#y'zareen serhan

[yzareenxiv]

Owner of a Lonely Heart

The end of winter, the Winter Solstice, her suppressed time of heat, the freezing winds of the First Umbral Moon and the celebration of love that occurred during it, all of that had passed with Zareen living two- no, tell it true, three lives.

The main life, the good life, was in the here-and-now. Watching Sarang and Ravi and Mede and Terbish and Nekhi grow, visiting with her friends and family, her carefully crafted tribe, and watching as they welcome their own children and grow and change and endure their struggles and growth. In this life, she smiles, she laughs, she loves as fiercely as she can, she dances and sings. It is a good life.

But it is a lonely life. She is surrounded by love, this is true. But she cannot help but feel the ache in her heart- the locked and barred connection in her soul that will never again be opened, the emptiness of the place that has held one, then another, then another, sometimes more than one at the same time, sometimes a single precious presence. It’s so terribly scarred, that part of her, damaged to the point where it is a jagged hole, surrounded by sharp edges and broken pieces that could too-easily pierce or tear at that unwary. She hides it well- after all, the rest of her life is fulfilling in ways she had stopped even dreaming it could be. But it’s there… and sometimes it aches and fills her with a hunger that has turned on itself, sinking sharp fangs into itself and singing in agonized and joyous screams as the venom races and burns through her veins.

That is the second life. The life of blood, the life of the Hunt, the life of chasing down whatever prey she can find- with or without someone at her side- and bleeding it, tormenting it, terrifying it past the point of fear into blindness and then descending upon it as a vengeful, reckless, terrifying creature whose humanity has been shredded away just as the hide of it’s prey has been. She eats of hearts and livers, she bathes in blood, she slips through the minds and souls as a mad goddess to bring ecstasies of agony until the very last moment of consciousness.

Innocent beasts do not interest her in this, though she will hunt them to protect her private sanctuaries and the people in the village that she retreats to sometimes. This second life is reserved for those the Sin Eater marks. Those that the bounty bills mark. Those that the Void has marked. They are shown the Jaguar with her heart turned inside-out and all those jagged edges pointed out to devour flesh and sorrow and too-late-repentance and finally, sometimes, the soul. She is not so twisted that she drinks in opposition to her laws as Sin Eater- but she also will forego a lesser prey for one that she knows she can keep back from the River in justice.

Those are the two lives she lives in the world. In the here-and-now. In the place of flesh and blood, laughter and sorrow, where the sun rises and sets and the moon rises and sets and the stars glitter.

The third life is the secret life. The third life is in her mind, though at times it bleeds through in nightmares and flashbacks that steal her breath or her attention during the day until she realizes she’s being looked at or spoken to and can escape back into the first life. The third life is the Labyrinth, where she has yet to find the door yet can spy through more and more cracks and crumbling walls. Never yet has there been a hole wide enough to step through and she is grateful for that for she knows herself- if she sees it, it will torment her curiosity until she tries to cheat her way into ‘just dipping a toe’ and perhaps losing herself altogether. For this reason, too, she does not seek the door too fervently. There is more than enough to see. She remembers, now, in a strange and detached way, that when she fell into the Void she was brought to a palace, a realm inside the Void that seemed enormous and always at war with it’s neighbors. Her time, she knows now, was roughly split into interminable eras: First, she was an animal, a beast used to hunt and harry prey at the whim of beings she could not understand. She fell into this role too-easily at first, until pride returned, and with it reason and knowledge. She began to learn the language of her masters, listening, always listening, and planning, her cleverness against their complacency. Second, she was a slave. A step above a beast, living in the palatial estates of whichever being held her metaphorical leash. That was the worst time, the time she endured the most, the time she moved from master to mistress to master, a living creature to twist and bend and use in whatever manner they wished for she was so easy to heal. As a slave, she learned of the transactional nature of the Void. As a slave, she learned survival in ways she had not had to learn upon the Source. As a slave, she had found her limits and been forced past them once she had been lifted to serve the nobility and been subjected to their unique and exquisite cruelties. They knew what she was, saw her too-clearly, and she suffered. Third, a servant. As she had suffered, she’d learned. As she’d learned, she’d begun to make impressions. As she’d made impressions, she’d learned more. Her speech became refined, her keen huntress mind now stalking the halls of the body politic. She learned the art of subtlety, of flattery and lies and inner machinations. Of hiding behind lowered eyes and a smooth tongue and watching obliquely as her suggestions became her master’s ideas and were carried through into successes and failures. At last, in a moment of boldness that could have been her undoing, she’d struck. Fourth, a noble- a position stolen just as the natives of the Void always stole them from each other. She walked the halls a different woman, a spy, breaking shackles in secret and laying in place plots and plans and traps with a delicate skill while wielding power ruthlessly and perpetuating the same agonies upon others that she remembered suffering herself. This was the worst to remember, this was the best to remember. These memories held the Zareen of the here-and-now entranced sometimes as she watched a woman that was herself but not herself- a twin… no, a doppelganger- move through that world in ways that Zareen herself had never mastered in this life.

She didn’t realize that as the memories surfaced, so too did some of the elements of that otherself. Moments where she would gain an aloof mein, calling to naughty children with the imperious tone of royalty that brooks no disobedience. Moments of silence where she found herself watching people in the cities and identifying them effortlessly as greater powers and lesser, simply knowing what she should do to ingratiate herself and make ally or crush enemy. There were the bad moments, too, of course. The moments of slavery, of being the hunting beast, of being the victim of torments. A barking laugh while she waited for her turn in one of the fighting pits reminding her of the Houndmaster… that had ended in her being pulled from the still body of her opponent and banned for a moon for acts she truly could not remember. She’d visited a brothel once, seeking to ease the ache in her loins and the itch in her skin for violent delights, but glimpsing a ham-fisted fool and a whore merely acting the part had made her so ill she’d rushed from the place and been violently sick. Which isn’t to say that the submissive who craved the darker side of sex and mastery was gone- truth being that she wanted it even more. Once she’d had a taste of too-far, she ached in a true and physical way sometimes to come close to it again. A private ache that she endured as the one she trusted to fulfill her desires, who enjoyed fulfilling her desires, wrestled with himself.

Three lives. One woman. Zareen knew something was going to give, eventually- those moments of slippage would likely get worse, or more frequent. Or the Labyrinth would seal itself away again and she would lose access to a part of herself that she wanted to know and understand despite the risks. Or the jagged part of her heart would start to devour the joy that she found in her first life- or cause her to become addicted.

She couldn’t help herself, it seemed. One way or another, she was always back to dancing on the edge of the blade, keeping time with whirling dervishes of song that flung her back and forth, leaping and landing on her toes with every beat of her heart a beat of the drum.

[ala-mhinyan]

IX :: Hesitate

{{ Feat Mentions: @yzareenxiv​ and @eyespywithmyoneeyegtfo​ }}

A dance that pulls them from across space and time, to different worlds–a string of fate bounding them by the wrists. In every time, in every place, in every way–they will find one another.

They shift among each other, a swirl of gold and black coming together to paint the skies with their brilliance. Two women who are untouched by pain, smiling and lost in one another’s arms. Gold whispers secrets in Black’s ear and presses a kiss to her breast, flowers blooming where skin touches. Black whispers secrets into Gold’s fingertips and turns the world from day to night just to show Gold the stars. Their giggling laughter is crystalline–glass upon water drops ringing in the minds of adolescence. It’s pure. It’s perfect.

They’ve always found purchase in one another and others, for love is given freely and taken just as freely. She’s never been jealous, not over this. She’s had her fair share of blood; A dragon, A snake, A jackal. It’s not beyond her and she expects nothing less of her twin goddess.

But this–This is different. He looms in the distance, wholesome in intent but always, always watching. His presence makes the flowers bloom slower, some dying before they even reach maturity. The Black shifts into feline and grace, a Jaguar spotted in gold in all of her wondrous glory–falling into the arms of the shadowed form that twists into the Tiger. She watches–something very mortal curling in her belly–something not fit for her skin.

Jaguar beckons her closer–to her. To them. Tiger extends a pact; promising safety and love for the both of them. To them. Them. When did this become them? Coeurl steps closer and falls within, twisting and blooming into a garden cultivated for both loves; new flowers growing as older ones die away.

It is good. Not perfect, but good.

Then the hurricane comes–tearing apart everything under her feet until there is nothing but the three of them; bleeding, tired and worn.

Coeurl and Jaguar float in the blackness of empty; weary and longing.

Green-gold eyes glitter with unshed tears, a single step forward taken. The Jaguar ducks her head and, as well, takes a single step forward. Looming over both of them hovers the Tiger, unblinking eyes and statuesque in nature–between his paws sit two half-bred cubs. One part Tiger, one part Jaguar.

The Coeurl glances down at the cubs and then at the Jaguar–broken heart falling from between her jaws in a river of gold and blood. She doesn’t speak, there is nothing that can be said–if it is said it will break the spell between the two of them. She is not without fault of her own, none of them are–but the weights lean heavy and she is weary. Her head falls and the gold from her body bleeds out until nothing is left but hollow gives where eyes and fur and bone used to live. What is left of her crumbles into nothing.

The Jaguar bows her head and laps at her bitter deserved drink, each swallow of gold a poison. Killing her from the inside out.

Arha awakes with a start, tear filled eyes wide with panic. She is alone, it is safe in the Arms of Meed. The runt turns, head fallen upon pillow and lets the cold of sleeping alone take her. 

The last name on her lips is Sandari.

[talesfromthegameff14]

Safekeeping

The leather bag had tangible weight to it, far more than the physical.  Responsibility, far heavier than the stone within, sat on Khen’s shoulders.  His sister wanted the voices to be gone, wanted to be her own person.  The choice hadn’t come to her easily, but it was done.  Now, to see to his part in this.  

The whispers and dreams had been insistent.  Wisdom and ritual from Seers past being pressed upon him, responding to his need.  The whispers were familiar, chilling.  It had been decades, but with each visit to the Steppes over the past few months they grew a bit louder, more easily heard.  The boy hadn’t understood, but the man did so he listened best he could.

After the morning run, Khen scoured the shops of Limsa until he found a box that would do.  Small and plain, the box was made of metal with sturdy hasp and lock. The hinges were well protected making it difficult to break. It was precisely large enough for what needed to be done and no more.  

The sun was high overhead, yet the Xaela sat in darkness with the windows covered, the door locked to prevent interruption. Small, shallow bowls were set to either side of the box on the floor.  Settling cross legged on the floor brought back an old memory, watching Oktai do similar, explaining why each bowl was placed where it was.  Face the north when the ritual is positive, the south for anything negative.  Minerals always set to the west for the caves they came from, herbs set to the east for the sun that grew them.  

Facing the south, Khen placed the leather pouch with the stone in his lap.  This was closure, containment, an ending to the life Zareen had always known.  There was too much pain wrapped up in this choice to face the Dawn, so he faced the Dusk instead.   Or would be if he was in the caves, the symbolism would have to do.

A single crystal, set into a small stone bowl, glowed softly.  It was the only light in the room, not quite sufficient for most to see by.  Barely enough for him to see with, eyes far more used to the light than the gloom.  Still, it would be adequate for this.  Such things were meant to be done in the dark.  

Palms settled onto his thighs, eyes half closed, attention turned inwards to memories pushed aside but not forgotten, bolstered by the soft whispers of the past.  Reaching for the salt with his left hand, he sprinkles it into the bottom of the box to coat it evenly.   Herbs follow the salt, then the folded up bag gets tucked within.  The same process is repeated, but in reverse.  Herbs, then salt follows the bag.   As the salt is sprinkled over the leather, chanted words in Xaelic break the silence.  

An end to all things must come An end to what once was An end to what cannot be An end to close

Khen closes the box as he speaks that line, snapping the lock shut before piercing his wrist with a claw.  Smearing blood onto one of his knuckles of his left hand, he uses that to draw a rune upon the top of the box.  

An end to all things must come An end to what once was An end to what cannot be An end to open a door

Salt is sprinkled over the rune, faint flickers of luminescence showing as the purifying crystals touched the aether infused blood.  

An end to all things must come An end to what once was An end to what cannot be An end so she can choose

Exhaling slowly, Khen’s eyes drift closed as he repeats the phrases , the whisper of his voice pairing with his heartbeat and breath to focus his mind on the task at hand.  Intention was the key. It wasn’t power but will would see this through.  Not just his, but hers as well.

Time passed as the Uyagir mediated upon the words of the ritual, staying still as muscles stiffened and the coverings were no longer needed to keep the room dark.  A single soft flicker from the blood inscribed rune on the box had Khen opening his eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the low light.  

<“So you can choose sister.  It is all I can do.”>

[ Tagging @yzareenxiv for her char]

[double-threnody]

Tales by the Fire

The fires burned bright from one corner of the tent to the other, crackling and spitting up brief flashes of embers that rode the air up and out through the vents in the canvas above. Perched on her cushions at the base of the central bonfire sat Y’zareen, mother of the Jaguar, Atomos-slayer, and teller of tales.

“Come close,” she commanded, a laugh in her voice and steel in her words. “Sons and daughtahs of mine, friends and famileh, gather ‘round so I may weave foah you a storeh; a tale of ouah friends who swim the Rivah. Listen close - not so I do not scold you, Y’ravin, though you may need it!” One long finger, gilded with rings of precious metal against her dark skin, stretched out to point accusingly at a tall, powerfully built man laughing at something in the corner. “I tell you these storehs that you may remembah the feats of ouah loved ones, and moah impoahtant than that, that you learn from them.”

Slowly, with sporadic laughter and the odd joke and banter from cousin to cousin, the family crowded into the space around the fire to listen to Y’zareen’s words. Her ornaments glinted in the firelight as she watched and waited: gold and silver and precious jewels, cobalt and gemstones from across the star draped over her shoulders, around her neck, and lay woven deep into her dark, purple hair.

“Now,” she murmured, casting one bright yellow eye out at the gathered Jaguar. “Which of my cubs can tell me of the gods of the au ra? I have told theah tales maneh times.” A single hand shot up in the crowd; Zareen recognized her youngest, Y’sarang. “Mm, I know which one of you has been listening all these yeahs! Tell us, my daughteh.”

“The au ra recognized two gods, mama: the God of Sunlight, Azim, an’ the Goddess of the Moon, Nhaama. Azim was a bright an’ brilliant an’ fiery warrior, with horns whiter than the snows of Ishgard - Nhaama was a cool an’ crafty huntress, an’ her black horns could hear a mouse snorin’ beneath the turf a malm away.” The young Jaguar danced as she spoke, eager to turn the history lesson into a sing-song verse.

“You ah right, Sarang; they called Azim the ‘Dawn Fatheh,’ an’ his greatest enemy… oah was it his loveh?” She paused to chuckle, curling her claws beneath her chin as she watched the audience lean in with rapt attention. “She was the ‘Dusk Motheh, Nhaama. Vereh good.” Y’sarang beamed back at her and twirled to a stop, sitting with a soft thump to rest against the eldest, Y’arha.

“Now, this storeh is about a young and silleh Xaela. The Xaela ah the sons an’ daughtehs of Nhaama, and theah horns ah black as sin in the shape of theah goddess,” she purred. “Maybe you did not know, but in the land of the Xaela, when a cub is boahn with snow-white hair, they ah touched by the Dusk Motheh hehself. Some of them ah gifted with her keen senses, oah her eagle-eye with a speah. Some of them become the warlords and queens of the Nhaadam, leading great war-hosts whose footsteps against the plains shake the stah in theah passing.”

“Some of them, though,” she whispered, leaning forward in her seat to smile at the fire-lit faces, “some of them ah blessed with the greatest honah of all: they join Nhaama’s great hunt.” Her jewelry danced in the warm light of the flame, and as she stood slowly to her feet, the rest of the tent fell silent.

‘This storeh is of an old friend of mine. A brutal warrieh, a thread-cuttah twice as tall as yoah tallest brotheh an’ half again as broad! A thresheh, a reapeh boahn beneath the looming peaks of the Azim Steppe. Nhaama’s children ah split into maneh tribes, each of them as different from one anotheh as the Coeurl from the Jaguah. One tribe is the Borlaaq, thread-cuttahs all, a raiding band of nomads who cahve a path from one coahneh of the Steppe to the otheh, from one summeh to the next. The Borlaaq ah women, an’ no men ah allowed within theah ger-circles and fire-lines. Theah sons ah the Iriq, and they follow the Borlaaq whereveh they stray.’

‘As a boy is boahn to the Borlaaq, they ah raised to see theah first summeh, and then ah left to be found by the Iriq in theah wake. Ouah boy, with a mane as white as the clouds ovah the plains, was found by the Iriq at the foot of the mountains. He screamed an’ he wailed, and thrashed in his rage, splitting the rock beneath him as a babe! The boy grew large beneath the eyes of the Iriq, and he leahned as fast as he grew. By five summehs his ahms could hurl a mammoth-splitteh a quahteh-malm, an’ by his seventh summeh his fists ran red with the heart’s wateh. He leahned the truth of the Steppe: a boy must eat, and less boys means moah food.’

‘A boy of the Iriq lives without a name until they ah old enough to find theah own… or until one is given them as punishment. “Burkegan,” the men of the tribe called him, a play on the Xaela tongue. A difficult boy; a problem, a canceh. “Burkegan will kill an’ neveh stop. He knows nothing of Nhaama’s quiet secrets, her soft footsteps that do not disturb the moahning dew. He knows onleh her rage, the flight of her speah, an’ the fire in her veins beneath the hunt-thrall. Burkegan will neveh leahn.”’

‘The Iriq, they were wrong. Burkegan knew the whispehed secrets of Nhaama; when the boys gathehed to hunt the mammoths of the plains, it was he who crept low to the ground an’ waited to strike while the boldeh boys chahged and split theah bellies on tusks the size of yoah leg. Burkegan stalked between the ger-circles beneath Nhaama’s moon and stole the crude, poah weapons of the night-criehs, the guards who walked the fire-lines. And when he grew old enough, and the Iriq grew comfoahtable in theah safety… he heahd the hunting-call in his veins.’

‘Burkegan listened to the call, an’ he obeyed. No Iriq befoah had known so great a rage, and none would pass on afteh who could remembeh the flow of the heart-wateh that split the Steppe in the night. A full summeh would pass befoah the Iriq resumed theah wandering to catch up with the Borlaaq, an’ fully half of them neveh rejoined the host.’

‘Foah the next yeah they told tales of the boy, twelve summehs old, a boy who was some manneh of beast and stood as tall as a man. A difficult boy often spied, they would say, standing at the foot of the great mountain wheah he was first found. His mane of white was gone, my children. What curled about his great, black horns was no longeh Nhaama’s kiss, no bright halo of bleached sand oah cloud-touched white. Wheneveh he was seen by the night-criehs on the slopes, they saw a boy whose haiah was the brightest pink, streaked with browns and blacks and reds, foreveh wet with the threads he culled from the Iriq who fell befoah him a summeh past.’

Y’zareen grew quiet as the frightened faces looked up at her trailing words. Gold jingled against gold, the dust spun beneath her feet, and with a warm laugh, she took her seat at the head of the fire once again. “Do not look so douah, my friends, my famileh. No great storeh stahts with peace and happiness. No true ally of the Jaguah has neveh turned away from the beasts that prowl within. An’ no friend of mine eveh cahved his way into my heaht without first leahning how to lay down his threads an’ his weapons alike.” Her smile flitted across her face, age-lines and wrinkles parting to allow her fangs to bare through her grin. “Theah is always moah to the tale. Stay close by the fire, and I will tell you.”

Characters used with permission of @yzareenxiv. Thank you so much! I wrote this for a pre-medieval adaptation in a literature class. Hope you enjoy.

[vibrantstillness]

📝 for Michi. :)

Their first impression:She is so difficult to understand. Of all the accents I have heard since I have come, hers is one of the strangest. Often she will speak to me and I have caught very little of what she has said. Fortunately no one expects me to say much, so she is not offended by my silences… She is bold though, seeking to eclipse the sun with her presence. Perhaps she would only laugh.Do all Eorzeans wear so little, yet at the same time so much? I know better than to think her a gaudy harlot, whatever her appearance may suggest, but I wonder what it means to her. She is a puzzle, taunting all she meets with the pieces she has hidden.

Their current impression:I had thought myself out of my depth here, yet my struggles are little beside hers. It may be the deceptive whispers of familiarity that haunt her, only to betray her expectations. It may be her home was far more different than mine, despite being half the world closer. I was taught to observe and adapt. She was taught to hunt. How is it that beneath it all, we are so very similar?

What they like/dislike the most about your character:She cuts across all strata, all pretension, all expectations and burdens placed by society and peers to seize and shake the hearts of others. This is her weakness and her strength. To some, she is the very dance of life springing free of all affectation and restraint, naked in intent and unashamed. To others, she is a mad frenzy who tears tranquility asunder. She possesses not a shade of guile nor subtlety, meeting friend and foe alike with the same blunt candor.She is learning, slowly, that not all relationships are the pursuit of prey. Not all obstacles are enemies to meet with defiant resolve. There is a desire to be gentle within her that she ill knows how to express. One can both burn and flow without extinguishing the fire within, a truth she is coming to grasp.

What your character is for them (Friend, lover, rival etc.):Shall we say a friend? I do not think it is arrogant to think so, but I do not wish to assume… She is as I am; a foreigner in these lands, pledged to others. She has found her happiness, a strange sort I scant understand, but then what need have I to judge? We are between us at a comfortable peace from which we may speak. What more shall I ask?

A general opinion of their relationship:She is busy, as am I. Far busier than ever I was before. We rarely speak, yet when we do, I find a curious sort of kinship I would not have ever imagined. Many of my thoughts are also hers; her views lay alongside mine. How is it then we’ve come to be so different? Would I be as her, were I born in her tribe? Were she my sister, would she now be a proud samurai in service to some lord? I have so few answers. I wonder what she thinks.

If applicable, something they wish to reveal:I probably ought to tell her I'm not Doman. The distinction is likely lost on a Westerner and the misdirection was necessary, but malice gathers where deception reigns. She may be quite understandably upset if she learns it first from another.That aside... I know she bears burdens of which she rarely speaks. I sometimes wonder if her tattoos are an attempt to bring her wounds to the light of day, where they may be calmly recounted rather than whisper behind her eyes.

[zareenffxiv-blog]

The Labyrinth- Part One

You can't run from it and you know it.

Memories are predators- if you run, they cannot help but chase you, needing to tear their due from you by tooth and claw. The more you run, the sharper and hungrier they get... Until they have devoured you entirely and there is no more present, no more future, only the past.

Zareen knew these things intimately, they were her own words, spoken with love or firmness or a sharp snarl over and over again to those who refused to face the past, refused to face what they'd done or had been done to them and were suffering, suffering terribly, as a result.

She knew.

But as she looked at the great, vast obsidian wall containing a labyrinth of memories that she had only barely glimpsed in brief flashes of nightmare, or caught like the faintest scent of smoke in her waking bells, Zareen wanted nothing more but to run. To rise from her trance, dash the incense she was using to open her mind into scattered coals and dust across the floor, and run out into the daylight. Find something to fight. Someone to fuck. Or just run, and run, and run...

A deep breath- it trembled, no good.

Another deep breath- better.

A third- and her inner Self stepped up towards the Wall and touched her hand to it. There was a sound, like incomprehensibly massive bells tolling in a way that felt like gentle blows to her chest, and she was forced to stand for a moment as her own mental defenses blared warnings at her. The wall was in place for a REASON! SHE DID NOT WANT TO KNOW WHAT LAY BEHIND IT!

It was true, that was the hardest part really. She didn't want to know. But wanting and needing are two different things, and Zareen had accepted that this would hurt. It would hurt terribly. If she moved too quickly, pushed too hard, it would break her irreparably as well. But there was no more running from herself- that had brought enough suffering to last many lifetimes, should she remain on this star for that long. This was something she needed to do. For herself. For those she loved. For the future to come. Because she knew one vital fact about what lay behind that Wall...

It was the Void.

Not a portal. Not what she had learned in all her years of combat.

The Labyrinth of Obsidian Walls held the memories of what had happened when she had thrown herself into the mouth of the Atomos... and woken up on the other side.

The initial crack, the one that the Seer had gazed into, was to the right of where her hand rested. Turning her back to it, keeping her fingers on the wall, she began to walk- to trace an unfathomable space inside herself and to prepare to, oh-so-carefully, allow her fingers and her Self to look through the cracks that she knew were there and see... and remember... and accept or atone for what she had done to survive in that place. That the Labyrinth was so vast, so very much larger than the longest-lived being's memory-scape that she had ever personally witnessed, made her shudder in awe and fear. How long had it been? A half-bell, maybe a bell, on this star, in this world.

How many eras had she trod upon the dead surface of that other world?

And how had she survived?

Fortifying herself, she walked... until her fingers found the next crack to peer through.

[pixelsheen]

Y’zareen Serhan

FFXIV miqo’te

Just a sketchy thing, to get back into the swing of things.

[yzareenxiv]

FFXIV22: 1- Cross

For this year’s FFXIV Write Month, I will be doing stories exclusively about Y’zareen’s time in the Void. These are connected to the stories:

The Obsidian Labyrinth

Foster Aberrant Scale Baleful Avatar Adroit Friable Heady Preaching to the Choir Oneirophrenia Commend (sequel to Oneirophrenia) Thunderous Crane

While they do jump around in the timeline, they are memories (or “Meanwhile, elsewhere”s) that Y’zareen is slowly and carefully uncovering as she begins to go through The Obsidian Labyrinth. This is based on headcanon that was created prior to the 6.X patches/series so may not perfectly jive with official canon. Due to the nature of the Void, many of these stories will feature disturbing content. Content Warnings will be tagged and posted at the top of each entry. Please enjoy!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cross

((No Content Warnings))

The Queen Mother of the Court of Fleshly Delights, also called the Dark Court of Delights, also called “that domain of sick, deviant abominations live”, was stalking back and forth, back and forth, the sound of her many legs clicking on stone floors then muffled by deep-piled rugs was louder than it would have been naturally, driven by her consternation. That creature and all her delicious aether, all her power, had not yet yielded. She was not thriving, this much was true. Her time among the hunting beasts had changed her, made her more feral, more predatory… but the Queen Mother knew that the cunning behind those green eyes had been there long before the woman had landed in her domain. If that… that… well, she couldn’t remember who exactly had given her the idea to throw the woman to the hunting beasts, but once she remembered she would make them pay for making the woman a potentially more dangerous foe.

As she paced and seethed, the Crimson King, who was both her consort and her most deadly foe, opened the door to her private rooms and waltzed in without knocking. He had an insolent smile on his face under that wide-brimmed hat as he took in the destruction she had created before speaking.

“So, then, what’s all this?”

The Queen Mother rounded on him and pointed two arms and a leg at him. “Get out! Unless you have something useful to tell me, get the fuck out!”

She couldn’t tell, his face aside from his glowing red eyes was in shadow, but she had the distinct impression that he had raised an eyebrow. Before she could strike out, though, he swept into a deep, courtly bow that saw him removing his hat before rising to look at her clearly with those impossibly beautiful features. Damn him. Desire seized her, as it always did, and she knew he saw it as his eyes glowed more brightly.

“I do have…several ‘useful’ things for you, majesty, that I will be happy to remind you of shortly. However, I also have news. The Commander General, to whom you bequeathed the slave recently, is reportedly very cross. While he has seen nothing outwardly rebellious in the creature, he has suspicions that you granted her to him as some kind of trick.” He said, his expression bemused.

The Queen Mother crossed her arms, all of them, and snorted. “Of course I did. He’s a fool to think a gift from me would ever be anything else.” Pausing, she mused. “Plant the idea in his household that he should be more harsh on her. Push her. I want to know if he is strong enough to make her break where the Houndmaster could not.”

“Your will be done, majesty, as ever.” The King moved to replace his hat and half-turned.

“Wait.”

When he looked back, it was with a devious smirk and his free hand raising to tug the cravat at his neck loose.

[ala-mhinyan]

Waist-Ups comms for @kalaisgreen and @yzareenxiv​ of their girls Maya and Y'Zareen!

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[talesfromthegameff14]

Khenbish:  Cursed

Darkness.  

He was left to his mind, his thoughts, and the darkness that engulfed him like a blanket.  The blanket was too warm, too heavy, too suffocating, yet he couldn’t escape it.  

Discipline kept him in the center of the thin carpet that Kindling Dusk set upon the floor of the room she purified for this purpose.  Meditation kept his breath coming slow, deep, and easy as the strange runes painted on the carpet provided a soft purplish glow to counter a tiny bit of the darkness.  

The glow wasn’t enough, not as the hours passed in all encompassing silence that Khenbish found to be steadily maddening.  He could hear his breathing, his heartbeat, and then he could hear her voice as clear as a bell in his mind.  

"Please, I'll give you anything you want.  Anything... son, please....",

"Please son, please.  Save me from this.  Only you can.  You don't want your mother to die, do you?  Please...."    

The words circled like hawks as the discipline of meditation failed him.  He had no idea how much time had passed.  How long had he sat still, trying to obey Kindling Dusk’s instructions?  From the cramping in his muscles as he pushed himself off of the floor hours had passed, but how many?  How many more hours did he have to go before this could be done.   Too many, far too many.   Khenbish paced the along the carpet, trying to rid himself of the restlessness that always thrummed through his veins. Movement didn’t help him escape the onslaught of her words, the creeping doubt that maybe, just maybe she had been right all these years.

   "You don't have the strength for this.  If you did you'd have come alone.  Even now you have to get someone else to do this for you.   At least she's strong, no matter what pit you dug her up from.  You are nothing boy, nothing at all.  You are..."

He whispered into the silence, voice strained, "I am Ayanga.  I am your end, I was your end. You cannot take who I am from me.  I am me.  I am me. "   Khenbish pivoted in place, bare feet made no sound on the carpet.  Four steps by four steps, the square he was confined to for as long as it took to be simply himself and nothing else.  A cold sweat broke out along his skin as he tried to focus, find the calm within.  But the words denied him that and there was no way to out run them here.  No way to find exhaustion in this far too small space where it was only him and nothing at all. 

“You will die for what you have done Khenbish.  Die and be discarded with the trash, you are nothing.  Nothing to be mourned, nothing to be buried, nothing to be considered." More hours, more words, and the last words his mother spoke pounded at him. Her screams, her pleading, her duplicity as he shattered her body and in the end her mind.  This was the price he paid for his need for revenge.  

"I curse you Khenbish, you will never been remembered.  You will be less than nothing, not even the earth will remember where your bones lie."

Unable to hide from her last words to him Khen fell to his knees in the center of the carpet, sweating and shuddering.  Despite being empty his stomach clenched and heaved and he was just able to move over to the jug Dusk left for him in time to catch the bile that was in his stomach.  The retching continued for some time, even as nothing came up at all, his body completely purged of everything but her words.  

"I curse you Khenbish...."

He shook his head, trying to rid his horns of the sounds.  

"I curse you Khenbish...."

“No..”, he panted, fists balling up the thin carpet in his hands.

"I curse you Khenbish, you will never been remembered.  You will be less than nothing, not even the earth will remember where your bones lie."

“I am Ayanga.  I am the thunder in the storm, endless and enduring.  I am the lightning, a gift from the heavens to burn out your decay from the Uyagir allowing the land to flourish again, renewed.  You made me this mother and I deny everything you are.”, Khenbish whispers into the darkness.  His words are held close like a shield against the curse that chills him to his bones.   He crawled away from the jar and curled up in the center of the rug again, eyes squeezed shut to keep out the darkness and the maddening purple runes.   “I am Ayanga.”, he whispered over and over until the shivering ceases, his words come slower and slower until exhaustion won and he slipped into a restless sleep.  

( Kindling Dusk belongs to @witchfightrhythm )

[yzareenxiv]

Ears and tail! They say so much.))

sensory

[yzareenxiv]

The Labyrinth- Part 1

You can't run from it and you know it.

Memories are predators- if you run, they cannot help but chase you, needing to tear their due from you by tooth and claw. The more you run, the sharper and hungrier they get... Until they have devoured you entirely and there is no more present, no more future, only the past.

Zareen knew these things intimately, they were her own words, spoken with love or firmness or a sharp snarl over and over again to those who refused to face the past, refused to face what they'd done or had been done to them and were suffering, suffering terribly, as a result.

She knew.

But as she looked at the great, vast obsidian wall containing a labyrinth of memories that she had only barely glimpsed in brief flashes of nightmare, or caught like the faintest scent of smoke in her waking bells, Zareen wanted nothing more but to run. To rise from her trance, dash the incense she was using to open her mind into scattered coals and dust across the floor, and run out into the daylight. Find something to fight. Someone to fuck. Or just run, and run, and run...

A deep breath- it trembled, no good.

Another deep breath- better.

A third- and her inner Self stepped up towards the Wall and touched her hand to it. There was a sound, like incomprehensibly massive bells tolling in a way that felt like gentle blows to her chest, and she was forced to stand for a moment as her own mental defenses blared warnings at her. The wall was in place for a REASON! SHE DID NOT WANT TO KNOW WHAT LAY BEHIND IT!

It was true, that was the hardest part really. She didn't want to know. But wanting and needing are two different things, and Zareen had accepted that this would hurt. It would hurt terribly. If she moved too quickly, pushed too hard, it would break her irreparably as well. But there was no more running from herself- that had brought enough suffering to last many lifetimes, should she remain on this star for that long. This was something she needed to do. For herself. For those she loved. For the future to come. Because she knew one vital fact about what lay behind that Wall...

It was the Void.

Not a portal. Not what she had learned in all her years of combat.

The Labyrinth of Obsidian Walls held the memories of what had happened when she had thrown herself into the mouth of the Atomos... and woken up on the other side.

The initial crack, the one that the Seer had gazed into, was to the right of where her hand rested. Turning her back to it, keeping her fingers on the wall, she began to walk- to trace an unfathomable space inside herself and to prepare to, oh-so-carefully, allow her fingers and her Self to look through the cracks that she knew were there and see... and remember... and accept or atone for what she had done to survive in that place. That the Labyrinth was so vast, so very much larger than the longest-lived being's memory-scape that she had ever personally witnessed, made her shudder in awe and fear. How long had it been? A half-bell, maybe a bell, on this star, in this world.

How many eras had she trod upon the dead surface of that other world?

And how had she survived?

[pixelsheen]

Tattoo designs for my character @yzareenxiv! I will be offering to do tattoo designs like these for my next round of commissions, so please look forward to it!

[yzareenxiv]

hot damn yes this.))

[yzareenxiv]

Casualty (part 1)

It had been a long, long time since she had felt compelled to give herself over to the sea. The water was grey and cold and the sunlight was dying as the tides were starting to fall. Zareen felt the cold distantly- her body acclimated fairly quickly and she kept herself warmish with strong strokes through the waves. Her goal was a distant rocky outcropping, large enough to house a hollowed-out section of rock that would give her a place to sit, stand, or lie when the tide rose again.

As she pulled her naked self out of the water and onto the stone, the rocks left small cuts on her hands, her feet, her belly where she accidentally scraped across a rough place. Her blood ran in little drips and drops, vanishing against the dark, wet stone and into the salty sea. Once on solid ground, she turned and looked at the sky. The setting sun. The lowering clouds that promised a chilly fall storm that night. The children would likely need lullabies when the thunder woke them long after darkness fell.

That was a thought for later- for the world of responsibilities and life and the routine and the mundane. For when she would go back to living for the others.

Right now… right now was for her. Locked away, shut away, hidden from the sight of land with only the grey and the cold and the ending day. As she heard the occasional scream of the wind in the upper portions of the cavern, her eyes slowly closed and she began to painfully- gods, so painfully- reach… Her emotions had always flowed so close to the surface, it felt so unnatural to feel them now pressed so far down, compressed, bound in ropes too-tight, covered over with layer after layer after layer of ‘not now’. Of ‘they need me to be calm’. Of ‘don’t feel it’. Of ‘be their safe place’. Of duty. Of love made oppressive with the weight of potential consequences. Of… fear.

She did not realize it when her hand pressed over her heart and her claws pricked her skin- she did not feel the small rivulets of blood trailing hot over her chilled skin. She stopped before she did any real damage… but sometimes the gods require a sacrifice to bend an ear and Zareen knew it all too well. Blood… and… as the layers were peeled away and the ropes strained… tears. That they were partly in relief was unexpected. There had been a certain perverse comfort in not allowing herself the freedom to feel in all her intensity but there had also been a sense of something missing. Something potentially lost.

The ropes strained as she became aware of her tears. As her eyes opened and she saw the blood. As she looked out into the dark sea and saw the distant stormclouds rising and rising and rising to dizzying heights and moving like ominous shadows in the dusk. As the sun suddenly hit the water just right…

The ropes snapped as the ocean was transformed into fire.

Zareen’s scream exploded from her, filling the cavern, filling the air. Filling the world. She spread her legs to set her feet and curled her hands into fists and took a breath so deep it made her light-headed and then she SHRIEKED. Control snapped. Aether exploded from her in a column that rose up and up and up to bore a hole through the stone, to pierce the heavens, to demand the respect of the stars, to command that they Witness.

She let loose another cry. Another. Another. She fell to her knees and dug her claws into the stone so they gave off sparks and her back bowed as she wailed. She tasted blood, spat it into the sea- an offering. Another offering. A sacrifice laid before the gods as she begged them in her wordless shrieking wails to notice her, to hear her, to see her, to be there. Oh, oh, please be there. Fire and lightning flickered and arced around her and shadows flowed like water so deep that her body on hands and knees was nearly submerged in it. Her figure rapidly shifted between woman and goddess, miqo’te and primal, Zareen of the Jaguar and Zareen the Jaguar, until one was the other and the other was one.

The tears scalded. Her blood steamed. She beat her fisted hands against the stone and ripped at her hair and tore her jewelry off, flinging it into the walls of the cavern with all of her strength, heedless of value or rarity- though nothing made it into the sea. Perhaps the gods were looking down at her, in their own way. She did not feel them- she was lost in her own storm, ripped apart down to her very core, reforming and shredding over and over and over again as the last several moons- the last couple of years- the last decade of her life- the spirits of her ancestors reaching back millenia set claws and fangs into her and tore and rent and stripped her down past skin, past blood and muscle and bone, past aether, down to her very self and then down some more.

The screams still echoed- would likely always echo, now, imprinted upon this place. The woman-thing laid on her side, barely breathing, heart beating out of control, gold eyes filled with tears. Or blood. Or the sea. Or her soul. She looked like a broken doll. Cast aside- or maybe just lost, loved so much she was threadbare and hanging together with a prayer, a prayer she had forgotten.

Everything has a price.

EVERYTHING HAS A PRICE.

A truth fundamental. A law of the universe, immutable. A mystery, borne through generations and reinforcing it’s truth with the same inevitability as the waves rolling in and withdrawing… as the sun rising and falling. As the seasons changing. The sun sank beneath the waves, slowly, so slowly, and as the stars began to shine in patches of clear sky between the clouds, the darkness felt so very complete. A blanket to wrap herself in and lie here and dissolve to become seafoam.

They’d won. They’d WON. They had done the impossible- they had stood in defiance against the dark and though it had not left any of them unscarred, they had won. The jubilation that still flared inside her breast at that thought was undeniable- she had not had to say goodbye… she had not had to gently and lovingly deliver mercy in the only way she could. She had not had to look into the eyes of her family and see their grief, their guilt, their pain, or… or their recriminations. She had worn herself down, given her all, kept her promises while still giving every bit of her experience, her skill, her passion, her power…

And they had won.

Two souls still walked this star in defiance of the dark. Two lives that could go on to change and shape others- bring hope, and love, and burn bright. So bright.

It was a victory unlike anything she had ever known.

Perhaps that was why it did not feel like a victory. They had done the impossible.

She had challenged the gods and won.

...What did that make the gods?

Her eyes slowly, slowly, moved to fix on the stars. Unfamiliar stars that had become familiar- a way to guide her to the home-that-is. Stars that had never seen a little island in the middle of a temperate sea and the home-that-was. Stars that did not hold the memory of her people. That was only her. Only her. Only her.

They were dead. Dead and gone into the River and into her memory and into the voices of her soulstone. Grief is not something you feel once and then turn your back on, healed and whole and hale- it is the sea. You learn to swim. But sometimes a wave rises and drags you under. She was in the depths, far beyond the reach of light, floating in that place. Around her a jungle- dark, light, beautiful, deadly, vibrant with life and song, strewn with viscera and stinking of death.

All lost. All gone save for what she held precious in cupped hands, huddled over like the last tiny spark of hope.

All because they had never considered the impossible. All because they had chosen to live and die the way they had always lived and died. All because they had witnessed something never before seen and chose to rely on the ancient rather than questioning if the unknown must be met with the unknown. For all they spoke of ‘risks’, of ‘dancing with death’, of ‘living to the fullest’- in the end… in the end they had died rather than try to find another way. They had sacrificed a child to the ancient knowledge, demanded the ultimate price, damned a soul, and… for what?

In the end, for what?

So that a lone survivor, alone in a world that she was not made for and that was not made for her would sacrifice herself again… and again… and again… in the name of the fallen. Of the ancient. Of tradition. Thinking herself doomed and damned forever and always. Thinking herself unworthy. Thinking herself… thinking she had no ‘self’ beyond the blade, the calling, the sacrifice, the tribe, the dark, the war that could not be won. A child raised up- then dragged down, torn apart, remade in the image of futile hope- and then set adrift when her purpose was fulfilled.

“Set us free.” They had instructed her and when she had given them her obedience unquestioning they had bound her in chains, and chains, and chains. She WAS the Price. And when she had done all they had asked- all they had ever asked- they had left her all alone… with their chains… their sins… their failures… their doom. And she had accepted it all as her due. As her fate. As her duty. All with a devil-may-care smile and a shrug and toss of her head.

Everything has a price.

Her head turned and she wept brokenly into the sea-smoothed stone as she allowed herself to realize and accept the lie. The great lie. The great betrayal- greater than Arden by magnitudes, greater than anything she had known or dreamed or feared.

She had lost everything… for nothing. For the fears of a short-sighted people who valued their doom so much they had abandoned hope. So much blood. So much suffering. For what?

For one, lonely, lost figure to stand in the ashes and bear it all. To be their sacrifice. To bleed forever- and then, to fall. To fall alone. To embrace her own damnation with no one there to give her the same mercy she had offered. Forgotten.

AND ALL OF IT FOR NOTHING.

The woman-thing had no more voice to scream- but the cavern echoed with her screams anyway. Aether whipped into a frenzy, maddened, wild, uncontained, unformed- it was her voice. Her fists beating against the walls. Her heart beating against her ribs. The wind screamed for her. Thunder cracked and rumbled and roared. Flames reached for the sky in supplication. And she mourned- she mourned the sheer, stupid, horrible futility of it all. She mourned for her people. She mourned for herself. She mourned for futures cut short because the past could not be left behind.

She mourned for the lie. She mourned for her faith. She mourned for the fantasy- it had been painful and terrible in so many ways but it had been a comfort, too, because it meant that all she had done and sacrificed, all her pain, her sweat blood and tears, her fears, her nightmares, her scars uncountable… they had meant something.

Curling up tighter into a ball, she shivered in the dark and every tremor made a horn scrape against the stone. The sound was like madness, scratch scratch scratching at the edges of her psyche. Tip-tip-tapping with her own black claws. She already had cracks where it had slithered in but it played with her anyway, teasing at the parts of herself that had always been so strong, so confident, so full of passion and hope and pride. She trembled.

She had done the impossible.

And now there was no going back.

[yzareenxiv]

The Final Hours

((Music: https://youtu.be/qOMQxVtbkik and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpFKPVquSeA&t=331s ))

“I’m out of time.”

They’d all known it was coming but hearing the words spoken out loud had an extra weight to them like the toll of a deep bell. The look in her brother’s eyes as he said them was something she’d seen so, so many times and it never ceased to affect her, tugging at part of her very soul- her purpose for life. In this case, though, she would not be offering gentle mercy, gods willing. This time, she would be leading a Hunt, she would lead a pack to stand in defiance of the dark and fight. In a way, it was a good thing to finally be able to do something- no more waiting, no more uncertainty, no more second-guessing or sleepless nights staring at her ceiling or the strange moon with her hand wrapped around her soulstone so hard it left impressions in her skin as she begged for more knowledge- for anything that might be the key to turning the tide.

Just once. Please, gods, just once let this not be goodbye.

The Xaela had looked so fragile, so afraid. Tormented. He had been so very strong for so long, buying them all the time they had needed to prepare. She wanted to comfort him, to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight- but neither of them could risk what might happen if she drew so close. Not when her instincts and the thing inside of him were so volatile. So she had swallowed down everything- all her fears, all her hurt, all her grief, all her uncertainty. She had sat out of reach and purred comfort, sung comfort, gently embraced him in as much of her loving care as she could to offer him a few precious moments of peace- and as his pain visibly eased she had watched him. Memorizing every detail- every little mannerism, the fall of his hair, the way light moved over his skin and scales, the way his features looked in profile and when he looked over at her. His body, the way he moved, the movement of his tail, his scent, all gathered in and placed gently in memory. When she felt secure she would not forget, she had gazed around the house with the same care- it was all so precious. It was all so fragile. The wood spoke, the air spoke, the mingling of individual scents, the ghosts of every-day routine moving around her in comforting mediocrity. She hadn’t once taken it for granted, not when her place here was so uncertain. Now she was glad of that, in a way. It meant she would have many memories to return to in the empty, lonely bells that may lie in her future.

When he thanked her, she wanted desperately to promise him that it would be okay. But she could not tell such a lie and he would not thank her for it even if she could.

Returning to her room that night had never been so hard.

--------- A few days later --------

The Jaguar knelt in a circle of items that had not been seen nor touched since before she had made her sacrifice, with a padded box set to her side so she might carry everything safely to the ritual site. Sacred relics of her fallen people, some of them ancient- carefully cared for through generations, the knowledge of their use kept safe through song and story impressed upon the carriers of certain soulstones. She had turned off the lights in her room and conjured a small, floating flame. It was as close as she could get to the warm firelight that brought out the beauty and mystery of the tools and the memories that moved through her mind. First, the hanging censers…

The Jaguar lifted six of them from the collection, turning each on it’s chains so the bells softly rang as she examined them closely. The firelight was captured in the small chips of precious stones, flashing brilliance in the shadowed dark. Setting them carefully into the box, she ensured they were well-packed before moving to the next.

Melody, smiling with her tufted ears wiggling. The floof of her tail swaying. The way it felt to have the young woman sit and lean against her- trusting her. Loving her. Niece. Doing her very best to keep her head up despite the recent pain of not just grief but the loss of her innocence. Her pride when she held one of her creations for Zareen to see.

“I love you unconditionally and I always will.”

The carefully blended and pressed resin incense was next, lifted to her nose as her eyes close to inhale the complex scent. It had taken her so, so long to get the blend correct- especially since she had only had three cakes to compare against the ingredients she could get her hands on here. Setting down one of her crafted discs, she picked up one of those crafted on the island and took a deep inhalation again. Not quite exact- it could not be. But she could feel the rightness of it, feel the latent power waiting for the touch of flame to release the smoke that would act to steady her ritual-craft. Packing the discs and the charcoal that they would rest on in the box with gentle hands, her fingers lingered for a moment before she brought one to her nose again.

A memory. She was a ghost, standing to the right side of a Jaguar huntress as she worked mortar and pestle to grind down and blend the ritual mixture. Her ingredients, small mounds of herbs, little clay jars of liquid, flowers and stalks, all set carefully around her. As she worked, Zareen could hear her voice speaking in an ancient version of the Jaguar tongue, explaining each ingredient, the proportions, the preparations they must undergo before mixing, all the details that an apprentice would need to know. Step by step. When the memory faded, she had been able to smell the finished blend with clarity.

Zareen’s gold eyes opened and she took a deep breath, verging on the edge of tears. How many times had she begged her soulstone to show her a way to save her people? Her loved ones? How many years had passed in despair when it gave her only silence. She realized, now, why that was. She had been asking the wrong questions. There was no “way” to save someone from the dark. There were only small flickers of hope. Small things that might, if one were brave and committed, illuminate one of the many steps along a path that may, possibly, lead to victory.

The gods were good. Sometimes. The gods were cruel. They demanded much and often gave little. She knew there would be a price for what they were going to do- each of them would pay in their own way. Each of them had been given the chance to change their mind- even Ayanga. Each of them had expressed their desire to take the chance, to challenge fate. To take the gamble. To leap.

He’d listened to her carefully, his eyes not meeting hers as he thought about what she was saying. It was clear he wasn’t entirely happy with what he heard, but when she was done, his odd pale eyes with their black sclera moved to her face and he nodded. He expressed his gratitude for all that she was doing and though he slipped back into uncomfortable, awkward silence after she knew when the time came he would fight the same way she would.

Tolemy... let there be time for us. Let there be a chance to see...

Her eyes moved to the jewelry she would wear for the ritual. It, too, was ancient. The filigree open-work was less evident, the craftsmanship favoring a more simple design. Stylized figures of jaguar, the rising sun, and the rising moon are barely able to be made out. The gemstones set in the gold still have all of their shine, despite their age. The one open setting awaits her soulstone. She will place it when she arrives at the cave and begins the cleansing and preparations there.

“I barely got this second life-- I should’ve been dead a dozen times over by now, so I just want folks to know I didn’t have any regrets with this part of the life I’ve lived, and I don’t want them to regret it either.”

Amaranth’s irrepressible smile as she said the words had brought an echoing expression to Zareen’s lips. The Jaguar couldn’t express it, didn’t have the words, but that smile reminded her of so many she had known. The faces were different- slit-pupiled eyes framed in brightly-colored hair looking at her with that devil-may-care grin. ‘Death comes for all of us.’ said that grin, ‘May as well have as much fun as we can before it catches up!’ She had grinned that way before. Sometimes, she still did. It was bittersweet- it made part of her yearn for earlier days, days when she had nothing to lose and everything to gain, days when she had seen every minute of life as a new adventure and a dare- live fast, live free, live fierce, laugh at Death as you dance one step ahead. She prayed that her friend would manage to find that smile for as long as possible.

Putting the jewelry into a velvet bag, she set it into the box tenderly. Her eyes moved to the final item and her ears lowered even as a soft smile bloomed on her lips. She lifted the knapped obsidian blade, turning it so the firelight glowed through the thin, impossibly sharp glass. Her hand fit the wrapped gold wire on the hilt easily, as if it were made for her. Her head tilted a little as she slowly twisted it back and forth, gazing into the shadow-made-real.

A pair of too-bright violet eyes, or blue. Green. Red. Scarred into white. Empty sockets.

A hand held in hers, clinging tightly in desperation so claws pierced her skin. Holding loosely with a lack of strength. Gently pressing skin-to-skin as if to comfort her as much as she comforted them. Slick with blood. Cold with fear. Thin-skinned with age. Too small...far too small.

A voice, whispering in quick, pained gasps. Pleading. Broken by sobs. Empty of all emotion- too far gone into the dark to hold any more. Resigned. Gentle. Young and scared. Old and content. Moving without sound, voiceless but speaking still. Requests for the end, for messages left too late, for regrets unable to be overcome, for sins unforgiven, for loves lost, for comfort to those that remain. Tales, stories of lives lived, spoken with the hope that they might be remembered, that they will find their place in the stars, that they will be carried on in the hearts of those who carry on. ‘Remember me, remember me, remember that I walked on this star. Remember that I lived, and laughed, and loved. Do not let me be lost, do not let me be forgotten.’

The taste of blood. Tears. Rot. Sweet herbs. Salt. Alcohol. Life lived. Life lost. All that was and all that might have been. An inhalation- drawing it all in, feeling it coil and curl inside, feel it seep into every part of her soul, feel it become part of her. Feel them calm, feel them let go of the fear, the anger, the tension, the sadness, the past, the future. Feel the grip of their hands grow gentle, every one.

Whispering the words- her tongue forming them, her mind forming them, her soul forming them into shapes and sounds they knew from their earliest memories. Watching the calm fall over them. Acceptance. Even hope. Wielding the spell, the blade, sliding it gentle and painless until it kissed the heart. The final breath.

The silence.

She slowly lowered the blade, resting it on her palm before gently and carefully putting it in the special part of the box prepared for it. It is delicate, and it is vital for what is to come. The box is closed, latched, aether woven around it for protection and security. Zareen moves it aside, gathers up the other items that will be kept for another day and puts them away in the chest where she keeps that which is precious to her. Rising, she turns and walks to the closet, opening the doors and leaning in to press her fingers against one of the back panels. It slides away, revealing a different kind of box. Dusty in a way that none of her things ever are. Hidden here where it should have been forgotten, found by one of the future generations perhaps. Or lost forever.

For the first time, her hands shake and she gently closes them into fists, closing her eyes.

Her brother’s eyes, crimson and pink, looking at her with a gentle pleading.

“I can’t go through another night like the last one, not and still fight.”

She whispered the words she had spoken to him. “I will stop you befoah you hunt anehone. I sweah this to you on all that is above and below.”

A single blue eye looking into hers as the box is handed to her. “Whatever you need to do, do it.”

Eyes opening again, the Jaguar gazed into the dark closet and sighed. Leaning forward, she drew the box out and set it on the floor. Opening it revealed a collar-style necklace, glowing faintly blue along the magitek surface, the ceruleum light pulsing slowly. Matching cuff-like bracelets, two of them, rested in their own divots in the padding. They, too, glowed and pulsed in perfect time with the necklace. She picked up one of the bracelets and her wrist twinged with sensory memory- the feel of the metal biting and chafing as she turned it, and turned it, and turned it unconsciously as it seemed to weigh more and more and more. There were no tears- she had shed a lifetime’s worth for those losses. Turning the bracelet in her hand, her fingertips found the simple pad that would activate the necklace when aether was passed through it. It would take only the smallest amount- a breath, no more. The restraint would render the one wearing the collar immobile. Not for long. Just… just long enough. Just long enough to say goodbye.

Her eyes are unfocused, gazing into the distance as she feels the weight settle heavy on her shoulders. It is familiar. So familiar. Sun after sun, season after season, year after year… era after era…

Twi, holding her hand, squeezing her hand with a gentle firmness. “Whatever you will become, whatever you think have become… you are still our Y'zareen.” Falling into a hug, held and holding, a moment of terrible, terrible vulnerability met with a loving kindness that gently provided a balm to a wounded heart.

“... Thank you, sisteh. Thank you. I love you vereh, vereh much.” She whispers.

“I l-love you too,” she replied.

She refocuses, setting the bracelet back into the box for now and closing it, carrying it over to the other box and setting it on top. It would be one of the last things done, that it might not chafe at already raw spirits. As she looked at the two boxes, she felt a sudden spike of intense icy fear that caught her breath and made her press a hand to her chest as she gasped and her eyes widened. It is a surprise but the unexpected pounding of her heart in her ears and the chill in her fingers and toes is almost...welcomed. Eyes fluttering slowly closed, she breathes a prayer of gratitude. If she can still feel fear, then she is not past hope. One doesn’t fear the inevitable. One fears uncertainty. And that means that, in her heart of hearts, she still holds hope. Irrepressible hope. Hope that has kept her alive, over and over, giving her the strength to take that fear and make of it a weapon named Courage.

She would have to show the others how to do the same. They would need this of her. This is not a fight she can win by throwing herself into the dark. Never again, that. They needed her to be better. To move past her mistakes. To rise above her insecurities. To be the light, the guide. It was her last chance and she knew it. Whether they succeeded or failed, how she carried herself and the choices she made, the way she led them would set the course of her future. Redemption or damnation. A small smile touches her lips. This, too, is familiar- feet light and fleet, spinning and swaying and leaping on the edge of the blade.

Please, gods… Please, let me be worthy, just this once.

Turning slowly, her eyes move around the room- her little attic room, made cozy but still not quite “home”. It was a good place, though. It had been a sanctuary and she was grateful. Walking down the stairs, the house was very, very quiet in those bells before dawn. Moving like a shadow herself, the Jaguar walked through each room, gathering them into her memory and her heart. She did not linger in her brothers’ bedroom, passing through to where the children slept in a way that would not bother the men- it was something she did often when they needed an extra hand to soothe or care. Pausing by each little bed, she allowed herself the tears as she watched each little chest rise and fall. Memorized the curve of their cheeks, the gentle expressions they wore as they dreamed, the soft scents they gave off, the small hands that would someday shape the future.

At the bed her twin girls shared, Zareen sat on the edge and reached out to stroke the thick black hair and brush the back of her fingers butterfly-light across their cheeks. Her Hope and Dream. A terrible pain speared her heart and her eyes closed, head bowing and hand covering her mouth to catch the sob that threatened to escape her. Taking a few breaths, shaky at first before steadying, the Jaguar rose and leaned to kiss each of them, whispering inaudibly in her mother-tongue. “I love you. Always.”

She left the room as silently as she’d entered it, walking back up to the attic and sitting down at the window. The moon, strange and too-bright, shone down on her and she gazed up at it, golden eyes glowing. Bells passed...and as the moon lowered and the sun started to rise, she prayed. She prayed blessings, she prayed apologies, she prayed her dreams and her plans. She poured a river of heart-offerings into the liminal place between night and day where the Dark Lady and the Bright could both hear. The place where she walked, both and neither.

The sky grew brighter, the tops of the waves going gilded, and Zareen closed her eyes and wiped the tears from her cheeks. They would be the last she would shed until the matter was done. Taking a slow breath and letting it out softly, she went to that place inside her where the jungle trees rose to impossible heights and a pool of darkness reflected the storm-tossed sky above, lightning dancing through the roiling clouds. One of the trees, huge and wide, held an opening in the roots- a passageway. There was a sanctuary there, a healing place. But there was a deeper place, too. A hidden way. Zareen floated above the inky pool, one foot touching the surface as her hair flowed above her and her head tilted back to gaze at the sky before she closed her eyes and let go.

A shift, a breath, and her head snapped down as gold eyes opened and she sprang forward, throwing herself into a leap, a dash, a run that carried her across the surface of the pool, splashes rising behind her and staying, frozen in time. Half-way to the shore, she jumped high and sure and sloughed her skin, landing true on four huge paws, already running, racing with her tail a flag behind her and her wild eyes fixed on the tree. The passageway irised open as she threw herself into it, diving into the dark.

Huntress. Jaguar. Sin Eater. Weapon. Blade and shield. Killer and protector, healer and devourer. Dancer on the edge of the blade. Wild laughter in the face of death.

A predator from an unbroken line of predators stretching back into the mists of time.

Prayers given form.

She Who Catches Demons in Her Teeth.

(( Tagged for mention: @talesfromthegameff14 @ala-mhinyan @realmoffantasy as well as Twi and Amaranth who do not have Tumblr))