#đ· book i: maliâya
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modern au maliâya definitely sings along to painfully positive 2010s songs like who says by selena gomez while she cooks. sheâs sweet like that
#yes a wooden spoon is her microphone of choice#yes the serotonin boost is REAL#đ· book i: maliâya
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5, 6 and 20 for Mali'ya đ
interview asks from here !
The door to the small apothecary opens with a creak, and a freckled face is the first thing you see. Before words, youâre greeted by a warm smile that matches the glint of curiosity in the shopkeeperâs eyes; Maliâya quickly moves away to let you inside.
âCome on in,â she smiles. âI made tea.â
5. is it better to hurt others before they hurt you or let yourself be walked all over and hurt by others?
"My opinion is,â Maliâya starts, teapot steady in her hand as she fills your cup, âThat if we made an effort not to hurt each other, things would be much simpler. But that doesnât answer the question, does it?â She sighs, but her smile doesnât falter. âPersonally, I wouldnât hurt someone just to prevent myself from suffering. Not on purpose, at least.â
Her gaze wanders on the shelves over the counter, across from where youâre both sitting. âOn the other hand, being hurt,â she ponders. âI think I could bear that.â
Maliâya tilts her head, looking somewhat apologetic now. âBlame it on my magic.â
6. if you tell the truth, an evil person gets to walk away free. if you lie, you may be able to send them away like they deserve. is honesty worth more than justice?
âI believe in justice, and... and I would lie, yes, if it meant the culprit was to be held accountable.â Maliâya brings the cup to her lips, taking a quick sip. âMaybe they had their motives, or were desperate... But most of the time there is always another way out, and one must always face the consequences of their actions.â Her tone is final as she puts the tea down, but then Maliâya speaks again. âAlthough hopefully, whatever the consequences, they can still become better person.â
20. are there people in this world who, no matter how much time and penitence is given, should never be forgiven?
Your last question takes her by surprise. Youâre quick to notice by the faint gasp she lets out, and the slight uncertainty of her hands before Maliâya wisely intertwines them on her lap.
âWell, I...â she trails off, trying to make sense of her thoughts. âI am convinced that letting go of the hate you feel will help you live your life more freely. Itâs like having a weight come off your shoulders, and thatâs good, of course. Even so, those who are responsible for the most gruesome actsâ they already arenât easy to forgive. They could try to redeem themselves but would still be hated and then, who would blame those who suffered? Everybody is entitled to their pain. Itâs understandable.â
A pause.
Maliâya stares at her fidgety fingers. âHowever, when it comes to people dealing with their own problems, or traumas, and lacking the means to heal... Then, itâs up to us.â Despite choosing her words carefully, she doesnât sound too convinced. Still, Maliâya continues. âFor whatâs worth, maybe being forgiven will help them forgive themselves, too.â
#me while writing down the first answer: this is NOT what we say when people ask us to self-sacrifice#i felt A Lot of zurkhi energy in these btw#and haider ofc#ah our beloveds and their fixation with justice#also we'll pretend she wasn't talking abt her and her family in that last piece of monologue :]#đ· book i: maliâya#đ kaniâs tag#đš#dani writes
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six sentence monday !
(while in this part of the world it still is, eheh)
thank u @atypicalacademicâ !! this is just the beginning of something that, i hope, will soon see the light of day (àčËËàč)
Maliâya took a deep breath. In a couple of days, lavender would most certainly be ready to be ground and put into small satchels so it could be stored in wardrobes and drawers, while the bouquets of euphorbia hirta had to be carefully separated from the roots so she could boil them into decoctions... Her hands closed the book in a swift yet delicate motion. It was almost time, wasnât it? She sighed. Maliâya was well aware that she could fool everyone but herself; absentmindedly tapping her fingertips on the worn-out cover, she tried to shake that feeling away once more. That feeling that always came with showing her true colours. Was she allowed to be selfish, just this once? But you always are.
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navigation masterpost !
about me ! (wip)
maliâya
biography
tag
reo ortega
biography
tag
more on their stories under the cut !
in chronological order:
the things you canât say, iâll make them mine | part 1 & part 2
asra/maliâya, pre-plague, sfw. word count: 2.2k
soft and wounded and the night
asra/maliâya, post-plague & pre-game, sfw. cw ! nightmares, amnesia. word count: 3.4k
confessions on tabletops
julian/reo with a side portia/maliâya, set after the lis upright ending, sfw. cw ! alcohol, mild language. word count: 944
to be updated !
#the arcana#đ· book i: maliâya#đ· book ii: heralia#đ· book iii: reo ortega#đ : canât stop you putting roots in my dreamland#đ : as long as youâll have me
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soft and wounded and the night
pairing: asra/maliâya cw: nightmares, amnesia word count: 3.4k song: solovey by go_a
In his dreams sheâs always singing, though Maliâya only hums.
I gathered the flowers, braided them into a wreath
She was facing him with her back in that memory, her attention to the sink while honey curls swayed gently under the green kerchief at every tilt of her head.Â
Sheâd let hair down, he noticed. That was rare. Once, sheâd told him it would always get in the way when she was working.
Her hands washed the dishes in circular motions, slow and careful not to let one slip. Alone in her thoughts, Maliâya breathes out the songs of her childhood in soft whispers and Asra wonders, each time they meet there, in the empty boundary between memory and reality, how could he ever forget that silvery sound?
He had heard her talk in her native language before, when she wasnât yet fluent in Vesuvian and the confusion in her mind came out of her lips with frustration and embarrassment; he remembered the words being harsh and intricate and mysterious when she spoke to her aunt, words that crashed one against the other and merged together in a way so foreign to him that Asra could never completely understand.
But when Maliâya sang, nothing else mattered anymore. All things faded out, all worries and thoughts, all shapes and colours; washed away by songs she knew by heart. It was then, only then, that Venterrean forgot all about its hardness, maybe lost to the water running down the sink or still lingering in her mouth in words of unspoken terrors.Â
Braided them into a wreath, the rue and the periwinkle flowers
Even after all that time, Asra could never really give a name to the feeling. He was sure, though, that there was nothing more enticing than the way Maliâyaâs voice would die out like candlelight.
After securing the last plate in the cupboard, Maliâya turned to him with that indulgent smile of hers he so much loved.Â
âDonât you ever get tired of it?â she asked with curiosity, thinking about the days he would overhear her from his booth on the other side of the backroomâs wall, her own bedroom at the time. âItâs not the loveliest song. Or language, even.â
Nightingale, nightingale, do not sing so early
Shaking his head no, Asra mirrored her smile from the kitchen table where he was sitting. âActually,â he replied, lips up in a playful smirk, âItâs very, very lovely, if you ask me.â
Happiness was bright in the curve of her mouth as Maliâya approached him, jade eyes dissolving for a moment into a line of thin golden lashes, pressed down in disagreement under her furrowed brows. He couldnât help it. Instinctively, perhaps a bit too eagerly (but who was he to deny her?), the moment she made way between his parted legs to get closer and her hands ran up to cup his face, Asra leaned in to meet her touch.
Oh, how heâd missed this. The gentle palms, and the smallest hint of calluses on her fingertips; her thighs, too, which he held on to steadily, still so soft and welcoming as he remembered them. The scent of her freckled skin, something faintly floral, embracing him from every angle like a protection charm.
Carding her fingers through his hair in a way that it would give her free access, Maliâya bent down to lay a kiss on his forehead. Her lips lingered there for a moment, as if unsure of what to do, and Asra tilted his head up to welcome what would come next.
So Maliâya kissed him with no hesitation, her lips on his and his heart on a sleeve, the beats loud and attuned to hers, to the song her aura let out when their souls would meet.
It felt so right, it always did. It was the place to be. Always, forever, as long their bodies would last before turning to dust.
She smiled into the kiss and slowly began to pull away, while the smell of rain gathered gently around them. It was the same as when she enchanted her chamomile tea before going to bed, Asra recalled, hoping that the memories wouldnât come back to devour her in her sleep; the same as when she found out about the kids, and healed the wounds on their knees with a simple ghosting of her fingertips. It was the smell of storms and worry, but she always looked hopeful when it rained.
Iâll stop soon, and youâll be able to play outside again, she would tell Luz.
Asra wraps his arms around her. The song echoes,
My heart canât feel good about this
Donât go. Donât go.
âAsra,â Maliâya called, tender as ever. Any tinge of joy in her voice was gone already; and although she was trying to sound serene, and he couldnât see the sadness in her eyes, he just knew it was there. He had learnt everything about her during the time theyâd spent together; every gesture, every change in her behaviour when she would push aside what she truly wanted. And Asra knew this was for his sake alone, too. Heâd been foolish to hope things could change; as if nothing could ever change, at last in his memories.
So he kept quiet.
Her hands were still caressing his nape when Maliâya spoke again. âYou have to wake up, love,â she murmured, returning his hug just as urgently.
She rarely called him that, Asra thought. Because she had grown up believing love was to be found in the little things, those unnoticeable acts of service towards the ones she cherished, Maliâya had never been one for pet names or clamorous displays of affection. She would rather trust, offer, provide; pour her heart into everything she touched.
Love.
Four silly letters for one silly word. Asra still remembered a time before her in which it was just a meaningless concept he and Muriel did not dare to share with the world. But when she called him that, she made it sound like the poets had been right all along.
âYou know you canât stay here.â
âWhy not?â He sounds like a whiny brat, of that much heâs aware. He holds her closer. Canât they just go back to being kids? Canât he make it right once and for all, canât he make up for what he had destroyed with his own selfishness? Maliâya squeezes her arms around him one last time.
In the distance, someone sings a song of longing and fear.
âTake care, love,â is her parting whisper.
Then Asra blinked and she was gone again, like smoke, bringing any trace of sunlight away with her. It was as if sheâd never been there. As if heâd abandoned her once more. Shut her out. The one that had tiptoed so gently into his world, cradled his heart and soul in her hands asking nothing in return. She, Maliâya, who was made of chopped roots and timid branches and radiated so much warmth he could drown in it. Heâd taken her for granted from day one, apparently, because there was never a time in which sheâd beg him to stay.
As though all strength had been drained from him, Asra leaned in on the table as the room dissolved around him, arms covering his face and fingers gripping his hair in a punishing hold because you killed her, Asra. You killed her and sheâs never coming back. Never. And itâs all your fault.
It gets cold in the nightmare. The wind howls, scentless and cold, and this time the whiffs donât carry any songs with them. Asra stays still. There are no tears he can cry; he dried them all a long ago, digging his hands until they bled on the black shores of the Lazaret.
If it hadnât been for you, Maliâya would still be alive. Breathing.
It took him but a second to put a face to the voice echoing in the void of his mind. It wasnât like anything he had heard before, because now Mrs Heralia sounds angry, and disappointed, and her thick accent makes way among the words like itâs meant to stab him through his heart. And she would have all the reasons to do so.
Why did you leave, Asra? Why did you leave my niece alone? You promised youâd take care of her on my behalf. I entrusted her to you. Tell me, do you have any idea of what she must have gone through while you were away, warm and healthy and very much alive? Do you, Asra?
The voice was growing louder in his ears. Asra felt like his head was about to explode, but it was a blessing that his teacher wasnât real, not physically there to make him stare into her soul and force him see all the hurt heâd caused to her only nieceâ The same he saw in his eyes every time he looked at himself in the mirror, a pretty wicked thing worn out by selfishness and anguish.
âIâ I never wanted toâ I thought she wouldââ
That she would come after you when you left? Oh, but do you know why she didnât? Canât you possibly imagine why she stayed?
Heralia let out a sigh, low and disappointed. Sharp. Asra could tell she was aiming for her killing blow.
Has she ever meant something to you more than a shadow that would follow you everywhere and console you in the dark?
Water gathered in Asraâs throat, setting it aflame as an apology fought its way out. He jumped up, forgetting about the chair he was sitting on; which, without making a single sound, fell quickly into the darkness rising at the edge of his consciousness.
No, he meant to tell his teacher. A last defence against the hatred dripping from her chin. She was more than that, so much more. But a choked sob came out instead, before another followed, and another, and another...
Suddenly he feels like a child again, out in the cold. Alone. Mrs Heralia has vanished, too, and in the wide, scary unknown around him thatâs slowly drifting from pitch-black to candid shades of white, Asra feels it; deathâs touch like ragged paper on his skin, passing him by, so his lungs are full of air again and his heart pumps louder in his chest. It could be heaven, just floating around aimlessly in pure light.
The first thing he hears is the familiar sound of cutlery clinking before him.
Asra opened his eyes, waking up to the small kitchenette on the shopâs first floor. Nothing had changed a bit since he came back from⊠Well, he couldnât really remember. But small bouquets of dried herbs still hung above the stove, where the salamander was sleeping soundly, and familiar, colourful jars filled the cramped shelves.
Then he hears her. Sheâs singing, of course she is. Sheâs calling him back to her. And she mustâve been so close he thinks, maybe climbing up the stairs or folding some clothes in the other room, because her voice was all around him and he would have looked for her everywhere if only the kitchen hadnât started spinning like crazy, merging colours and shapes and taking his breath away in heavy gaspsâ
In the end, like always, the dream takes over the memory too quickly to linger anymore. So Asra gives up. Thereâs no hope to win against his guilt, to pacify it once and for all. And heâs so tired. Tired of wishing for her to remember him. Or what they had. Her past, their past, the days spent together climbing trees and learning magic and holding hands. Heâs tired of trying.Â
Asra falls in the cold, again, curled up in the white nothingness around him.Â
Take care, love.
That voice again. Just now, someone was calling out to him in the distance. But who? And from⊠where�
All of sudden, memory and sleep parted from him. The cold, too, had disappeared. There was something warm and delicate holding his face, though he couldnât tell what. It was soft and a bit rough around the edges, shaped like it was meant to be cradling him, and strangely enough, the air smelled like damp soil after a long nightâs rain. His body felt heavier than before as well, out of his dream-like state, while his lungs still struggled to catch up with his frantic pants.
âMaster? Can you hear me? Iâm here, Master. Youâre safeâ Please, please wake up.â
A hand, that was it, carded through his bangs, pushing them aside so that his forehead could freshen up. As a matter of fact, he did feel a bit hot. Asra slowly cracked his eyes open to take in his surroundings.
He was in their bedroom. It was probably late night, or maybe early enough for the sun to rise. Not like he could tell. Fireflies swirled silently around himâno, not fireflies, but tiny spheres of light. Gentle hands cupped his face, thumbs slowly stroking his cheekbones.
A few inches above him, Maliâya let out a long, relieved sigh. She was kneeling on the floor, probably feeling a little sore by now, nonetheless she smiled reassuringly in his direction. Her braids were messy, Asra noticed. A few golden strands curled on her cheeks, framing her eyes. How could anyone be so beautiful?
âItâs okay,â she murmured, a bit startled the moment their eyes interlocked. Asra couldnât really see it, his vision hazy from the dream, but he knew of the hint of a blush that was about to spread on her face at the sudden realisation of their close, if intimate, proximity. Despite that, she didnât pull away. If anything, Maliâyaâs aura grew warmer. âIt was just a nightmare.â
Asra propped himself up on one elbow, but regretted it immediately. To leave him more space to move and stretch, her hands intertwined on her lap.
ââM sorry I woke you,â he blurted out, still fighting the remnants of sleep.
Maliâya shook her head as to shush him, lips still up in the gentlest smile. âDonât say that,â she coaxed him, but then she stopped, unsure, fidgety fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown. âIs there anything I can do? LikeâŠâ
Staring at her with an expectant look, Asra felt his heart flutter. He couldnât help it, not with her being so thoughtful and sweet in her shyness.
âLike a cup of tea. Or I can brew you some chamomile, if you want, or...â Jade eyes pierced right through him like arrows from Cupidâs quiver, soft and sincere and always, always agonizing to stare into. âWould you like⊠a hug?âÂ
Asra sat up, fully awake now, smiling teasingly as he raised an eyebrow. âA hug. You sure make it sound important, do you?â
âYou always hug me when I have nightmares,â Maliâya replied, not taking any of his playful tone, although the red deepening on her cheeks said a lot about the embarrassment coming from his remark. âFine,â she sighed, stumbling back up to walk to the kitchenette. âThe tea will do.â
Asra chuckled. Sheâd never been comfortable with displays of affection, had she? Even before this whole mess it had taken her a while to step out her bubble and hold his hand just because, or kiss him on a whim, let alone anything like listening to her body when the words would fail them. And Asra had been happy, oh, so happy to witness the rewarding growth of her blooming confidence.
When he stepped into the small kitchen, Maliâya was already crouched down beside the stove. She was saying something in a quiet whisper, looking apologetic, and a moment later she got up to pick a flower from the ones heâd brought her from the forest a couple of days ago, for her to dry. She knelt down again, offering a wild amaryllis to the salamander, and beamed.
âThanks. And sorry for troubling you, little one.â
âHe must have a soft spot for you,â Asra pointed out as he sat at the table. âI never seem to bribe him right.â
Maliâya let out a small laugh, adjusting the teapot on the stove. âOh, itâs not hard to please him. After all, everybody wants to be pampered once in a while.â
Resting his chin on the inside of his hand, Asra hummed quietly. âSo do I get to be pampered, too?â
There is a thin line between this and mere selfishness, he thinks, but his heart speaks before his mind can catch up and properly elaborate his thoughts.
âWill you sing for me?â
Abruptly, Maliâya stopped in her tracks, her hand coming down from the shelf where their cups rested. She didnât turn around. âIâm sorry, I⊠I canât think of any songs.â
Iâm sorry I canât remember.
Asra felt his heart sink in his chest. âNo, itâsââ
âDo you⊠do you have any suggestions? They say you can make a song out of anything.â
She still wasnât looking at him, now busying herself with the steam rising from the pot, but the resolve in her voice was strong as ever. From the moment sheâd first woken up from her slumber, Maliâya had made so much progress; she was curious, determined to learn and catch up to normalcy, and stopped at nothing. There was always a way with her. Sheâd always been like that.
âMaster?â she called out to him, their mugs in hand, and Asra quickly snapped back to reality.
âYou remember the song,â he started, carefully threading each word so as not to prompt one of her devastating headaches. âThat I would sing to you when you couldnât sleep? Itâs been a while, though, you probablyââ
âThe one about the lovers and the nightingale. Yes,â Maliâya cut in, gently pouring the tea in his cup before filling hers. She nodded, then handed him the honey jar. âI remember that.â A small smile that barely revealed her dimples curved up her lips as she blew on the infusion. âItâs one of my favourites.â
âAh,â Asra said. Was it just a coincidence? That she liked the same song she once used to love? His attention returned to the mug before him. âIs it?â
âOf course. You said you heard it from a traveller, right?â
âSomething like that.â
Maliâya looked down, pondering something. A tea leaf floated in the greenish drink in her hands, its corners burned by the hot water it had been thrown into. She tentatively took a sip. âWere they native? Fromâwhere does the song come from?â
âVenterre. I translated it,â Asra explained, though it wasnât exactly how things had gone. There had once been a time in which he had been the one asking her to share the secrets of her mother tongue. A request Maliâya couldnât refuse him, no matter the difficulty of those foreign sounds. âAnd yes, they grew up there... but left at a young age.â
Maliâya closed her eyes for a moment, lost in thought. Hadnât she been smiling in the while, Asra wouldâve thought heâd said too much. So he did the same. âSomethingâs on your mind?â
âI was wondering, what does Venterrean sound like? Iâve never heard anybody speak it,â she confessed with a shrug, and took another sip from her cup. âThough I suppose itâs not the loveliest language.â
âItâs actually very, very lovely,â Asra replied.
Beyond the curtains the sun began to rise, idly bathing the kitchenette in its warm and golden light. Maliâya still pondered something, chin on her palm as she looked over the window. And just like the first time theyâd met, two strangers in the Market District fighting for their lives in their own way, Asra couldnât stop looking at her as she glowed before his eyes, ethereal and strong and beautiful in the fiery red of dawn.
With a quick motion of his fingers he pinched the tip of her nose, causing Maliâya to snap out of her train of thoughts. âI can teach you some words, if you so wish,â he suggested before taking a long sip, and lowering his gaze. âAlthough I must tell you, itâs not the easiest language either. It might take some time.â
âIt doesnât matter.â Maliâya shook her head, a smile carefully concealed between her lips. âWe have plenty.â
Nightingale, nightingale, do not sing so early My heart canât feel good about this Nightingale, nightingale, what do I do now? I came to love him onceâand cannot forget him.
#the arcana#asra alnazar#asra x mc#asra x apprentice#đ· book i: maliâya#đ : canât stop you putting roots in my dreamland#i published this on here and ao3 like exactly one year ago does it ever draw you crazy how fast the night changes#dani writes
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