#shard: mnemosyne

[ainyan]

The Last Memory

(This story can also be found on Ao3 for those who prefer.)

It was bitterly cold, the snow swirling in the air, but he did not feel it. Such mundane concerns like temperature and weather did not concern him; the ice did not touch him, and he felt no hint of the frigid wind. The thick coat that covered this body was only for show; neither it nor he needed it now; had not for some time - but one mustn’t upset the natives by wandering around in inappropriate clothing.

How tedious. Life had been much easier when everyone had worn the same thing, had been the same race, had wanted the same goal.

This parody of existence these creatures called living now was messy and fleeting and horribly insulting. But it is all he had to work with.

For now.

Pushing aside his dark thoughts, he paused on the graveled path leading up to the village before him, studying its wooden walls with disgust. No more the soaring towers of Amaurot; no more the glorious spires, the glass and steel etchings, the flowing lines and sleek curves. These creatures - these “men” - had barely discovered how to work iron again, much less build anything that wasn’t strictly functional.

But there was something behind those rough-hewn walls drawing him onwards; he’d been feeling the pull and tug for days now, forcing him ever northwards until he’d reached this tiny hamlet tucked deep into the snow-shrouded woods of the northern wilderness.

Another of his lost brethren, perhaps. So far he’d managed to find nine of the thirteen and restore their memories to those shattered, broken souls, but four still eluded him. It was possible - nay, probable - that another shard lay within those walls.

Though he was eager to be done with this damnable duty, it would ill-suit his current form to go bursting through those gates and causing a ruckus. As much as it pained him to admit it, he had a role to play, and it would not do to have the natives - or whatever they were - discover that there were forces so much more powerful than their insignificant selves in their midst.

Not until they’d finalized their plans to undo what that wretched woman had done.

So he took his time, striding up the path, straight backed, square shouldered, just another traveler like those who infrequently wound their way along the dirt-and-gravel paths that traced the vast distances between the scattered villages and hamlets that dotted the northern tundra. As he approached the gates, he could hear a muffled shout - directed not at him, but at the guard who stood within the walls, and one of the great doors ponderously swung open.

Trusting fools.

He stepped across the threshold and onto the main thoroughfare for the hamlet, one that ran directly from this gate to the one on the other side of town. In the distance, he could see what passed for a town square, the shingled buildings rising around it, short and squat and nothing like the magnificent edifices of a bygone era. Trying to ignore the twinge in his heart, he instead turned to face the guard who approached him.

And he knew why he’d come.

Her eyes should have been green - a bright, emerald green with rims of brilliant platinum, their flowering irises shaded with hints of forest green and tawny gold - not such a pedestrian shade of cornflower blue. Her hair should never have been the bland color of wheat, without a hint of individuality - rarely had her hair been so much as its original raven hue; instead, always an ever-changing rainbow based on her whims.

Even her skin was wrong - sunkissed rose now, rather than the rich color of walnuts, as smooth as the finest silk woven from her precious bombicae. Tall for one of the creatures that called themselves a ‘hyur’, she was nevertheless significantly shorter than she’d once been, her body slimmer, less lushly curved beneath the furs and leathers of her clothing.

Wrong. She was all wrong. This was all wrong.

Even her soul was all wrong.

That it was hers, he had no doubt. Faint and dull like any of the sundered, it was still a thousand times brighter than those of the creatures who inhabited the world that had been theirs. Only a few shades of blue rose from within to shimmer below her skin: sapphire and cobalt and lapis lazuli. Less the oceanic tides that had once surged with vigor and more an insipid pond like one of the ornamental water fixtures that had graced the city parks.

Still. It was hers. Mnemosyne.

She smiled at him, her eyes meeting his with a frank curiosity as she crossed her arms and leaned back on one heel. He could sense her confusion and knew that she felt that same tug and pull - so much stronger now in such close proximity - that had drawn him all this way. Unlike him, however, she had no idea what it meant. No idea what connection it portended, a connection that would last until the last star burned out and the universe collapsed upon itself. One that would draw their souls together again and again and again, as it had for countless millennia before. “Welcome, stranger.”

Soft, breathy, lilted. In no way the powerful, rich, sinfully deep voice that used to tease him to a fever pitch, that would cut across the floor of the Convocation chamber and slice her opponents to shreds without a single blow, that would lift in song - out-of-tune, but still - when she showered or would rise in ecstasy as he drove her up and over the edge again and again.

“Greetings,” he said, trying his best to modulate his tone - he’d been told that even at his most pleasant, he often came across as supercilious. By the flicker in her eyes, he gathered he’d once more failed. As her expression lost some of its cheerful welcome, his hand slid into his pocket, clenched around a stone.

The rest he carried in a pouch beneath his jacket, but this one - this one he couldn’t bear to place with the others.

It never should have been made. Lahabrea and Elidibus would be appalled if they knew he’d gone behind their backs and created a stone for her as well as the missing ten members of the Convocation, but he didn’t care. She was a hope he could not give up.

And now she was here. He had only to draw out the stone, to channel his magicks through it, and she would remember.

She would be.

“What brings you to Hearthward?” she was asking, her eyes glinting suspiciously as they flicked down towards the hand he’d slid into his pocket, her own fingers skimming surreptitiously towards the sword dangling at her side. “Don’t get many strangers around here.”

His mind raced, considering ramifications even as he answered in an off-hand tone, offering a ready-made excuse for his presence. “I’m scouting ahead; the rest of my party is a few days behind, but I wanted to make certain nothing had changed on our maps.”

Those pale blue eyes flickered over him, and he knew she was seeing his well-worn gear - similar to hers, leather and hide and fur, sturdy and ugly, with a heavy, primal scent that still offended his nose after all of these years. The pack on his back was filled with all manner of tools he had no idea how to use, but was certain the malformed soul that had once worn this body had. He’d learned enough during the conversation he’d struck up with the creature in the last town, before luring him out and shedding his body of its burden, to take it for his own.

“I see,” she said, nodding slowly as her hand fell away from her sword, and he knew she’d accepted his response. “Very well. If you have any need of resupply or wish to take an evening’s respite, the inn,” and she pointed to the largest building in town, just off the square, “and the general store,” and that was the smaller building squatting in the inn’s shadow, “are there, and open for another several marks of the candle.”

Just a simple spell, a shove really, to release the memories, the personality, the person within the stone, to restore her to herself. To restore a little balance to a world gone mad.

A little equilibrium to himself.

Even as his fingers closed around the amber-colored stone, her eyes shifted past him and, for a brief second, her eyes lit up. He knew that look; he’d seen it directed at himself. At Hythlodaeus.

He turned.

The hyur was tall and slim, dressed as they were. His hair was pale blond, his eyes a rich chestnut brown. His smile was quick and ready as he greeted the guard, and in it, the visitor could read his interest, his desire. A quick glance back at her showed him the same; no affection - not beyond the bounds of friendship, not yet, but an attraction. 

Jealousy, hot and angry, curled in his belly, and he could feel his aether rise in his breast, already forming the spell that would smite this misborn upstart into his component pieces, motes too small to see with the naked eye.

“Excuse me,” she said, breaking his concentration. “Is there aught else you needed?” He turned to meet her eyes, and she stared up at him, her smile faltering. “Forgive me, good sir, but… have you been here before? I would swear I know you from somewhere.”

Her fingers raised unbidden to brush between her breasts, across that point from which heart and soul sprang, that center of self.

That center that bound them together through eternity and beyond.

One little twist of his magic.

And yet.

She had stood in opposition of the Plan. She’d turned away from him, from them, refusing to give her aid to summon their lord Zodiark, to bring forth the only being which could restore balance to the world. She’d left him, left Hythlodaeus, left the Convocation and their people to walk amongst these- these twisted, stunted creatures, these creations with their pallid, insipid souls. To save them, at the cost of them.

And if he restored her… if he restored her, she would do the same. She would never espouse what they were doing now, never agree with the tentative plans Lahabrea had begun to make to rejoin the fourteen shards of their shattered star.

He could have her back, but she would never be his again. And their disagreement would be an ache in his breast from now until eternity ended.

“No,” he said after an uncomfortable stretch of moments, during which both hyurs had stared at him, perplexed. “No, I have not been here before. I’m afraid we have never met.” He forced his lips into a smile, and deliberately slid his eyes towards the man. “A pity, I think.”

Her brow furrowed and the man stiffened. “Indeed,” she said slowly. “If that is all, then I bid you a good day. Should you have need of aught else, simply see me, or anyone within the village, and we shall be happy to help you.” Her smile was quick and bright - almost too bright; the bond was beginning to pull at her, draw her in. Draw her to him.

He bowed slightly, and her eyes widened, then crinkled in amusement. Such a familiar expression; such a familiar pang in his breast. As he turned to walk away, he could feel her eyes on his back, then felt her regard slip away. A few more steps, then he turned back.

She was staring up at the pale-haired hyur, and he was gazing back. They did not speak, but there was a comfortable familiarity that spoke of friendship, of comradeship. He could read the tentative courtship in their stances; the way that they angled themselves towards each other, the way the man’s fingers curled, as if to keep himself from touching her. The way she twisted her fingers together for much the same reason.

The bond pulsed and pulled in his breast, tugging him back to her. Now that he had found her, he would never lose her again, not as long as their souls remained tied together by fate and destiny and a love too profound to ever be defined by words.

And he knew she could feel it too. Even as the man began to speak, her head turned back towards the visitor and met his eyes - and he could see her puzzled confusion, her helpless interest. The man faltered, frowning, then also turned to stare at him, eyes darkening with jealousy.

He took a step back. She took a step toward.

This would not do.

He could not break the bond. Would not break the bond. To do so would jeopardize her chances of ever finding fulfillment, the snapped thread of their futures together forever tripping her up. As frustrated and unhappy as he was; as disgusted as this world made him, he would not wish such misery upon anyone - especially her.

But perhaps…

He forced himself to turn away again, to begin striding towards the square. He heard a deep, rich voice rise in question, and felt her falter, heard her voice answer, anxious and confused. He waited until he was certain her attention had been diverted once more, then turned back.

The man had a hand on her arm, and his expression was one of distress and concern; that told him all he needed to know. Despite his jealousy, his first thought was her and her wellbeing. This man could never give her everything that he could - and the one thing he could not give that she needed more than anything.

Support.

Together, they would be at odds. She would remember the world they had lost, would once again feel her impotence and helplessness to aid those who had once looked to her for succor. She would blame him for the death of their beloved Hythlodaeus, just as she had before, and she would be no more likely to stay now than she had then. He would lose her again and again, and she would lose him again and again, and through their bond, they would suffer.

Apart - she would live her life, die her death, a thousand, thousand times. She would love, she would lose, she would weep and she would laugh, and she would never remember the love they had shared within their perfect paradise. And he… he would never forget.

He took a breath.

He let it out.

He reached into himself, into his limitless wellspring of aether, and he crafted a spell, a breaking, a rebinding. He tore free their bond from his own soul, snapped the threads of their future with an almost audible snap. He felt the pain of it sing through his body, saw her convulse as the loss of it struck her as well. Even as the other hyur caught at her, calling her name, he threw the spell at him.

It struck home, it sank in; it pulsed, he convulsed - and then it settled, braiding itself indelibly into his soul. The pair leaned drunkenly on each other, disoriented and confused. He waited with baited breath to see if his spell had done its work.

The woman looked up. The man looked down.

Their eyes met. Widened.

Then their mouths met. The bond would not push them into love; not immediately, but it would break down the barriers formed by shyness, by reticence, by the nagging feeling of waiting that would have kept her from forming any such bonds at all.

He did not wait to see what came of it. Already the ache of it was fading, and nothing pulled him here any longer. Head clear, heart clear, he strode off, bypassing the inn, the store, for the gate on the other side of the wall.

And when he passed through it, he dismissed it from his mind, and relegated her to where she belonged.

To memory.

[tallbluelady]

1. What memory would your OC rather just forget?

Okay okay. @hermits-hovel has an ancient OC of Mnemosyne who is in charge of memory crystals (such as the ones the Convocation ->Ascians keep). In his lore, the memory holder can no longer recall them as they are in the Crystal now.

Minthe, in general, is against doing this. She understands that Mnemosyne’s archive is useful and wouldn’t stop him from doing it, but part of what makes her and Ariadne’s relationship crumble is that Ari is asking him to take her memories away for safe keeping instead of actually facing them and ordering them in her mind. So you would never expect her to ask Mnemo to do this, right?

Weeeeeellllll… One night, Daedalus tells Minthe about Zodiark, far before the Final Days. Basically, who’s involved and what the summoning entails. And that it is inevitable. Minthe is brought to such a seething rage at Hades that she can hardly stand to think of him, while Daedalus is defending him. She tells Daedalus to "never speak of this conversation again" and storms out to get it removed by Mnemosyne. She returns calm but depressed with a handwritten note that tells Daedalus to not talk about Zodiark in any meaningful way so they can continue to speak to Hades (I wish I knew what that note says lol). He’s smart enough to do so and the three of them continue having a cordial relationship until the Convocation releases its plan for Zodiark.

Annnnd in a fun twist of events, Miranda gets a hold of this memory crystal and vows to kill Emet-Selch for pulling Daedalus into it!

Thanks for the ask!

[disciple-of-frost]

Okay so. Since I headcanon that the original Golbez was a Shard of Azem, in my case Ishita's unsundered self Mnemosyne, I did a simple chracter creator brainstorm for what I think he would look like under his armor.

Since Mnemosyne had heterochromia, one blue eye one green, all of her shards have either; both blue, both green, or one blue one green like her.

[children-of-the-muse]

Seems this fandom goes nuts for pretty boys so here's one of our Tavs. We're sick right now so this is probably gonna be nonsensical rambling but his name is Mnason, surname of Ward, he's a Knowledge Domain cleric of Mystra who is also a wizard (what better way to prove his devotion to the Weavemistress than by studying and practising Her Art as best he can?), and he serves as the head librarian to a prestigious tower archive of our own creation in Baldur's Gate called the Tower of Shattered Glass, well known for its sizable collection of memory shards. His twin sister Mnemosyne is the Tower's Archivist and its Keeper. The Tower does have other devotees as well, fellow clerics of Mystra and of Oghma. His father is a human bard and worshipper of Oghma; he plays the flute. His mother is a high elf; she serves as High Priestess to Mystra's church. [I might make a separate post to toss his family's headshots in.]

Mnason and his sister were born prematurely and he was particularly sick; he should've died soon after birth, but his mother begged for a miracle, and so Mystra in all Her benevolence (lol) granted a favour by saving Mnason's life. He's being sustained by Her, by the Weave itself, so this also makes him technically a sorcerer, but he is unaware of this because his innate magic is kept in check by the fact that it's kind of The Only Thing Keeping Him Alive and so there isn't exactly a surplus of it to burst out of him at random moments.

He genuinely Was Not Supposed To Be Here if not for the mind flayer abduction and is trying desperately to get back to where he's needed while also finding a cure, but as you all know, Shit Happens. Winds up falling deep, deep, deeply in love with Gale and thus having his faith challenged and his entire life turned upside down as he grapples with everything he's ever known about Mystra, and everything he's learned about her now through his journey with Gale.

[sayonaramidnight]

What if Helvi had met a recreation of Mnemosyne during her time in Amaurot?...

Day 3 - Shard

[squippers]

Greek mythology lore dump from start to Aphrodite.

First, there was nothing, named "Chaos". But it was too boring and so "Gaia" (the Earth), "Tartarus" (the underworld) and other gods came to fruition.

Gaia was so fertile that she had primordial children without having a partner. Their names were Uranus, the god of the sky, and Pontus, the god of the ocean. [...]

Incest is a very repetetive occurance in greek mythology, so don't be so surprised when I say that Gaia and her son, Uranus made the Titans.

The Titans included Cronus, Oceanus, Tethys, Rhea, Hyperion, Theia, Cruis, Themis, Coeus, Mnemosyne, Iapetus, Phoebe, the Cyclopes, and the Hecatonchires.

Uranus was a horrible father to these children, he often abused them.

His youngest children; the Cyclopes and the Hecatonchires made him feel the most disgust, thus he locked them away to Tartarus (the underworld). Both of these children were aesthetically hideous, physically challenged creatures.

The Titans and their children.

Mother Earth, Gaia finally had enough of his partner and son's abusiveness and decided to take action.

From her own body, she plucked a shard of flint and made a sickle. With this sickle the only thing she wanted to reap was Uranus' testicles. Only, she didn't want to do it herself. She asked all of her sons if they would be willing to do the task. None of them were. None except Cronus. He knew he wasnt strong enough against his father and so he ambused him instead of directly cronfronting him.

Completing the castration, the testes fell onto the ground (Gaia), new gods sprouted, and from those gods came the first kind of humans. Disgusted, Cronus tossed his father's genitals into the ocean (Pontus) and the sea whipped up extreme seafoam. From this was born Aphrodite, (goddess of spiritual love).

[eorzea80]

So I'm toying with some anti-lore crud...

I'm thinking about a timeline where Thom Grimaline and Pryne Caris are both Azem. How would that work?

It wouldn't, unless someone who cared about them interceded on their behalf. Enter Emet-Selch/Hades. Pryne, who in my headcanon is Mnemosyne, becomes Azem. They are close to another Amaurotian named Calliope, aka. G'thoma Tia, aka. Thom Grimalline.

That being said, Mnemosyne has been close to Hades and Hythlodaeus for longer. They both love Mnemosyne and would do anything to keep them safe. Enter The Final Days. Pryne loves Emet-Selch, but they also love Calliope. Hythlodaeus sacrifices himself to see all of them live. When the second culling happens, Emet cannot bring himself to see Mnemosyne cast themselves on the pyre with Calliope. Emet intercedes on Mnemosyne's behalf. Calliope dies in the Zodiark culling, but instead of his soul joining with the primal, Emet lends a shard of Calliope to the soul of Azem. He allows Mnemosyne to have everything they ever wanted. Their lover, close as skin, can be with them forever.

"Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this enough to make you love me?"

Mnemosyne's voice turns hard as glass. "It is not, Hades."

In later days, Pryne feels Thom's presence. Because Emet's intervention, Calliope is reborn. It's only after Thom disappears in The Source that she finally appreciates Emet's efforts. Calliope is always with her, and in a way, Emet is always with her, as well.

Which makes losing them both a third time...

[homestuck-human-generator]

Name: Miss Paul Ionesco Color: Saddle Brown #8b4513 Symbol: skaia Strife Specibus: clubkind Handle: tenderGallipot Animal: skink Pronouns: she/her Age: 15 Birthday: 190th day of the year Sexuality: sapphic Interests: herbalism and tether car Dream Moon: derse Classpect: Thief of Heart Land: Land of Shards and Tombs, a busy place, with strange Warren's Girdled Lizard consorts. It is a place full of lava and hands reaching from the ground. Mnemosyne wants to play. Instrument: cervelat

[fandom-space-princess]

The Game of Us

Rating: T (gen, no warnings)

Chapter 5: Michael

“Well, First of Heaven?” Death raises his eyebrows, mouth twisting into a subtle smile. “Still your Father’s creature?”

Read below the cut, or on AO3

************************************

Death awaits him at the surface.

“It seems my confidence in your powers of persuasion was justified.” From his perch on the wall beyond the entrance to the temple, the Horseman appraises Michael as he ascends the stairs and regains level ground. “The lightbearer has a long path ahead of him still, if he’s to find what he seeks. But that’s his business.”

He stands, leaning his weight atop a cane tipped with tarnished silver. Michael can see him clearly, now, the form he has taken solid and familiar as a well-worn glove. Tall and gaunt, attired chin to heel in the sable vestments of an undertaker. He beckons, and Michael falls into step at his side.

“And, perhaps, yours as well,” he amends. “What will you do, viceroy, with no title and no sovereign to serve? I suspect you will find the capacity in which Heaven requires you quite unlike what you have come to expect.” Michael is silent, but his companion doesn’t appear to expect an answer in any case.

As suddenly as it had begun, their path ends. They find themselves in the center of a garden.

The flora here is the same rich black as every other feature of this landscape, and yet as Michael studies it, it seems to hold more. Colors that creep into the ultraviolet, hues without names in any human tongue. The surroundings no longer reflect light back to him, he realizes. His form has shifted again; he no longer wears his brother’s face.

He wonders what he looks like now.

As if sensing his thoughts (and perhaps he can, Michael muses), Death inclines his head and smiles. “It is time. You have a decision to make. And I believe you’ll find that you know how to make it.”

In the center of the garden two springs of water await. A dais has been built up around them, and Michael steps up onto the platform to peer down into the depths.

To his left, murky water swirls ponderous and thick. The surface swallows greedily such light as there is, and beyond a muddy outline he casts no reflection in it. Were I to touch it, he thinks, would it pull me in too?

“Ameles potamos,” the quiet voice from behind him supplies. A steady hand rests on his shoulder. “Lethe. The wellspring of unmindfulness, river of forgetting. That is an option, lad, should you truly wish it. You may leave the sting of betrayal behind you, the bloodshed you’ve seen. Go on as you always have. However...” His posture shifts minutely, frame adjusting to face the pool’s twin. “... there’s always the alternative.”

Michael twists to face the other pool.

Oh. I remember.

Lucifer’s form, his first form, had been the embodiment of dawn, diamond-bright and burning. Plants bloomed as he passed, when the Earth was new; his brother had shone as brilliantly as the sun. But that was Lucifer’s identity. Examining his reflection now, relief and a kind of unfamiliar contentment take root and blossom in Michael’s grace.

Here at the end of the path, he no longer needs to define himself by Lucifer, or by Chuck, or even by Adam.

Michael’s reflection stares back at him out of the only face that has ever been his, and his alone. Eyes the deep honey-gold of sunlight in amber. Forehead high, cheekbones broad and fine. A face made for both the solemnity of duty, and the easy laughter of quiet joy. His own first shape: the form he had taken to walk with Lucifer among the first humans, dusk to his brother’s dawn. Adam and Eve reaching out to him, curious, taking his own strong brown hands in theirs, so much closer to them in likeness—if not in spirit—than his shining twin.

A gleam of grey catches his eye, and he sighs in recognition. There you are.

Nestled into his hair is a circlet of steel, polished and flashing like a beacon in the pool. He reaches up to touch it, running the tips of his fingers over it delicately.

“Your other choice,” Death interjects, shaking him loose from his ruminations. “The river of memory, sacred Mnemosyne. Keep your pain, and what it has taught you. Remember, hurt, learn. And become someone new.”

Michael glances back, once, at the hypnotic roil of Lethe. He closes his eyes. Reaches into that clawing, bleeding place inside himself that he knows will never truly be unbroken. His Father, his family, the Cage; abandonment, absolution, fear and destitution and reclamation and loss. All of this tangles inside his grace, a shard-edged ache. He reaches for it, and he grasps it as tightly as he can. Hefts the weight of it. Allows himself to feel it all.

Then he exhales. Opens his eyes.

“Well, First of Heaven?” Death raises his eyebrows, mouth twisting into a subtle smile. “Still your Father’s creature?”

The archangel Michael smiles back. Raises his hands to his head, pulls the crown he wears free of twining umber curls. Sets it at his feet. It glimmers for a moment, steely against the blackness, then dissolves away into nothing.

“No,” he says softly, kneeling at the edge of the sparkling clear waters of memory. “I don’t think I am.”

“What, then?”

He dips one hand into the water, and brings it to his face.

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

************************************

Epilogue:

Saturday marks the fourth day in a row of wind and frigid rain. Sodden earth clings to Adam’s feet, trails in muddy footprints past the entryway to his apartment. He shakes off his boots beside the front door. Flicks away the crinkling orange leaves that stick to the hem of his pants. The trees had turned early this year, a riot of red and ochre like a sunrise outside the exterior door to his apartment complex each morning for weeks now. But the last of the leaves are rapidly coming down under the weight of the constant drizzle, and he brushes them away with fingers numb at the tips.

He hasn’t been properly warm in days. Or—if he’s being honest with himself—since last November.

Shrugging off his jacket over the back of a chair, he heads for the bathroom.

He’s in the midst of rinsing his hair, idling in the steam in an attempt to will warmth and feeling back into his hands, when the building shudders around him.

An earthquake? In Minnesota?

He lurches forward, flails at the handle to turn the water off. The shaking builds rapidly, and he drops to the ground and braces himself against the wall. Then there is a resounding crack like breaking glass, loud enough that he slaps his hands over his ears, wincing. Whatever it is seems to have been the apex of the disturbance. The shaking abruptly ceases, and in the quiet that follows he can hear dogs barking and car alarms blaring up and down the length of the block.

He winds a towel around his waist, and opens the door to the bathroom. Strides out into his living room, intending to investigate the source of the disturbance, and pulls up short. Sprawled out across his floor is a man Adam has never seen before.

The stranger raises his head, and meets his eyes.

“Adam,” he rasps. His eyelids flutter. Adam takes one halting step toward him, two—

—then Michael slumps back, unconscious, and Adam is alone with his questions.

************************************

(Chapter notes:

If you're still here, I love you. Thank you for reading. <3

This fic was created and published as part of tumblr's SPN Archangel Week 2021 event. You have no idea how happy it makes me that, even now, there are so many people who care as much about these characters and their stories as I do. Special thanks to the people in the Archangels discord server, who are uniformly lovely, and inspire me every day.

As the epilogue indicates, there is at least one sequel to this story (Michael and Adam, my beloveds). I was hoping to have that ready for this week as well, but life happened. I'm hoping to get to it next week, so check back in a bit for that.)

[sonofuranusandgaia]

I found something in my backyard and I think humanity is in danger

I honestly have no clue where to start with this post because of the bizarreness of what has transpired in the past few days and my hopes are that I can transcribe what my findings are for you to read and digest. I guess I should start with myself, for the sake of keeping myself anonymous you can refer to me as Mnemosyne, and for all you Greek enthusiasts that the god of storytelling, thought it fit. However this isn't as much of my story as it is of the author and owner of this journal and bag. Sorry I'm getting ahead of myself here. 

I should start at the moment I found the topic for this post.. The Bag.. dun dun dun. Sorry, I wanted some dramatic effect. Anyway, on with the story.  It was around midnight where I was studying in my room for an upcoming paper I was supposed to present to my professor on the topic of missing persons and the possibilities of their whereabouts, a topic I picked. My room was located on the second story of my parents' cabin where I like to work on weekends. I like to think that this is where I write the best. The quiet of the woods brings peace and concentration to my mind. I tried to read some of the articles about a 30 year old woman that went missing in Thunder Bay. Reading over her report I stared at green eyes trying to grasp  the sadden look in her eyes that her family provided for the police. 

Sipping my third cup of coffee that I was using  to ward off the ever pressing urge to tumble to a dreamless sleep in my bloodshot eyes transfixed on the screen. The words of her report seemed to morph into incoherent garble. I rubbed my eyes in exhaustion, frustration welling up inside my mind of what to write, I closed my computer to get some brain food. As I made my way down the stairs and reached the kitchen my bare feet hit the cool hard wood. Just as I turned to face the place that would satisfy my midnight hunger an overwhelming bright blue light engulfed the cabin and seemed to burn into my retinas. I staggered back falling onto the wall hitting my head in the process, a few picture frames falling to the floor, shattering into pieces.  Just as it appeared it vanished and the cabin was thrown back into darkness. I rubbed the back of my bruised cranium, quite stunned disbelief on what just happened. Looking back on it there was no sound, no shock wave, just a very annoyingly bright alien-blue light. 

I allowed myself to slide to the floor to allow my brain to catch up with the events that just took place. After the thumping sound in my ears slowed, I eased my way back onto my feet. Slowly tip toeing around the shards of glass. I clumsily walked in the direction of the junk drawer, pulling it open and reached for the flashlight. As the cocktail of fear and curiosity took over I slowly walked to the location of the light… My backyard. I flicked the back door porch light filling the darkness with a dull yellow light that illuminated the grassy ground and reflected off the trees. Now if you think I was stupid enough to go out side with out some kind of plan, well you would be half right. The only plan that I could come up with was: hastily grab the baseball bat the my Dad and I would use during the summer when I was a kid and take a quick look around and hope this all was just my mind angrily getting its revenge at me for not going to bed early for the second night in a row. 

I slid my runners on my feet and pushed the old door with a horror movie creak.the smell of the late night air filled my lungs with every shaky breath I took. I held the flash light and readied the bat  with a grip that would make Hercules proud and I clicked it on. I slowly scanned the area with the cheap light gleaning off the dried leaves and sticks. Every step gives me more confidence to push deeper into the direction of the woods. A loud snapping sound from behind me makes my heart want to leap out of my throat while yapping like an injured chihuahua. I whip the flash light around and fixated on twelve fear filled eyes. Their black soulless stare in my direction like I just caught them looking at my… ahem…  adult stash. Ive seen these stupid racoons around the cottage for as long as I can remember. I nicknamed the biggest one Rodney. Couldn't tell you why he just looked like Rodney. 

They broke the silence of their claws scraping on the garbage bins in a maddening haste which snapped me back to reality. I laughed, Well chucked with a hint of fear at a fool those dumb trash pandas made me feel. I turned my head still smiling and shaking my head when I saw a sharp glint of what looked like a… leather bag? I approached the bag with some form of alertness, the smell of iron and burning meat held in my nostrils urging my empty stomach to retch. I scanned the bag before I realized that there was a WHOLE HUMAN ARM attached to it. It limply gripped the handle of the bag. I wish there was something in my stomach to throw up but all I could muster was a pathetic gag. I pushed my hand to my mouth and gazed at the arm and bag further. 

It appeared to be an African American arm with the palm down. The limb appeared to be severed by a lightsaber, the smoke was still wafting towards the sky from the amputation point.    It was riddled with scars, some as long as a grain of rice and some nearly four inches long. I could see what looked to be a massive burn scar just above below the elbow that snaked its way around the forearm. With the baseball bat I rolled the arm over to examine it further. My eyes fell upon a series of numbers on the wrist; some were blotted out by scars but the first four digits could be shown 1639.  Looking at the arm as a whole he must have been incredibly strong. The muscle density reminded me of a star athlete or military personal. 

I found myself scanning the bag, viewing the worn silver clamps that held the opening closed, if you ever watched Indiana Jones you would know almost what it looks like. The blackish brown exterior is in near tatters. I note that it is stitched together in some spots that have off colored patches from mending. Now, I can tell you that what was going through my mind was utter chaos. I weighed my options on calling the police now and letting them handle it or finding the sorry owner of the missing limb and bag. My monkey brain took over and I found myself quickly running back to my house and going to the first aid bag to retrieve surgical gloves because I know I don't want to taint the evidence for the police.  As to not give Rodney and the rest of the band of evil sacks of fur a late night snack. I decided to wrap the arm in a garbage bag and hide it somewhere on the property. 

I know, I know your reading this and thinking “ Your stupid what if the people that did this to poor no arms come after you?” and to that I”ll tell you what Margret Atwood said  , “ You’re never going to kill storytelling because it’s built into the human plan. We come with it.” plus someone needs to tell it so why not me. Picking up the back by the shoulder strap I soon came to realize how light it was. For its size,  I estimated it to be nearly seven to eight pounds, however, it felt more like a cheap pillow. I found myself in the kitchen staring at the rustic satchel trying my best to gather my thoughts. Once I gathered the courage to open the mouth of the bag, I slowly emptied the contents onto the granite counter top of the island. 

First I'll tell you, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, drugs or cash maybe which would still be surprising considering the cabin location is in a remote area. The items in the bag were as follows: a worn leather bound journal, a necklace with a bluish green gemstone, A gun that looks like a steampunk or sci-fi tranquilizer, and finally a small block that appears to be wrapped in cheesecloth. 

Let's start off out of order. The gun had a sleek metallic look to it, almost chrome, with a purple tube that connected from where the magazine would be and ran up the pistol grip and was snugly fitted into the top. Two small reddish triangles were on either side of the rear of the gun and a small blue dot a few centimeters away from the end of the barrel, acting as sights I'd assume.  Next I examined the necklace. It almost had a first nations vibe about it; the rough leather ticked my finger, as I held it up as I lifted it up to the light to get a better look at it. The bluish green gemstone was held to the necklace by a thin silver wire. As I looked closer I noticed that it had just been mined and uncut, as if they didn't have the technology to cut it. 

I put the necklace down and turned my attention on to the other items of the satchel. I picked up the cheesecloth covered block and slowly unraveled it. The smell of Molasses and rotten eggs seeped out with every layer I removed. Then in my hand I held a small square no bigger than a brownie that you would buy at your local coffee shop and boy i wish it was that. The putrid stench of the square brought tears to my eyes. It seemed to be a deep brown with a sticky feel to the touch. I noted the red and yellow ball like berries? That is the best way to describe them as if someone took toy food and tried to mix it with mud and edible slim.and I swear if someone tells me to taste this I will hunt you down and make you try it first. 

Lastly, was the old leather bound book. It's just a book, nothing really unusual about it. It is around ten inches by six inches and it is about as good of shape as the satchel. The deep brown exterior is covered with what looks like blood and other mysterious stains. No not that kind of stains you sick freaks. At least I hope not. Both the front and back of the journal were blank with no lettering to indicate the owner or brand. However there was a symbol that was stamped into the thick leather of the cover. It appeared to be three hands like it was chiseled out of stone. I looked into old pictures of accent art and the closest I could come up with was Mesopotamian however I'm not totally sure. 

Each hand appeared to be right handed and each hand was placed to make a shape of a triangle, each palm face up laid across the other's wrist. The first hand had what looked like a crude depiction of the sun with sixteen points. The second hand held what looked like a tablet with writing. I can't quite make out due to the wear and tear of the leather. The last hand was clutching a ring with a rod at the bottom and in the center of the triangle of hands was a human eye kinda like the all seeing eye that the illuminati uses. The weather paper was in decently condition, surprisingly all things considered, like an 18th century book. The edges of the pages were dulled over the course of its use like the writer wrote in it almost every day. 

I turned the first page with anticipation of the contents that it held. The quiet crackling of the cover sent chills up my spine. I just wanted to rip this book apart because of my hunger for the words that were held in this book. “ What secrets do you hold?'' I thought as the first page was revealed to me. On the first page penciled in was a name, date and a footnote. “Erick Moore, April 15, 1975. This is the documentation of everything that took place. If you are reading this I am sorry from the bottom of my heart but, your life is now endangered. They will find you but I ask with the most urgency, please get the word out. Everything that I wrote in this book contains secrets. Secrets that will kill millions. The System should never know you have this. Be safe and may God be with humanity.” 

I stared in horror and slight confusion. Secrets? The System? Kill…Millions? I sat back in my chair running my hands through my hair taking a deep breath of the old cabin air. I wish i could say i burned the book and disposed of the arm but sadly old cat curiosity had a grip on my mind that i couldn't shake. I shut the book. The lump in my throat slowly swelling brings the beating in my chest. This is a joke right? A prank? Someone wanted to scare the poor tired university kid to get a rise out of him. I stood up and peered at all the windows. 

I rushed over to my Dad's liquor cabinet and found his old friend Jack that I was soon going to have a stern talk to, to ease my anxious thoughts. Screw a glass. I swung my head back to take a few swigs out of the bottle. Man when you bite the bottle, the bottle bites back. I could feel the warmth and comfort of the whisky run down my esophagus and shivered with a grimace. I brought my new best friend to keep me company while I look over the book more. I made the decision to look up this guy Erick Moore. So I grabbed my laptop and brought it down to the kitchen. 

I quickly typed out Ericks name and the date and turned up… Nothing. There is no name for this guy. Either he's made up as a part of the joke or “The System” washed his name out of every document oh wait here something. A news article dated back to 1967 from the Jackson Herald. It was barely a news cover and it was only a paragraph long. It reads “ Randy Moore and his wife Samantha Moore tragically pass due to a collision with a drunk driver that sends their vehicle…” then poof the article was gone.  

And all I'm left with is a 404 error  on my web browser. I blink. What? I was just looking at that and now it's gone. I refresh the page and it takes me back to the browser that says the gut sinking words I didn't want to see.  Your search -Erick Moore- did not match any documents. I rubbed my eyes. I bow my head and slowly reach for the bottle feeling somewhat defeated. When out of the corner of my eye I see a green dot on my computer screen indicating that it was active. I stare wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me. When suddenly a loud static sound on my computer erupts from my speakers like hell itself was opening a door right in my cabin. 

I dropped the bottle and covered my ears. There is no way my computer can make this loud noise without the speakers blowing. I reached for the power button in hopes of turning it off when I saw in absolute fear it was the symbol. The exact same symbol in red flashing across my screen. Then in red words “ we see you” appears under the symbol. I finally slam my computer screen shut. Suddenly, I was burning hot and soaked in sweat so I stripped off my sweatshirt and went to run my face under cold water. But as I stood up to go to the sink. 

I raised my head from the sink, water dripping from my chin onto the floor. Absolute fear leaving me unsteady on my feet. My heart seemed to pound even harder and faster. I tried taking a deep breath to calm myself down, but my shallow breaths were sharp and painful in my lungs. My vision started to tunnel, like my mind was heading towards a pit. Have you ever had that one friend that held you under the water a bit too long, the panic and need of oxygen filling your mind like a virus? That's what it felt like but instead of the need of oxygen it was the need to forget everything that just happened.  Maybe I should have left it alone or not looked up Erick Moore. I don't know but thinking now while I type this out what's done is done. Maybe I need to fight these guys. I mean they did hack my computer and know where my location is. 

  I decided to bring the police on board in regards to the arm. May not have been the best choice but if i could get some scientific aid maybe that can help me get some answers. After waiting twenty minutes I gave the officer my report, well,  most of the story leaving out the obvious. The officer gave me his card and said that he would be in touch or to call if I had any more info that I may remember. Before he turned around to head back to his cruiser, I asked him If he could keep me in the loop about what the results from the autopsy were. He looked at me with an inquisitive look that made me question if he knew I was holding something back.  I kept a steady look as he asked why. I told him the truth of how I was a student studying to be a criminal journalist. His smirk left me at somewhat ease. “Sure, I don’t see why not.” he said as the emergency lights still flashing the authoritative blue and red light up the front yard. 

As he drove off I remember thinking the officer reminded me of my Uncle. His calming yet hardened demeanor brought me the confidence to want to get into criminal journalism. I walked back to the house with a crunch of the gravel with every step. The sounds of crickets and frogs harmonized on the cool soon to be fall air. I let out a sigh as I stepped into the cabin to try and get some sleep. However the remembrance of the smell of the leather and burning flesh haunted my mind keeping me from sweet slumber. I set my gaze on the patterns on the ceiling as the questions of the book, gun and necklace meant. 

And that's why I'm posting this here.my computer is back to normal however with a piece of tape covering the camera.  I’m baffled at what I found. This … this is something I don't know who to talk to or if anyone would even believe me. Do I call the police or do I burn it? Who is this Erick Moore guy? Do I keep reading it to get answers? Is The System after me now with what i know.?   I'm just a student trying to get my life started in criminal journalism. So many answers and so little time. Well on the bright side I got a cool necklace and a sweet gun? Maybe I can use it against the System like some bad ass super agent. Well anyways if you have any thoughts or advice i'd appreciate it. 

[undyinglament]

//Im gonna ramble about my new wol concept bc im so incredibly infatuated with elidibus atm 

Im not gonna be writing him here i just,,, love his concept

So Azem is Mnemosyne bc ofc i want to play with the concept of memory - partially for Elidibus but partially because Meteion and the elpis plot gave me brainrot about memory bc lethe and oblivion and forgetfullness and hhh ive been wanting a Mnemosyne Azem for a while. Mnemosyne and Themis were a couple and they had soul bonded prior to the Final Days

Now ofc everything happens as normal and we have a shard of Azem who becomes the Warrior of Light - but this shard has a lingering piece of Themis within it from their bond prior. He grows up with strange dreams and a man within his dreams that he comes to fall in love with over time, though he’s never seen him in the waking world and has no idea who he really is (sometimes the dreams are even from that mans perspective). This shard, like so many of my WoLs, is trans - and when he picks a name for himself he takes the nickname the man in his dreams calls him; Starling. 

Starling is a very generic hero for the most part - he’s quite normal, hes a hyur monk with a fairly basic design. Like most of my WoLs he is heterochromic - one eye the golden yellow of  Mnemosyne and one the blue of Themis 

and then ofc pain because he recognises Elidibus who. Does not know him.

[ainyan]

What memory do they revisit the most often? 

So, Kal'istae does not willingly revisit many memories - she doesn't need to. The Echo is happy to do so for her every time she closes her eyes. And it is not kind.

Her most common Echo Dreams tend to revolve around her failures - her first encounter with Zenos, the battle at Lakeland, the moment she woke up after her battle with Innocence, the moment she realized what had happened to Thancred on Ultima Thule, and so forth.

The next most common often revolve around any time she's had to fight Thancred or a Thancred-like avatar - but that is to be expected, since the bulk of her daily worries center around the gunbreaker.

To counter, she will often try to revisit those moments in her life where she was most happy, but such are few and far between when one takes into consideration the span of her adventures as far back as she can remember.

Memory is such a touchy subject for Mnemosyne's current Shard - she's been subjected to a great deal of pain in the name of memory, of forgetting, of remembering. So though she remains the custodian of the past and the repository of ancient memory, she tries not to dwell too much on it.

There's too much pain in memory.

Curious about my OCs or my thoughts on my OCs? Ask away!

Thank you for the ask!

[xastcriiax]

Rage Quit || Jaden & Ava

Jaden had seen everything go down in the Madhouse tournament all from the comfort of her apartment with Ava. The two of them had curled up on the couch with popcorn, wine, beer, and ice cream as they enjoyed watching other Metas beat the shit out of each other. There was now a small stain on the sofa from when Jaden dropped a spoonful of chocolate ice cream when H.A.M.E.R appeared on screen with Hunter. All she could was watch what unfolded on TV with wide eyes and hands over her mouth. 

After she’d checked in on Hunter, she came back home. Avalon was out somewhere, which was fine since Jaden needed a minute alone. She went straight for the fridge, grabbing a bottle of wine and a glass from the cabinet, filling it with Rosé. She took a long drink, letting the alcohol fuel the burn in her stomach. She felt angry and helpless and useless all at once. She had the gift of fucking magic; she could do anything she set her mind to, but she couldn’t bring Hunter’s powers back. She had some insight into how he might be feeling, having gone years without a connection to her own abilities. It was different when it was someone she cared about. And permanent. 

After another gulp, Jaden snapped. With a wild yell, she threw the half empty glass at the wall, the wine-stained shards of glass crashing to the floor. It didn’t fix anything that happened but god damn it made her feel a little better. She grabbed a vase off of the counter and tossed that next, smashing it to the floor. This went on for a few minutes, the magician grabbing various decor from the apartment and throwing it around. Her last shot was a kitchen knife planting itself into the wall next to the door just as Avalon walked in and she stared at her sister with her lips parted, chest heaving with labored breaths. “I’ll clean it up later,” she said off-handedly, feeling calm enough to spare the rest of their apartment. She turned away from Ava, pressing her palms on the back edge of the couch and leaning against it for support. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Hunter.”

@storiesof-mnemosyne​ (Avalon)

[disciple-of-frost]

Okay okay. So. Since Yuna from FFX and Ishita are shards of the same Azem, Mnemosyne, I wanted to give her a physical feature that makes the connection a little more clear. So, I gave Mnemosyne the same heterochromia as Yuna, one eye blue one eye green, it's very minor, but I think it's neat.

[disciple-of-frost]

Another brainworm: Zenos and Seymour (FFX) were shards of the same soul. Both of them are very obsessive with their person of interest. It helps that I headcanon Yuna as being a shard of my Ishi's Azem, Mnemosyne. They also both have a parent that becomes Anima and that literally just came to me as I was writing this.

[disciple-of-frost]

My current list of Ishi and her respective counterparts on each Shard. Subject to change as I develop things more.

Ancient self: Mnemosyne (Azem)

Source: Ishita Maryam (FFXIV, duh, but also FFXII)

1: Nyelbert

2: Aqua (Kingdom Hearts)

3: Garnet (FFIX)

4: Lunafreya (FFXV)

5: ???

6: Ellone (FFVIII)

7: Jill (FFXVI)

8: Stiria (FFXIII)

9: Guardian PC (Destiny)

10: Yuna (FFX)

11: Hunter PC (Monster Hunter: World)

12: Celes (FFVI)

13: (FFIV)

Like I've stated before Ishi's reflections are all characters that have some sort of strong connection to Shiva (If applicable) and the others are from games where the player can make their own custom character. (Monster Hunter & Destiny). I have Monster Hunter in my universe because of the crossover event with Monster Hunter: World from 2018 and I have Destiny in here because in the Beyond Light expansion they introduced Stasis as an ability Guardians can use, ice based powers/abilities.

(Adding Kingdom Hearts cuz I can. Lol)