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lyric isn't immortal when he keeps killing himself but he does believe it would fix him !!!!!

if i was immortal killing myself would be my hobby and like i truly believe it would fix something in me. i do

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thinking about them (ira and karma from one of the many púlsar memory loss aus)

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Hi!!! Happy STS :D

Do you write stories with familial relationships? Do you write about found or blood families more often? Are these relationships usually good or bad?

If you don't write stories with familial relationships, why?

happy sts !

yes i do! 4/5 of my stories have a familial relationship in the center (that of siblings both blood and chosen or a parent/child), and all my stories have some sort of found family in them

as for familial relationships, they tend towards the tragic (with the exception of arion and chimera in tales from beyond)

aira's whole motivation in cor vitae spawns from her desire to find out who murdered her brother sûn, and both their stories revolve around letting go

in púlsar we have plenty key familial relationships: there's the creators (ira hamza and níniam, and ira's whole motivation revolving around keeping them safe), karma and sher's fraught sibling relationship (and their relationship with their father and the one they had with their recently deceased mother), áine and her grandmother and the pressure of her heritage, and garvan and emhi with their father

finally, in up most of ely's pressure points from book 1 come from their parents and how unknown they feel by them

as for found family i have the p:n crew (in p:n), ira and karma, lyric and akira (up), and lyric and ely's found divorce lol

tbh i'm actually surprised i have so many key sibling relationships because i'm an only child

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[about my own oc, who i created] in theory its possible she would say that, but we just dont know for sure

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the amount of notes i have for this pov is unreal 💀💀💀

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V GUESS WHAT. I HAVE LIKE TEN DAYS OFF AFTER I QUIT

[lyn this is my wip ask box—]

PÙLSAR. KARMA. IRA. SHER. MY BELOVEDS. I CAN SEE YOU ON THE HORIZON.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SPAM NOOOTIIIFFFSSS !!!!!!!

YIPEE !!!!!!!!!!!!!

all of part 1 is proof read and either posted or scheduled btw !!!!!!! so you got a good chunk to fill your days :]

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@my-cursed-prince

CHAPTER 8 - PROGRESS - KARMA II

masterpost // 1.5k

I have never been this close to an answer before.

For years, ever since I first came to the palace, I worked and worked to one day be able to find a cure for my mother. And despite my effort, and the hours and hours I put into it, I never got anything to show for it beyond a temporary solution with alziwaq, and failed plan after failed plan. Until now.

Thanks to all this new information straight out of the origin, of knowledge that has been passed down through the ages without imitation interference, I can finally see the end in sight: a cure for the illness; fulfilling the promise I made to my mother.

I will finally reach that which I have always wanted. But instead of the triumph I’ve been longing for, of the hope that should be warming my chest and the security that should come with it—instead of them, there’s this bottomless pit opening up in my gut. A fall into the depths, past cliffs and sharp rocks, breaking through the sea foam and the violence of the waves.

And every time I try to shake it off, I’m reminded of avoidant eyes and a quiet question; a shadowed figure cross-legged in front of a closed window.

But she understood, didn’t she?

And this plan, it will be safe. It’s the perfect middle point, just enough of a push to her abilities so she can connect safely and fix this. We’ll need more tests, for sure, and some time to work out all the possibilities and variables that might influence it all. But that’s good. We are taking the necessary measures to assure our success.

What’s more, Áine and I talked about possibly modifying the alziwaq to better tailor it to Ira and the overabundance of dima in her blood. With it, and practice, we’ll make sure she’s ready before bringing her into the Iria again.

This will work.

It shows as we keep working day after day, settling into a routine. Our afternoons are filled with test after test: changing distances and the compositions of the imitations, allowing her to use other imitations and even my creation. We time her, too, and see her slowly but surely improve. My nights are filled with analyzing all of our data to this point. I try to find trends, and I plan for the next day.

I also run some blood work. Áine wanted to test Ira’s levels regularly, but the creator refused to be drawn, at least by her. So I do it, and I manage the blood, disposing of it afterward by throwing it into the sea like Ira made me promise I would.

Her unflinching, unresponsive body as I extract drop after drop from her arm doesn’t help the queasiness in my stomach. And so the pit gets deeper with each vial filled with blood; with each exhausting connection she makes and each destroyed imitation.

I approach her after another endless afternoon a couple of days later to attempt to shake this unwelcome feeling off. We are basically alone: Garvan’s gone to fetch the rookies, and Áine’s busying herself near the table in this new dance her and the creator have adopted of passively ignoring the other.

Instead of taking her place in the window seat, Ira’s on the floor, leaning on her palms with her eyes closed and head tilted upwards. The hair that refuses to be contained by her updo sticks to her forehead and neck, and her chest heaves deeply as she catches her breath.

At least there’s no faint rumbling coming from her lungs today.

“What?” she doesn't open her eyes, craning her head instead to the side in my direction. She sounds tired and, amused?

“I just—” I whisper, fidgeting. Áine doesn’t seem to have noticed us talking. “I just wanted to say sorry.”

The sentiment amuses her, and her bright orange eyes open. “For?”

I look at her and she looks at me. Yeah, for what. Everything? Anything she wants me to be sorry for? I don't know, I just—

“Our conversation the other day got cut, and I—I didn't… I can't know what it must be like to go through all what you are going through right now. And; yeah. It's our fault, and—”

“Dude.” She cranes her neck further to the side to better look at me, still standing next to her. “You are rambling. It's fine. Well, it's not fine, but don’t you take it to heart, yeah?”

I don't know how to tell her that that doesn't make much sense. Still, I had more to say to her, no matter my half-assed apology. Making sure Áine's far enough not to hear me whisper, I crouch next to her. She leans forwards.

“I wanted to tell you that I haven't told them about your friend.” I can't see her reaction because I'm looking at the floor next to her hand, but I feel her tense up. “And I won't. I'll keep the secret: no conditions, no nothing.”

She's silent for a whole minute before answering. “I don't know how much your word is worth. You know that, right?”

I look her in the eyes. They almost glow in the rapidly darkening dusk. Yeah, I know. Still… “I promise I won't. I… I know I haven't earned your trust.” That amuses her for some reason. “But I still… I still promise I won't.” Without meeting her eyes, I move so I can stand.

“I know the protest got way worse.” Her voice stops me from getting up, and I fall on my butt. A flitting smile crosses her face before turning serious again. “I don't need to be a genius like you guys to figure that out. No, don't say anything,” she says when I open my mouth. Her eyes move to the window and what’s beyond, but from the floor the only thing we can see is the reddening sky. “Just—I don't even know why am I telling you this—just watch out for news of him. If, if that's even a thing you can do.”

I nod, but I don't know how I could do that. It's not like I can go and ask around. She knows that too, I think.

“What we are doing… these tests… They'll help keep him safe. And your athir. If—” No. “When we succeed.”

Her gaze stays beyond the glass, and I stay with her on the floor, until Garvan comes back.

Days blend into one another, and I lose all sight of time. At some point, a new summer storm breaks out, the strong wind hitting the walls of the palace making it difficult to fall asleep even if I'm exhausted. It doesn’t bother me much, the strange hours I’m forced to keep because of it helping us to progress even more, bringing me closer and closer to my goal.

At last, when the storm passes and the thunder fades away, I can finally sleep after what feels like an eternity of constant work.

I exit my room refreshed, after midday, ready for another day of calculations and corrections. Of progress.

Sher surprises me outside, leaning on the opposite wall to my room. I tense up instantly.

“Do you know what day it is today, Oghan?” he says as a way of greeting. My body finds itself defensive at once. I look back at him, trying to guess his meaning.

I’m unsuccessful. He sees so, and walks towards me. Smirks. I wait for the hit to land.

“This morning…” he pauses on purpose to let my panic set in. What have I forgotten? “You missed the arrival of my charming fiancée, Sahare of Derya. She was sad to miss you. She’d been looking forward to meeting you, too. Something about being interested in your… little experiments.”

My stomach drops. It can’t be. Not today, that I’ve allowed myself to rest after days of working nonstop. I startle when Sher lets his hand fall on my shoulder and I look at him, terrified. I can imagine what’s coming now.

“Our dear father wants to talk to you.” The meaning behind his tone is obscured to me. I nod, mute. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my body. I stay paralyzed looking back at him. He squeezes my shoulder as he gently shakes me. “Now.”

He has to physically drag me to the shahin’s study. My mind chaos, every step an odyssey of its own to my body that fights back against every centimeter we move in that direction, to my body that wants to flee back to my study.

We arrive, the door guardless, even if we’ve passed a dozen on our way here. I force myself to rise my eyes from my beat-up boots, to face the wooden carvings on the door. Ships and birds.

I swallow, bile climbing up my throat. Sher gives me a last clap on the back before he goes, which makes me stumble, and I right myself with a hand on the door.

“Good luck, little Oghan.”

And then, I’m in.

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon @aquil-writes

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vesa in chapter 16 is such a treasure *gently holds*

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Show us!

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HAPPY (HONORARY) BIRTHDAY TO MY GUY. MY FAVOURITE LOSER. MY FREAK. EVERYTHING IS WRONG WITH HIM INCLUDING THE FACT THAT HE DOESN'T EVEN GET TO HAVE A BIRTHDAY EVERY YEAR BORN THE 29TH OF FEBRUARY GANG RISE UP !!!!!!!!!!!!!

he's a nerd. he's prone to jealousy. he has no social skills. women want him for his money and power and not his personality. he's so Othered that even tho he's 100% cis, trans headcanons fit him like a glove. he's a mama's boy. he's emotionally constipated. he's sleep deprived and hasn't eaten a proper meal in ages. he hasn't showered in weeks and wears the two shirts in rotation. he's developing a conscience at 20 years old. his mother died a couple of days after his birthday. he somehow has both no self esteem and an abundance of overconfidence which is rooted in denial. he's terrified of heights. he's a pretty boy. the people he thinks hate him love him, and those he thinks like him are actually tired of putting up with his bullshit. he's still mourning. he's a freak. he's a loser. he's weak (mentally, emotionally, physically). he cries himself to sleep hugging his childhood plush. he holds promises as sacred oaths. everything is wrong with him

his name is karma and i love him

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i do have one for púlsar but I've been meaning to change it :]

Show us!

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@my-cursed-prince and so it goes

CHAPTER 8 - PROGRESS - IRA

masterpost // 5k

For the first time in weeks, there’s no one watching me when I wake up. At first, it was the aldamu, and for the past couple days the two imitator kids bringing a welcome distraction. I still wonder how are they even allowed in here, but I won’t pretend to understand imitators. Certainly not after this week.

I struggle to pinpoint how I feel. I was mad and irritated. I wanted to test them, and anger them in return. I know I was on the right, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t care. I have the right to feel whatever I want; it’s the last freedom I have left. And I want to feel it, I want to feel the heat rising in my chest and the need to scream and break things, to run until I’m out of strength, until my coughing becomes too much and I fall exhausted on the sand next to the sea. And I did, for an instant. It all burned bright within me, but it’s only ashes now. The mirzaan made sure of it. He led me to melancholy, and confusion, and to a world where I feel bad for a damned imitator. As if.

But I do. What’s worse, his behavior shocked me into calmness. I should be climbing— metaphorically, of course, I’m still shackled to the floor—all over the walls. I was, too, before whatever this is. I’m just tired, now.

All of me aches. My muscles want for movement, too used to climbing and running and fleeing across the outskirts. They want to give out on top of roofs after walking in the dusk until the sun sets and the poison rises from the sea. They want to yank themselves away from these chains and leave this stiffness behind, pulling and protesting when I walk from cell to room.

My heart, too, aches. For Hamza and my athir; for the sun and the smell of dirt.

And when I try to picture it, when I close my eyes and bring forth the wetness of the mountains after a storm, of waves crashing under my feet as I sit staring at the sun, instead of returning to a familiar picture, I come back to yesterday. To an open window and a pathetic prince.

He’s baffling. From his mannerisms to his demeanor to his whole personality. I’d be worried it was all an act, but I don’t think anyone could pull something like that on purpose. Both humane and ignorant, he’d stab and soothe with his probing, to then fold onto himself like a kicked puppy. 

“Pitiful,” I can’t help but snort to myself.

But then seriousness washes over my face.

He was sincere, too. More than anyone here has been.

I started talking in an attempt to get something out of him. And he surprised me. I’m still beating myself up for my mistake when I gave him Hamza’s name, and, most importantly, a feature they can recognize him with.

He did promise to keep my secret. I don’t know how much his word is worth, but it’s something. Or at least, I try to convince myself that it is.

When they arrested me, I wouldn’t have thought in a million years I’d end up enjoying the company of Oghan mirzaan of Iria. But stranger things have happened.

Hours pass and I wait for the afternoon to arrive. My blood tingles, itchy still after my interrupted connection with the aldamu’s imitation. I can feel my body calling with no answer, the cell isolated from Ila. It would be bad enough without my creation, but with no imitations in sight, and with the walls, floor, and ceiling being made with a foreign stone, the cut feels more devastating.

To avoid driving myself insane with this unanswered calling, I obsess over something completely different. Trust, I keep repeating myself, just like I sometimes murmur Ila’s name when I create. The mirzaan was right. There needs to be some trust or else this won’t work. And I do want it to. Even if giving away the secret to Ila’s gift scares me, I want Níniam to be able to grow up without the burden of this illness.

Eventually, the kids bring me food, and distract me from my thoughts. As I suspected, they are barely two years older than Níniam, students still. Vesa’s blonde short hair bounces as she both struggles to hold in her questions, and reprimands Alanna and her incessant questioning of my fighting skill—which I have none.

The idea that they might have second intentions behind them doesn’t cross my mind. They are too childlike, too young still for that. They haven’t been taught yet how to despise us, how to hunt us down.

My mentor instilled in me a mistrust for them that I know was justified. They killed him, after all. But these two, and the mirzaan—even Garvan—they aren’t cruel.

As thanks for their distraction, I offer the kids our legends. Ila and Zaeaf’s birth: earth and sea, life and death; Khitji the first creator and the Core; Masrae, even. I’ve gotten good at recounting them, as Níniam always enjoyed listening to them.

Vesa frowns and buts in protest at a couple of details, and I can't help but smile. Apparently, our versions differ. But her objections get interrupted by the familiar clank of the corridor’s metal door.

Garvan’s voice comes hidden behind the wall with what is clearly an order in gair. The girls perk up and obey immediately, almost automatically, their steps echoing on the cavernous walls.

I sit at attention, muscles tensing up, reading myself for what is to come. I goaded him, on purpose, on our last meeting. For all his jokes and easy manner, he’s by far the most dangerous imitator, and if we are to do this, I needed to know what he’d do when pushed.

I couldn’t find out then thanks to the mirzaan, so I’ll guess I will now. It’s by far a less favorable circumstance, with me being chained and all, but I’ve escaped more dire situations before.

The lock turns, and then the aldamu is before me. His sword is safely put away in its sheath, his face is neutral and, when I check, his boots have been cleaned. I look back up to see his raised hands. Okay, then.

“Before you say anything.” He pauses. “Let me talk.”

My anger flares up at the order, and I quail it down. Trust, right?

I watch through slit eyes as he kneels and unlocks the chains from the floor. His manner is subdued, cautious, even. His eyes are solemn.

“Do you ever wonder why I’m always here, when you wake up?”

I shake my head, the snark that’s usually ready to come out nowhere to be found. I just figured they just wanted someone on watch.

“Our understanding of how your gifts really work is pretty rudimentary.” He sits back, knees up. I rub my wrists, trying to alleviate the sting of the metal as I listen. “But we do know your emotions and your abilities are tightly interconnected.” He shakes his head. “I was supposed to watch, to assess. I’m usually good at it,” a bitter laugh escapes him, and he rakes his hand through his buzz cut on the sides. “And I failed you.”

Trust. I take a deep breath at his words, nodding. I don’t think he's done yet.

“The mirzaan told us about your last conversation. Or, part of it, I believe,” he adds before I convince myself I did make a mistake. “I hadn’t realized… I’ve just grown used to—to seeing you, like this. And I shouldn’t have.” There’s a pause that I can tell costs him. “My ma, she, she was khithi, like you.”

Same father different mother, wasn’t that what the mirzaan said about him and Emhi?

“I was supposed to understand,” he continues, fingers tapping rhythmically on his leg, “and I didn’t. I still don’t.” He looks me in the eyes. “I failed to see how uncomfortable you really felt,” he laughs at that, dry. “Your jokes deceived me completely.”

I look at the wall. My jokes aren’t a deception, but I can see how he’d interpret them as such. And he’s apologizing, too, which really doesn’t fit with what I expected. They keep surprising me, and I don’t particularly like that. Or maybe I do.

In spite of everything, I’d started to like him.

“But that’s my burden to bear. The team shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes,” his tone gets decisive. The horrible scar on my left hand glows in the light of the lamps. Sure, he was the most insistent, way too pushy and insensitive, but the others were there, too, and they stayed quiet. I don’t really care about the rest, but Áine… Betrayal is not what I feel, but it’s close to it. “And the drug… it was my idea, okay? I was afraid, I thought it would be for the best and—” he sighs, unable to keep the lie going. It bothers me, but he’s also protecting his team, and that I can understand.

Still, the mirzaan talked of secondary effects, of the protests—it left a bitter taste in my mouth. I hate being blind to what’s happening on the streets, to what Hamza and Níniam might be doing. If the first one sent it all to hell when I didn’t come back—if the latter stopped fighting.

I try not to think about them more than necessary. I can’t worry about them like this. I don’t want to think about them believing I’ve died, with my creation taken from me. I don’t want to think of Hamza, always looking for an excuse to join the protest, his responsibility to take care of my athir and myself tying him down.

Without me to stop him, he might have given in to his hate towards the énna.

“Again, I’m sorry,” Garvan brings my attention back to him. “And please just say something, you are looking straight at me and it’s freaking me out.”

This he says quickly, as if the fastness of his words would make them not bother me. Sure. I still don’t get what scares them so much, but… sure. Trust, I tell myself. Effort.

I offer my hands so he can put the shackles on.

“I knew I had to keep talking,” I smirk at him, recalling one of our first conversations. “Come on, let’s go. They might think I decided to kill you or something,” I say as I stand up to follow him. I haven’t forgiven him fully, not yet, but I had already decided to… work with them. He did apologize.

And I can torture him with this later if I get bored.

I meant to behave myself, I truly did. But once words started coming out of my mouth, I couldn’t help but let all my frustration and pent-up anger with the situation out. I backtracked as fast as I could, but even still, they remain tense and alert.

Frustratingly, the mirzaan is the one that seems to have taken my words the hardest. His whole being crumbled, and if it weren’t for the closed window, I would have feared for his safety. The frustration is twofold, too, because yet again here I am, feeling sorry for him and the lost look on his face.

I address him directly, still. He at least tried to give me something in exchange for my secrets. He’s earned it.

It takes them all a while to react, but eventually we are sitting around the window. I’m puzzled at how close Áine and Emhi seem, a khithi and an aldamu together, something I’d never seen before. It doesn’t bother me as much as I expected.

“And? Karma?”

I look at the mirzaan at Garvan’s question, the name he used taking me by surprise. But I don’t have time to unpack it, because the prince starts to talk at last. 

“We’ve never really known much about how creators work, only some basics, old traditions lost centuries ago… we only had legends left.” He’s stalling, but I still give him my full attention. “It was Jhai’s legend precisely that inspired the alziwaq, as you already know, they—”

“Jhai?” I interrupt him. I’d assumed the name of the drug, savior, was in honor of Khitji.

“The first creator?” The mirzaan looks back at me, confused as I am. He turns to Áine: “Was my pronunciation wrong or…?”

“No. No,” I repeat. “The first creator’s name is Khitji,” I clarify, “like us, khithi. That’s where the name comes from.”

“That’s not what our books say,” Áine retorts.

“Ira, are you sure?” The death stare I send the mirzaan works as he quickly adds: “I mean, it’s not that… I’m not doubting your knowledge about your history, but—”

“You yourself said it. You don’t know much about us because you ended our traditions and destroyed our shrines when you came here. But,” I add, trying to calm myself. It turns out half okay. “We have maintained them as best as we could. Their name was Khitji.”

“But the archives at the Umars confirm that it’s Jhai,” he frowns. “I don’t get it. Let me—” and he stands up. Not that anything he can find in this place will convince me otherwise.

“You can argue about this once we’ve solved our main issue here,” the aldamu stops him, gesturing for the mirzaan to sit down again. “It’s only a name. Your highness, please proceed.”

His little joke fails at lightening the mood, but it distracts the mirzaan enough to bring him back on track.

“As I was saying. The legends inspired the alziwaq, which we had already tested on… other khithi. It did give record-breaking results with you.”

I force myself to ignore the mention of other khithi, who, even if they call them volunteers, are only those too sick or desperate to submit to the process and the imitators’ experiments in exchange for food or money.

“When you told us of your connection with the Iria,” he continues, “we had this idea, well, it was mine, really, to use enough alziwaq so that your connection to the island would be more powerful and thus, well, figure out how to heal it.” My eyes open at his words, legs flinching back towards my body. I feel the quickening of my breathing, the memories of what I saw that day coming back to me—the pain, the deafening heartbeats. “No, no, it’s alright,” he adds then. “We discarded it, well,” he looks at the other khithi in the room, “Áine saw that it was too dangerous because it involved the drug, and—”

“Yeah, I know,” I look at Garvan, saving the mirzaan from lying some more, “you have your reasons.”

I’m just glad they discarded the idea. The mere thought of coming close to the Iria again gives me goosebumps, my senses sharpening in a panic.

“So… You must have another solution, right?” They avoid my gaze when I look at them. Oh, no. You’ve got to be kidding me. “Nothing?” I turn to the mirzaan. Surely he’s got something. “Not even a slight idea?”

They were supposed to know what I had to do. To give me solutions. I am the tool. They know that, right? If I knew how to fix this mess, I would have already. And if they really don’t know what to do, and their silence tells me they don’t, then we are worse off than I thought we were. Even if I’ve known the Core’s been slowly dying for years now, it sounded like they—“You were supposed to know what I had to do.”

“Ira, you have to take into account that we didn’t even know about the extent of your connection with the Iria,” Áine intervenes. “Our plans were rudimentary at best, imprudent at worst. We all know the consequences of the accident three months ago—”

“We can start by learning how you work, if that’s okay with you,” the mirzaan interrupts her. “See what we have to work with and, then, we’ll think about something. Now that you are here with us, we’ll know if something's viable or not.”

“Sure,” I sigh, reluctantly, looking from one to the other. “So? What do you want to know?” I direct the question at the mirzaan.

His face lights up, but as he opens his mouth to speak, Áine stands up. “Actually,” she says as she walks to the table, “I know you said you couldn’t feel anything, but could you at least attempt to?” The sahira turns with an imitation in her hands, offering it through the distance. I recoil, suspicious.

“You want me to interact. With that,” I manage to make my voice sound neutral. Áine nods, and I turn to the mirzaan. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he scratches his head, shrugging. “Why not.”

I turn so my back is to the sea, and cross my legs in front of me. The blood in my veins hums in anticipation, and Ila’s whispers from around me grow louder. Finally. My attempt at connecting with the aldamu’s imitation was interrupted before I could do anything, and the itching it left behind, the craving, now, becomes stronger thanks to this chance.

A different itch in the back of my mind makes me hesitate. Yes, I’ll be creating, but I will be doing it for them. And except for the mirzaan, none of them have earned it.

But it’s just an imitation. And they have seen me do far more before. Can I really be conflicted about this? Not when Níniam’s life is on the line.

And not when I want to do it so badly.

Garvan unlocks my shackles, and I move my arms around, stretching my neck. It pulls satisfyingly as I rub my mistreated wrists and scar. Áine has left the imitation on top of a pillow, some steps away from me, and I lock in on it.

It’s very small.

“Shall I start?” I glance around for confirmation. The mirzaan nods, creation on hand. The aldamu, next to him, attentively studies me.

I glare at the imitation for a second.

Then I begin.

Without my creation, it's extremely difficult, but my body has gotten used to her absence. A bigger effort is required than what I’d normally need, but I focus on connecting, on feeling the little remnants of the island on the rock, on listening to the words it whispers to me—the vibrations with Ila’s name on them.

Bleeding would help, but it's not worth it to reopen my hand wound just for a little imitation. And I don't plan on attempting anything like the scene at the throne room. Imitations, unlike creations, have a clear and orderly structure product of their artificiality. It’s easy to reach out to them, to knock and probe at their own weak call—to take control.

Easy, but slow.

At some point, I close my eyes and see the ethereal orange matter that links me to what's from the island. Bridges, from the imitations on the walls to the much fainter trace of the khithi blood in the aldamu and Áine and me. Even the mirzaan’s, weaker if it weren’t for his creation.

“Could you describe what you are doing?” he whispers, so low that I barely hear him in between the intensifying pulsing in my ears.

“There’s not much to describe,” I whisper back, focusing on not losing track of the bridges. I roll my shoulders. “I only need to focus on the connection.”

Minutes pass. The silence is charged with expectation as the waves breaking on the cliffs fill it. I���ve finally reached the point of belonging. All that light, all the imitations and the mirzaan’s creation, we are one and the same.

The imitation starts to light up. Its light too bright in that in-between world, I open my eyes, making sure to remain connected. The dimness of the room is a welcome sight. Sweat trickless down my back and brow, and my breathing is laborious.

“What do you want me to do?” I manage to get out in between my teeth.

“Blow it up.” Garvan’s harshness almost makes me lose it all. I expected Áine’s intrusiveness, or the mirzaan’s curiosity. I restrain myself from turning.

No one contradicts him, and I’d really, really would like to blow up some stuff. I bite my tongue and taste blood, then move inside the imitation, in between the opaque crystals that form it, the threads where the earth and the blood joined in perfect patters so unlike a creation’s. A creation’s chaotic structure prevents them from being destroyed if you are not their maker, but imitations, with their simple boring form… It’s easy to find its heart, a sort of origin point. A push of pressure, a giving of that which fuels it beyond what it needs to shine and to heat—

I close my hand, and the imitation bursts in a singular short crack. Shrapnel scatters close around it, and blood and dirt pool on the pillow where it once stood.

The connection breaks, and the air rushes out of my lungs far too fast. I blink, centering myself back, trying to regulate my quick breathing. Áine and the mirzaan start asking question filled with excitement far faster than I can understand them, and I exchange a glance with Garvan and his raised eyebrows.

“How did you do it?”

“You barely moved, did you talk to it so it would break or—?”

“Would it be more difficult if it was further?”

“My creation heated up. Did you use it? How? For what?”

“Does it always take you this long? Do you know why? How did you do it in the throne room?”

“Stop!” Garvan rises his voice, shutting Áine down. The mirzaan, at his side, flinches. Huh. Lower, the imitator adds: “Calm down. Give her a break. Take turns.”

He gives me a chance to bring my breathing back to a normal rhythm and to wipe the sweat from my brow. I retake my place with my back on the side of the window seat, arms casually crossed across my chest. Oh, did I miss being able to do that.

Once I can bear it, I signal to them that I’m ready. Áine motions to the mirzaan to start with her head. He clears his throat.

“Could you describe the process? A step by step of what you do?”

I recoil a bit at the question. Yes, I told myself that I would help, and yet… This is our gift, our heritage. It's the only thing we have left of who we were before they came and destroyed our faith and culture. But the mirzaan's eyes are curious and full of wonder, not hunger. And this is for Níniam.

“It’s just… something I know how to do. I told you already how the Iria is constantly calling. Well, the thing is, everything is. That includes myself. My body, my being, craves this connection on instinct. To be in tune with the island.” I close my eyes to think about how to explain myself. It’s still difficult for me to talk once I find how. “I just have to listen and answer back. Reaching out. And once I’m connected, then I’m free to do with them as I please.”

“You are?” He sounds hopeful.

I shrug. “I mean, I should. It’s an imitation, after all.”

“Right,” he can’t quite mask his disappointment, but I don’t know at what. “Is that why it took you so long, too? Because it’s an imitation?”

“In part.” I push back a lock of hair that had fallen on my eyes. “The imitation was tiny and impure and too perfect. Artificial. Also,” I motion to my ear, “I don’t have my own creation with me. The imitations in the room helped. That one definitely did,” I gesture to his creation. He closes his fingers around her.

“So it’s the norm to use imitations or creations near you to… talk to them?” Áine asks, standing up once again in search of another one.

I nod, even if she can’t see me. “Yeah, usually.”

They stay silent, looking at each other, communicating without words. I look at Garvan, who rolls his eyes at me, like this is normal. He smirks a little, and silently counts backwards from three with his fingers, until—

“We have the register of the doses we gave her—”

“—We should be able to estimate how much she used to heal herself and what was left on the throne room—”

“—and if we contrast it with new measurements—”

I look back at the pair, a bit confused. What are they even talking about. When I exchange a look with both aldamu, they shrug as if rehearsed, endeared and amused.

“Ira!” Áine startles me. “Could you do it again?”

“Yeah?”

The mirzaan stands then, and moves around the room kicking and pushing the rug with his boots, revealing a nondescript stone floor. As he does, he talks, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Are you able to decide which imitations you use for help?”

I nod. That’s it, they lost their minds. Áine is now drawing lines with chalk on the stone floor, measuring distances, while the mirzaan pokes the imitations on the walls with some sort of stick, turning them off.

“Try to connect with this imitation,” Áine puts one on one of the marks without bothering to turn around. “Don’t use Karma’s creation or the other imitations in the room.”

“Oh,” the mirzaan mutters, embarrassed. He throws one last pillow to the side and looks at my confused expression. His eyes are bright with excitement, and I don’t know how he did it but his hair is in disarray. “We want to see what your reach is.”

“I see.” I pause. “And why’s that?”

“We know exactly how much drug you’ve taken and how long it’s been since you stopped. It should be completely out of your system by now,” he says. I don’t see how that explains anything, but okay. “You are on your minimum connection capacity, theoretically: without creation, without alziwaq to help you… If you don’t use any help and connect with this imitation, we can see how far your reach is.”

“I still don’t see how this’s going to help us.”

“We can contrast what we find with this with the data we already have,” Áine says now. They have data, apparently. “If we measure the throne room and estimate how many imitations and creations were in the room, we assume you used all of them—”

“We will be able to compute the exact dose of alziwaq your body would need to, in theory, have a safe connection with the Iria,” the prince smiles, his teeth showing, eyes shining, and then turns to join Áine.

“Is this really our only option?” They don’t turn back to me when I talk, focused on preparing the experiment. Darkness swallows me whole, welcoming my fears back. It was awful, his brokenness, his agony and rage. I scratch at my arm as if to scratch the Iria’s white scars.

“You wanted a plan.” Áine finally turns to look at me. Her golden eyes are cold. “Here you have one.”

I look away, and catch Garvan’s eyes. I’d rather have no plan at all, and for once, he seems to understand.

“Áine, maybe…”

“What?” she cuts him. “This is what she was asking for. Isn’t it?”

I don’t bother facing her. Instead, I let the plainness of the opposite wall of the bench center me. I close my eyes and rub my scar. The texture feels rougher than before.

If this is the only thing we can do, so be it. “So. I do that all over again?”

The mirzaan, standing just behind Áine, loosely grabbing a pillow, nods.

And so I do.

The work it takes me to connect without external help exhausts me, borderline painful. The imitation’s call seems to be so, so far away, but when I open my eyes, it sits at just two steps away from me. And when I finally, finally, reach it, they pick a new one, and move it further away to the next mark.

It’s repetitive, looking for the connection avoiding the help the imitations and the creation lend me, reaching out to it, connecting and then untying the knots that help it stay whole to then release them.

They time my attempts. The sun moves at my back as the afternoon passes. Sweat travels down my brow as my heart quickens and quickens until I fear it will explode. But then they call it off, having had enough, and I lean back into the window with my eyes closed, shallowly breathing.

“We can send the rookies to measure the throne room and the Iria’s chamber to start with the calculations as soon as possible.” Áine’s words reach me from far away, and they make me remember something.

“Oh, yeah,” I pant and clear my throat. “I wanted to talk to you about them.”

“Why?” Emhi, who has stayed in the background all of this time, crosses her arms in front of her. “Did they do anything?”

“No, it’s nothing bad,” I lean forwards, cleaning my hands on my pants. I get some of my usual cadence back into my voice. “They are kinda cute, and they like talking more than you do. They are definitely better than some,” I pointedly look at the mirzaan. His embarrassed reaction manages to cheer me up. “It’s just, aren’t they too young to be already working as imitators? And with me,” I add. “I mean, you yourselves have implied several times that I’m dangerous.”

“It’s true they are too young,” Emhi frowns at the door, pausing for a second too long. “But we are going through a staff shortage in preparation for the arrival of the mirza’s fiancée in a few days.”

A quick look at the mirzaan’s shrinking frame is enough confirmation of it being a likely story.

“We’d better let you rest.” Áine cuts in, and Garvan steps to me. I offer my hands so he can tie them as I roll my eyes.

“You know I know you are lying, right?” I’d rather they just tell me directly that they won’t tell me why because they don’t trust me. It’s annoying, sure, but not more than the lying.

I get no response beyond a lowered head from the mirzaan and an unashamed expression from the sahira. And so Garvan and I leave.

Something has them short-staffed for sure, though. The corridors are eerily empty in this area, filled with only the hum of the imitations on the walls. No distant steps or conversations, no opening or closing of doors. I try not to think about how it’s very likely to do with the protest as we walk in to the cell.

“Look, Ira…” the imitator hesitates. “I feel like I should apologize again for—”

“Don’t bother,” I tell him as I get comfortable on my pillow after he has chained me to the floor again. “I’ll live. I’d just rather you’d be honest with me, that’s all.”

He nods, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My body resents the activity, not only the effort of connecting, but of blocking my anger and will. I fist my hands, force myself to sight, and take a deep breath.

Still, I ignore the tray with food Alanna brings me later and her attempts to start a conversation.

I close my eyes, and picture the room. I call the memory of the lights and the bridges and the sense of belonging that comes with them. Calming down, sort of, as something can’t help but revolt inside of me.

Shutting it down as best as I can, I count the hours until the next experiment.

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon @aquil-writes

[vsnotresponding]

unintentionally made karma's ear be fucked up too and it now mirrors ira's. my genius knows no bounds

[vsnotresponding]

girl with the nervous system of a prey animal

[vsnotresponding]

really enjoying the we are so back era of thinking my writing is actually good and compelling

[vsnotresponding]

@my-cursed-prince im back (again)

CHAPTER 8 - PROGRESS - KARMA

masterpost // <1k

The next day, we wait for Garvan and Ira. He insisted on bringing the creator today, even when we advised him against it. He argued he was doing it to give Emhi a break—there was another wave of violent protests after curfew last night—but we all know there’s more to it.

Emhi insisted she's feeling alright too, but there’s little she can do about the tired look she carries in her eyes. As we wait, I’m tempted to ask her if she’s seen a young man with a scar across his cheek, but that wouldn’t be fair.

It’s Ira’s question to make, even if she has no way of knowing how intense the protests have really been. Because we don’t want to tell her about them, even after our conversation… She was right. We don’t trust her. At least, Áine doesn’t. Emhi will follow her, and Garvan—well. After their argument, I don’t think he’s the right person to ask.

I’d like to start pacing, like he was yesterday, but that would only irritate Áine further. She’s sitting with Emhi on the other side of the room, near the table, while I have retreated to the window even if I can’t stand the view. Better than rehearse the discussion we had before Garvan left.

And so I look at the closed door, the world blurring into cold dark wood, waiting, finding myself worried about what the imitator could do to her. It’s no that—Garvan is not a violent man, not deliberately. Still. I don’t want Ira to get hurt. Because, I do trust her, I think. I do.

Knowing what we agreed upon with the team… She just wants her family to be safe. She just wants to know that they will be, doesn’t she? And what would it have done to me, if someone had known my mother was at risk and didn’t tell me? And what would I do, if I had asked someone to stay, just for them to lie to me?

These are the thoughts that have been haunting me. They all sit awkwardly in my stomach, twisting and turning, blending in with my worry. I’d like to get out of my own head, but it’s the one place I can’t ever escape.

The hollow click of the lock startles me.

Ira steps in first, followed by Garvan, who doesn’t bow now that our charade is up. The imitator’s face is set, pensive and cautious in equal halves. He turns to nod at the rookies, who close and lock the door behind him.

“Welp,” Ira speaks, her voice infused with a lightness I dislike. It rings fake. “I feel as if we can trust each other now, don’t you think?” My heart squeezes. It hurts more than I expected it would, knowing I had fucked up. The rug near the door hasn’t been righted up. “I’d say,” the creator continues as my heart sinks, “that we have reached a point of mutual understanding after all the information you’ve provided me with, and so I can honestly ask what you plan to do with me.”

Shadows shifts across the floor on my right as no one dares to speak up. The sky on my left is gray and ominous. I should have known. I messed this up, I always do. A knot grows in my throat and I struggle to swallow it down. Is she mocking us? Me? Not that I don’t deserve it, but I thought—I’d hope something had changed for her, too.

“So,” she continues after the silence stretches. When I look back up, I find her looking at me, not unkindly. The shock basically forces my feet from the windowsill into the ground. “What do you want me to do?” The question is soft and low. I find purchase on the edge of the bench, my nails digging into the cushioned seat as the world spins.

Ira leans her head to the side as she waits for an answer. The others look at me too, and I make myself small.

I’m lost.

“I—” I say to fill the silence. They all tower over me as I sit, looking up. I should, I should fix that first. I stand on unsteady feet, and take a deep breath to give myself a second more to think. Forcing my fists closed to resist the urge to fidget with my earring, I fix my spine. “We could sit down first? And…” I motion to the cushions beside the window, “start from the beginning?”

Okay—okay, this is not doomed. Is this what hope feels like? I didn’t expect it to be so uneasy… or terrifying. Whatever it is, it’s the beginning of something. Progress, maybe.

They stand puzzled and, for an instant, I fear I have misunderstood. But then Ira smiles—not kindly, but not unkindly either, even if it is a bit mocking—and walks past me to retake the place I just freed. It might look like she’s stealing it, but she was the first to claim it yesterday.

The imitators follow her: Áine and Emhi claim the floor, and Garvan gets a chair to sit on backwards. I sit, more like let myself fall, back into the window seat.

“And?” Garvan asks, his pen dancing across his fingers. “Karma?”

Ira cocks her head, expectant.

I take a deep breath.

Here we go.

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon @aquil-writes