( ooc: taking place directly after the events of this thread. )
( the returning stone finally activates, space shifts and turns around him, once more temporarily throwing him into the crushing void before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor of the lodestone chamber in achamoth. he is not in a good way. he had left the stone floor of the shrine of the sovereign stained in blood, and now he seems fast on his way to do much the same here.
it's not to say he hasn't put forth his best efforts to keep that from happening — his shirt is in bloody tatters where he's torn it apart at the seams to get at the horrible wound that the blade of a lance leaves when piercing through the chest just below the ribs, all the way through, before being pulled free. wherever he goes, makoto carries with him a surgical needle and medical sutures (or whatever equivalent he can find here), and so while he'd waited for the returning stone to activate, he'd sewed up the gash. it hadn't been easy, not with loss of blood dimming his vision and that escaping blood welling up and spilling out from around his numb fingers; his body had shook with the effort of even holding his hands up high enough to fumble through the motions of stitching up his abdomen, but he'd managed it. it wasn't pretty, but it would do — sure enough, the bleeding had staunched as soon as he'd finished. in hell, this demonic body of his would cling to life no matter what he did to it, but here... well, so long as he could piece it together, it seems it would slowly drag itself back toward a state of equilibrium.
but that's just the problem. it wasn't the only injury he had — not when the angry laceration on his front had a similarly irate sibling through his back. admittedly, the former had been far more grievous, but the latter still aches and stings and bleeds; the evidence blooms like a crimson flower through the rich fabric of the heavy coat he wears over his shoulders. he tries to stand, but he can't seem to force his legs to cooperate; he's forced to collapse right back to the ground. he shrugs one arm out of the coat, reaching toward the font of pain centered in his back. he hisses a curse underneath his breath. how is he supposed to suture a wound like this? he isn't sure how much longer he can continue to lose blood and remain conscious. had he really endeavored so much to end up slipping away like this regardless?
the ignominy of the thought is almost too much to bear. )
[It should come as no surprise that people come and go through the lodestone chamber. But that one of them stops immediately, a sharp gasp escaping her throat at the sight of him? Small and gentle hands help tug off the coat, if he will allow it. Meteion takes less care with the shirt--it's a loss anyway. Though it helps to clean up some of the blood.]
What happened to you? Tell me what to do, tell me how to help! [Best to begin with that. There is another, far larger presence with this small girl--from the way she addresses him, it's likely her retainer.]
Gurbahl! Go fetch me warm water and a clean cloth. And if you please, fetch some food? [She knew it was fairly important to eat for most folk, after all. He might not want it immediately, but it can only help. Even if that help comes later.]
When he gets back, we can help you to your quarters, but first things first. [Meteion was created as an exploration and discovery probe; noticing things is something she does easily.] You sewed yourself?
( it's certainly for the best that someone was passing by in the lodestone chamber to take note of the state that he's in, and especially someone who would actually think to help and not merely rub salt in the already very concerning wound. he recognizes the girl, of course — in a way she seems more familiar to him than many of their more human comrades do, just in that a creature like her wouldn't have been surprising to see in his version of hell. he hasn't had the opportunity to speak much with her as of yet, so he thinks he should be grateful she is a helpful type.
even if he really cared to, he's not particularly equipped right now to fight back against her concern and offer for help. the bloodied coat is slipped off of his other remaining shoulder, and, well... at that point, his shirt is essentially hanging off of him in tatters, so to use it to help wipe away some of the blood is a good enough use for it. a sound catches in makoto's throat — half a huff of scorn and half a gurgle. ) The sharp end of a spear, ( he replies in a thin, strained voice, trying (and failing) to distract himself from how shameful it is to return in what he views as sound defeat.
at least he had managed to land a blade into his attacker's back before he'd left.
he breathes, but raggedly; whatever damage exists to his lungs or whatever other internal organs will simply be until the point that it doesn't any longer. he won't die from it — once mended, his body will doggedly pursue stability, whether he wants it to or not. at her question, he nods; he extends a bloodied hand to offer her something. a sturdy needle and surgical-strength thread. )
I - can't reach — ( a sudden fit of coughing interrupts him, so instead he has to gesture, indicating the small wound the tip of the spear had made as it exited through his back. even still, it runs wildly with blood. ) If you can sew it up - I'll begin to heal. Do you know how?
[ The platitudes Howl offered in response to Makoto's answer do not stand alone for long. Less than a minute later, he communes with the demon again, but this time the trail is silent and uncluttered, closed only to him. ]
That thing did something to you, didn't it?
[ A shot in the dark, but he doubts a creature capable of "smiting" its foes would have left M alone for what he did, and it's the only possible explanation for M's cryptic response. ]
( in many ways makoto is an open book about himself and his actions. but there are very specific topics that he is decidedly closed-lipped on; a defensive instinct, learned to guard his back from the sharp intentions of antagonistic demons.
anything that might be considered a weakness is one of these topics, and the affliction he currently finds himself with now... certainly feels like that.
but this is howl, and though he can't claim to trust the man perfectly, he feels like he understands him well enough not to immediately be on guard at the question.
there's an uneasy silence along the line of Communion, and then, in a tone measured to the point of almost sounding mechanical: ) When the creature attacked me, it attacked my shard. It grew so hot, I thought it would burn right through me. Before I lost consciousness, I felt something force its way into it. Whatever it was, it is still with me.
[ As he suspected, then. But being right in this instance brings Howl no pleasure, only concern, and a distinct sense of dread that transfers along their connection. If what he'd briefly discussed with Binghe is true, this was no "creature" that has forced itself into M's Shard. And if it's still there — no. it had been fun. and yet, this dread. why?
Howl has half a mind to get up and seek M out in person, if only because the physical movement would help distract him from the conflicting emotions rising within his own Shard. But, no. He recognizes the defensiveness in the demon's answers to him. It's significant that M is telling him anything about it at all. ]
[ If he hadn't been stripped of two of his senses in quick succession, he would have gone to find Makoto himself after the worst of the hubbub had died down. Even the loss of one would have been surmountable, a stumbling stone instead of a complete roadblock, but he'd only be a risk to both himself and the rest of his teammates if he tried to strike out on his own like this.
Still, it feels wrong not to check in with the other man somehow, after all they'd been through—and especially after all Makoto had been through. If he can't find the other man in person, then he'll have to settle for a communion message instead, even if the thought of invading someone else's mind still makes him feel uneasy.
At least Makoto can always rebuff his message if he's not feeling in the mood. ]
This is Eustace. [ Obviously. ] I saw what happened. How are you feeling?
( morbid fascination had called makoto to watch the memories that binghe and others had shared, grafting onto his own recollection of that event outside perspectives. it's bizarre to internalize, but it at the very least informs him of what had occurred after he had lost consciousness (for better and for worse). it's with this information and the knowledge that eustace had seemed primed to help get him out of that situation that he allows the message to reach him now. there were plenty of others that he might have turned away, but — it seems wrong to do so now, especially after he had already shrugged off the erune's help in the heat of the moment. )
I could ask the same of you.
( when that thing had appeared behind abel, going so far as to reach through him... others might question eustace's instinct to shoot it, but it only earns makoto's respect.
he makes his answer very carefully: ) I'm uninjured, as far as I can tell.
[ There's a brief burst of surprise at the comment, a trickle of which makes it way through the communion channel. It's not that he sees Makoto as heartless but the Kenoma as a whole tend to be a mistrustful bunch, placing their own personal needs above those of others. Most people don't tend to ask after him.
But he answers quickly enough, tone still brisk. ]
I have a few injuries from previous altercations but nothing serious. [ ..... ] Though I still can't see.
[ No point in hiding it, when he'd reported as much to various others. Overall, his condition is less than stellar in many ways, but there's no time now to troubleshoot solutions to his (many) problems. Later, when they return to Achamoth.
Surprising that Makoto came out of all this largely unscathed though. ]
The [ what are they even calling this thing ] creature really didn't do anything to you other than knock you unconscious?
[ The mass Communion which all Kenoma were able to tune into had been very informative. If not for the looser lips of his kindred Aions, there's no guarantee Makoto would have disclosed much if anything to J pertaining to the events which transpired after they parted ways in Venera. He'd not given an account of the details revolving around the stretches of time they'd been apart in times past, whatever other shades of unsavory (besides Kieran) that he'd come across during his tour of Hell's slums and, assuredly, places beyond where his nose had picked up traces of J's scent. And things haven't changed enough since his arrival to suddenly make Makoto more forthcoming- not with J, in any case.
Contrary to his ward's beliefs, J is and has always been respectful of choices made of his ward's own volition, such as his six-month excursion into his past or even those long years under Datenshou's employ. Provided those decisions don't interfere with his own plans. For now, Makoto's choice to remain sparse while others congregate in the plague's aftermath, coming together more closely after their traumatic excursion, is apparent but left momentarily uninterrupted by his master. The only exception is a letter on artisan parchment, with flecks of tiny pressed flower petals in muted pastel pinks and purples and rippled edges left untrimmed, that designate it as something handmade. The envelope it's nested within is neatly sealed with red wax atop two tails of gold ribbon that dangle below; its texture soft to the touch. ]
Makoto-dono,
I hear congratulations are in order on account of your most recent achievement. How does it feel to kill a man not by means of signed contracts and sated desires-
But with your own hand?
In lieu of immediately commemorating this event, allow me to send you a small token to make use of as you will. Consider it a temporary proxy, until at which time you find yourself in a more celebratory mood.
Sincerely Yours, J
[ Ever cautious when the situation calls for it, J doesn't draw attention to this exchange or risk its examination by permitting his retainer to submit the missive directly. Hypothetically speaking, if J were the Regent, he'd make sure those assigned to care for the Aions were actually spies planted to monitor their every move. Not unlike how Fjord and Datenshou quietly ferreted information to him about Makoto, making it as though J himself were there to keep an eye on his wellbeing and orchestrate whatever needed to be done to maintain it while he was out of his physical scope.
Assuming the worst, taking into account the ease at which history has shown letters can be opened, read, and re-sealed without raising suspicion, he personally delivers the item, leaving it in front of Makoto's door as he happens to stroll by.
Tucked within the envelope, causing its unusual weight, is a single ornate key set on a chain of the same metal; both solid gold and forged with impeccable workmanship. Curiously enough, the key itself is too small for normal locks. While the delicate chain, with links practically light and uncumbersome as a spiderweb's thread, is surprisingly durable. It appears to be both the chain of a necklace or worn at the wrist once the length is looped around and latched to itself. The reason behind such versatility is not yet apparent, when it's only half of the final product. ]
( paradoxically, makoto least wants to see and speak about what happened with those closest to him. if things had gone differently, perhaps that would have been different. if he had killed estinien and managed to recover his shard or at the very least kill him and get away unscathed, he might have been emboldened enough to report his victory with crowing success to the other Kenoma (and none so much as J), but that hadn't been the end of the story, had it? it's public knowledge at this point that his small act of murder had upset some sort of greater entity, and it had punished him for it. it's only a temporary exile he imposes upon himself. he wants to gather his own thoughts, to come to terms with what he did and what happened and what happened to him completely before he presented himself before the judgment of the rest of their fellow Aions.
because they would. judge, that is. already he's seen and sensed his actions and intentions picked apart, and it brings with it a hideous and cloying sense of déjà vu. it's all too reminiscent of the worst parts of Earth, the parts that had driven him to trade his life away to a demon instead of continue to live it there. he hates the idea of others forcing him through their own pathetically narrow lenses of morality and decency. if he faced it now, it might push him over the edge and into doing or saying something that might be a little too incendiary a little too prematurely, so instead he tries to focus himself, possessed of the thought that if he's found that center he will be unshakable and unassailable even when falling beneath their prying gazes.
having temporarily dismissed his retainer, makoto comes across the letter left at his door when leaving to get food. having received no end to them when working for datenshou, he recognizes its sender by sight. side-tracked, he takes the letter inside, reads it and examines its contents, and spends several hours locked in thought.
it's not until a day or two has passed until a reply arrives much the same, left at J's door — a first, considering he had never sent a reply to any of his letters before. inside, written in makoto's extravagant hand: )
J,
Your congratulations are appreciated, considering they are largely absent in the cloud of noise hanging above the events that occurred toward the end of our stay in Venera.
I've spent some time thinking about your question, and I have decided that it's a difficult one to answer at this time. Whatever thrill I might have felt at the manual dismantling of another's life was tarnished by two outside factors: The first, of course, being what happened directly afterward. The second in that no death in this place is a lasting one without the destruction or control of one's shard.
Despite these detractors, I aim to emerge from this set-back emboldened rather than cowed, so that I do not repeat these unfortunate mistakes.
Thank you for your gift. I look forward to the day in which its purpose is revealed.
Yours sincerely, M
( he had spent just as much time if not more trying to winnow from the words and the token J's intent both present and future, always driven near to mad to try to figure out the demon's ends and where he factored into them. as it is, however, there is relatively little he can do here and now. he ponders over his master's gift, turning the key and its chain over and over again in his hands, at war with himself for whether or not he wanted to spurn any gift out of past bitterness or cling to it for dear life, still starved for the love that he felt he had been falsely promised.
in the end, he keeps it on his person, just not where visible or expected. )
[ There's no doubt in J's mind that even though his ward's more honest self at its most lethal has climbed the stage to finally debut, there surely exists a number among their ranks who yet remain loyally adhered to his orbit. Other Aions who have likely expressed condolences or reached out to ascertain Makoto's condition. Heartfelt efforts stemming from assumed connections; the saccharine-sweet illusion of camaraderie. All of these efforts are feasible purely by circumstances entirely unique to their collective placement here in this artificial, forced collective and not by means of the sincerest forms of choice. But what if it was any of them in the place of this month's victim of Makoto's inherent cruelty; by necessity or personal gain? How easily will those commiserating now hold true to their sense of brotherhood should the worst of a person end up aimed their way?
If Makoto's own wounded admission holds the weight J trusts it to, his ward has already sensed the tenuous and entirely conditional nature of his new companionships. The murder of an enemy in this war is all it takes for a potent deluge of criticism from his peers. It's the most effective litmus test for what awaits in the future when already those fragile binds have begun pulling apart at the seams. Nothing lasts.
Good, better that Makoto relearns this lesson soon as possible if his ridicule on Earth has been so quickly forgotten. If he's to survive the war just now rising across the horizon, he needs to be reminded, after too long in Hell, how wholly fickle the human heart is. Whereas demons are often much simpler in their goals of reveling in the immediacy of pleasure- not clutching pearls and their moralism that benefits whoever sits within the highest ivory tower.
The most familiar of all ties, J maintains the distance Makoto establishes. Lines are written in the sand which he doesn't trespass over. Neither by demanding entry across the threshold of Makoto's present haven or through a litany of coddling words that infantilize someone who had blazed his meteoric rise through Hell by means of the harshest of paths. Roads littered with a thousand souls, paved in their immortal corpses stacked and hidden away in storehouses, for insanity and extinguishment to claim them with time.
Make no mistake, there is ample advice nestled between the elegant sweeping loops of J's lavish cursive. Those words, however, don't root themselves in any belief that perceives his ward as deceptive first encounters or new impressions paint him to be: merely a teen of inhuman nature. Of course, he knows better than any when it was by his own hand that Makoto was shaped and forged into a weapon that craves to cut down its own maker.
J's wisdom offers itself up to someone reaching ever nearer to the status of an equal; if not within the food chain of Hell's now-debunked hierarchy, then here where he's already usurped J in kill counts and firsthand experience of Horos. ]
Mako,
The chatter will die with time, once concern inevitably shifts to greater matters. This experience has taught us there are more forces at play than previously thought. Those not so easily overcome compared to the flesh and blood of an opposing faction.
As for further altercations with the enemy- Those you plan to go up against will not make the same errors either. Their numbers will gather close; anticipating your next move against them. The only way to defeat an enemy expecting your arrival is to do the unexpected. Take them off guard, attack in a way in which they cannot possibly conceive of.
Most importantly, take what you've said and apply it to yourself: The impermanence of death in this land, provided the endurance of a shard. Above all else, Makoto. Protect yours.
P.S. Should the need arise, may this gift provide that means.
Yours, J
[ As before, there's a second gift bequeathed on the same day he receives Makoto's correspondence. Wrapped in a nondescript brown paper intended to not draw the eye or present of much value to Aions freely gifted with gems and jewels, this small package is placed with the letter outside Makoto's room. Only upon unraveling the several-layer thick packaging does the real gift-wrapping show through. White like the feathers of his master, and faintly textured, there's a quality to the paper that suggests, like everything else he's presented, it was selected with no shortage of cost and careful deliberation.
Under the veil of ostentatious trappings is a trinket box; not composed of flimsy cardboard but pearl-white porcelain, garnished in gold filigree along the corners and in the center of every surface. One look and the style reeks of the same rococo style emanating from every corner or trapping within J's castle.
Not that any of this is of much importance. Once emptied of what rattles within, Makoto could throw the trinket box out his window without any real loss. It's the contents inside that matter. A non-descript leather-covered case is wrapped in a white satin handkerchief of a similiar design to the box it came in; all gold-licked and embrodiered with a swooping, curling "J" in one corner.
Plain as can be, the black leather case gives the impression of practicality and an ability to blend in as a non-descript item like a wallet or notebook. Appearing to be nothing of any particular value. But that's the intent. For when Makoto's paranoia surely goads him into dissecting this item, he'll find the leather cover can be unlatched and pulled away, to expose the harder case hidden within.
There, in forged steel set in a shade of darkest black, engraved with a flourished "M", strong as any of the city's best swords and set on a thick hinge none could easily break, is a case not quite thin enough for cigarettes but close. Clearly pocket-sized for portability, it opens to reveal an interior cushioned on both sides by a red-velvet material that's suade-soft and meant to prevent the jostling or damage to what could be placed within. While the cover's interior is flat, the other side sports a dip that can be felt. Whatever cushioning lies under the fabric, it's been shaped and trimmed to support the placement of an object almost in the precise diameters of the most valuable item in Makoto's possession: His shard.
When placed there, the shape of it carved by the powers here to resemble a vertical eye, it settles snug and immobile. If closed, the case automatically locks, airtight and secure. Unlocking it ought to pose little trouble when it's clear there's a lock built into the case, identical in size to the key Makoto had been given earlier. ]
[ sometime after dusk has settled but before one might consider retiring for the night, Makoto might be gifted with the familiar itch at the fringes of his mind that indicates someone is reaching out. someone not of his sect, not of his legacy - a certain silver-haired Pleroma, and not the one he had left in a pile of ash and dust within Venera.
should he be kind enough to accept - maybe he'll feel, hear, the gentle wash of his "name" floating across the abyss of their link of Communion in a tentative greeting.
( at the message's first arrival, it seems as though it will not be accepted at the receiver's end.
makoto has been sparing in those that he has spoken with via Communion since the climactic events that occurred in Venera; to those whose (perceived) vested interests in reaching out to him that don't meet his internal standard, he either rejects or speaks very cautiously to. from those of the Pleroma, he's only spoken to dextera... but abel. there is something in him that reflexively recoils, an archaic and uncomfortable sort of panic rattling at his ribcage — it reminds him most of when he was still human, fearfully hiding macabre books in his room, knowing full well the blatant scorn he would receive when his parents found them.
the primary difference being that that boy hadn't wanted to hurt anyone; he would rather accept death himself than be compelled to kill someone else. pathetic creature. the demon M no longer feels the same, or at the very least he tells himself that, interring his past self in a coffin of plaster.
he feels no remorse because he tells himself he shouldn't; in his own personal context of leveling scales and inter-dimensional war, he was justified. so why is he... afraid to answer this call? couldn't he simply present himself to his good "friend" as he is, careless and confident, heedless of what he might say or feel? oh, if it were so simple. perhaps the veneer of makoto's demonic visage isn't so perfect as he wishes. there are still seams that he can't mend, and within them a latent seed: the knowing fear of rejection, paired foolishly with the undying part of him that still yearned for understanding... not that he would expect such a thing now, and from abel of all people.
and yet...
it's not necessarily a "response" to his previous inquiry, given a few hours have passed, but abel receives his own message pending from M. if accepted, it is heavily guarded, as if the channel of Communion had been narrowed to a single slot that messages could just barely be passed through.
cautiously: ) Abel.
( he just can't seem to turn his back on him entirely. a personal failing, perhaps. )
[ one could hardly blame him if the priest had thought he'd been rejected.
Abel did not attribute the silence to any malice on M's part, even if it made the sinking pit fall all the further where it sits in his stomach, hard and uncomfortable like a rock. perhaps he had been deluding himself, wanting to believe a version of events that differed from Estinien's recollection. Makoto having a hand in that man's dissolution...
...all of this - all of it - carries a weight that goes far beyond any one of their lives. it's larger than Makoto, larger than Estinien - larger than Abel, and Himeka, and Eustace and Kaeya and--
the first blood has been spilled, the first life taken in this war none of them asked for. it's inevitable that tensions continue elevating from here, isn't it? inevitable that more will suffer, bleed, in the name of their 'causes' - even if Abel fervently believes none of this is right, deserved, at all. the Aions are victims of circumstance, and for all of them to have been embroiled in this...
...Makoto. what have you done...?
imagine his surprise, then, when someone reaches out across that wall in return. perhaps it takes the gnawing press of several hours, but Makoto stretches a proverbial hand outward against the odds, and Abel... Abel, of course: ]
--Mr. M?
[ oh, wonderful! wonderful. they know one another's names; what a glorious source of relief!!! ]
...It's been a while. Hasn't it?
[ there is no trickle of emotion through the communion, this time. Makoto has kept it spartan; minimalistic. barebones.
it's surely impressive, then, if Makoto might manage to feel some pulse of the priest's unwieldy ruefulness despite those best efforts. maybe a hint of it passes through. maybe; just maybe. ]
[It's likely not a call he's expecting, but it comes all the same.]
M. Do you have a moment? I have a favor to ask of you, it relates to the Innocence entity.
[It's businesslike and gets straight to the point without vapid pleasantries, Ciel does make sure to include a hook that should get the demon's attention without concerning herself with whether or not he's heard of the "big news". She doesn't think he'd turn it down, but demons being demons... Only one way to tell.]
( not really, but the subject does fill him with an immediate and ravenous curiosity.
though it does depend on what kind of news she has for him. he's left his quarters sparingly in the last few days, focusing on convalescing from his wounds — has something else happened with that horrid thing, or is there some other type of development afoot?
his reply is gracious and smooth, like cool velvet. ) Ms. Ciel.
( she cuts to the chase, and so he follows suit. )
You have my interest, and so you have my time. Please, continue.
[ dextera doesn’t even wait for everything to come to an end. he can maintain his purification for a while, but he can’t do it while he sleeps and ice will melt in time.
once he’s back in godsblood, safe away from anyone who might have seen him in venera, he withdraws his shard.
the message he sends makoto is a bit unlike his usual—he’s still skittish, afraid of being caught. rather than words, dextera conveys a series of impressions and emotions. it’s all in images like a montage: the guard he chose, the murder itself. dextera’s heavy breaths and his own hands carefully extracting all he can find in tact. he particularly lingers on the heart, savoring the way it continues to beat for some moments longer than the person himself has lived. in dextera’s memory, shown to makoto through this, the color is a bright and unnatural red.
he’s careful about the way he sets it aside in his mind, and with all those thoughts given, dextera knows makoto will understand. ]
I have something for you. When you have time…
[ as if there wasn’t a battle between their factions. ]
( when dextera's message arrives, makoto doesn't reply. this is because he had been in venera the day before, and after having been plucked from the clutches of the Innocent entity by the Regent themself, he'd spent a few tidy hours suffering a torrent of concentrated anguish, despair, and futility being tossed back out onto the floor of the Regent's audience chamber. though the whole experience has done much to inflame and focus his feeling of purpose, he was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally from the ordeal of fighting estinien, then the Innocent, and then enduring all that, so... he'd only just managed to haul himself to his quarters and stay conscious through cleaning up and sewing shut all of his wounds before passing out for roughly twenty-four hours straight.
so it's late on the 25th of soviseri when he wakes up and sees that dextera has contacted him. that realization comes with a twined feeling of anticipation and worry. had something happened to him, or was he just checking in on him?
what he witnesses when he accesses the message is quite outside what he had expected. his rapt and wide-eyed fascination sharpen into something intent and craving at the images of actual violence, portrayed through Communion with the phantom voyeurism of the perspective from dextera's eyes, tinged on all sides by the presence of his feelings, of his own personal fixation. besides the shriveled animal one that dextera had given him all those months ago, makoto has never eaten a heart — when contracted to J, he had ripped him in half and started with the lower one, and from there he had never gotten so far as his entrails — but he does understand the appeal. it's been a thought that's crowded into his mind dozens of times. tearing past the flesh and cracking open the ribcage to expose what lie within, holding the demon's still-beating heart in his own hand so he could feel that he owned it and controlled it both literally and figuratively. so his attention lingers on that still-beating heart just the same as dextera's does; when the images fade and words replace them, makoto's formerly still waters have been thoroughly agitated, stirring up so much sediment that had settled to the bottom that they were now opaque and turbulent.
there are logical qualms. he's still very much on the mend from the injuries he received, and they're still standing in the threshold of conflict between their two spiritual sects.
but how the hell is he supposed to say no to all of this?
his first response is actually a laugh, a sound as breathless and wry as his response. ) And here I've been thinking on how I might repay you for what you brought me in the caverns... You beat me to it.
( in his quarters, still holding his shard, he sits up in bed. some of the pain might filter through their connection — deep lacerations encircle his torso like an embrace, even if they are neatly sewn shut — but it doesn't stop him from moving. )
( for a long moment there is nothing but a long stretch of strained silence after the furious raps at the door to makoto's quarters. then, to the keen ears of a demon, the creaking of wood furniture. soft, slow footsteps. there's a groan in the floor just on the other side of the door, and then the lock unlatches and the door opens two or three inches to reveal the impassive face of of the young demon's retainer — a man who J certainly would have seen and spoken with on several occasions. tall (though certainly not as tall as the demon), severe, and listing towards middle age, one could probably look between the man that makoto had chosen to attend to him and his demon master and possibly make some wild assumptions about him (some of which might well be true). kivander keeps his short, blond hair neatly swept back, and his eyes — one brown and one blue — are impassive and watchful as they study the demon. the achamite has a smart, efficient way of moving and speaking, left-over from many years of service in the military that were cut short by a wound to his left arm that had prevented him from properly holding a weapon.
he pauses, then speaks in his measured, austere tones, )Master J. My apologies, the young Master Aion is presently indis—
( his attention is momentarily distracted from a sound within the chambers, and then makoto's voice some distance away: ) Let him in.
( the words die in the retainer's mouth; he pauses, then nods, taking a sweeping step back to pull the door the rest of the way open to allow the demon entry. as he does, makoto provides the further order, ) And leave us for now, Kivander.
As you say. Send for me if you have need of me.
( he collects some effects from a small table at the side of the room where he had been attending and leaves, closing the door carefully behind him. )
J.
( the room is dimly lit, but he almost feels as though he could see the man's figure cut through darkness as black as pitch. makoto is propped up in bed; it seems that he might have been sleeping just a few moments ago, but he's hauled himself up enough that he can rest against a veritable curtain wall of pillows assembled behind him. his hair is undone, falling into dark waves wild and messy from sleep, and the shirt he wears is unbuttoned enough to reveal a weave of bandages beneath, encircling practically his entire torso. they are presently unmarred by blood — the first thing he had done upon stumbling to his chambers from the Regent's throne room was summon kivander and get his wounds cleaned and sewn so they could begin to mend — but he has been trying to be cautious not to move so much that they were further aggravated while in the slow process of healing.
as such, he doesn't pull himself out of bed to run across the length of the room and throw himself into J's arms, despite how that always seems to be the first impulse that comes through his head when he sees him after any period of time that they've been apart.
instead, ) Come here, ( said as he reaches out to him, wanting to have his hands on him, to feel that he's truly here and that nothing had managed to befall him, as soon as he could. )
[ On better days, running into Makoto's retainer makes for quite the amusing experience. J had caught onto the reasoning behind his choice upon their first encounter with the ease of looking through a pane of glass. No matter how others may perceive his protégé as some incomprehensible fiend that can never be puzzled out, comprised of opaque smoke and mirrors that reflect nothing but deception, the owner of this lair is practically transparent to him. Why wouldn't he be, when J was the one who had taken Makoto by the hand and led him every step of the way to becoming who he is today?
As J's entry is momentarily barred, it's not the first time he weighs the pros and cons of helping Vandy instantly shed some extra weight, by evicting his thick skull from its body. In a moment hedged by questions unanswered and contact severed days ago, the demon is hardly in a magnanimous enough mood to tolerate being restricted access to his own ward. An aggravation worsened by someone who cannot suffer speaking through more than a crack in the door. The fact Makoto is cognizant of the tension and calls off his guard dog possibly spares the interior a quick redecoration.
Crisis averted, J slips into the room without paying his fill-in much ado and instead zeros in on the one he'd been combing the streets of Venera for, to no avail. ]
There you are. [ His master affords Makoto a long leash, with the latter dictating the terms by which J can reach out. Whether it's done out of sportsmanship or for the sake of humoring a child's game, J has refrained from using Communion when it trespasses upon an intimate sense of self his ward balks at inviting him into. So, in playing along, he's been kept in the dark as to the lion's share of what happened to him since they parted ways.
There's no need to ask about Makoto's well-being when his ward's sedate and bandaged state, eerily too bedridden for his traditional greeting, tells J that it resides at the cross streets of wounded and mending. A victory in itself when the traitors and captives from this recent venture may not escape it quite so unscathed. And it's with that thought that an unrealized knot gradually comes loose in some distant corner of J's mind. His exasperated concern is swept under the rug, in favor of a more typical and breezy response. ]
I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but- [ With a sweep of his open hand to indicate the noticeable gloom they've been cast within, J points out why that's an ill-suited greeting. ] The whole Ominous Gothic Deathbed mood you've got going on here kind of spoils the chipper sentiment.
[ The benefit of J's extremities is that they don't disrupt whatever atmosphere of quiet respite Makoto has set up for himself. (His mouth, however...) There's no jarring scuff of shoes or heavy thud of boots that might stomp about if any with the Archduke's size were to traipse through the space. All that sounds is the shuffle of feathers. Their rustle announces him with a softer alert than footfalls when J is apt to prowl; weaving liquid-like through the darkness. ]
Yes, what is it? [ J purposefully slots himself in the space where outstretched hands reach for him. Slender fingertips brush by the fabric of his shirt but don't manage to successfully grasp what eludes them; so close yet still so far. With the right of his hands grasping the headboard, J uses it to loom over the bed Makoto's small frame barely fills. It's more than apparent what Makoto wants, but J's conditions for fulfilling his requests have rarely deviated from their original pattern. If Makoto desires something from J, he should know better than to utter anything vague or indirect. Or maybe he's simply being decisively petty in retaliation for the last few days, now that J believes his little troublemaker is safe. ]
Shortly after the events of the recent TDM, Makoto will be presented a long case made of dark, polish wood by their retainer. They will be told that it is from the Regent and that it is to be handled with the utmost discretion. Within the box is a void-black crystal spear that is about three feet in length.
Along with that is a note, dictated from the Regent themself. It will warn them against touching the crystal with bare skin, first and foremost, and then go on to make a peculiar request: they are to stake it into the earth at a particular coordinate in Achamoth, with its point angled towards the center of the city. This coordinate will be marked on a map that is included with the letter, and is in the southern-most sector of the city.
They are not to speak of this to their fellow Kenoma. The stake must be planted at the very start of the 5th of Firaseri. If your character would do anything other than plant the spear as asked and keep quiet about it, please let us know!
Makoto will, of course, carry out the instructions as closely and discreetly as possible. (bark bark bark) He won't mention this to anyone else, and he will plant the stake at the given time.
[ It comes on so subtly, emotions filtering in through his shard like a second sense, that J only fully acknowledges the depth of this milestone belatedly, a few moments after the fact. Their first communion. A step his ward had staunchly evaded, even for the sake of expedience and his own wellbeing. Makoto's mind locking J out and denying him entry to this singular place he was forbidden to tread for the longest time.
Once that door is opened, J isn't eager to see it shut in his face. So there's the sense of him feeling out the shared connection between them, seeping in like a breath on skin or the roaming of covetous eyes. ]
Is that all? [ Curious, J poses a question with the familiar taunting slant to his words cut away, leaving only a note of patient expectation. ]
( he can't decide if it's humorously ironic or simply infuriating that him getting angry at J making a tasteless joke was the thing that left a door cracked open into his direct internality for the demon, but... well, it's actually probably both, truth be told.
given that it had been in a public forum among the Kenoma, thoughts and feelings and words all layering over one another, it had seemed inconsequential to respond to one that he clearly identified as J's. it had been less personal, less alarming than something direct between them, but --
it's a matter of self-control. like many things when J was involved, makoto had shut him out largely as a security measure; he often feels as though he cannot trust himself when the man is involved. it's not as though he has much to hide -- what is there about himself or his goals that the other demon doesn't already know or that makoto hasn't plainly told him to his face? -- but... it seems too much like allowing himself an obvious impediment. it's already so hard for him to focus when around J physically, but if he can reach out to him mentally at any time?
and yet... when he does, makoto fails to slam the metaphorical door shut. there's a faint shudder to the connection, like a candle flame guttering as it threatened to go out, and then the waters go still. he forces them to.
well, except for a continued static buzz of annoyance, which he feels is safe enough. ) Of course you wouldn't see fit to be content with what I'd given you.
What, is there something in particular you're curious about?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for meteion | at the end of lovaseri | cw blood
( the returning stone finally activates, space shifts and turns around him, once more temporarily throwing him into the crushing void before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor of the lodestone chamber in achamoth. he is not in a good way. he had left the stone floor of the shrine of the sovereign stained in blood, and now he seems fast on his way to do much the same here.
it's not to say he hasn't put forth his best efforts to keep that from happening — his shirt is in bloody tatters where he's torn it apart at the seams to get at the horrible wound that the blade of a lance leaves when piercing through the chest just below the ribs, all the way through, before being pulled free. wherever he goes, makoto carries with him a surgical needle and medical sutures (or whatever equivalent he can find here), and so while he'd waited for the returning stone to activate, he'd sewed up the gash. it hadn't been easy, not with loss of blood dimming his vision and that escaping blood welling up and spilling out from around his numb fingers; his body had shook with the effort of even holding his hands up high enough to fumble through the motions of stitching up his abdomen, but he'd managed it. it wasn't pretty, but it would do — sure enough, the bleeding had staunched as soon as he'd finished. in hell, this demonic body of his would cling to life no matter what he did to it, but here... well, so long as he could piece it together, it seems it would slowly drag itself back toward a state of equilibrium.
but that's just the problem. it wasn't the only injury he had — not when the angry laceration on his front had a similarly irate sibling through his back. admittedly, the former had been far more grievous, but the latter still aches and stings and bleeds; the evidence blooms like a crimson flower through the rich fabric of the heavy coat he wears over his shoulders. he tries to stand, but he can't seem to force his legs to cooperate; he's forced to collapse right back to the ground. he shrugs one arm out of the coat, reaching toward the font of pain centered in his back. he hisses a curse underneath his breath. how is he supposed to suture a wound like this? he isn't sure how much longer he can continue to lose blood and remain conscious. had he really endeavored so much to end up slipping away like this regardless?
the ignominy of the thought is almost too much to bear. )
no subject
What happened to you? Tell me what to do, tell me how to help! [Best to begin with that. There is another, far larger presence with this small girl--from the way she addresses him, it's likely her retainer.]
Gurbahl! Go fetch me warm water and a clean cloth. And if you please, fetch some food? [She knew it was fairly important to eat for most folk, after all. He might not want it immediately, but it can only help. Even if that help comes later.]
When he gets back, we can help you to your quarters, but first things first. [Meteion was created as an exploration and discovery probe; noticing things is something she does easily.] You sewed yourself?
no subject
even if he really cared to, he's not particularly equipped right now to fight back against her concern and offer for help. the bloodied coat is slipped off of his other remaining shoulder, and, well... at that point, his shirt is essentially hanging off of him in tatters, so to use it to help wipe away some of the blood is a good enough use for it. a sound catches in makoto's throat — half a huff of scorn and half a gurgle. ) The sharp end of a spear, ( he replies in a thin, strained voice, trying (and failing) to distract himself from how shameful it is to return in what he views as sound defeat.
at least he had managed to land a blade into his attacker's back before he'd left.
he breathes, but raggedly; whatever damage exists to his lungs or whatever other internal organs will simply be until the point that it doesn't any longer. he won't die from it — once mended, his body will doggedly pursue stability, whether he wants it to or not. at her question, he nods; he extends a bloodied hand to offer her something. a sturdy needle and surgical-strength thread. )
I - can't reach — ( a sudden fit of coughing interrupts him, so instead he has to gesture, indicating the small wound the tip of the spear had made as it exited through his back. even still, it runs wildly with blood. ) If you can sew it up - I'll begin to heal. Do you know how?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
[ The platitudes Howl offered in response to Makoto's answer do not stand alone for long. Less than a minute later, he communes with the demon again, but this time the trail is silent and uncluttered, closed only to him. ]
That thing did something to you, didn't it?
[ A shot in the dark, but he doubts a creature capable of "smiting" its foes would have left M alone for what he did, and it's the only possible explanation for M's cryptic response. ]
no subject
anything that might be considered a weakness is one of these topics, and the affliction he currently finds himself with now... certainly feels like that.
but this is howl, and though he can't claim to trust the man perfectly, he feels like he understands him well enough not to immediately be on guard at the question.
there's an uneasy silence along the line of Communion, and then, in a tone measured to the point of almost sounding mechanical: ) When the creature attacked me, it attacked my shard. It grew so hot, I thought it would burn right through me. Before I lost consciousness, I felt something force its way into it. Whatever it was, it is still with me.
no subject
Howl has half a mind to get up and seek M out in person, if only because the physical movement would help distract him from the conflicting emotions rising within his own Shard. But, no. He recognizes the defensiveness in the demon's answers to him. It's significant that M is telling him anything about it at all. ]
Who else knows about this?
i'm going to have to be vague bc im not sure based on the timeline here
that's fine!
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
voice, whenever binghe's post is over
Still, it feels wrong not to check in with the other man somehow, after all they'd been through—and especially after all Makoto had been through. If he can't find the other man in person, then he'll have to settle for a communion message instead, even if the thought of invading someone else's mind still makes him feel uneasy.
At least Makoto can always rebuff his message if he's not feeling in the mood. ]
This is Eustace. [ Obviously. ] I saw what happened. How are you feeling?
no subject
I could ask the same of you.
( when that thing had appeared behind abel, going so far as to reach through him... others might question eustace's instinct to shoot it, but it only earns makoto's respect.
he makes his answer very carefully: ) I'm uninjured, as far as I can tell.
no subject
But he answers quickly enough, tone still brisk. ]
I have a few injuries from previous altercations but nothing serious. [ ..... ] Though I still can't see.
[ No point in hiding it, when he'd reported as much to various others. Overall, his condition is less than stellar in many ways, but there's no time now to troubleshoot solutions to his (many) problems. Later, when they return to Achamoth.
Surprising that Makoto came out of all this largely unscathed though. ]
The [ what are they even calling this thing ] creature really didn't do anything to you other than knock you unconscious?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
In Achamoth: A handwritten letter delivered to Makoto's door while he's self-isolating.
Contrary to his ward's beliefs, J is and has always been respectful of choices made of his ward's own volition, such as his six-month excursion into his past or even those long years under Datenshou's employ. Provided those decisions don't interfere with his own plans. For now, Makoto's choice to remain sparse while others congregate in the plague's aftermath, coming together more closely after their traumatic excursion, is apparent but left momentarily uninterrupted by his master. The only exception is a letter on artisan parchment, with flecks of tiny pressed flower petals in muted pastel pinks and purples and rippled edges left untrimmed, that designate it as something handmade. The envelope it's nested within is neatly sealed with red wax atop two tails of gold ribbon that dangle below; its texture soft to the touch. ]
Makoto-dono,
I hear congratulations are in order on account of your most recent achievement.
How does it feel to kill a man not by means of signed contracts and sated desires-
But with your own hand?
In lieu of immediately commemorating this event, allow me to send you a small token to make use of as you will.
Consider it a temporary proxy, until at which time you find yourself in a more celebratory mood.
Sincerely Yours,
J
[ Ever cautious when the situation calls for it, J doesn't draw attention to this exchange or risk its examination by permitting his retainer to submit the missive directly. Hypothetically speaking, if J were the Regent, he'd make sure those assigned to care for the Aions were actually spies planted to monitor their every move. Not unlike how Fjord and Datenshou quietly ferreted information to him about Makoto, making it as though J himself were there to keep an eye on his wellbeing and orchestrate whatever needed to be done to maintain it while he was out of his physical scope.
Assuming the worst, taking into account the ease at which history has shown letters can be opened, read, and re-sealed without raising suspicion, he personally delivers the item, leaving it in front of Makoto's door as he happens to stroll by.
Tucked within the envelope, causing its unusual weight, is a single ornate key set on a chain of the same metal; both solid gold and forged with impeccable workmanship. Curiously enough, the key itself is too small for normal locks. While the delicate chain, with links practically light and uncumbersome as a spiderweb's thread, is surprisingly durable. It appears to be both the chain of a necklace or worn at the wrist once the length is looped around and latched to itself. The reason behind such versatility is not yet apparent, when it's only half of the final product. ]
no subject
because they would. judge, that is. already he's seen and sensed his actions and intentions picked apart, and it brings with it a hideous and cloying sense of déjà vu. it's all too reminiscent of the worst parts of Earth, the parts that had driven him to trade his life away to a demon instead of continue to live it there. he hates the idea of others forcing him through their own pathetically narrow lenses of morality and decency. if he faced it now, it might push him over the edge and into doing or saying something that might be a little too incendiary a little too prematurely, so instead he tries to focus himself, possessed of the thought that if he's found that center he will be unshakable and unassailable even when falling beneath their prying gazes.
having temporarily dismissed his retainer, makoto comes across the letter left at his door when leaving to get food. having received no end to them when working for datenshou, he recognizes its sender by sight. side-tracked, he takes the letter inside, reads it and examines its contents, and spends several hours locked in thought.
it's not until a day or two has passed until a reply arrives much the same, left at J's door — a first, considering he had never sent a reply to any of his letters before. inside, written in makoto's extravagant hand: )
J,
Your congratulations are appreciated, considering they are largely absent in the cloud of noise hanging above the events that occurred toward the end of our stay in Venera.
I've spent some time thinking about your question, and I have decided that it's a difficult one to answer at this time.
Whatever thrill I might have felt at the manual dismantling of another's life was tarnished by two outside factors:
The first, of course, being what happened directly afterward.
The second in that no death in this place is a lasting one without the destruction or control of one's shard.
Despite these detractors, I aim to emerge from this set-back emboldened rather than cowed, so that I do not repeat these unfortunate mistakes.
Thank you for your gift.
I look forward to the day in which its purpose is revealed.
Yours sincerely,
M
( he had spent just as much time if not more trying to winnow from the words and the token J's intent both present and future, always driven near to mad to try to figure out the demon's ends and where he factored into them. as it is, however, there is relatively little he can do here and now. he ponders over his master's gift, turning the key and its chain over and over again in his hands, at war with himself for whether or not he wanted to spurn any gift out of past bitterness or cling to it for dear life, still starved for the love that he felt he had been falsely promised.
in the end, he keeps it on his person, just not where visible or expected. )
no subject
If Makoto's own wounded admission holds the weight J trusts it to, his ward has already sensed the tenuous and entirely conditional nature of his new companionships. The murder of an enemy in this war is all it takes for a potent deluge of criticism from his peers. It's the most effective litmus test for what awaits in the future when already those fragile binds have begun pulling apart at the seams. Nothing lasts.
Good, better that Makoto relearns this lesson soon as possible if his ridicule on Earth has been so quickly forgotten. If he's to survive the war just now rising across the horizon, he needs to be reminded, after too long in Hell, how wholly fickle the human heart is. Whereas demons are often much simpler in their goals of reveling in the immediacy of pleasure- not clutching pearls and their moralism that benefits whoever sits within the highest ivory tower.
The most familiar of all ties, J maintains the distance Makoto establishes. Lines are written in the sand which he doesn't trespass over. Neither by demanding entry across the threshold of Makoto's present haven or through a litany of coddling words that infantilize someone who had blazed his meteoric rise through Hell by means of the harshest of paths. Roads littered with a thousand souls, paved in their immortal corpses stacked and hidden away in storehouses, for insanity and extinguishment to claim them with time.
Make no mistake, there is ample advice nestled between the elegant sweeping loops of J's lavish cursive. Those words, however, don't root themselves in any belief that perceives his ward as deceptive first encounters or new impressions paint him to be: merely a teen of inhuman nature. Of course, he knows better than any when it was by his own hand that Makoto was shaped and forged into a weapon that craves to cut down its own maker.
J's wisdom offers itself up to someone reaching ever nearer to the status of an equal; if not within the food chain of Hell's now-debunked hierarchy, then here where he's already usurped J in kill counts and firsthand experience of Horos. ]
Mako,
The chatter will die with time, once concern inevitably shifts to greater matters.
This experience has taught us there are more forces at play than previously thought.
Those not so easily overcome compared to the flesh and blood of an opposing faction.
As for further altercations with the enemy-
Those you plan to go up against will not make the same errors either.
Their numbers will gather close; anticipating your next move against them.
The only way to defeat an enemy expecting your arrival is to do the unexpected.
Take them off guard, attack in a way in which they cannot possibly conceive of.
Most importantly, take what you've said and apply it to yourself:
The impermanence of death in this land, provided the endurance of a shard.
Above all else, Makoto. Protect yours.
P.S. Should the need arise, may this gift provide that means.
Yours,
J
[ As before, there's a second gift bequeathed on the same day he receives Makoto's correspondence. Wrapped in a nondescript brown paper intended to not draw the eye or present of much value to Aions freely gifted with gems and jewels, this small package is placed with the letter outside Makoto's room. Only upon unraveling the several-layer thick packaging does the real gift-wrapping show through. White like the feathers of his master, and faintly textured, there's a quality to the paper that suggests, like everything else he's presented, it was selected with no shortage of cost and careful deliberation.
Under the veil of ostentatious trappings is a trinket box; not composed of flimsy cardboard but pearl-white porcelain, garnished in gold filigree along the corners and in the center of every surface. One look and the style reeks of the same rococo style emanating from every corner or trapping within J's castle.
Not that any of this is of much importance. Once emptied of what rattles within, Makoto could throw the trinket box out his window without any real loss. It's the contents inside that matter. A non-descript leather-covered case is wrapped in a white satin handkerchief of a similiar design to the box it came in; all gold-licked and embrodiered with a swooping, curling "J" in one corner.
Plain as can be, the black leather case gives the impression of practicality and an ability to blend in as a non-descript item like a wallet or notebook. Appearing to be nothing of any particular value. But that's the intent. For when Makoto's paranoia surely goads him into dissecting this item, he'll find the leather cover can be unlatched and pulled away, to expose the harder case hidden within.
There, in forged steel set in a shade of darkest black, engraved with a flourished "M", strong as any of the city's best swords and set on a thick hinge none could easily break, is a case not quite thin enough for cigarettes but close. Clearly pocket-sized for portability, it opens to reveal an interior cushioned on both sides by a red-velvet material that's suade-soft and meant to prevent the jostling or damage to what could be placed within. While the cover's interior is flat, the other side sports a dip that can be felt. Whatever cushioning lies under the fabric, it's been shaped and trimmed to support the placement of an object almost in the precise diameters of the most valuable item in Makoto's possession: His shard.
When placed there, the shape of it carved by the powers here to resemble a vertical eye, it settles snug and immobile. If closed, the case automatically locks, airtight and secure. Unlocking it ought to pose little trouble when it's clear there's a lock built into the case, identical in size to the key Makoto had been given earlier. ]
(no subject)
communion; an early june evening;
should he be kind enough to accept - maybe he'll feel, hear, the gentle wash of his "name" floating across the abyss of their link of Communion in a tentative greeting.
it feels... uneasy. ]
Mr. M...?
no subject
makoto has been sparing in those that he has spoken with via Communion since the climactic events that occurred in Venera; to those whose (perceived) vested interests in reaching out to him that don't meet his internal standard, he either rejects or speaks very cautiously to. from those of the Pleroma, he's only spoken to dextera... but abel. there is something in him that reflexively recoils, an archaic and uncomfortable sort of panic rattling at his ribcage — it reminds him most of when he was still human, fearfully hiding macabre books in his room, knowing full well the blatant scorn he would receive when his parents found them.
the primary difference being that that boy hadn't wanted to hurt anyone; he would rather accept death himself than be compelled to kill someone else. pathetic creature. the demon M no longer feels the same, or at the very least he tells himself that, interring his past self in a coffin of plaster.
he feels no remorse because he tells himself he shouldn't; in his own personal context of leveling scales and inter-dimensional war, he was justified. so why is he... afraid to answer this call? couldn't he simply present himself to his good "friend" as he is, careless and confident, heedless of what he might say or feel? oh, if it were so simple. perhaps the veneer of makoto's demonic visage isn't so perfect as he wishes. there are still seams that he can't mend, and within them a latent seed: the knowing fear of rejection, paired foolishly with the undying part of him that still yearned for understanding... not that he would expect such a thing now, and from abel of all people.
and yet...
it's not necessarily a "response" to his previous inquiry, given a few hours have passed, but abel receives his own message pending from M. if accepted, it is heavily guarded, as if the channel of Communion had been narrowed to a single slot that messages could just barely be passed through.
cautiously: ) Abel.
( he just can't seem to turn his back on him entirely. a personal failing, perhaps. )
no subject
Abel did not attribute the silence to any malice on M's part, even if it made the sinking pit fall all the further where it sits in his stomach, hard and uncomfortable like a rock. perhaps he had been deluding himself, wanting to believe a version of events that differed from Estinien's recollection. Makoto having a hand in that man's dissolution...
...all of this - all of it - carries a weight that goes far beyond any one of their lives. it's larger than Makoto, larger than Estinien - larger than Abel, and Himeka, and Eustace and Kaeya and--
the first blood has been spilled, the first life taken in this war none of them asked for. it's inevitable that tensions continue elevating from here, isn't it? inevitable that more will suffer, bleed, in the name of their 'causes' - even if Abel fervently believes none of this is right, deserved, at all. the Aions are victims of circumstance, and for all of them to have been embroiled in this...
...Makoto. what have you done...?
imagine his surprise, then, when someone reaches out across that wall in return. perhaps it takes the gnawing press of several hours, but Makoto stretches a proverbial hand outward against the odds, and Abel... Abel, of course: ]
--Mr. M?
[ oh, wonderful! wonderful. they know one another's names; what a glorious source of relief!!! ]
...It's been a while. Hasn't it?
[ there is no trickle of emotion through the communion, this time. Makoto has kept it spartan; minimalistic. barebones.
it's surely impressive, then, if Makoto might manage to feel some pulse of the priest's unwieldy ruefulness despite those best efforts. maybe a hint of it passes through. maybe; just maybe. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw mention of suicidal ideation
(no subject)
(no subject)
i had to use Brain Juice for this tag, pls forgive the delay 😔🧠⛔
no need to apologize!
kissy faces at u disgustingly
☺️
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
as good a time as any to wrap this one up 😇
communion; a few days after soviseri event (27th+)
M. Do you have a moment? I have a favor to ask of you, it relates to the Innocence entity.
[It's businesslike and gets straight to the point without vapid pleasantries, Ciel does make sure to include a hook that should get the demon's attention without concerning herself with whether or not he's heard of the "big news". She doesn't think he'd turn it down, but demons being demons... Only one way to tell.]
no subject
though it does depend on what kind of news she has for him. he's left his quarters sparingly in the last few days, focusing on convalescing from his wounds — has something else happened with that horrid thing, or is there some other type of development afoot?
his reply is gracious and smooth, like cool velvet. ) Ms. Ciel.
( she cuts to the chase, and so he follows suit. )
You have my interest, and so you have my time. Please, continue.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
communion, the last day of the soviseri event
once he’s back in godsblood, safe away from anyone who might have seen him in venera, he withdraws his shard.
the message he sends makoto is a bit unlike his usual—he’s still skittish, afraid of being caught. rather than words, dextera conveys a series of impressions and emotions. it’s all in images like a montage: the guard he chose, the murder itself. dextera’s heavy breaths and his own hands carefully extracting all he can find in tact. he particularly lingers on the heart, savoring the way it continues to beat for some moments longer than the person himself has lived. in dextera’s memory, shown to makoto through this, the color is a bright and unnatural red.
he’s careful about the way he sets it aside in his mind, and with all those thoughts given, dextera knows makoto will understand. ]
I have something for you. When you have time…
[ as if there wasn’t a battle between their factions. ]
cw gore, vore mention
so it's late on the 25th of soviseri when he wakes up and sees that dextera has contacted him. that realization comes with a twined feeling of anticipation and worry. had something happened to him, or was he just checking in on him?
what he witnesses when he accesses the message is quite outside what he had expected. his rapt and wide-eyed fascination sharpen into something intent and craving at the images of actual violence, portrayed through Communion with the phantom voyeurism of the perspective from dextera's eyes, tinged on all sides by the presence of his feelings, of his own personal fixation. besides the shriveled animal one that dextera had given him all those months ago, makoto has never eaten a heart — when contracted to J, he had ripped him in half and started with the lower one, and from there he had never gotten so far as his entrails — but he does understand the appeal. it's been a thought that's crowded into his mind dozens of times. tearing past the flesh and cracking open the ribcage to expose what lie within, holding the demon's still-beating heart in his own hand so he could feel that he owned it and controlled it both literally and figuratively. so his attention lingers on that still-beating heart just the same as dextera's does; when the images fade and words replace them, makoto's formerly still waters have been thoroughly agitated, stirring up so much sediment that had settled to the bottom that they were now opaque and turbulent.
there are logical qualms. he's still very much on the mend from the injuries he received, and they're still standing in the threshold of conflict between their two spiritual sects.
but how the hell is he supposed to say no to all of this?
his first response is actually a laugh, a sound as breathless and wry as his response. ) And here I've been thinking on how I might repay you for what you brought me in the caverns... You beat me to it.
( in his quarters, still holding his shard, he sits up in bed. some of the pain might filter through their connection — deep lacerations encircle his torso like an embrace, even if they are neatly sewn shut — but it doesn't stop him from moving. )
For such an offer, how could I not make time?
not me forgetting the cw
anything in this inbox runs the risk of those cws
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
communion → action
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
for real this time cw cannibalism
real cannibalism hours
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
for J | shortly after the soviseri event
he pauses, then speaks in his measured, austere tones, ) Master J. My apologies, the young Master Aion is presently indis—
( his attention is momentarily distracted from a sound within the chambers, and then makoto's voice some distance away: ) Let him in.
( the words die in the retainer's mouth; he pauses, then nods, taking a sweeping step back to pull the door the rest of the way open to allow the demon entry. as he does, makoto provides the further order, ) And leave us for now, Kivander.
As you say. Send for me if you have need of me.
( he collects some effects from a small table at the side of the room where he had been attending and leaves, closing the door carefully behind him. )
J.
( the room is dimly lit, but he almost feels as though he could see the man's figure cut through darkness as black as pitch. makoto is propped up in bed; it seems that he might have been sleeping just a few moments ago, but he's hauled himself up enough that he can rest against a veritable curtain wall of pillows assembled behind him. his hair is undone, falling into dark waves wild and messy from sleep, and the shirt he wears is unbuttoned enough to reveal a weave of bandages beneath, encircling practically his entire torso. they are presently unmarred by blood — the first thing he had done upon stumbling to his chambers from the Regent's throne room was summon kivander and get his wounds cleaned and sewn so they could begin to mend — but he has been trying to be cautious not to move so much that they were further aggravated while in the slow process of healing.
as such, he doesn't pull himself out of bed to run across the length of the room and throw himself into J's arms, despite how that always seems to be the first impulse that comes through his head when he sees him after any period of time that they've been apart.
instead, ) Come here, ( said as he reaches out to him, wanting to have his hands on him, to feel that he's truly here and that nothing had managed to befall him, as soon as he could. )
cw: fantasized decapitation, violence and blood
As J's entry is momentarily barred, it's not the first time he weighs the pros and cons of helping Vandy instantly shed some extra weight, by evicting his thick skull from its body. In a moment hedged by questions unanswered and contact severed days ago, the demon is hardly in a magnanimous enough mood to tolerate being restricted access to his own ward. An aggravation worsened by someone who cannot suffer speaking through more than a crack in the door. The fact Makoto is cognizant of the tension and calls off his guard dog possibly spares the interior a quick redecoration.
Crisis averted, J slips into the room without paying his fill-in much ado and instead zeros in on the one he'd been combing the streets of Venera for, to no avail. ]
There you are. [ His master affords Makoto a long leash, with the latter dictating the terms by which J can reach out. Whether it's done out of sportsmanship or for the sake of humoring a child's game, J has refrained from using Communion when it trespasses upon an intimate sense of self his ward balks at inviting him into. So, in playing along, he's been kept in the dark as to the lion's share of what happened to him since they parted ways.
There's no need to ask about Makoto's well-being when his ward's sedate and bandaged state, eerily too bedridden for his traditional greeting, tells J that it resides at the cross streets of wounded and mending. A victory in itself when the traitors and captives from this recent venture may not escape it quite so unscathed. And it's with that thought that an unrealized knot gradually comes loose in some distant corner of J's mind. His exasperated concern is swept under the rug, in favor of a more typical and breezy response. ]
I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but- [ With a sweep of his open hand to indicate the noticeable gloom they've been cast within, J points out why that's an ill-suited greeting. ] The whole Ominous Gothic Deathbed mood you've got going on here kind of spoils the chipper sentiment.
[ The benefit of J's extremities is that they don't disrupt whatever atmosphere of quiet respite Makoto has set up for himself. (His mouth, however...) There's no jarring scuff of shoes or heavy thud of boots that might stomp about if any with the Archduke's size were to traipse through the space. All that sounds is the shuffle of feathers. Their rustle announces him with a softer alert than footfalls when J is apt to prowl; weaving liquid-like through the darkness. ]
Yes, what is it? [ J purposefully slots himself in the space where outstretched hands reach for him. Slender fingertips brush by the fabric of his shirt but don't manage to successfully grasp what eludes them; so close yet still so far. With the right of his hands grasping the headboard, J uses it to loom over the bed Makoto's small frame barely fills. It's more than apparent what Makoto wants, but J's conditions for fulfilling his requests have rarely deviated from their original pattern. If Makoto desires something from J, he should know better than to utter anything vague or indirect. Or maybe he's simply being decisively petty in retaliation for the last few days, now that J believes his little troublemaker is safe. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
MISSION FROM THE REGENT
Along with that is a note, dictated from the Regent themself. It will warn them against touching the crystal with bare skin, first and foremost, and then go on to make a peculiar request: they are to stake it into the earth at a particular coordinate in Achamoth, with its point angled towards the center of the city. This coordinate will be marked on a map that is included with the letter, and is in the southern-most sector of the city.
They are not to speak of this to their fellow Kenoma. The stake must be planted at the very start of the 5th of Firaseri. If your character would do anything other than plant the spear as asked and keep quiet about it, please let us know!
no subject
(no subject)
Communion - Post 6th of Firaseri
[ It comes on so subtly, emotions filtering in through his shard like a second sense, that J only fully acknowledges the depth of this milestone belatedly, a few moments after the fact. Their first communion. A step his ward had staunchly evaded, even for the sake of expedience and his own wellbeing. Makoto's mind locking J out and denying him entry to this singular place he was forbidden to tread for the longest time.
Once that door is opened, J isn't eager to see it shut in his face. So there's the sense of him feeling out the shared connection between them, seeping in like a breath on skin or the roaming of covetous eyes. ]
Is that all? [ Curious, J poses a question with the familiar taunting slant to his words cut away, leaving only a note of patient expectation. ]
no subject
given that it had been in a public forum among the Kenoma, thoughts and feelings and words all layering over one another, it had seemed inconsequential to respond to one that he clearly identified as J's. it had been less personal, less alarming than something direct between them, but --
it's a matter of self-control. like many things when J was involved, makoto had shut him out largely as a security measure; he often feels as though he cannot trust himself when the man is involved. it's not as though he has much to hide -- what is there about himself or his goals that the other demon doesn't already know or that makoto hasn't plainly told him to his face? -- but... it seems too much like allowing himself an obvious impediment. it's already so hard for him to focus when around J physically, but if he can reach out to him mentally at any time?
and yet... when he does, makoto fails to slam the metaphorical door shut. there's a faint shudder to the connection, like a candle flame guttering as it threatened to go out, and then the waters go still. he forces them to.
well, except for a continued static buzz of annoyance, which he feels is safe enough. ) Of course you wouldn't see fit to be content with what I'd given you.
What, is there something in particular you're curious about?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw: depictions vore & blood, fantasized NSFW gore
more of the same... also nsfw mention... bc of course hes gotta make it nastier