Who: Asura + Plotted CR
When: Late January - Early February
Where: Rescue basecamp, Asura's shared home, and likely the steps of Parliament.
What: Wrath, dumb jokes, politics, and a lot of h/c.
Warnings: Strong descriptions of injury, mentions of torture (re: event) and slavery.
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EREN;
Had Asura the means to do more than root his talons into the tenuous thing called consciousness and regulate his breath to shallow intakes and quick exhales (too deep, and he'd run the risk of opening the butcher's stitches barely managing to hold together his fissured chest), he would have railed against it.
All of it:
The middling human politics which prevent the Coven and Guard from exacting justice, saving face at Parliament outweighing the need to eradicate a common threat. How the Mirrorbound have always been tethered to more than just glass, their freedoms and strength compromised by reliance upon the city. His own failure to protect his Bonded; to keep her from knowing the weight of chains, that very thing which had kept Asura imprisoned at the foot of a creature which would have continued to style itself as his Master until the tides of time bleached the world of Faerie clean.
But in all his wrath, Asura had refused that fate, denied it just as he spurns the Guard who would beg from him a statement in the here and now. There is nothing for him in this encampment (no healer who can mend anything beyond flesh, no member of Coven or Guard deserving of his ear), save for the presence and fellowship of the Mirrorbound. They are far from his kin, and Asura cannot claim to know each name and face, but he is well acquainted with their voices; with their spirit which seems to always crest in flame (and this, he thinks, is no great coincidence; no mistake).
Funny, how all of them, now, are far out of reach. All, save for one: the ebon dragon who'd carried him in some herculean feat at the behest of a particular necromancer. And before Eren, too, departs to a place where Asura's hollowed-out body cannot follow (to deliver more out of that vile pit; to make more rounds), he will find himself forestalled by the touch of gold talons (cracked, chipped) to his forearm. Pitiful though Asura is, at present, he is no stranger to pain; he will be able to withstand its unremitting lashes as surely as the bow of a ship cleaves through the waves which would crash upon it. ]
There... [ A voice like the rolling deep of Summer thunder is diminished to a rasp, and yet— yet, the fathomless quality to Asura's stare remains pervasive as always, the green of his eyes stark against the ashen cast leeching the bronze from his skin. ] Is something... I would ask of you.
[ Of any Mirrorbound who would listen. ]
Though I am sure... the ache in your shoulder... [ Put there by Asura's impressive size and weight, the task of transporting the great golden dragon made no easier by the cavity in his chest. The loss of mass had meant only that a laborious task so too had to be a painstakingly gentle one. ] Will tell you that... you have already done enough... on my behalf.
[ Grim, bloodied, and handsome for all its wicked upturn, Asura grins, huffing out a dragging breath where his lungs cannot accommodate a laugh. Every part is Asura a sovereign seemingly upon their deathbed, and still he jokes at his own expense. ]
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an idiotic and too-optimistic hoping that grinds against eren’s already jaded faith in humanity. through the entirety of his rounds back and forth, with sokie, removing judar and doing the same with asura, his expression, his energy— it’s all a blooming twist of apathy clouding his would-be passionate gaze, and grim enmity all to himself. of course, all to himself. had his anger trickled toward the family of rathmores? earlier, yes, as a relapsing compulsion. now, there’s almost a sluggish sense of pity for them. pity that spits from the thin spaces between his teeth, and pours into a repetition of history that has begun to exhaust him and leaves him feeling empty. alone. was he the only one—? was he the only one who was so close to caring less? was he the only one aware of his selfishness, that was no better than the captor’s?
the captive fought as if they were free, and there is hardly sorry thoughts for them. apologies would not fix the scars this left behind or cure the wounds that were carved deep into them. he could only feel relief, and pride in what beautiful things are still living in this world, and the next, and the next— a monstrous desire to live and be better than the shit who rose against them, as he sees completely extant in the witch’s flickering gaze and vivid grin and flash of fangs, no matter how physically weak he’d grown. he’d hope they don’t lose it, as he’s seen so many do after their freedom had been so injured.
eren hadn’t the time to dwell on what has happened at home, and only now does he begin to perceive what it all meant, all over again. it’s the first time in ages since he felt the same way he felt looking across the ocean as friends shrieked and giggled at their first time seeing the sea, when all eren could see was the blood waiting beyond it. how much more blood would await him here, and what must he do to leave it? was it an anchoring factor that he’s made friends here, or worse with what he was capable to do for them?
it wasn’t as glorifying as it sounded. he could hurt them all more than what this has caused. he can do worse to innocents if sacrifices had to be made all the same. he didn’t know anymore, and seethes in silence.
his shoulder had only suffered the weight of compression, as draconic strength easily handled the rest, especially under duress— it hadn’t been the first boulder he’s lifted over his head, and even as his ribs tightened underneath the earlier pressure, it’s gone now. gone as if he could shake off a workout and return to a swift walk. he leans over to the head of asura’s resting bed, taking the place of the fabric his talons had caught with his own crystal-blue textured claws, hooking into them like one would offer a comradely grip between two massive, battle ready fists. ]
I’ll be the judge of what’s enough. [ he was dynamic with his words and firm with his camaraderie, you can’t fucking tell him what to do!! ] So save your breath for what’s important.
[ and with a gesture, with his head: go on. tell him, as low as eren speaks, but attentive to urgent words. ]
What is it?
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[ Emotion. That rankling seethe and silent fester which lives inside of Eren, tasting of wormwood (aromatics and bitter) and of blood upon Asura's tongue. And though Asura can appreciate wrath in all its forms (the hot and cold; the chaotic and the righteous), he finds that he cannot abide by this deadened animus which has cast its shadow over Eren's eyes. The King has glimpsed such umbrage in others before; in his own Summer brothers and sisters when they took departure from their warfaring calling, questioned how they were any better than the Gentry bastards when enacting such monstrous acts of violence. Always, Asura's answer to them had been: you are better, because humanity needs you. Changelings, they would always be the bulwark which stood between mortals and the madness of the Others, and so long as humans remained free, the bloody path which Summer carved in its name would be necessary and right.
Not moral. Not upstanding. But right. And for some (the stronger ones), that was enough. But for others (the less certain, the doubtful), it could never be, and they fell from the Crimson court. They lost the passion in their eyes, and that's why—
—Asura devours that internalized enmity, siphoning it clean from Eren's person. The emotion will only replenish in time, this Asura knows, but before it does, he will use it to fuel a spell which he'd not have the energy to cast without the help of a fresh meal. A familiar thing, the descent into a divination spell, and for Eren, it means:
A view from the inside of a stone pit. Reinforced bars which Asura pelts with the brunt of his weight (he is not yet cleaved open, though the atrocity must have occurred in response to this show of raw power; this assurance that if Asura were left strong and unhindered, chains and spells alone could not protect the ones who had caged him), causing them to resonate in baleful song and promise.
It causes the old shift of guard to sneer in disgust for "these Mirrorbound barbarians", and inspires their replacements (new blood, less sure of the Rathmore's cause) to whisper amongst themselves in the hopes that their voices might drown out the foreboding drum of a dragon tirelessly seeking to reclaim the freedom stolen from him. They speculate as to how all of this will end; how the threat the Mirrorbound pose will finally be done away with, and Asura pauses in his bludgeoning melody to hear it with astounding clarity: "...heard from Mr. Rathmore himself they're doing magic in there. A spell to send the Mirrorbound home, and the refugees along with them."
And Asura laughs, its bone-rattling rancor silencing the watchmen's next words, the sound echoing through the deep as he wonders if it would be better for the whispers to be some storied fable, woven to garner the compliance of others, or the truth itself.
When the memory ends, it is clear what Asura would ask of him; of Eren who can (and would) do worse if only it were the right choice to be made. ]
Wait too long to discover if such a magic truly exists... and the answer will be lost to us. [ Or so, this is what Asura believes. The Coven and the Guard will have the captors meet with public trial, and the surety of their conviction will protect the Rathmores and their associates from the Mirrorbound who would have otherwise rallied against them. ] The iron bars... of this city's justice... will shield the Rathmore patriarch from everyone.
[ But as the ebon dragon had said, whether or not he is to pursue: he himself will be the judge. Eren is no courtier of Summer, not one to bend to any authority but his own, and yet Asura knows and hopes. With their talons so interlocked, he cannot think the both of them to be so different. ]
That cannot come to pass.
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it allows eren to, despite the surprise, focus more than he ever could’ve (not that he wouldn’t have already). there was nothing to bide on and nothing blistering beneath his scales, only assiduity as the dragon accepts the fall into memory in favor of questions. questions could come later.
being held behind bars had never trashed eren’s freedom from him; not when he was imprisoned for his crimes, and one day broke out when he felt the time was right. it is what he feels from this massive, proud dragon giving ear to the youth of the rathmores, so young and too goddamn innocent for his own good. a loud huff resonates with asura’s when he hears it: a spell to send the mirrorbound and refugees home. eren was sharp in the deceptive ways of man and calls fucking bullshit under his breath like he’d spit at them. poor boys. poor all of them. the things they’d fabricate to ring the less inclined to their side and whim.
when he blinked, his hand had been intertwined with the summer dragon’s tight and resound in the concern he raises. he is not angered, but he was adamant. he’ll see to it. because: ]
There’s only one way to disclose bullshit, [ three things: it could be bullshit, it could be true, and it could be dangerously false. so eren nods, squeezes the other’s hand and assured him: ] and one thing I‘ll regret not looking into. I’ll do it.
[ he’s made his choice, and he’ll see to it. quickly, even. he’ll have something by morning if he worked hard enough after it and brought it back. ]
—Do you always need emotion for spells?
[ or energy? actually helpful at the time, if not mildly unnerving. but mostly helpful, for what the situation was worth. he’s not complaining, his tone remarks, and would like to know to simply know for his own reference. ]
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As though it were an ascent into the firmament, Divination demands that its practitioners exist in many spheres as their magic manifests, soaring to heights where the boundaries between two (one human and one Changeling) might thin, allowing for memory to be conferred upon one able to shoulder the weight of it. And in this state of being split across the stratums (the lowermost, where Eren's hand remains clasped tightly with his own; the highest, where Asura stands in absolute governance over the recollection which Eren lives), he hears the ebon dragon's heave of breath alongside his own (the utterance of disdain and disbelief resonant, now, in their journey through anamnesis), and he is glad for it.
They are of similar sentiment, though Eren has more pity for the duped and the deluded than Asura is capable of giving, and in the wake of the memory, a promise has been made: I'll do it.
Better, to demystify the alleged prowess of the Rathmores, reavling to all how they'd gone so far as to manipulate their own blood to garner compliance. Better, to ensure that no single, solitary grain of truth lay hidden within the whispered rumor. Better, to set Eren upon this path to stay dispassion from once again clouding his eyes.
Ah, ah, speaking of that— Asura does owe Eren an explanation, one given with the quirk of a wry smile, but no flash of fang: ]
As much... as you need to press an already beleaguered man for the truth... of such a thing.
[ Which is to say that, no, emotion is not requisite for Asura to weave magic in the world of Talam. It is not like Glamour of the mortal realm he knows: it neither sustains him entirely, nor does it power the contracts which he'd once forged with the aspects of the universe.
But... ]
Call it a habit, one carried over from home. [ Something which marks him as fae, something thoroughly inhuman. ] It makes... magic easier. The spell stronger.
[ And it remains a boon in the present where Asura hasn't anything left in his
mana poolenergy reserves, not after sinking his magic into a silver dragon (and it's always dragons, isn't it?) who had begged from him a spark to free her from her ice-bound clutches. ]But now... your eyes are clear and sharp. [ A second thud of their still-linked hands beats against Asura's shoulder with finality and trust that Eren will complete the task ahead of him (and perhaps, retain the look about him, keep that vibrancy of heart and human spirit). ] Let them stay that way, Eren.
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[ something this empowering? no, never— it’s be as tragic as throwing away the lives he’s taken for a sheer amount of nothingness. something that eren was never fond of, and always cursed the possibility. none of it, no efforts that aligned with his own, would go to waste.
he’s taken enough out of the summer king, though, forcing him to speak when his chest lay there, fractured and exposed. he should continue with his efforts, and bring this along, quickly, to rid them all of doubts or truths before heads rolled. ]
You should rest, now.
[ eren considers something, and then, hopes he could keep the witch’s gate open for a little while longer. it comes first, as a request of his own: ] With this, [ that soon gestures with hands still clapped, and an eye, eyes, eager to give him something. ] If you’ll take it.
[ it’d help him recover his energy, he feels, especially after what he’s done for him. there were no words for the rejuvenation in his heart that he always wished he had. ]
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Eren offers to him a gift of something precious (as all memories are), though this time Asura has no need to extend his hand (show me?, he'd bid of Eren once before a bonfire), for theirs are already clasped together. And so they shall remain for a little while longer. ]
I will witness it. [ Because Eren is human, beautifully so, beneath his draconic spines and ebon scales, and the King wishes to be reminded of the reason why he chose to walk alongside mortals all those years ago. Unfailing is his certainty that, in the depths of the recollection Eren chooses to relay through their still-open link, there will be a testament to an ineffable something beyond the grim human history which has repeated itself here today. ] Just... as I asked you... to show me your strength, show me you.
[ The Eren who is unfettered. The emotions which were beyond all Changelings. The perspective which Asura lacked. The mortal experience of aging and growing into oneself as the years passed. All and any of it would serve as meal for someone so removed from the human condition, and between them, Asura's magic twists and twines, enveloping Eren with a ghost of a caress which implicitly states: it's time. ]
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a handful of young ones no older than eren sit with him in a circle as an open train cart pulled them, tested the tracks they had only today managed to complete with hard work. faces shine with sweat and dirt, on all of them— and eren speaks, low, contemplative and almost grim: “we need to decide who’s going to inherit my titan”. words that perhaps won’t make sense without context, but there is no need. one by one, each friend argues a point. it’ll be me because . . . followed by another interrupting, then another: no, it’s me. i’m the best option.
listening to them all give their reasons, eren only observes, quietly, neck snapping left and right to settle on them, but . . . none of it sits right. his brows furrow with worry and his stomach knots, rising when each one is denied being a rightful owner but then flipping uncomfortably again. the more he imagined it, the more eren’s heart sunk from his chest to his gut. inheritance was not a worthy issue. it was littered with responsibility, with unbearable weight to carry and a shortened lifespan in exchange for great power. it didn’t feel right, he didn’t want this—
and it’s then, when eren suddenly realizes, and voices begin to drown out from his thoughts. he’s seen his future. he’s seen the scenery, he’s seen everything he wants, and he knows . . . he can choose. there is no such thing as having no choice, and when he speaks up— his voice is stern, decided and resolved: “I’m not planning on handing it down to any of you.”
incredulously, they all gawk at him. there’s shock and uncertainty in each of their features, some even feeling shot down from the looks. this group of five was something far more than passing figures. they made his core swell, made his heartbeat rise as his head did with steadfastness and enough objective in his words that when one would hear it, it felt as if stating an absolute fact. it felt like he could convince a stranger.
“you’re all important to me. all of you, more than anyone. so . . . i want you all to live long lives.”
silence falls over them, and each begin to carefully stare off elsewhere, being cut off and having nothing to say. but, the burning sensation on eren’s cheek intensify even after the discussion has ended, trying to look at them and deciding he couldn’t. his vision is cast to the ground when suddenly— one of the young men yell. wh— why’re you all red—?! as if contagious, and after realizing, the rest of their cheeks all begin to deepen in color. sorry, eren mutters, flustered beyond belief and fidgeting his fingers into the pants fabric around his ankles.
jean, it’s the sunset, a blond speaks with a grin spreading across his face. it’s making everyone red. some laugh at each other, some are equally embarrassed to do anything anymore and hide under their hats. there is one, though, one that seems to be staring at eren. their eyes meet, ice blue with dark obsidian. the girl, who asura has seen before, is older in this memory, hair pulled back as eren’s grows out to the length we see today. she smiles at him, something soft, sweet, and all eren could do is frown in turn as he feels his nose, his face, his ears and his neck possibly turn eggplant purple. his heart pounds in his ears and skips for each moment he can’t bring his glance to pry off her. she clutches the hat in her lap, and then . . . the emotion of this memory is clear here.
it’s only been a year, but it felt like yesterday. eren has passion, eren fought like no other, but for what? what made him so ferocious, what saddened him so? what drove him to keep going? the extravagant colors begin to seep and pool around blackness until it all begins to fade, into the very colors of the sunset so strong that marked eren that day, and what he now carries on his body in the form of scales. deep orange, blood red, a shine of pink and sheens of indigo.
eren’s grip never falters. his scales burn as brightly colored as that day, like fire, the same fire that kindles in his eyes and gives him life and makes his chest pump. it was them. it was her. it was love. this was part of him, underneath all his dangerous flaws and blunders. ]