thing she's heard, nor is it the strangest thing she's actually believed. a thoughtful look crosses her face for a moment, and she makes a soft sound in the back of her throat.]
You'll never know by wondering.
[it almost hurts to pry herself away, but she does. the absence of his hand over her back leaves her feeling an odd chill, but it's a thought she pushes down in favor of approaching the tree she'd lodged her spear into to yank it out. a quick look over to make sure it's free of sap, and morga tilts her chin up at julian with one brow arched. he's... certainly different to look at from a distance, but he really isn't terrible. using her spear, she points to him, and back towards another patch of trees where she assumes he came from.]
Take care of what you were doing before I jumped you and head back to where you're staying. I'll find you once I fetch my other foolish bird, and once we're settled in I'll show you the only teacher you'll ever need. And...
[she reaches up to unhook the red strip of cloth from her torso, balls it up and tosses it to him. the black and white beetle of the scourge is still attached, and that's when her mouth curls into a grin. if there was one thing she rarely let out of her sight, it's that. she means business.]
In case you have doubts about whether or not I'll actually follow.
( to say he's disappointed when they part is an understatement. for a few seconds he even looks stricken, watching her go like he's being abandoned. it's a pathetically small expression for something so big and frightening-looking to wear, but that's just julian all over, really, isn't it? the landscape's changed, but he was always much softer and more sensitive than his looks and his demeanor would lead people to believe at a glance. he doesn't seem all that much cheered up by the explanation, but he still reaches out and catches her emblem in both hands, holding it sort of anxiously to his chest. )
I... okay.
( she won't be back, will she. it was all a dream. an illusion. he squeezes the cloth in his hand, fortunately not able to get his claws in it. malak lets out a loud squawk, shakes himself out, and almost seems to sigh as he takes flight from his branch to go with morga. there, you see, he'll always come back, so he'll make sure she does, too.
not that julian knows what he's trying to say exactly. he just swallows and tries to look confident. great, the bird, too? )
Alright, my lair's not far. I'll... see you then.
( but he's not moving a muscle until she's out of sight. just in case it's the last time. you know. again. )
[fortunately it doesn't take her nearly as long to track him down the second time. the only thing is it still takes the better part of an hour (give or take) to find jæger first, and another two to gather everything she intended to bring back from her last campsite. bag, bedroll, the works. she honestly hadn't expected on finding another person let alone julian out here, so she'd packed lighter than usual. and since she doesn't know how well he's been taking care of himself... morga wasn't about to make any assumptions. better to be safe than sorry in the wilderness, no matter how close it was to vesuvia. if anything, it was more of a reason to be prepared and cautious.
by the time she finds the trail properly - mostly thanks to malak - the sun sits low, painting the sky in shades of purple, yellow, and orange. one shoulder carries her supplies and jæger, while the other sits malak and her spear sits with several decently-sized fish lashed to the end. now, the unfortunate thing about all of this? she's not quiet at all.
or, well. malak and jæger aren't. they started to "bicker" some fifteen minutes ago, no doubt alerting everything in the vicinity. she doesn't see julian yet, so... she takes the time to unload everything. the bag is dumped unceremoniously onto the ground, spear and fish are propped against a fallen log, and that's when all hell breaks loose.]
Would you two stop squabbling for five minutes?! Jæger — stop antagonizing him! Malak! Stop egging him on!
[is... is he just cawing, or is that laughter? she doesn't know. jæger, bless his heart, takes it as a challenge and screams, prompting morga to shoo him from her shoulder and onto her forearm. that's when the real scolding starts. it's nothing but that guttural old language of hers, punctuated by a wag of her finger and the protesting peeps that only an eagle can make. malak? he's not helping by any means, and now she's certain that he's laughing.
gods help her.]
Don't take that tone of voice with me — Devorak! Julian!
[julian. julian, please. please, she needs help. these children are out of control and she's lost control of her life.]
( after she's gone, julian has to remember what on earth he was doing in the first place. oh, water, right. fresh water. of course the makeshift "cup" he'd brought along to carry it in got smashed in the scuffle and he'd utterly forgotten about it, so now he's got no way to bring it back to his "lair." it's more tedious to walk all the way there and back when "walking" is quite difficult for him in the traditional sense these days, so he just goes to wash up and have a drink cupped in his hands and worry about bringing more back later. then it's back to the little den he's made of foliage and branches, probably some abandoned animal nest at some point. it's not exactly the coziest little thicket, but he wasn't exactly looking for comfort and peak living. just somewhere to hide, relatively secluded so that he'd be harder to spot. or... easier to mistake for a wild animal and left alone.
he hears the approach well before it's near, though. his hearing is a lot better than it ever was, and in the depressing, maddening silence of not knowing whether anything he just experienced was real outside of the cloth he's still desperately clinging to, he's especially sensitive to it. of course all that ruckus blending together from a distance doesn't sound like anything he can make sense of—just birds shrieking and calling out, and... morga. shouting indistinctly. he's already taking on the laborious task of getting back up and starting out to investigate, but at the sound of his name—
he takes off like a bat out of hell. the crashing and stumbling through the brush is deafening, clumsy and frantic. one foot in front of the other is tough to manage, and he moves faster when he's hopping along like a bird would than actually trying to run. such is his urgency to reach them, assuming the worst as always, that he forgets he doesn't know how to fly. his wings stretch and beat hard once, twice, propelling him right up off the ground and hurtling him forward, stirring up all manner of debris in his wake. then he really is taking off like a bat (or bird) out of hell. fine, so it's not flying, per se. but he's definitely hovering, at the very least, and looks quite a fright doing it, teeth bared in a grimace, arms raised. his wingspan is at least double his width and nearly as tall, and each flap sends a flurry of un-attended to feathers everywhere along with the twigs and leaves and dirt. )
Morga?!
( there's. there's no danger here. just malak being annoying, an activity he abandons when julian reaches the clearing several inches above the ground, circling him with interest, and a very scolded jaeger. the moment he realizes nothing is tearing her or anyone else apart, his wings give out and he drops like a useless sack of rocks into the grass. )
Mmrpgh— you're here, you came back! Why were you yelling like that?! I -I thought you were... what happened?
[grace may not be part of his name, but morga has never looked so relieved to see someone in decades. it's an impressive sight to see him burst into the clearing like that, and it's impossible to keep the surprise and awe from her face. jæger puffs up in alarm and shrieks, and morga's free hand goes to gently settle a finger over his beak. not in her face, big guy. with both shoulders now free of any feathery passengers, she hefts her arm up to send the eagle off. he finds a decently sized branch just out of reach, but still within range to keep posturing and puffing his feathers up as if he doesn't recognize julian, nor does he seem to understand why morga isn't on guard or brandishing a weapon. not right away. it's been awhile since he's seen the other man, so it's. new.
and with her burden completely gone, it gives her the freedom to stride over, lean down, and reach for both of julian's hands to haul him at least halfway into an upright position once he's fallen. oi - don't give her that look, malak. you're not out of the frying pan just yet, little man. morga just has more... pressing things to deal with right now. namely, julian. he doesn't seem hurt, just frazzled which is... good. very good, considering the way he went down. at worst his feathers are ruffled and sticking up in odd directions, but that's an easy fix.]
Oh, you know. Children arguing over nonsense. They were fine until they started going off over gods-knows-what. Jæger started looking at him in an odd way, Malak said something, and evidentially he had opinions about it.
[was it jealousy? it was probably jealousy on jæger's part, but that's a problem for future morga. waving a hand, morga exhales sharply through her nose and looks past julian's shoulder to the broken branches and path broken through the shrubbery. hm. she's never actually been in this position before. her face screws up for a moment, relaxes, and she tears her eyes away from the mess to look at the loose feathers on the ground.]
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[when his hand reaches the back of her head, morga tilts her head back into it. not a lot, but just enough to feel his talons press into her hair. see, this? it's not so different from the times jæger would sit on her shoulder and decide to turn his preening attention on her. the only difference is that julian does it with talons instead of a vicious, long beak like the eagle. still, it's... nice. shame his hands don't linger there for long, though.]
Though I'm questioning your judgement if you think I was ever safe before. You've seen the lands I come from. You've seen the remains of villages my clan picked clean like the swarm of beetles that we were. And you even witnessed it yourself when we'd be attacked by stragglers. I'm not sure if I'd know what safe is at my age, even if it came up to bite my face. So... I may be a fool, but trust me when I say I know what I'm doing.
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( though, really, he never had to be made to do anything most of the time. all it took were the right words, the right mind games, all the most twisted plays in all the right places, and julian would succumb all on his own. he was hopeless alone, and he knew it. but what other option was there? better him than... anyone. it was the right thing to do. he'll never not believe that. )
For all we both know, my being here at all is just bait for the rest of you. There's no end to his depravity. You can't rule it out. You know you can't.
( and yet he's still hanging on, emotionally over-impassioned as ever. )
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[which courtier it belonged to, she couldn't say. she'd never forget the stink of magic clinging to montag during those last few days. it wasn't the same sickly-sweet smell of death, but it came close. death, but wrong. to keep her mind off of it, morga lifts her head to look him in the eye as best she can and holds his gaze for a long minute. there was so much she wants to ask, yet... she doesn't know if she can. or if she dares.
finally, she closes her eyes and inhales. he stinks, but... there's nothing out of the ordinary. dirt, sweat, blood... and underneath it, something that's still distinctly julian. she can sense something else, too, but it's faint and buried. whatever it is, it doesn't worry her. it's still him. she's certain and willing to bet on it.
it's with some reluctance that she removes her arm from around his back, but it's for a good reason. she reaches up again to touch his face, and for the first time her brows knit together.]
Tell me how long he had you, Julian. Or... how long you think he did. For us, it's only been a few months.
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he's not so sure he wants to tell her right now, anyway. what the hanged man told him and what he planned to do about it. what someone beat him to doing about it, even. frowning, he just closes his mouth again. between those two subjects, hell, he'll take the latter. it's easy to talk about his own suffering. it's easy to shit-talk lucio, too, even to his mother's face, but maybe not so much in the vein of "your son is responsible for everything wrong with the world, kinda." he'll get to that later. )
I honestly couldn't tell you. The seconds felt like years. The years felt like minutes. There wasn't any clear passage of time there. No day or night, no continuity. I'd go to sleep in one place and wake up in another. And this transformation... that started after ages and ages of struggling. Only once I accepted my place and stopped trying to fight it.
( his wings have settled, by now, to droop limply behind him as ever. they're a mess of scraggly feathers on the undersides, but he couldn't reach them to groom them without knowing how to move them and wouldn't want to even if he could. at least he isn't grabbing anymore. his arms remained draped around her shoulders, his eye contact faltering at times, but returning before long. )
It was more than months. More than years. But how long... long enough for it not to matter anymore, that's all I know.
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what she wants to do now is... gods, morga doesn't know. on one hand, she wants to keep him right here. keep holding him as best she can. give him the comfort and support she'd never been able to give her own flesh and blood. on the other? she wants to track the devil down and take her two pounds. one for montag, and the other for julian. she's tired of losing people, you know? all her life she was meant to protect her clan. her family. those she cared for. and in the end, she failed each time, only to be left with ash, bones, and memories.
she wants to make up for past mistakes. so, while it's a small hit to her pride, morga stands up on her toes to properly throw both arms around the back of julian's neck and tugs him down to her level. hell, why not take it a step further and bury her fingers into the feathers on his head? it's not the same as hair, but it's close enough.]
I've said it before and I'll say it again. He's a goddamn coward, and you can't change my mind about that.
[what point is there in tormenting an already broken man? make that three pounds of flesh. you hear that, devil? she's gunning for your goat ass. maybe she'll even turn those horns into a coat rack.]
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( oh my. well. he hasn't bent like that in a good long while. his back cricks like the old man he isn't (or is, depending on how you choose to interpret the inconclusive passage of time), but he'll take the momentary discomfort in exchange for getting to be the one to hide his face for a change. his arms slide to the small of her back, encircling both to continue the embrace and for balance, and he plants his feathery face right into the crook of her neck. or as much of it as the furs let him get to, at any rate. )
Darling, I can't disagree with you. He doesn't fight fairly in any sense of the word. Believe me, I tried. I tried everything. I tried traps and tricks, I tried brute force, I tried a duel... I even tried magic.
( oh yeah. he can do magic. )
It isn't a matter of being unable to overpower him. It's that he... manipulates you. With his words. With his illusions. By playing on your fears, your innermost weaknesses, your self-doubt. He may not be the root of all evil, but certainly fertilizes it. I'm not the first he's done it to. The realm is full of poor dumb bastards like me.
( ... )
Your son, too. For awhile. But not anymore.
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...You know, I don't even think he realized I was there that night. It was probably for the best that he didn't for a number of reasons, but I would've liked to have seen his face.
[a short, dry bark of laughter into his neck and morga cinches her arms tighter. it's a moment of weakness, but one she'll allow herself just this once.]
Can you imagine what he'd have looked like if he knew you managed to coax me from the forest for his godsdamned birthday party? If he'd seen...
[them. together. sure, she'd mostly stuck to the outside edges of the room or far away from the crowds, but she couldn't deny there was a sort of thrill to standing in a far off corner murmuring all sorts of nonsense and empty threats about disappearing into the gardens if one more frilly loud-mouth stabs their elbow into her kidneys... that night, she'd been all raised hackles, bark, but no teeth to show for it.]
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still. a lot of the masquerade is a blur to him now, swallowed up in the dismal memory of how colossally he failed to protect the most precious people in his life, where he ruminated on it for what feels like tens of thousands of years. but at her mention, he remembers morga coming to the party. her rough-hewn mask and no gown. her practically palpable frustration with the festivities. and how badly he'd wanted to coax her onto the floor at least one dance, just one, but never got the chance before... well. in spite of himself, julian manages a rough, gravelly laugh too. )
Oh, he would have been furious. I can't tell you how many of his advances I had to shrug off the entire time we knew each other. Once or twice I had to quite literally fight him off, he was so goddamn persistent. And just repulsive. He didn't inherit any of your charm. None whatsoever.
( ok, that's not true and he knows it's not true. and he knows this because there were times... plenty of times... lots of times, when he came just a little too damn close to falling into those repugnant arms of lucio's just by virtue of him saying the right thing at the right time (ie when his self-respect was already at its lowest and he didn't think he could do any better). charm? yeah, he had that. and looks, too. but it's a lot easier to talk shit than to admit anything like that to morga, so fuck it. )
It would've been worth it to rub it in his face. On his birthday. When he couldn't do a thing about it.
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[seriously, what was wrong with northerners? if looks could kill, at least ten people would've dropped to the floor that night simply because they didn't understand the concept of personal space. and while morga couldn't deny that there were quite a few pretty little doves and crows flocking around her, she simply didn't have any interest. there had been a reason why she'd pulled julian aside in one of the rooms, and that maaaaaay have been it. not that she'd openly fess up about that. or admit that she'd felt like a cornered animal on one occasion. you can take the woman out of the wilds, they say.]
But... being persistent can be charming in its own right, so... I suppose he inherited that from me. The rest of it? That'd be his father.
[except lutz had been incredibly charming too, in his own way. his heart was never involved in the clan like her own was, but perhaps that was for the better - something to balance the scales, otherwise things may have fallen apart sooner. morga may have crumpled under the weight if there hadn't been someone to take over while she left to act as its protector.]
Though now I'm a little curious... How would you have done it? Something subtle? Or more straight-forward?
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instead, she's free to believe the smile has something to do with her question, instead. or maybe the comment about persistence being charming. or both. whichever. then he's just plain smirking, looking every bit the cad he could be at times when he wasn't covered in feathers. hey, at least his intense emotional distress has passed (for a minute)? )
Subtle? You're asking me if I would have been subtle? And I thought I was the one with memory problems. I don't know the meaning of the word. Never did. No—I would have made it a moment to remember. Not a spectacle, ( yes, an absolute spectacle ) but an undeniable moment in history. That is...
( his head tilts, and he takes a hand from her back to gesture dramatically. the effect works wonders, really. maybe even better than it ever did with his gloves and the cape and theatrical outfit he wore. the feathers, his broad size, the way his wings flutter behind him, it all accomplishes the same thing or more. )
I would have asked you to dance. Not a simple two-step, either. A waltz. A fast one. And we would have made up our own steps. Right in the very center where nobody could miss us. Across the floor, onto the tables, up the steps and back down again. But we'd be about this close the entire time, of course. Maybe even... closer.
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[she's already leaning back to look at him, flourish and all. once, she thought it gaudy — scratch that, she still does. only it's a sort of gaudy that she doesn't seem to mind. he could cut an imposing figure when he wanted to in the past, and she's pleased to see that this form makes no difference. hell, he's even able to command her attention which is no small feat in itself.
with a shake of her head and and a barely-there smile gracing her lips, morga buries her hand into the ruff of feathers in the crook of his neck. still soft? still soft. at least the ones underneath the first layer.]
You'd also wind up having your feet stepped on more than anything else. The last time I've done any sort of "proper" dancing was the night of my wedding, and it wasn't a... you said a waltz?
[that was definitely something she'd never done before. there had been so much going on that night that she couldn't tell a foxtrot from a tango, let alone a waltz. nor had she seen one until then, too. she was more accustomed to the occasional dance that would break out in bars with crowded tables. something less... civilized in high society's eyes.]
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( forgot himself for just a brief moment there. amazing, isn't it? all that time in hell, suffering, tormented by guilt and pain and misery and humiliation, and for just a second in time he'd forgotten about all his problems. like thinking back to the likes of the masquerade before it all went awry transported him back in time. back to when he still had life in his eyes, knew how to have fun, and, well, could dance a "fast, improvised waltz."
then he takes a look down (way down) at himself, at morga's hand in his feathers, and remembers: ah, yeah. i'm a monster. and all that is long past. he can't possibly dance on legs like these, in a body like this. his brow draws together almost as if in pain, while brief flashing images of laughing and doing a jaunt up on top of a bar counter flash through his mind. offering his hand to some person and twirling across the deck of a ship—a party boat, it was, and they laughed and sang and played music through the night and...
agh. julian shakes his weakly, his smile wavering into something sad again. )
...Ah, well. It's too late now, I'm afraid. But it would have been fun, wouldn't it?
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and then slowly, she lets her hand fall from his mouth, curling it into a loose fist to rest over his sternum and the feathers over his torso.]
I'll allow it on the condition that I'm permitted to dip.
[hm. wait. that didn't come out right, did it?]
I won't drop you. This time.
[l o o k. she already dropped him once today. she's not going to do it again! not on purpose anyway!!]
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What? Oh, no. No no, I can't. Really. I mean I—literally can't, anymore. Look at me, how am I supposed to... no, it's no good. You'd be better off dropping me, really. You did such a fine job of it before.
( honestly he's better off on the ground anyhow. or in it, if he had his way, but alas, here he is persistently one foot out of the grave as usual. will the wonders never cease? )
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And take the thrill out of it? You wound me.
[okay, now she's actually joking. patting his feathers twice, she drops her head down to rest against his chest and for a moment she's content to just... stand there. savor the moment for a time.]
...At least think about it.
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( and those are feet you don't want to be getting stepped on with, that's for sure. even without the two-inch heeled boots. those are some big bird feet. his lower half is really more bird than man by this point, especially the legs, their shape and their coloration, the skin and feathers. and while his hands still technically qualify as particularly hooked, scaly, clawed fingers, his feet have the four-toed prong of a raven proper, nasty real talons and all. alright, so maybe with proper footwear he couldn't do that much damage, but he's still a big, heavy dude. and whoever heard of a dancing bird?
but... still. maybe he can't tear up the dancefloor like he used to (not yet, anyway)... that doesn't mean he can't do anything at all, technically. after a moment's thought, he lays his hand on the small of her back. the other, he lays on her shoulder. and then? he starts to sway. and hum, once he clears his throat and finds something resembling his voice, such as it is anymore. hoarse, low and rough, but he can still carry a tune long enough to find a rhythm to sway in place to. )
But we can still sway, hmm?
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listening to his heart beating in his chest seems to help too, along with the rumble of his humming. it's only when he's halfway through that she recognizes the tune for what it is — an old folksong from the south. one she'd hummed to herself one night when she'd thought he was asleep with his head in her lap, and again when she believed herself to be alone and working on... something. was she cooking? or fixing something? it doesn't matter in the end. what sticks out is he remembered it, and had always been listening in some way or another.
damn if that doesn't get her ears going pink. thank goodness for long hair.]
...You really are a man of many talents, aren't you? Flattery, tales, song...
[magic. maybe that's what she was picking up on? it'd make sense.]
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if he can remember those places, can he remember what hjalle is like this time of year? or where exactly the hot springs he grew up around are? maybe. he strokes his hand down her back, a little less fearful of being overly careful with his touch. this can't last. he shouldn't be here. he doesn't deserve to be here, besides. but he hasn't felt this kind of peace in... so long. so, so long. )
I'm only as good as the company I keep. Which... hasn't been any. Not for a long time. If you think I've got any talent left, it's only because you're around to bring it out in me.
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Give yourself some credit, you old fool.
[is he old? is he older than she is? who knows. time? that's bullshit. this whole thing is bullshit. that's a scam. fuck the magical realms, here's 95 reasons why.]
You mentioned using magic. I don't think I brought that out in you.
[not for a lack of trying though, even if the methods were less than conventional. she could teach someone to fight, cook, and other survival necessities but magic? god, she didn't even know where to start. pro tip: do not pass off a magical spear to someone and tell them to do what she did. it doesn't end well.]
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oh. oh yeah. )
Ah... yeah, that's right. That's another thing I learned the night of the Masquerade. Before everything went pear-shaped, that is. I'm a magician, if you can believe it.
( a pause for grand effect—and then his shoulders jump. the "laugh" he lets out sounds more like it could've come from malak rather than his own mouth, a pitched caw by any other name. )
I'll be honest: I didn't practice very much. But in those... days, or weeks, or whatever it was when I still had fight left in me, I worked out a few tricks. Who would've thought you can do science and witchcraft all with the same mind, hmm? Not that it did me much good in the end. Without a proper teacher, I was never going to be powerful enough to take on the Devil. Don't know why I bothered, really. Desperation, maybe. Haven't done it since I became... this, so I've got no idea if I still can or not.
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You'll never know by wondering.
[it almost hurts to pry herself away, but she does. the absence of his hand over her back leaves her feeling an odd chill, but it's a thought she pushes down in favor of approaching the tree she'd lodged her spear into to yank it out. a quick look over to make sure it's free of sap, and morga tilts her chin up at julian with one brow arched. he's... certainly different to look at from a distance, but he really isn't terrible. using her spear, she points to him, and back towards another patch of trees where she assumes he came from.]
Take care of what you were doing before I jumped you and head back to where you're staying. I'll find you once I fetch my other foolish bird, and once we're settled in I'll show you the only teacher you'll ever need. And...
[she reaches up to unhook the red strip of cloth from her torso, balls it up and tosses it to him. the black and white beetle of the scourge is still attached, and that's when her mouth curls into a grin. if there was one thing she rarely let out of her sight, it's that. she means business.]
In case you have doubts about whether or not I'll actually follow.
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I... okay.
( she won't be back, will she. it was all a dream. an illusion. he squeezes the cloth in his hand, fortunately not able to get his claws in it. malak lets out a loud squawk, shakes himself out, and almost seems to sigh as he takes flight from his branch to go with morga. there, you see, he'll always come back, so he'll make sure she does, too.
not that julian knows what he's trying to say exactly. he just swallows and tries to look confident. great, the bird, too? )
Alright, my lair's not far. I'll... see you then.
( but he's not moving a muscle until she's out of sight. just in case it's the last time. you know. again. )
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by the time she finds the trail properly - mostly thanks to malak - the sun sits low, painting the sky in shades of purple, yellow, and orange. one shoulder carries her supplies and jæger, while the other sits malak and her spear sits with several decently-sized fish lashed to the end. now, the unfortunate thing about all of this? she's not quiet at all.
or, well. malak and jæger aren't. they started to "bicker" some fifteen minutes ago, no doubt alerting everything in the vicinity. she doesn't see julian yet, so... she takes the time to unload everything. the bag is dumped unceremoniously onto the ground, spear and fish are propped against a fallen log, and that's when all hell breaks loose.]
Would you two stop squabbling for five minutes?! Jæger — stop antagonizing him! Malak! Stop egging him on!
[is... is he just cawing, or is that laughter? she doesn't know. jæger, bless his heart, takes it as a challenge and screams, prompting morga to shoo him from her shoulder and onto her forearm. that's when the real scolding starts. it's nothing but that guttural old language of hers, punctuated by a wag of her finger and the protesting peeps that only an eagle can make. malak? he's not helping by any means, and now she's certain that he's laughing.
gods help her.]
Don't take that tone of voice with me — Devorak! Julian!
[julian. julian, please. please, she needs help. these children are out of control and she's lost control of her life.]
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he hears the approach well before it's near, though. his hearing is a lot better than it ever was, and in the depressing, maddening silence of not knowing whether anything he just experienced was real outside of the cloth he's still desperately clinging to, he's especially sensitive to it. of course all that ruckus blending together from a distance doesn't sound like anything he can make sense of—just birds shrieking and calling out, and... morga. shouting indistinctly. he's already taking on the laborious task of getting back up and starting out to investigate, but at the sound of his name—
he takes off like a bat out of hell. the crashing and stumbling through the brush is deafening, clumsy and frantic. one foot in front of the other is tough to manage, and he moves faster when he's hopping along like a bird would than actually trying to run. such is his urgency to reach them, assuming the worst as always, that he forgets he doesn't know how to fly. his wings stretch and beat hard once, twice, propelling him right up off the ground and hurtling him forward, stirring up all manner of debris in his wake. then he really is taking off like a bat (or bird) out of hell. fine, so it's not flying, per se. but he's definitely hovering, at the very least, and looks quite a fright doing it, teeth bared in a grimace, arms raised. his wingspan is at least double his width and nearly as tall, and each flap sends a flurry of un-attended to feathers everywhere along with the twigs and leaves and dirt. )
Morga?!
( there's. there's no danger here. just malak being annoying, an activity he abandons when julian reaches the clearing several inches above the ground, circling him with interest, and a very scolded jaeger. the moment he realizes nothing is tearing her or anyone else apart, his wings give out and he drops like a useless sack of rocks into the grass. )
Mmrpgh— you're here, you came back! Why were you yelling like that?! I -I thought you were... what happened?
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and with her burden completely gone, it gives her the freedom to stride over, lean down, and reach for both of julian's hands to haul him at least halfway into an upright position once he's fallen. oi - don't give her that look, malak. you're not out of the frying pan just yet, little man. morga just has more... pressing things to deal with right now. namely, julian. he doesn't seem hurt, just frazzled which is... good. very good, considering the way he went down. at worst his feathers are ruffled and sticking up in odd directions, but that's an easy fix.]
Oh, you know. Children arguing over nonsense. They were fine until they started going off over gods-knows-what. Jæger started looking at him in an odd way, Malak said something, and evidentially he had opinions about it.
[was it jealousy? it was probably jealousy on jæger's part, but that's a problem for future morga. waving a hand, morga exhales sharply through her nose and looks past julian's shoulder to the broken branches and path broken through the shrubbery. hm. she's never actually been in this position before. her face screws up for a moment, relaxes, and she tears her eyes away from the mess to look at the loose feathers on the ground.]
...Did you think I was in trouble?
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