#belisairus

[majestyrising]

Seraph, Pt. V

Notes: Aha, once again not chronologically coherent. An extract from the end of the war between the ancient city of Ieri Poli and it’s divine ruler, Iustinious, and a shade remnant god known as Tethys. Warnings for mild body horror.

Pings: @vicegrips-fr @mask-fr @kattafr @slighteyewing

The mighty corpse of the shade remnant Tethys sits like a mountain, casting a deep shadow over the entire city of Ieri Poli. Well, what remains of it. The buildings have been shattered and sundered, even the tallest and more resilient still smoulders, shivering in the breeze.

Iustinious gets to his feet and finds his knees weak. With a soft grunt, he braces himself on the hilt of his sword. The scale that hangs from it's cross guard tips to and fro as he uses it to heft himself to his feet.

It should be a cause for celebration. Tethys is dead, destroyed finally. No longer will she threatened the blessed people under the Lightweaver's gaze. And yet-

Nothing but devastation as far as the eye can see. Rubble and broken weapons, bodies and the injured. Belisarius limps weakly towards a small group of the injured, holding her bow arm to her chest. She casts a look over her shoulder at Iustinious and gives him a weak smile. It doesn't meet her eyes. Those are too sad, bloodshot from soot and war.

Iustinious swallows and looks around. When Tethys took a final swipe at them, Sidaris was with him- his attendant, a woman whose strengths lie in diplomacy yet who refused to leave him on the final field of battle.

"Sidaris?" he calls, rubbing dust from his face as he makes his way through the carnage. The twisted bodies of Tethys' spawn litter the field, oily and black. Intertwined with them are his people, so few of them soldiers but too loyal, desperate to save their home.

None are still alive.

"Sidaris?" he calls again, louder this time, "Sidaris!"

There's no response. He grits his teeth and keeps looking, the shade-spawn's bodies catching fire where his hands touch them, repelled by his innate divine nature.

His heart sinks the longer he searches; that is until he spots obsidian hair catching in the smoky light.

"Sidaris!" he shouts, dashing over to shove the twisted remnant of one of the shade spawn away, revealing her body battered and bruised.

"Your radiance," she croaks out, with a smile that does meet her eyes despite her bloodstained cheeks, "We won."

Her voice is thin and reedy, a gash that runs down from her cheek to her chest. Her legs are crushed, but her elation is pure.

"We did," he agrees sombrely, "Do not move, my friend. I will heal you."

Her eyes flutter shut as he kneels down at her side, carefully lifting her onto his lap. Her breathing is so shallow. So shallow it's almost non-existent.

Jaw clenched he summons his aching bones to listen, his exhausted magical core to move and glow, his divine mana to manifest. The battle was so long. Never before has he been forced to confront mortality, to stare it in it's hideous face. He is immortal. He cannot die. But everyone around him can.

Her breathing is silent, her eyes shut.

A radiant light fills his body, pushing through his pores. A glow that never goes out.

Using all of his remaining strength, he pushes that power from himself into Sidaris.

Yet it doesn't absorb.

"It won't work," Sidaris mumbles, her eyes opening, a cough escaping her lips, "The poison..."

Iustinious lets out a panicked breath. The fluid from the shade spawn leaks into the group, bespoiling and corrupting it. It too leaks onto Sidaris, blackening her flesh.

It repels his attempts to save her, like oil on water.

"No," he says, suddenly furious, "No, it cannot be so."

Sidaris looks at him noncomprehending. Slowly her head turns to the side and another, even brighter smile works its way onto her face.

"Look," she says, her voice full of awe, "The sun is rising again!"

He follows her gaze to where the sun is beginning to crest the horizon, sending golden rays of warmth across the shattered plains.

"Yes," he manages, full of emotion and looking down at her- his heart plummets into the earth below as her gaze meets nothing, "The sun is back, my dearest friend."

He feels her spirit go, lifting from it's fallen vessel like so much air.

It hurts- like the final crack in a broken vase, he feels agony and heartache well up inside him. Its not fair. They won, and yet as he looks around he already knows that barely one tenth survived. His city is all but gone, his beloved people decimated.

What good is that the power of the gods if it cannot even save one person?

He bows his head and weeps quietly to himself, six-fold wings at his back drooping to the ground as one fades from shining violet to black.

Justinian wakes with a cold sweat. The memories fade like a photograph in reverse until he is again blind from his hubris, his fall from grace.

The sorrow sits ill. Sidaris is but a figure of legend now, and he has no one to talk to about the grief that still runs in his blood. Still, there’s nothing to be done now. He can hear footsteps just past his door- likely Mischa having brought him coffee for the early morning. It’s sweet, but he doesn’t quite want to have anyone gaze upon him right now.

“Just leave it there,” he calls, sitting up and reaching across the nightstand for his blindfold, keeping his pale eyes shut until it’s secure. The irony of light hurting him still isn’t lost on him. Mother has a cruel sense of humour.

“You alright?” Mischa calls back, no doubt putting a hand on the door considering that it creaks.

“Bad dreams,” Justinian answers truthfully, scratching his chin and getting up, pulling his cane from where he left at leaning against the wall, “Nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“If you’re sure,” Mischa says, sounding a touch concerned nonetheless, “Kos wants to see us when everyone’s up.”

“Mm,” Justinian murmurs, doing his best to push the images of a time when he was the one at the table with a shining crown, surrounded by his own tacticians. But then again, all of his died- and all of Koschei’s still live.

He’s always been the better ruler; so Justinian goes back to being nothing more or less than a mysterious acolyte with a strange level of expertise in history.

[majestyrising]

And here’s a quick sketch/mockup of Bela’s design! I love being lazy with the watercolour brush, lol.

[majestyrising]

Seraph, III.

Notes: For the sake of the narrative I’m referring to Bela with he/him at the start before switching over to she/her in order to illustrate what’s going on but obviously that’s not how it works in real life. Just going to pre-empt that!

This is a little extract from when Justinian was still Iustinious Dei, firstborn of the Lightweaver, tutoring a newer Herald under his wing known as Belisairus Dei. Comes chronologically before Seraph II, because who said things have to make sense.

3rd Era, Year 89.

The newest Herald to be born (or perhaps if one was to be more accurate, created) is bestowed the name Belisarius by the Lightweaver before being handed into the care of Iustinious Dei.

This is not usual. He has watched over all the Heralds to be born from his template, watched them be drawn from the raw divine magic that peels from Mother’s scales and molded into a template of his shape, and has taken their soft, child-like hands to guide them outside to look at the sky for the very first time before leaving them to learn the ways of the world.

Something seemed to happen to this one, though. He looks up at the sky and his lips part as if to say something, but instead he releases a wistful sigh.

It’s strange, because they usually do not emote so. They have the stiff motion of a doll, the nativity of a child, and lack the full range of emotions which mortals are so blessed and cursed to be born into. They grow into themselves over time, learning their place, to ward and guide mortal-kind from danger. Even so, they are not the same as he is. He is more mortal than they are, as paradoxical as it sounds for a demi-god to say.

They are puppets made in his image, like shadows dancing in a cave. Belisarius though raises a finger to point up at the clouds above.

���Explain,” he says, in a soft, almost dreamlike voice.

“Those are clouds, Belisarius,” Iustinious replies, watching the newborn Herald with interest, “Do you see something in them?”

Belisarius’ eyes narrow in thought, concern in his golden eyes- a league above the others, even in that small movement.

“Yes,” he says.

It’s almost as if the Lightweaver knew he would need guidance.

☼

3rd Era, Year 100.

There’s a spring in Ieri Poli which begins in a beautiful stretch of hillside. Reports of monsters have brought them here, yet neither Herald has found anything despoiling the natural, divine beauty of this place.

Belisarius seems transfixed by the mirror sheen of the pool they come to, a beautiful azure. No ripples disturb it’s surface as the sun warms the land around them, a flock of birds making their way across the sky lazily.

Iustinious folds his six wings behind his back and dismisses them for now, vibrant royal violet feathers disappearing into sparkles and light.

“I don’t sense anything,” he muses, “Perhaps the townspeople sent us in the wrong direction. I wouldn’t blame them. It is frightening for them to be beset by these- abominations.”

He rubs his hands together, the glow on his skin catching. Noting that Belisarius has not replied, he turns around to see him still staring at his own reflection, lost in thought. His long tail sways back and forth like a pendulum.

“Belisarius?” Iustinious queries, joining him at the pool’s edge.

“What am I?” Belisarius says, to himself at first before he blinks and looks to his side, meeting Iustinious’ eyes, “What am I?”

“Mm?” Iustinious offers, with a slight frown, “You are Belisarius, Herald of the Lightweaver.”

He pauses for a moment, as the answer does not seem to satisfy Belisarius.

“Physically?” he adds, questioningly.

The hand Belisarius has held to his chest tightens into a small fist.

Both Heralds have the same shade of copper skin, glowing with life and the embodiment of divine magic which pulses inside them. For Belisarius, the illusion of glass curves up his neck and down his chest, showing water inside of him- the water of life, capable of purifying darkness. It’s why he has been so crucial since his inception; the power inside him is incredibly strong. His pale hair is shorter than Iustinious’, but not from lack of trying. He hasn’t cut it, ever.

“You’re perfect,” Iustinious says, raising a hand to rub a thumb over Belisarius’ cheek, “Don’t fret.”

“I do not feel perfect,” Belisarius says, very quietly.

Iustinious’s ears flick in genuine surprise. It’s a bold thing to feel, let alone admit.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask for clarification, because a loud roar tears through the entire area. The ground begins to quake as all the birds fly from the trees.

There’s a Shade-infected here after all, and it sounds like a big one. Both Heralds spring into action.

☼

3rd Era, Year 112.

Iustinious nods a final affirmation to the Local Saint, the current mortal leader for Ieri Poli. They’re beginning to build the walls around the city to protect them from the nests of beasts that have been cropped up everywhere recently. It’s a smart move, one he supports. He’ll help them himself- easier to do construction work when you never get tired.

Of course, Belisarius has wandered off. It’s pretty normal at this point. His apprentice and brother-in-arms has a strange personality; having one in general being a shock for a Herald so new; and he’s very liable to go seek out things to sate his curiosity.

He can feel the pull of like-magic but not exactly where. The land here is saturated with it after all. Humming to himself, he spots a group of priests and decides to approach them. They drop to their knees immediately, foreheads to the grund.

“Ah, thank you,” he says, a little absently, “Have you seen Belisarius?”

He’s sat on the edge of the fountain, ironically the fountain with a carving of Iustinious as it’s centrepiece. His long robes have fallen into the water, and he’s staring intently at something. Iustinious follows his eyeline to a group of local women who are in the middle of ritual preparations. They’re giggling, looking over at Belisarius every so often as they fill bowls with holy water and wrap glowing baubles around the awnings of the inn they’re working outside.

Iustinious walks over and sits down next to him.

“Are you attracted to the women?” he asks, “It’s nothing to be afraid of if that’s the case.”

Belisarius’ gaze immediately drops to the ground, ears drooping.

“We must be cautious,” Iustinious continues, watching the other Herald carefully, “But it’s okay if you are.”

Belisarius wrings his hands once before shaking his head, but the slight frown on his face says otherwise.

“I do not know,” he answers, after a moment of silence, “They are beautiful.”

Iustinious chuckles, patting Belisarius on the shoulder.

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice warm, “They are.”

☼

3rd Era, Year 122.

They’re on their way back to the Beacon of the Radiant Eye when Belisarius stops dead in his tracks. Iustinious stops, turning around to find Belisarius staring a hole in the ground. His body language all but screams tension.

“Iustinious Dei,” Belisarius says, addressing his brother by his full name, “I am... I am not...”

He frowns, long locks of pale hair falling around his shoulders as his head dips.

“I am not...”

With a small grunt of frustration, his hands ball into fists before he lets out a deep, weary sigh that just fills Iustinious with fondness- despite the strange tension in the air.

“Like you,” Belisarius settles on, finally looking up to meet Iustinious’ eyes.

“Mm?” Iustinious asks, softly, taking a step forward but not invading his space, “What do you mean?”

Belisarius looks away, then back, claws digging into the soft dirt beneath them.

“You... I was made wrong,” he says, swallowing thickly, “I must be.”

Iustinious frowns, trying to parcel out what exactly that means.

“No,” he says, “You were made from my template. The Lightweaver-”

“You were made perfect,” Belisarius interrupts, to Iustinious’ surprise, “I am flawed. Not like you.”

“Like me?” Iustinious insists, “Like me in what-”

Like a bell ringing clearly, he realises exactly what it is Belisarius is getting at.

“Oh,” he says, before pausing, “A man?”

A mix of emotions crosses over Belisarius’ face, guilt and shame but also elation, hope. His golden eyes glow brighter with it.

“Yes,” he says, insistent, voice rising, taking a step closer, “I know me. I am me. My body does not match. I watch them and I know-”

“You’re not flawed,” Iustinious says, with a reassuring smile, “Not one bit. I won’t hear that from you, okay?”

Belisarius bites his cheek and shakes his head. 

“I do not know,” he mutters, “I am not a man. I know. I have known before I understood notions of gender and presentation. I watch them and I...”

A look passes over her face and her shoulders slump slowly.

“That’s just fine,” Iustinious says, letting out a deep breath, “It’s okay.”

Belisarius blinks, looking up and taking a step back. She runs a hand through her hair, fingers curling.

“You will not... change me?” she asks, “Destroy me?”

Iustinious startles at the very notion, shaking his head with vigour. A sun glows with heavy vibrancy, intensified by Iustinious’ emotions.

“Never,” he says, “Absolutely not. No one will do that to you. Not me, not Mother.”

Belisarius watches him shyly, a slight flush on her cheeks. She places a hand on her chest, fingers pressed to the illusionary glass there.

“I love you,” Iustinious says, his voice tender, “My- sister. My sister.”

That makes her smile, which makes Iustinious smile back. He nods as if to confirm this before he raises a hand to scratch at his chin.

“What about your name?” Iustinious asks, “Do you wish to change it?”

Belisarius doesn’t take long to respond, looking up for a moment at the sky before she shakes her head.

“I do not mind that,” she muses, “It was a gift. A promise for fortitude.”

“Fortitude,” Iustinious responds, “That much is true. Oh- how about Bela?”

Belisarius blinks, cocking her head to the side as she mulls it over.

“Bela,” she repeats, “Bel-a.”

Iustinious smiles ruefully, rubbing his hands together and leaning forward on his toes.

“Do you like it?” he asks, playfully this time.

“Yes,” she says, with a huge, genuine smile, “I like it.”

☼

3rd Era, Year 122.

He’s sat at the very top of the Beacon of the Radiant Eye, legs dangling from the ledge as the winds whip at his face. Ships sway where they’re anchored, their sails furled as people move around them far, far below.

The open borders are beginning to close. There’s movement from the Shade-infected in the South, and it won’t be long until he’ll have to re-station in Ieri Poli. Watching them move around like ants below, he can’t help but think about how fragile they all are.

“Ius!” Bela calls, pulling him from his ponderings. She sits down next to him before he can get up.

“Oh!” he exclaims, eyes wide, “Wow, Bela, you look amazing!”

She dissolves into joyful laughter, her wings making slow beats to beat back the high winds. Her long hair has been pulled back with shiny blue beads, her white robes held on by a golden rope and shiny pauldrons and gauntlets around her arms. A bow is held at her back, shining like a beacon.

She raps a hand against her chest where it chimes with a pure note.

“Mother remade me as I asked for,” she says, still grinning, “She was busy for a time but I was patient, even when I did not feel patient.”

“Ha,” Iustinious snorts, “Patience is lame anyway.”

“It is my not virtue,” Bela agrees, as Iustinious nudges her with his elbow, “I have to thank you-”

“Oh, stop,” he says, waving a hand, “Don’t take me for the bare minimum, Bela.”

She shrugs, her tail swishing slightly with the movement as her feathers ripple with the wind.

“I’m just glad you’re happy,” he adds, brightly, “You’re glowing. Literally and metaphorically.”

“I feel right in my soul,” she agrees, kicking her feet, “Now I may serve without this weight around my neck. I am ready.”

“That’s good,” he says, a little quieter, “I think that won’t be long now.”

He can feel her eyes on him, querying, curious as ever, but he doesn’t respond to it.

“Come, we should go to Ieri soon, see the townspeople,” he says instead, getting up and offering her a hand up.

“Do you think I can join the priestesses with their preparations for the new year?” she asks, taking his hand to stand on the precipice, toes curling around it as she balances there.

“They’ll be honoured to have you,” he confirms, as she intertwines their fingers.