all will not be revealed.
down through the fields of stars,
down through the holy dark,

Finally.

Summoned by knowledge of that empty grave. As though conjured from that grim-flocked night, borne of vapour and the dooming bellow of an abandoned casket.

The lungs were made rust and iron-wrought, locked and stifled. Cold, inert – set just so by a clever talent, a surreptitious heart that mirrored hers. A soul tainted, a soul split from the same fallen star, whose unclean hands set this fear-driven, and wholly underhanded, design into motion. So deftly the spider went to work, that tidy silk plummeting hearts into chaos, yet in the knowledge it would leave them safe. It would cleave her sin from their futures, brushing away the tangled roads towards vengeance ahead.

To be a wild thing, with a simple heart.

The invocation made, that bidding of murky veracities and cunningly woven untruths, Tenebrae truly could boast this had been his largest of triumphs. And Aidoneus? She, that Fallen Queen, could only confess it lay the worst of her crimes. Cemetery dirt clung beneath each nail, stained pomegranate on the soul; it followed every step, and deep into that world of vile escape.

A creature most foul, a void that knew no peace nor sanctuary.

Nephilim, which truly did not deserve either.

Everywhere and nowhere. hummed the dead-thing—that lost maenad, that stolen faun from Dionysius’ court. Missed from the hunt, plucked from the promises of prosperity, of things she ought to have been in want of, in need to have.

Everywhere, and nowhere, she whispered to that empty house.

Pale eyes lent their stare to its borders, tracing its’ cobwebs and the dust gathered in that manor’s corners.

Everywhere and nowhere, Aidoneus had once sing-sang to its’ lord, its’ King.

Pensively, the brow darkened and tightened itself into furrows. Pensive, and worried. The wraith had other houses to haunt, others to fill with dread and the ferocity of fear, of anguish, fracturing hearts, and confession to take. The Peitho had much to do, much to atone, but first, first she would sing that hymnal once more.

Knowing, accepting, there had never been any truth to what home was or what it should have been.

For the maenad, it should have always remained to be one thing and one thing only.

Her home had always been meant to be everywhere and nowhere —

As the wind might sing.

I call you down
sun on the water, cloud on the water

_{THANK YOU TO SCARF FOR ART}

As the sun pulled itself over the horizon he woke. Stirred by an inexplicable need to move. Drawn from the warmth of the den and in to the crispy air of early spring, choosing his path through the Mire more carefully now that the mud was softening. While the muck did not bother him he did not particularly enjoy being coated in it, picking the drier paths if he was able.

Pushing through the thorny border he departs from home, following the unspoken pull, allowing his mind to wander and settle on no true destination. Going where his paws might take him, not surprised when he seems to head first towards the grotto.

Then, as the towering peaks of Freyr loom ever closer he swings ever so slightly to the south, moving past them at a lope. A sense of unease skitters across the surface of his skin mingled with a heightened anticipation -- a combination that made no sense.

When the earth turned to sand he slowed, suddenly apprehensive. It is much the same feeling he'd had in the wake of Erna's death, moments before her ghost appeared. So it is almost no surprise when the night curtains part and show him exactly what he dreamed of.

Perhaps it was a dream? Had he stumbled on the sand and given in to sleep? Or hit his head on a rock and allowed this vision to slip in?

Alaric's heart freezes in his chest, his breath catches in his throat, and almost frantically he looks down at his paws as if to confirm that he was solid. Scuffing the sand beneath his toes, squirming them ever so slightly and grimacing with the realization that there was no dream that could feel so real.

So then...

"It is almost cruel," he murmurs to her apparition, tears springing to his eyes and trailing silently down his cheeks, "to see you here. To see you and not touch--" The ache rises, choking him, breaking off his words as he takes a halting step closer. He wants to yell and scream and rail at the world that would taunt him so, giving him sight of her without being able to pull her in to his arms and lay kisses on her brow.

Alaric cannot bear the thought, cannot think to close the gap between them only to have her pass through as Erna had done. So he stands, broken, ruined, weighed down by the grief that races once more to the surface. It had never disappeared. It found him in those quiet moments where he was curled around their children, showing its face when he spotted her in their smiles, their laughter, their quiet contemplates.

There are a thousand things he wants to say but he locks the words behind his teeth and watches her with a quiet yearning.

all will not be revealed.
down through the fields of stars,
down through the holy dark,

She stood—cast in glass-hewn cruelty that spun and spun—as the celestial gyre above coiled and burrowed in an ocean of twilit black and gloaming shade of perse hues, pulling with it constellations of dream-made figures and idols. Those eyes engrossed in their mission, in gleaning truth from the crossroads and the kingdom beyond it. Consumed by a fear she had evaded, consumed by hope she would not be caught, would not be seen. It was too soon, too rushed; the crescendo gathering before the plucking of its’ opening notes even hit a first peak. Grimed by the impatience of fate, blackened by ruined compassion, and throttling whim. Now, it would be now and not later. The voice was a lashing, a snapping crackle of a whip and lance.

Cruel, @Alaric spoke.

Cruel—a most fitting word.

Apropos to all she’d committed; to the sins that cast her from that first happily ever after, and those that drove her from the second, from the third. A cruel thing, she had done.

Again, and again.

The approach made in a sense of finality, winnowing from all grace a flicker of hope. A touch of joy in knowing perhaps in all their cruelty, the ends justified those cruel means. There stirred air in his lungs, in the grief that filled those handsome features and the heft of that fine voice that sang silver to every portion of her heart, of her soul. To know, that there would be warmth in the palms of his company, to know there was home to be found in those dreams of green green green.

Cruel, he had said.

To not touch.

The girlish things he conjured from her—even in her absence of this province, and presence in others. She would only ever dream of green. She would know only that trembling invoked by a heart made ill from passion, from joy, from immense and immeasurable happiness. Paradise rose in his eyes, and meeting his gaze she found their Eden, she found home. But it was cruel—to not touch, crueler still to break the mirage, to shatter that dream with that dour and unkind reality of the bad thing she had done.

He thought her a ghost—and in that moment, she realized, it would be better a ghost she should remain. I hear your voice, and I know, you want to follow me.

Alaric, it came too soon – this moment. One she had yearned for, dreamt of. That would be the cost, she knew—in seeking answers and peace. Arriving to Amaryllis only to spy, to find comfort in that all were safe, the tethers of anger snipped and for them to know only freedom and not to be made to pay the price for her crimes. After all she and Alaric endured, hefting the weight of others’ vendettas, feuds, hasty decisions. To pass such pain onto others? And then to find herself there at their feet?

She winced. Aidoneus was cruel. Something very well known to her, even before the grave claimed that last chapter. Aidoneus was cruel, in that selfishness to return again. Knowing she could be revealed, that all of her brother’s munitions were used in vain. Caught, caught in that forever green again, would it be kinder to break the illusion?

Would it do more harm than good?

I needed to see. rallying against the flooding behind her eyes, I needed to know.

That he was safe.

That the perfection created by their harrowing sin remained untouched by their mother's crimes.

I call you down
sun on the water, cloud on the water

_{THANK YOU TO SCARF FOR ART}

In his mind there was no question that she was gone, that this was only another cruel trick. A ghost stirred in to life with an unfinished story, lingering here instead of crossing over if only because she had been taken too soon.

It was never supposed to end that way. Alaric had expected retribution for their sins, he had expected to pay penance for the theft he had committed. Lines had been crossed, vows had been broken, and inevitably truth would rise. The Starke had not feared the consequences; he would have given his own life a thousand times over to have those brief snippets of happily ever after.

But not hers. Not her life.

Robbing their children of true happiness, for what kind of life could compare to one in which Aidoneus had lived? Alaric, for all his doting affections, could not give them what they had truly deserved. They had been robbed of a full and happy life, robbed of the gentle caress of a mother.

He shouldered the guilt of it, and it brings a quiet moan up his throat, now. It is her name on his lips that pulls down the lids of his eyes, plunging his world in to darkness as he shifts this burden. They snap open quickly, greedily, drinking in the sight of her. Solid and unwavering; more real than any ghost he had known. A trick of the night, of the twinkle of stars. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I should have been there."

To keep her safe, to protect all of them from what had come.

Tears, still, and he cannot stop himself from stepping closer. An imagined embrace was better than none, no?

I needed to see. I needed to know.

It makes sense to him, in a distant and unfamiliar way. Her spirit drawn back to here, to see that those she loved were safe and well -- except... why here and not the shadows of the mire? He cannot think to question it for what does he know of ghosts? Of spirits?

"Safe." Because what else could her heart yearn for, but to know that they were all well? Were the roles reversed it would be the only thing he could think to ask, for more than anything else he wanted his children to be well and loved and protected.

Another step, imagining he can feel the heat from her body, imagining that she is solid and perfect and whole. "We miss you."

We.

Always we.

Aidoneus' death had far reaching impact, he would be a fool to stamp the statement with an I.

all will not be revealed.
down through the fields of stars,
down through the holy dark,

Do all ghosts dream?

This one did.

As though taken by some chill, enveloped by the passing of a final breath, there came a tremble down her spine. Want blushed each cheek, rouged the heart to a needful burnish.

To brush against his cheek, to taste his breath, to feel his lips against her darkened brow. Just there, just beyond her reach—sense held her still, keeping heel to sand, keeping toe to the same grit she came upon. Love hung at those lips, unmovable. Not wishing to betray that vexing fiction, not to see his heart crumble. Could she? Knowing what she knew, what he had felt the need to do?

It’s— no, no, no. Aidoneus could not give. Digging through the graveyard glower for that ironclad resolve, she pulled against the yoke of want. Knowing the home that awaited in those arms, it crumbled. Giving, loosening its' grip. The shield — where was her shield? Where was that fortress she needed to keep? Thanking Amaryllis and its' mist, its' unfathomable secrets, she could not give. Not in that moment. But to tell him—to have him know? It was all a lie? That there still was breath to be found in her lungs, that there was warmth in her company and paradise on those lips for him? That each and every moment she only ever dreamed of green green green, of him, of their children?

No.

Aidoneus had no intention of staying – no, those miles were climbed for the simple fact of learning a single truth. Being discovered had been the risk she felt was impossible to happen. There came only the intention of haunting those unseen corners, divining a comforting certainty before being carried by the winds once more. This was a complication she both loathed and loved.

Good. Safe. Swallowing, and summoning the courage, the resolve needed. She heaved some breathless sigh. Whispering then a question she feared more than anything else.

Is there war?

Did their help hinder the world? Did their scheme work? Or did it cause the ruin of everything? Braced against the flood, holding fast the levy, it beat against her breast with every thump of her heart. The need. The want. The ache. To brush against his cheek. To taste his breath. To feel his lips against her darkened brow. To have his unclean hands around her stupid, silly, childish, and cruel cruel cruel heart. Forever fleeing, forever to be pursued. Wasn't that always their dangerous game?

Your life – tell me of your life.

Give unto me a new shield, happiness to stay the distance between their hearts. To keep her from his arms. A dream to hang her heart upon, a life deserving of protection with this cruel and wholly unfair lie.

No, not all ghosts dream. But this one, this one did. And she dreamed of @Alaric always.

She dreamed of their forever green.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

I call you down
sun on the water, cloud on the water

_{THANK YOU TO SCARF FOR ART}

What could he claim to know of ghosts?

Alaric had met one, once; a panicked and fearful apparition that blinked in and out of his sight. Appearing long enough to wail, to fill his heart with hurt and his mind with thoughts of injustice. To breath life in to the need for revenge that scorched his veins and drove him to the cliff, sinking teeth and claws in to the long-dead Sigrun.

Could ghosts breath? Cry? Blush?

The pink crosses her cheeks and he zones in on it, the rest of the world muffled; her words, even, muffled. An icy chill consumes him as he watched her tremble, laser focused on the most minuscule bits of movement and life in his beloved Aphrodite.

His mind spins as he stands, facing her, looking at her and not through her. The night stirs a chill and he shivers, but not from the cold. It is not the loosening grip of winter that sinks in to his bones but a detached awareness that slowly begins to creep in.

Is there war?

Does it matter? He wants to snark, snip, bite, while all at once the tears course steady down his cheeks. They drip from the bottom of his jaw, darkening the sand, making inky shadows on the too-smooth dunes. Alaric ignores them, refusing to look away from the achingly familiar planes of her face.

"Always," he whispers instead, though a tension stirs in his body and he dares another small step forward. His words are infused with distraction, "but not in the Mire." Not yet, not now; it would come, inevitably, as it came for all of them.

Your life...

Grasping, reaching, almost desperate in the way she throws questions at him. He does not answer, driving forward so that now he is certain he can feel the warmth rise from her flesh.

Choking on this he barely manages "Aido--" as he looks down at her, his voice husky and wrought with emotion. Streaks that name his grief while his eyes beg with her, plead with her.

Please...

"Aido..." A whisper, a prayer, a plea -- stronger, now, though he cannot yet cross that threshold, too afraid that this dream will shatter and he will find himself alone.

all will not be revealed.
down through the fields of stars,
down through the holy dark,

Her daughter had been Persephone—she had been swept from katabasis, and ushered back beneath the glowering sun. The sons were of fire, of sand, of Ares and all the things promised in the jeweled Oasis.

Their children were something otherly; preternaturally spun from aether and dreams. Spun from the weaver’s silk, from strange moons and an Eden that could only exist in the secret hollows, in the quiet places of their hearts. That had been the truth—hadn’t it? Two imperfect pieces, a limerence fraught by fear and refined by that want for more. A limerence—the notion to cheapen what fettered their hearts, their fate, kept her safe. It kept them both beyond harms’ way, until it didn’t any longer.

Until her belly grew round and the truth became unveiled.

How long would it be until he was found out? How long would it have been until it was his blood staining those finger tips?

No— a plea, anguish colouring her eyes in writhing, horrified remorse.

Tenebrae, so wily, so adroit, he knew. He carried to her an answer, and the desperation she felt in taking it—it made it clear, did it not? One did not take these lengths, one did not know the depravity of true fear, for a simple limerence. So why—why did she withhold her touch? Why deny herself that very thing she had so longed for? The absence that made the flesh ache, and the heart wither. The pain that crippled her soul, and crumbled every lasting inch of her sensibility? They knew what the darkness does. Knew the sinister feats practiced there, the ruin evoked by all that resided in it.

They were safe now—for now.

But it was undone—all their efforts, all their planning, all their work swept away. That dream needed to last longer, she needed more time. She needed more hours, more days. But he was upon her, and the white-clipped of her face lifted to meet his, to greet those lips and sorrow-burdened eyes. And too much like the first time, knowing it meant the ruin of everything, she gave in. Just as before, she could no longer bear it.

The dream was over; reality would set in. Drawn into the heat of his presence, the orbit devoured every shred of dignity and his coppery scent called her home once again. She folded into the fullness of his mane, burrowing her face where it fit just so as it had all those months ago. At last, at very last, she knew some semblance of contentedness. In the shadows of all they had ruined, atop the ashes of all they'd lost.

I'm sorry. The house was on fire again, and what else was there left to say? What was there to say? She was found out. The rouse smote. She was sputtering now, gathering up all those many last months and those she wished to have had, of all the things they were robbed of, of what once was, and what never had a chance to be. W-we couldn't tell you, i-in case he... In case—

I call you down
sun on the water, cloud on the water

_{THANK YOU TO SCARF FOR ART}

Alaric knew, without question, that there would always be war. The world was born of bloodshed -- it was the means to achieving any desired goal and there were many in the world who yearned for power. Bloodshed was the easiest, far more simple than laying traps of carefully spun lies and half-truths.

The Starke had been raised to trust in his teeth and his claws, to put them before any word-woven alliances. Even in Amaryllis where he had formed friendships he was aware that they could crumble as easily as they were built, should the wrong blood be spilled.

He did not mourn the reality of war, but even still he had kept them safe. Tucked away from the wicked fights of their homeland, safe from those who might lash out in their direction if only for the name of their father. Alaric's enemies were fewer, now, but he had been extra careful to take no risks.

For them, for her.

That day that he had found her lifeless and cold he had made a promise. It was one he had repeated when he dug her grave and laid her to rest, softening the ground with tears and quiet words. Alaric had swore to her that he would keep them safe, that he would love them and dote on them as much as she would have. He swore to love them doubly, to make up for the fact that they had been robbed of the green.

"Safe," he repeats, quiet, distracted. Safe, as he presses closer, feels the heat, fights the truth that looms over his head. It is a scary thing, wrought with emotion and harsh reality, but at the same time it is the only thing that he had wished for over the past months. Watching them grow and knowing that despite all of his best efforts they could never truly thrive without her.

None of it matters and yet all of it does, when she tumbles in to his embrace and his knees buckle.

Alaric nearly crumbles to the ground, again, leaning heavily against her, finally. Feeling the strength of her form, the solidness of her body. There is no ghost, here, to pass through him and leave him chilled. There is heat, burning, scorching, consuming -- he gasps at the sensation of being melted from the surface of his flesh right through to his heart.

All of his pleas evaporate; all of his prayers are answered. Alaric thinks nothing of the how or the why, there is no room for rational thought. He cannot form one, clearly, but can only drown in the feel of her touch, engrossed by the way that she fits so perfectly in to the crook of his neck. "Gods," he whispers, the word broken in to tiny shards that pierce through to his soul, "Aido." Gasping, desperate, and the suddenly alive as he reaches and pulls, half mad with the need to have her as close as possible.

"You're alive," as his neck arches and his face finds its home in her plush warm fur, "you're alive." A mantra rolling off his tongue, his eyes sliding close as he draws a deep breath, his body shaking with silent sobs and a hurricane of emotion.

@Aidoneus

all will not be revealed.
down through the fields of stars,
down through the holy dark,

For a moment – the world stalls, the orbit snagged on stars and galaxies of rushed whim, of the roads forced together.

@Alaric heavy on her skin, his breath, his warmth, that copper scent, she leaned further into him than ever possible. Bringing it into herself, her lungs and the deepening well of her heart—pushing thoughts of all her many wants, of her aspirations, of her intentions in having returned.

She filled herself with him and what carried on his flesh—of the mire, of his women, of their children and the many fragrances of Amaryllis and what she had left behind. There she stayed, lost in the cadence of his; the rhythmic swell of his pulse and breath. With his prayer filling the air, warming her cheek.

And for that moment, she allowed herself to be there—she allowed herself home.

I call you down
sun on the water, cloud on the water

_{THANK YOU TO SCARF FOR ART}

Alaric does not move. He holds her close, clinging, his heart pounding hard in his chest. His breathing is stuttered, ragged, broken -- he is so wrought with emotion he can barely make sense of earth or sky, let alone form a single thought.

He aches in the way a belly long starved aches after a good meal. Aidoneus is alive -- her return burns him and reignites him all in one breath.

As the tears dry on his cheeks he is able to think, to breath, to focus. Almost. There is a growing desire to grasp her, to shake her, to demand answers to the impossible. How. How!

Or, and he is afraid to even think it, Why?

Why is not a question he can think to ask, he dare not pull it to his lips if only from fear of what her answer might be. Why meant intent, and Alaric could not imagine that she had ever intended to leave them.

It was an accident, surely. And so --

-- he was to blame.

This thought strikes like an iron to his heart and all of a sudden he is fumbling again, whispering "I'm sorry" over and over like some frantic mantra.

After all; he was the one who had buried her alive.