#for only herself but also as the defacto manager of all things fronting

[moodymeangirl]

also something that is hard about choosing to be more present is feeling everything constantly. lately, we're disassociating/shifting between alters seemingly day to day. some people, esp Merri who was hurt bad this year, are missing from the front a lot more. sometimes i feel her in my control room, hanging out while i front (which is nice i love her). but she's weakened and needs time to heal. it's basically just been me ( @mmgdaisy )and @mmgbump lately. and the occasional jump forward by @mmgemma , @cuntghost , or The Maintainer (who doesn't blog). @mmgnexgenn and @mmgdead r also a lil more close to the front than usual. but @mmgmeredith , @mmgmarcus are way less around. which ik seems like not huge but both of them had been deeply involved on managing the fronting. Merri was, along w me and Bump, one of 3 main fronters. And Marcus (they/he) had previously been around in the control room to help Bump w processing emotions while she fronts, which is crucial because her anxiety is so intense. Maybe I'm so tired bc I'm doing my shift and parts of her shift. I'm also trying to make space for Merri to appear / heal. I think that's why Emma and Maintainer and even CuntGhost have been helping w tasks from the front. Fuck even DeadEmma came forward and helped process some emotions (that's wild bc she's like years dead from grief and heartbreak*.) And like, all this was a result of emotional upheavals, not the recent change away from feeling numb.

The change away from numbness Has increased the brains switching and dissociative states, and destabilised our pattern. We're unable to numb out the feelings from any angle:

The malaise of how the world is and has been, the melancholy of lesbian and otherwise romantic loneliness, the shame and guilt of trying my best to pray on time, the adhd stress of all tasks, the cptsd stress of deliberately entering a growth stage in spite of symptoms worsening, the autistic stress of having black n white thinking so vivid i can't physically see sometimes, the identity stress of feeling like if I just consume better ill be a fixed identity**. And much much more probably.

I didn't know how much feeling we were managing thru suppression and hiding behind the lil dopamine hits on the doomscroll. A lot, it turns out. I'm so, so glad to be deliberately moving away from numbing, defining, and living inside the instagram app. Soooo glad to be actively making efforts to re-install my sleep hygiene coding. Proud that @mmgbump and I recognised we couldn't get to sleep without our phone any more. Glad we happened to leave our phone at Jambo's 11 days ago, and that we embraced those circumstances. That we felt what freedom from the metaverse is actually like and immediately knew we our normal needed to be separated from it.

I'm pround that inside those 10 days, we've suddenly been capable of our best most frequent praying habits, we've eaten more veggies than we have all year, and despite feeling more intense uncertainties, our existential anxiety has disappeared. We r doing the work. We are also doing the existing and we are doing the loving life and people.

It's just that going from a created comfort zone of numbing and suppression into a better world of complete feeling stays hurting. I am constantly scared and emotionally in pain, which is significantly disabling for a brain that is a DID system and also has cptsd, plus other disabling conditions.

**something i do not want. i want system. but as much as it's also a blessing and the joy of all joys - truly my soul sings - like living in this Dunya with any disabiliy, every single difference makes daily life socially and emotionally terrifying.

*and no, idk how she's here if she's dead. maybe cos there's all of us she needs to wait till Allah takes us all ie something to do with soul and brain being tied to the dunya still, maybe she's just an imprint, maybe she's more zombie than ghost idk.

[harrylee94]

The Tournament - Chapter 16

You can find this on AO3!

Summary: “We are here to bear witness to the dawning of a new Rule. Din Djarin, Prince of Mandalore, step forwards.”

Notes: This is it, the last real chapter of The Tournament! I'll probably be writing and epilogue (and maybe some one shots or even a sequel one day), but this is it!

Chapter 15

——————————————————————

“All hail the Mand'alor!” - Cobb

Cobb tried to hold still as he stood by the door to the main hall, hand curling and uncurling around the dagger at his belt and wishing the increasingly familiar weight of a sword was there instead, but he coulds stop twitching. The sword he'd been borrowing for the past few days had been removed due to the ceremony that was about to take place, and while the dagger was more what he'd been used to before, he felt surprisingly naked without a true blade at his side and only an empty scabbard. It didn't help that he was wearing clothes that were completely new to him.

His usual thinner shirts had been replaced by the quilted material of a deep burgundy gambeson, the sleeves falling just a little past his wrists where fingerless gloves hugged his hands, and the front of which folded over to the right side of his chest and angled a little towards his middle when it reached the bottom, though you couldn't see it beneath the breastplate he wore. His dark green trousers were sturdy and a little more well fitting than he was used to, and they were tucked into the tops of his boots, though the greaves set over both made his boots look taller than they actually were.

There were straps across his chest holding his new pauldrons in place, the curling red symbol of the Krayt Dragon hammered into the metal, crafted by Jo herself as the defacto blacksmith of their Clan.

The only thing he was wearing that was from his old life was the deep red scarf around his neck, something he and the tailor had been able to compromise on, and it helped him feel more himself while the clothes did not.

"You're fidgeting."

He sighed and looked over at his old employer, now honorary aunt (and he would treasure the memory of her induction into the Clan for the rest of his days), their Clan's symbol embroidered on her left right shoulder. "I'm pretty sure you'd be doing the same if you were in my position."

"Well I ain't, and it's getting annoying," Peli said with a huff. "All you're doing is going out in front of hundreds of people to swear an oath to protect the Witch King for the rest of your days."

"Is that all?"

"Oh leave him alone," Jo said, giving his arm a supportive squeeze, her own right shoulder also sporting a pauldron with the Krayt Dragon curled around on it. "He's got a lot on his mind."

"Like having to actually do his job now?" Peli asked, making Cobb roll his eyes.

"That, and being close to the man he's been pining after for… how long was it now?"

"Too long."

Cobb ducked his head to hide his smirk in his scarf; he hadn't told them about the kiss yet, nor the other kisses and touches they'd stolen in their spare moments in the last few days, and he decided that they didn't need to know for a little bit longer.

"Would you stop?" he said instead.

"I don't know how you'll manage it," Jo said. "If I'd be that close to someone I had a crush on, I think I'd explode."

"Then I guess it's a good thing that it's just me and that you can tease me to my wit's end."

Peli scoffed. "At least now you're gone I'll be able to replace you with someone who knows how to do their job."

"Love you too, Peli," Cobb said, drawing a smile from the small lady.

"Your parents would have been so proud of you," she said, something that had a greater weight to it than it would have from Jo; she'd known them, even been part of their little rebellion though she'd be one of the youngest of the group, if only for a little while.

"Thanks," he said as he blinked away his tears. "They would've been proud of all of us." He felt Jo take his hand, and he took Peli's, giving them both a squeeze.

There was a knock on the door, and he quickly released them, allowing them to take a step back on either side of him before the door opened.

They had decided that, for the ceremony, they would enter through the side doors, and as he stepped into the room he could see it had been a good decision.

A crowd almost bigger than the one he'd seen on the day Mand'alor the Beloved had been set to the flame filled the stone clad space, a before unseen mixing of the noble and the lowborn. Children sat on their parents' shoulders, people had found boxes to stand on, some even hung off the pillars along the sides, all of them here to watch the ceremony. The crowd spilled out of the doors into the corridor and ward beyond, the light of the day shining through.

Some people tried to clap as he walked towards the raised dais at the front, but they were quickly hushed, and he finished the walk in a hushed, reverent silence. Din was just arriving at the steps from his entrance from the other side, his buir's Protector stood just behind him and the Armourer waiting beside the throne. He was wearing similar clothes to Cobb, but in black, grey and white, and with much more gilded embroidery and a cloak that fell down to his knees. His sword was at his belt, and a coif was tucked into the strap, though he doubted Din would use it.

As he approached, Din shifted to stand tall, but it was not him who stepped forwards to speak.

The Armourer, wearing full plate armour and furs, moved to stand before the throne, and they all turned to face her.

“We are here to bear witness to the dawning of a new Rule,” she said, her voice holding an authority that Cobb -- and doubtless all others in the room and beyond -- could almost feel in his bones. “Din Djarin, Prince of Mandalore, step forwards.”

Cobb watched with bated breath as the man moved past Saruk to kneel before the Armourer.

“Din Djarin,” she said, “you come before us now, and you stand before your ancestors and the line of Witch Kings of old. Their eyes are upon you as they are upon all of us, but it is to you that we, the Mando’ade, must turn; for judgement, for justice, for mercy, for protection, and for leadership.

“Do you vow upon your honour, and the honour of your ancestors, to govern and protect the people of this kingdom, no matter their birth or creed?”

“This, I do so vow,” Din replied, his words strong and certain.

“Do you vow upon your honour, and the honour of your ancestors, to exact your fair justice and mercy upon your judgement and the laws upon which this kingdom is built?"

“This, I do so vow.”

“Do you vow upon your honour, and the honour of your ancestors, to rule this kingdom of Mandalore as the next Witch King?”

“This, I do so vow, upon my honour and the honour of my ancestors.”

The Armourer paused, then looked up, over the people gathered, crammed, into the hall.

“People of Mandalore, before you comes a Prince to be crowned. You have heard his vows. Do you accept them?”

“Mhi vaabir!” they all said, almost as one, and it echoed out the door, until once more quiet came.

The Armourer waited for a few seconds more before turning and removing the cloth that had been covering the seat of the throne, revealing a gleaming new helm, the T opening of the visor reminiscent of the helms of old, and she picked it up to hold it aloft over Din’s head.

“As the Chief Armourer of Mandalore, I have heard your vows, I have heard our people’s acceptance, and I bestow upon you your Helm as a symbol of your right to rule,” she cried and lowered it onto his head. “Rise now, Din Djarin, as our newly crowned Witch King.”

With that she stepped back with a bow, and Din rose to his full height, his cloak billowing out behind him as he turned to face his people.

“Behold, the Witch King!” the Armourer announced, and everyone fell to their knees in deference to him, or deeply bowed their heads if they were unable to.

The new Witch King watched over them for a few moments before taking his rightful seat on the throne.

“Rise,” he said, and they rose up again. “Ser Cobb Vanth, step forwards.”

Taking a steadying breath, Cobb walked to the spot where Din had so recently knelt and pressed his knee to the ground as he bowed his head. “I am here, your majesty.”

“Do you, Ser Cobb Vanth of Mos Pelgo, knight of the realm and head of Clan Krayt Dragon, still accept the honour and responsibility of the role of protector?”

“I do, your majesty.”

The Witch King looked past him. “Do you, members of Clan Krayt Dragon, accept that Ser Cobb will be taking this honour and responsibility, and therefore be putting the realm’s safety above that of his own Clan?”

“We do, your majesty,” Peli and Jo replied in unison, and Cobb had to smother a smirk at the thought of Peli having to hold back on any comments she might have made in any other situation.

“Do you, Saruk Kerta, the once Protector of Mand’alor the Beloved, believe that Ser Cobb has the strength, honour and fortitude to become the next Protector?”

“I do, your majesty,” they replied.

The Witch King nodded and held out his hand. “Grant me your arm, Ser Cobb.”

Reaching up, Cobb grasped at the crook of Din’s elbow as Din did the same to his, and they locked eyes.

“Cobb Vanth, as Protector of the Witch King, you will accept the responsibility to remain by my side, in peace times and in war. You will accept the honour of advisor and guide, and the duty to serve me and to ensure I remain on the path to serve the Mando’ade. Knowing this, do you still accept the position of Protector?”

“Knowing the responsibility, the honour, and the duty, I accept,” Cobb replied just as they’d practiced. This next part he’d known he had no way to prepare for, and Saruk had been frustratingly vague beyond ‘brace yourself’.

“Then, Ser Cobb of Mos Pelgo, I accept you as my Protector.”

Cobb felt something then, something he would have to describe as fingers gently touching at the back of his hand, carefully brushing against his skin, then vanishing a moment later before reappearing again, only this time it wasn’t on his hand, but against his heart and… his consciousness? The touches to his mind made his thoughts freeze, like images captured and stored in bubbles, and then the touches rifled through them as the feeling around his heart steadily grew and grew until it enveloped it, holding it, and Cobb suddenly knew that whatever this feeling -- this magic -- was looking for, it had found it, and it was immensely pleased.

He heard Din elicit a quiet gasp above him as the grasp around his heart grew tight and warm, and Cobb felt his internal compass shift. Din Djarin was now his true north, and he knew he would be able to find him no matter where in the world he was. The fingers that had been rifling through his mind pulled away, his thoughts returning to their normal state of being, but it left a slight buzzing behind.

A light squeeze to his arm brought him back out of his head, and he released his grasp on the Witch King’s arm as they pulled away to stand.

“Rise, Protector Cobb Vanth, and accept your post,” he said, and Cobb rose to his feet. Before he could move to Din’s left, however, he was halted with a wave, and the Armourer stepped forwards with a sword in hand. She held it reverently out for Din to take, and he accepted it, holding it out on open palms to Cobb. “With this post, please accept this blade, as a symbol of your oath.”

The sword was a bastard sword, his preferred weapon of choice, the blade itself a blue steel that gleamed in the light, whispering of the many folds it took to craft it in the lines along the strong and fuller. The pommel was of varnished oak, the grip was woven strands of dyed red leather that made it look like scales, and the guard curved like a dragon’s claws. It was beautiful, and it was his.

“You are most gracious, your majesty,” he said with a bow and a quickly hidden smirk, taking it and sheathing it in his ready scabbard before moving to stand in his rightful place.

Looking out over the crowd, at the eyes of his friends, his Clan, and of strangers, he held himself tall and took a deep breath.

“All hail the Mand'alor!” he called, and he smiled as the people rejoiced with a single cry on their lips;

“Oya!”

——————————————————————

Mando'a Translations:

Buir -- mother/father/parent

Mando’ade -- children of Mandalore

Mhi vaabir -- we do

Mand’alor -- "sole ruler", leader of the Mandalorians

Oya! -- Literally: Let's hunt! Colloquially adapted as a positive and triumphant cheer,

Colour meanings:

Red (burgundy in this case) -- honouring a parent or leader

Dark green -- guarding or protecting

Black -- justice

Grey -- mourning a Lost Love or Family member

White -- Cin Vhetin; A fresh start (lit. White Field) or Purity

Epilogue

[olboypacman]

9. When Angela (Arella) Met Trigon (Trigon the Benevolent)

A/N: I don’t own Teen Titans.

She hisses in pain as the necessary mark is cut into the back of her neck.

“We’ll meet our lord Scath soon, sister Angela.” Says a fellow member of the church.

The sting of the cut is further agitated as the same member attends the fresh cut with hemostatic medicine.

“OK, I’m going to cauterize the marking, sister.” The member of the church grabs a finer-than-normal red-hot poker from a nearby fireplace. “Ready?”

“Yes, for the glory of Scath.” Responds Angela.

“For the glory of Scath.”

The verbal salute of The Church of Blood being her only warning, the member of the church brings the poker to the wound on her neck.

She hisses once more, barley betraying how painful the cauterization is.

This pain is nothing.

Nothing compared to what I’ve had to endure.

To say Angela Roth had hard life would be a massive understatement.

Born of an absent of father and a mother who passed away during delivery, she was born into being a ward of the state in Gotham City.

Ever since she can remember, she’s been passed around from one orphanage to the next (and a few adoptive parents).

Angela, for one reason or another, was the constant the target of physical and verbal abuse of the other orphans, the adults who were in charge at the orphanages and a few of the households she was adopted by.

As a result, she became completely numb to most things around her by the time she was a teenager.

She was withdrawn, and hesitant even trying to connect with other people.

At times it seemed as if she was merely a passenger in her own life.

Once, she in a rare showing of self-expression had gotten a 3rd eye chakra stone piercing on her forehead. Unfortunately for her, the family who’s care she was placed in at the time was a staunchly conservative one. The small body modification was met with swift, loud and violent reprisal from the family’s patriarch. Which left a scar on her forehead that hasn’t completely healed to this day.

This had been the last straw for the young Angela Roth.

She had run away, abandoning the system and familial structures that had failed her time and again.

But life on the streets of Gotham hadn’t been any kinder.

She’d managed to avoid the fate that befell most young girls lost to the streets, but she’d still managed to fall into drugs in order to cope with her despondent life. To fuel her habit she’d boosted, pick-pocketed and worked regrettably as a waitress at both The Stacked Deck and later a bartender at The Iceberg Lounge.

She’d once even ran afoul of the city’s resident billionaire, Bruce Wayne. She’d attempted to pick his pocket one time while working at The Iceberg Lounge. He’d recognized her from the lounge, almost immediately knowing what happened and confronted her. He’d thankfully allowed the dejected teenager to keep the spoils of her plunder and didn’t even turn her into the police or her boss on the condition he take his card.

“Should you need anything at all don’t hesitate to the number on card,” he said, as he handed to specialized black card with gold lettering to the young lady.*

Either out of pride, stupidity or what-not, she never bothered to called him.

She was eventually arrested on possession and tried to serve her time.

She wasn’t sure if it was out of happenstance or purposeful.

But she had crossed paths with Bruce Wayne once more.

It was by his petitioning the court that prevented her from doing significant prison time and getting the necessary help to kick her drug habit.

There she met a charismatic man on the staff named Abel.

Despite being only a C.O, Abel had the respect and admiration of staff and inmate alike.

His friendly brown eyes and inviting smile were a constant source of comfort during this time for her.

To her, he was like the big brother or father figure she’d been waiting for her entire life.

He’d coaxed her out of her shell.

She even credited him for helping her eventually rid herself of her addiction.

During the closing weeks and days of her sentence, Abel had propositioned her to join him.

“Angela, will you join others like herself; those brothers and sisters cast aside because they fail to meet the plastic expectations of this society. Will you join me in The Church of Blood?” He asked emphatically.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Sister?” Asked the member of the church. “The mark is set, as is everything else. Are you prepared to meet our lord?”

“Yes.” She replied simply, throwing her hair behind her.

The short walk to the alter did little to expel the nervous energy within Angela. Her eyes met Abel’s, which is enough to quell most of the nerves within her. She joins him at the candle-beleaguered alter just in front of him.

He’s wearing regal red robes befitting of the archbishop of a church. The robe has a white cross going across the torso, the ‘t’ of which is situated at the chest. He also has a silver necklace, with a black and red medallion at the end. The red of the medallion belonging to stylized red ‘S’ at its center. The remaining members of the church are dressed similarly colored robes with the with cross and no necklaces. She herself is dressed in a royal blue cloak, with a long sleeveless black dress with no designs or markings. Her assorted brothers and sisters quietly chanting.

“The mark, Sister Angela. Show me.” Requests Abel.

She obliges, turning her back to him and parting her hair behind her neck.

“Perfect,” he says simply. He places his hands on the shoulders of Angela. “Sister, at my side.”

He puts his hands together chanting in rhythm with the fellow members of the church.

“Veniet dominus noster fructum. Odoretur sacrificium nostrum, ut gemma forte Siredus. Veniet dominus noster fructum. Odoretur sacrificium nostrum, ut gemma forte Siredus.”** They chant.

Abel’s voice then booms above the rest of his brothers and sisters.

“Veniet dominus noster fructum! Odoretur sacrificium nostrum, ut gemma forte Siredus!”

At once a strong wind propels threw the church to the alter, blowing out all the candles. As fast as they went out, they reignited ten times as hot and bright as they were before. The flames have taken on a bright red hue. The fires of the candles leave the wicks, swirling at middle of the alter right in front of Abel and Angela.

As if one had a mind of its own, an ember from the cyclone of fire hurls itself at Angela. She collapses, as she’s embedded in a hue matching the flaming cyclone. Her ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ continue to chant, completely oblivious to her plight. The ember burns her intensely, but miraculously leaves her clothes, hair and skin unmarked. Eventually the glow of the flames begins to recede to the stylized ‘S’ carved in the back of her neck, the pain fading with it.

Her brothers and sisters have stopped chanting.

As Angela tries to find her footing, the flaming cyclone begins to come to a stop. They then begin to shape and couture into the shape of being. The fires are then expelled as it appears the being behind the expels the flames from its body, revealing the large figure of what’s supposed to be their lord. He’s dressed head-to-toe in black, his angry red arms revealed by short sleeves of his top. They immediately go to his chest as he folds them. But what Angela takes notice of first is his eyes. His cold black sclera, and dimly glowing iris’ take in his surroundings and seem to give off an air of disappointment. His brows are creased seemingly in the same disappointment in his eyes, the crease continuing to his flat wide nose. She also notices his face, which is framed by shoulder length white hair, is as red as folded arms. His black lips are turned in a snarl, revealing what appears to be sharp looking fangs.

His eyes meet hers, and a look of shock and recognition hit his face. It returns to a neutral expression as he proclaims loudly: “Do you people honestly have nothing better to do!”

Murmurs among the members of the church begin to overtake the room.

“Lord Scath!” Screams Abel, “it is with great reverence I welcome you to the current congregation of the Church of Blood.” He gestures to Angela, “We offer this young lady here as tribute for you, Lord Scath.”

“Tribute…?” Exclaims Angela. She’s immediately seized by both wrists by members of the church. “Release me! Now!” She yelled futilely struggling against her now captors.

“Where’s the current Brother Blood?” Asks he who was identified as Scath.

“Sebastian’s abandoned us. He’s taken to training and recruiting young metahumans for his purposes some time ago. For all intents and purposes, I’m the defacto leader of the church.”

Scath once more turns his vison to Angela. “This young lady, who is she?”

“She’s an unremarkable,” says Abel. The sting of his words piercing Angela, as his looks at her with new found contempt. “Some drug addled urchin we cleaned up for you, my lord. She’s yours to sire…”

“Release her.” Interrupts Scath. “Release her, now.” He commands, as Angela continues to struggle against her captors.

Angela’s former ‘brothers’ seem stupefied at being addressed by their lord, looking between Scath and Abel for some kind of confirmation from the two.

“Fine,” mutters Scath. Angela’s two captors are then enveloped in a black aura and lifted into the air by some unseen force. The aura begins to brighten as the men start to scream in pain, the screams intensifying the brighter the aura glows. The auras reach a sun-like brightness, all present covering their eyes from the light.

Theirs screams have stopped. And when her eyes are uncovered all traces of the two members of the church are gone.

And she can’t help but realize the vague smell of burnt meat on her nostrils.

“You,” he addresses Angela, “behind me, now!”

Not wishing to share the fate of her ‘brothers’, she complies right away. “Please don’t kill me,” she whispers in a small voice.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

“Lord Scath! There’s no need to spare this woman the dignity. Do with her what you will, so the prophecy may commence.” Says Abel.

Scath sighs audibly. “I’m guessing you were the current Brother Blood’s understudy?” Replied Scath.

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?” Said able, irritably.

“The Bloods haven’t changed much through the generations.”

“Don’t talk of that fool to me. I am the archbishop of the church! I will lead our brothers and sisters in these most trying times!”

Scath eyeballs Abel; seemingly unimpressed by what he sees, he replies: “You are more like your masters than realize. Taking in the naive and innocent, using them for your own purposes. And discarding them the moment it becomes convenient. You are more like your masters than you realize.”

Abel doesn’t reply to being dressed down by the demon lord.

“The young lady and I will be taking our leave now.” Scath’s iris’s glow briefly. “Unless anyone has any objections?” He says eyeballing everyone else at alter.

It seems any objections are wisely held back.

“Great,” says Scath, “young lady, let’s get out here.”

Angela makes her way to Scath’s side, readying to leave. The assorted members of the church part as the couple makes their way through.

“Do you have anything you’d like to take with you? I highly doubt we’ll be making a return here.” Scath addressed Angela.

“Um...yes my lord. I’ll lead you to my quarters.”

“You know don’t have to address me so formally, um. I’m sorry, young lady. What is your name?”

“Angela, lord Scath. Angela Roth.”

“Trigon.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name, it’s Trigon. Scath is more like a family name, or to be more precise, the name of my clan. And please, you  don’t have to  call me ‘lord.’ I haven’t been a lord in very long time.”

A tense silence sits between the pair, as Angela packs her belongings.

“So,” begins Trigon, “this going to be a little awkward, but do you know what that ritual was for Angela?”

“I was told it was to summon you,” she begins as she continues to pack, “ your summoning was to strengthen the faith of the members of the church and to quell any nonbelief that may have existed.” She laughs sullenly to herself as she shakes her head. She places her gaze to Trigon. “I guess the latter was achieved. I was to be you emissary, which was why I branded with your mark.” She turns around, parting her hair relevealing the mark of Scath on the back of her neck. “Though you’re not exactly what I was told you’d look like.”

“Oh, I’ll have you know I’m quite the looker, at least mother says so.” Replies Trigon, indignantly.

“I didn’t say you weren’t handsome, lord…I mean Trigon.” She said in small voice blushing, looking away from him. “Wait… the ritual. Why did you ask me about it?”

Trigon begins to laugh awkwardly as he scratches his cheek. “Well it’s pretty convenient you find me handsome, ‘cause that ritual kind of, sort of made us,” he mumbles the remaining statement, trialing off.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

He mumbles one more time.

“Could you please speak up!?”

“We’re married now. There, satisfied?”

“So now what? You drag me to hell live out the rest of my life in wedded bliss?” Snaps a despondent Angela.

“No that’d be a bad idea. I’d have to hear from Neron and Augustus about…” Trigon trails off once more. “Actually, that’s not important. What’s important is that you now fall under my protection. I won’t hold this union over your head, but you must know; you are forever bound to me. That mark on your neck ensures that.”

Angela’s eyes begin to water as what Trigon said begins to take hold and what this means begins to make itself clear.

Wife to some kind of demon lord of indiscriminate origin. I guess it’s a step-up from emissary. She laments bitterly. What will become of me? Will he incinerate me like my brothers who tried to hold me down at the alter? Is he benevolent? He’s shown me kindness thus far.

Angela begins to openly weep, crossing her arms over her chest; the gesture bringing her very little comfort.

Trigon closes the distance between them. He cups her cheek, tilting her face up wiping the tears from her cheek. His caress is gentler than would expect from someone his size. She nuzzles into his touch, it oddly bringing her comfort.

“Did they do this to you?” He asks running his other hand over the scar on her forehead.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I can heal…”

“Just get me out of here, Trigon!” She interrupts. “I’m just ready for this day to be over.”

“Okay.” He says calmly. “Okay. Just finish packing and I’ll take you…some place.”

He backs away from her, walking to a wall leaning on it as Angela finishes getting her things in order.

His eyes go to a black card on the floor; its edges rounded and crinkled. It’s clearly seen better days. He leaves his perch on the wall going straight for the card. He takes it off the ground, reading the stylized gold letters; his eyes shimmering in recognition.

“Alright, got I’ve everything important here. Oh, that old thing.”

“Do you know, Bruce?”

“Not really. He did a few favors for me, for what I’ll never know. I didn’t deserve his consideration. You heard Abel, I’m an unremarkable. I my have even be less than that. He gave me that card, telling me if I ever needed anything to call him. There’s more than a few times I’ve held that card in my hand, wondering if I made the right decision not calling him.” She sighs. “Do you know him? I can’t imagine so. I mean what would a demon lord need with an acquaintance like him anyway?”

“You’d honestly be surprised, my dear.”

His armored footsteps thump loudly as he makes his approach.

“It’s as you said Lord Augustus.” Abel addressed. “He refused to sire the gem on the spot. You’re sure he’ll mate the woman eventually?”

“I’m sure,” he cracks a smirk, “I sent you in her direction for a reason. There’s something about her he won’t be able to resist. My dear brother is hopelessly predictable, but that’s not a concern right now. I’m more than prepared for the long game. What concerns me now is your devotion to the cause and your congregation’s loyalty; it still lies with Trigon even though he’s long since abandoned the church. I’m not up to entertaining reconditioning. Luckily I’m able to quell these concerns in one swing.” Augustus stretches one arm in front of, his open palm facing the ceiling. A black orb manifests itself, eventually forming the shape of sword. He then grasps the weapon by the hilt, offering it to Abel. “Show me your devotion Abel. Your lord demands blood. The blood of those fool enough to place their faith in Trigon.”

Abel takes the blade offered to him, “For the glory of Augustus.”

*I might make a one shot outlining this interaction. I guess it depends on the reaction to this.

**Translated from latin: Come forth our lord. Accept of our offering, so the gem maybe sired.

Read this and more at: https://www.fanfiction.net/~olboypacman