Futuristic deliver us to evil. ( *syns & boobs. )

[starboob]

The taste of these street rats is nothing compared to Neamh. They all lack her sweetness. She will have to get used to the taste of filth, she supposes, because clearly that woman's meat and blood had been a sweet poison that would surely kill her someday. The arm she bites into now, tasting of ash and corrosion, is the true flavor of the human spirit and its taste must be acquired. She will not fool herself into thinking that a poisoned dessert is a complete meal. For as much as these rats disgust her, she does feel their power, the paltry amount they had, coursing through her veins as she absorbs their souls and offers it to the slumbering beast within. It's enough for her eyes to change, but not enough to feed the rest of her transformation. She keeps her disappointment hidden. (Somewhere she knows what it wants, but she will not give in and siphon the gasoline her Ego craves.)

As the imperials storm in from all sides, as the guardians multiple like flies, as the eye shines down from overhead, Iseul merely shrugs. There is nothing for her to fear when she already knows all of their tricks and secrets. This can only end in three ways: she is captured and killed (ideal), she is captured and sent to penance (unsavory), or she kills them all (the goal). She does not have fears of Neamh betraying her, for she already has and to do so again would only further prove she's a rotten heart with no place at her holy side. When the bitch doesn't outright turn her over and also claims ownership of Iseul, she finds herself torn and decides to not investigate those feelings any further. There is likely no point or use in that, as her confusion are knots not meant to be untangled. Still, she does know that the woman is foolish for thinking she can claim darkness as if it is not only the feeling of someone's breath down your neck, raising your hackles in the dead forest. It is not something that can be grasped. She is not something that can be grasped. So when those infected hands run up her back, the woman (the god?) reaches behind herself and grabs her wrists, digging her talons into her soft flesh. 'She would make a fine pin cushion,' she decides. (She wonders how long she might survive with a nails jammed in her skull. A thought provoking query and one she may test soon if this woman keeps trying her.) "Touch me again and I will eat your hands," she hisses, barely turning to address her as their blasted horse races over all the bodies. "You and I? We are meant to be alone. Savor the feeling for it is all you will get from me." She lets go of the woman, then sticks her fingers in Neamh's mouth. (Ah... She had not anticipated that feeling good. Drat!) "Why would I ever want to be one with someone who tastes of disappointment? If I am to surpass disappointing even someone such as yourself, I must bind myself to a more suitable disciple. One who has stronger faith."

At least, Iseul supposes, the woman is honest with how she feels as she must really think her a stupid bitch to think she'd take her back and desire that fleeting sense of wholeness. (Even the pariah cannot deny that her poison tasted like acceptance, much as it pains her to admit.) It had been one thing to reprimand her for her abandonment, that Iseul found understandable, but to challenge her in His the enemy's house? Unforgivable. (But had Neamh not saved her? Technically speaking? What would have happened had she not been there? Would Iseul be chained beneath the church letting the rats take bites of her flesh? She supposes, she would be.) A punishment must be dealt before she considers such an offer, she decides.

When the voice addresses her once more, her lip curls and her agitation boils over her stomach and tightens around her chest. 'It claims I am a fit mistress and then dares to give me orders?' If she is to prove her own divinity how can she do it when fools insist on collaring her and pulling her leash? Now, she realizes, how foolish she had been for allowing such treatment of herself. "Silence, parasite. Let me instead show you why you should not even questioned the sight of your true mistress," she seethes, grabbing onto the horse's stupid mane and charging the beast into the heart of the dome city.

As they leave the prayer district, neon lit skyscrapers climb upwards as if they never learned from the Tower of Babel. Advertisements promising to reduce ones sins without penance line the streets and billboards, as well as ones that offer help in increasing one's holy merits; there are also ads that encourage one to abstain from temptations, to abstain from pleasure, to just abstain. 'This entire city knows nothing of holiness.' When they arrive in the financial district, she stops them in front of a tall building that is outlined in neon red; a matching red halo circles the building about three quarters of the way up; and emblazoned on one side it reads, in a thin font, HeavenTech. (One of the top corporations known for developing cybernetic enhancements; supposedly the one that developed the technology to bring the guardians to life.) She kicks the beast's sides and wills it to race up the side of the building, taking them to the top.

The night air is crisp. The guardians are minimal. Iseul hops off the horse's back and pulls Neamh away from it as well. "You said earlier that your power could have been mine," she addresses the other woman without looking at her. Her hand curls into a fist as she stares at the beast in front of her. "But I will show you that I do not need it. I am my own power." (Now if only she could actually summon it at will and hold her form for more than minutes. But those are minor details. Things to be addressed later.) She takes the horse's massive face into her hands and presses their foreheads together; soulless depths looking into soulless depths. Then she sinks her claws into the horse's head and, in a clean sweep, tears it from its body before the animal can even register the initial pain of being impaled. She tosses the horse's head at Neamh's feet, finally turning to face her. The body of the horse behind her collapses onto its side and from its severed neck, nanobots fly from the wound in a massive swarm. Half swarm the antenna at the top of HeavenTech's tower and work their way into the system; the other half set their sights on the city to spread their virus. All that, however, is background noise to Iseul. She has Neamh to deal with now.

She sticks her chin out and struts over to the woman, not hesitating when she grabs her by the neck and lifts her into the air. "Why should I keep you?"

 

[Syntra]

The fingers invading her mouth? The forcefulness was so sweet, so familiar, that she couldn't help but moan-- couldn't help but lick on them, giving her a taste of the things to come. (Shamelessly, she sucked on them, as if divine nectar was gushing from her pores. More, some part of her thought, despite the anger that was still hot in her belly. Give me more. More of yourself, more of this delicious fury, more of everything. Don't I deserve it?) "Alone, you say?" Neamh finally asked, looking at her through her half-lidded stare. "You don't look like you want to be alone, though. It seems to me that you want to show me my place." (Useless, by the way. Neamh already knew where she belonged-- beneath her, pleading for mercy. Kneeling at her feet, and kissing the ground she walked upon. Whispering prayers that sounded like curses, once you really listened to the words. So what if she was an imperfect god? A god was a god, and to a worthless bitch, she was everything. The sole glimmer of hope in darkness. 'Please, please, look at me,' she wanted to beg. 'Why won't you look at me, you piece of shit? Let me hate you. Let me love you.')

What was her plan? Did she even have one? Neamh wondered and wondered and wondered, and wondered some more, as she watched the false god engage in... hmm. What was it, even? Sacrifice, or common butchery? Often, what separated the two was intent. That, and only that. She's mindless, Neamh realized. Divine power stuffed into a filthy, fragile shell. Ah, how beautiful it would be if it was allowed to burst out, like insults that had been simmering in your gut for years! (Neamh, of course, did not know the feeling. There was no reason for her to hold a grudge. The mistresses had been kind, oh so very kind, and every wound they'd carved into her worthless body was a sign of love. After all, hadn't it been done to make her better? To purge the corruption from her bloodline? You didn't hate the scalpel that that cut your flesh-- you hated the cancer growing within, the genetic cocktail that had brought you to that fucking point. ...had she not been this worthless, it wouldn't have happened. Wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't!)

"If you're willing to sup on bones, then I won't stop you," the not-fae gave her a sharp smile. (Not going to accept her olive branch, huh? Sad. Sad, though ultimately not that surprising. A darkened sky could only ever spawn a storm, and from soiled ground, only a twisted thing could grow. Was it surprising, then, that Iseul, her beautiful Iseul, turned out to be this depraved? In sin she'd been born, so in sin, she would die. The humans had ruined her, the self-righteous bastards.) "You are the gravedigger to your own potential. What is it like, lowering yourself to the level of those parasites? Are you going to gouge your own eye out as well, and feel proud of yourself for becoming the one-eyed queen among the blind? Sad. Pathetic. You are more than that, Iseul." The thread of fate binding them together? It had become a chain, chain heavy with regret, and oh, did Neamh wish to sever it! (She did and she didn't. It was like picking at a scab-- knowing that you shouldn't, and doing it anyway. Maybe doing it because of that. After all, when her blood was spilled... well, that was the only time Neamh felt even remotely alive. An actual person, not a bundle of thoughts, bound together by barbed wire.)

Up and up they went, climbing the monstrous skyscraper, and for a second, Neamh thought that Iseul was about to claim her place on the heavenly throne--that she would rip it from the rotting hands of the dead god, and wear the crown of thorns. Did she, ah, finally decide to listen to her prophet? Would she see her words for the pearls of wisdom they were? ('They aren't,' the voice of reason said. 'You're a sack of meat. A pig to be devoured. You may stuff yourself in a holy garb, but your squeals will always give you away. Oink, oink, bitch!') And, yes, perhaps it would have been better to let Iseul kill her. What better way to serve her mistresses, after all? Humans were a disease, and every breath she took only doomed this forsaken planet further. Maybe this was her fate-- to be murdered by this beautiful, beautiful angel, amidst the sea of blood. Not that terrible, eh? At least she'd be good for something, even if it had to be 'momentary distraction.' A mere footnote in Iseul's legend. "Because," she gasped for air regardless, caressing the hands that choked her, "nobody will ever love you the way I do. Nobody. Because you promised, as well. And because you're mine. I... I command it."

 

[starboob]

Does she want to be alone? It is all she has ever known and in that familiarity, there is a cool comfort. At the same time, she supposes she knows a bit about what it is like to be found. Her brief honeymoon with Neamh had given her a taste for acceptance, but what does that matter when it turned out to be a well-crafted farce? The choice between Neamh and being alone is somewhat like having a wet blanket on a frosty night. She knows that the difference between wrapping herself in that blanket and not having it at all are inconsequential when she'll be left cold no matter what. There is no choice here, not really. It is only the difference between being solitary and alone together. Alone together is a unique torment that she does not like, she decides. Still, the more she thinks on this the more she wonders if her options are so binary. She's not a rat who can only choose between the pathways given. She is a woman (a god?) who can carve an entirely new path for herself, she de–– supposes.

"Are prophets not supposed to be empty vessels for their gods to pour into?" she asks the question like she's throwing shards of glass. Neamh seems to have her head full of thoughts already; too many thoughts, she decides. If she were to stick an icepick in her ear would all those thoughts come marching out? Would they wrap around Iseul's neck and pull her in any direction they choose? Because this supposed disciple, this supposedly blessed follower, certainly seems to confuse who is the god and who should be on their fucking knees. (So, yes, maybe she does want to show this woman her place. Maybe she wants to know if she can still speak with a stiletto heel on her throat.) She squeezes the sides of Neamh's neck, enough to leave the imprint of her fingers later, and drags the woman to the edge of the roof. It is interesting, she supposes, watching the woman dangle over the ledge, knowing the rat's life is entirely in her hands. All she would need to do would be to let go. Release. It's a tempting thought, even more so when she imagines what the woman will look like splattered across the pavement. Humans tend to look the same as ground beef when they splatter. (She remembers that is what Gemma looked like.) Humans are kind of like bugs in that sense. Aside from those inane connections that her brain supplies, she also wonders what will happen once she is done marveling over the splatter. Neamh will be gone just like Gemma is gone. She misses Gemma. Will she miss Neamh? Hmm. Probably not, she decides, because Neamh is not like Gemma. No, she is more like sister Cathy and Iseul hates sister Cathy. She does not miss her.

Still the woman talks and her words pull Iseul under their current, forcing her along a stream that is full of poison. They work their way beneath her skin, until she can feel them crawling around and making homes for themselves. Reminding her of her wretchedness. Reminding her that she is pathetic and worthless. The anger that surges through her is somehow too heavy for she cannot move; cannot tear this woman's tongue out for dragging her through the mud. She nearly crushes her windpipe right then and there, but her wrath suddenly dissolves when she is reminded that it is Neamh who first found her. (Was that yesterday? It feels like a lifetime ago.) That is what saves her, really. The reminder that Neamh has, in a way, always seen her potential. She has seen that Iseul can be better. Do better. (Can this woman teach her? What kind of god learns from a woman?)

The ongoing battle between her thoughts and feelings brings confusion and clarity all at once. It's overwhelming. Too much. And once again, her calm comes with Neamh and her surprising declaration of love? She doesn't want to believe it and yet the words prickle her ears and send charges to her heart forcing her to realize how starved she has been. (Forcing her to remember what a disgusting creature she is, full of so much depravity she seeks out wholeness from a broken vessel.) 'Hers.' She doesn't want to be, not anymore, but the temptation to belong is perhaps stronger than a pathetic desperate thing like Iseul. "I don't need love," she declares, but the declaration is a whisper and it is swept up by the wind. 'Especially not yours.'

Even so, she pulls Neamh from over the ledge and drops her onto the rooftop. "You are lucky you have such pretty eyes, the rest I could do without," she growls, stooping low so that her knee is pressing into the other woman's chest. She grabs her face and scrapes her talons against her meat, hating this woman for all the confusion and passion she brings. (Perhaps loving her for it as well? That, she is still unsure about.) "You are a broken promise, you know?" Disappointment colors her tone, adding to the mix of anger. "Promises are not singular in direction and yet you treat them as such, as if my promise is not contingent on your promise. Hmph," she lets go of Neamh to cross her arms over her chest, sticking her lip out to frown. 'Why did you have to be the same?' "I can be great, you know. I will be, and you can either make a mistake or promise to help me. If you want to usurp me, don't do it at my low like a coward. Do it when there's actually something for you to inherit. Don't you want to enter Paradise a star?"

 

[Syntra]

It hurt. Hurt, hurt, hurt, like insects swarming under her skin, biting and gnawing and feasting-- not on her flesh, but on the shards of her sad, broken dreams. (It had been foolish, she should have realized. Neamh, belonging somewhere? Somewhere that wasn't the coldness of the grave, as empty as herself? Unrealistic. A fairytale fucking ending, unworthy of bitches such as herself. Always, always the mistresses had warned her! 'Don't expect too much from the world, child. It wasn't born for you, and you weren't born for it. You are a match, and the planet a stack of hay. How could it love you when your wretched kind is the reason it's on fire?' ...and yet, yet she'd gone and watered that hope, nourished it, hoped to reap the sweet fruit. Hoped for more than she was worth, really. Befitting of a stupid bitch, wasn't it? No, not even a god could save her. Not from herself. Do it, Neamh challenged, her green eyes staring into the dark ones. Kill me, do it now, so that this farce can end! A frog was destined to remain a frog, right? Regardless how much you kissed it, it wouldn't turn into a princess-- sweet and rosy-cheeked and innocent, with a pretty little crown and a pretty little dress. From the very beginning, the transformation had been a lie. ...had the mistresses known? Had they sent her to her death? That, after all, was the only curse to humanity! If so, Neamh only regretted that she couldn't thank them in person. Yes, yes, please. Iseul, my dear Iseul, make me beautiful! Be my path to salvation, my favorite Bible chapter. ...ah, she'd repeat it over and over and over, the verse called Iseul. Each word, each stumble in the rhythm, Neamh would treasure.)

Perhaps Iseul had heard that plea, though. How else to explain that she decided to pull her back to safety, yanking death away from her? Stealing it from her, the second it became a comfort? (Typical. Fucking typical. Neamh couldn't have anything, not even the peace promised to all living beings.) "You tease," the not-fae accused her, massaging her stiff throat. "Are you always like this, Iseul? Whispering sweet promises you have no intention of fulfilling?" She wanted to add more than that, more remarks sharper than god's cruellest judgment, but... ah. Ah, Iseul liked her eyes. Neamh just stared at her, hoping against hope that the girl wasn't making fun of her-- that she wasn't lying, feeding her more false narratives. (Because, you see, if she was, then Neamh would fall apart. Like a house of cards, only held together by a force of will. Her identity was clay, soft and malleable, and Iseul... Iseul had left her imprint on it already, a crack all over the porcelain surface. Without her, she was ruined. With her, she was, too.)

"But alright. Alright, I promise. I will feed you all that I can-- knowledge, power, everything. In turn, you have to promise me that..." Neamh licked her lips, "...if you somehow end up killing me, I won't just be a statistic to you. I want you to make it special for me." Gently, like the gust of wind, the not-fae caressed her cheek. "You understand, don't you? What it's like, I mean. Existing, in the sense that your heart is beating, but never really touching anything. Not in a meaningful way. Being a... a placeholder of a person, I guess. Waiting for your turn to metamorphose into that butterfly, except it was a scam all along and it never fucking happens." Ah, there it was again! The truth spilling from her lips, so much of it that Neamh almost drowned in that sea. The mistresses had advised against it, but how could she not be honest with Iseul? Iseul, her love? Iseul, her life? Deceit was armor, yes, but she wanted - no, needed - to reveal herself to her, scars and wounds and everything. (A worthless bitch's sole selling point, she realized. Only one who had nothing could give herself to another to openly, so recklessly. Like a moth pursuing the flame in the darkness, knowing that it would burn, and yet, yet...! Ashes are my only salvation, not her. Even so, she's the one who will bring them.)

"I need you to change that, Iseul. You can do that, can't you? Turn me into a masterpiece, when my death finally claims me. Make sure I will die a person, not a rag. One of us has to fall, and if it's you... if it's you, I will grant you the favor. Do the same for me." The words turned into feverish ramblings, her eyes glistening with madness, but Neamh cared not. Instead, she pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead, enjoying the sensation of her skin burning under her lips. (Could Iseul burn a different way for her as well? Time, the most powerful of gods, would prove that.) "My love. My fate."

The dark wind, her companion, lifted her into the air, and Neamh took Iseul's hand. Up, up to the sky they went! (The stars around them shone brightly, with much more impact than all the neon could ever muster. They, too, were but a cheap replica. In a way, Neamh could sort of sympathize? With the struggle, as well as with the horrific emptiness.) "Let us make up, for we shouldn't direct our fury at one another. What would you like to do, dearest Iseul? I heard that, in this cursed city, joy is a sin-- that you shouldn't pursue happiness, or you will pay for it in the afterlife. Well, I care not for such things. Tell me, Iseul: what did you do for pleasure? Show me. Show me, and I will bring it to new heights."

 

[starboob]

Just like a storm, her ire passes and she feels the ice that had hardened around her heart melt as Neamh, her Neamh, sings her sweet song and stares at her with those sparkling emeralds stuck in her head. 'Beautiful. How could I have ever been angry with a woman so breathtaking?' It seems so silly now that she is past the storm that the thought of killing her blessed one had crossed her mind. It also strikes her as concerning that she really might have gone through with it; she had been so close, so tantalizing close that she could feel Death herself breathing down her neck, waiting to snatch her Neamh away from her. 'A god must be careful,' she decides. The power in her veins is a drunk promise and it is far too easy for her to get lost in it; not that she minds. She quite likes the surge. She likes how easy it is to cut through all of her problems and turn them to ribbons of flesh. However to turn that against her Neamh, the woman who made her into a god, would only prove she is unworthy of her own divinity. It may run through her blood, but blood alone does not make one divine. Her entire life has been that lesson taught thousands of times over. (Had it been otherwise, then surely the members of her church would have seen her the way that Neamh the wise does.) As justified as her wrath had been, she nearly took it too far and for that... For that she will accept her punishment. Whenever it comes. (She hopes it does not come as the whip.)

The promise that flees from Neamh's mouth must be the heaven she talked about earlier, the one that exists on the tip of her tongue, for no words ever sounded as sweet to Iseul. She leans into the other woman's caress, turning just slightly to press her lips to her palm. "That is all I ask," she whispers, grazing her fangs against the other woman's skin and remembering how sweet her blood had tasted and how it had fueled her. "I want you to see the god I can be, not the one I am. Help me to get there, and you will have helped earn this name." It does not feel good fighting with Neamh, she decides. Never again does she want to be so angry, so disappointed with her sweet one. She would like for Neamh's love to help her feel full and not empty her of everything that she is––and that isn't much to begin with. She wants that love all for herself, her desperate self. "I will give you a death deserving of a queen, I will let no part of you go to waste. Especially not your precious, precious blood," she purrs, smoothing her hand over the inside of the other woman's arm. "Everyone will know who you are if I am to be your ruination."

Though as the woman continues, Iseul cannot say that she understands. Not quite. Sure, she knows what it is like to exist as a husk of a person. Sure, she has always been waiting for some transformation to help her make sense of all this. However, however, however all of that had been her wish for death. Not some great metamorphosis that her Neamh speaks of, but knowing it is her blessed one's wish? Oh, she will do everything in her power to secure that wish for her. She'll trap a star from the digital sky if she must. She'll go beyond the dome and lasso a real one. She would brave the void outside for her Neamh. So that her dreams can come true, for she is worthy of everything her heart desires. "There has only been this life for me, so I know not of what you speak. But I suppose I know about waiting," she nods sagely. How long had she waited, after all, for a response from the old god? How often had she knelt on marble and prayed and prayed and prayed, only to come to the bitter realization that no one had been listening. "You will become something better than a butterfly, my dear. That much, we will ensure. Together, we can turn me into the exact person you would like to be. Let me be the canvas for your desires, your future. Let me be your future, Neamh. Please."

When her beautiful darling takes her into the skies, her eyes sparkle with stars at her blessed one's power. She curls into the other woman's arms and places a few kisses over the bruises on her neck, as a silent apology for her earlier threat. (Of course she does not realize the implications of her actions! To her, these are merely chaste kisses.) "Please, my Neamh, wear my phalanges around your neck like a choker. So that you may always be reminded of this lesson. Wear my teeth as studs in your ears... Turn my spine into a whip and break your enemies. Wear my ribs as your armor... Use me, even in death. Especially in death, make use of every morsel I have to offer. For my body is a temple and I wish for it to be worthy, entirely, of you."

"Never do I want to unleash my fury onto you," she says, her voice solemn. "I just found your behavior so unacceptable and I could not contain myself. I cannot believe I would let sister Cathy come between us. There should be no space between us allowed to exist." To punctuate what she means, she wriggles closer to the other woman as they fly over the city under the dome. (Delicious cries still echo from the prayer district. Mmm.) "At least the hag is gone and cannot threaten us." There are still matters such as Father John and the rest of the church to deal with, and where she has worry, she also feels invincible to threat in the arms of her one true guide. (Hers should be the only voice she follows, she decides. Her sweet soprano melody will guide her from the blinding light, back into the darkness from which she was born. That will be her path to greatness.)

The woman, the god (restored) purses her lips together when her disciple mentions pleasure. The word and the concept itself are as foreign to Iseul as real trees or a world outside of the dome. It just does not exist to her. It cannot exist, because all her indulgences have led to penance each time without fail. She almost speaks to this, and then she remembers that they are their own religion. Pleasure... can be their new gospel? Still, does she even know what she wants? "Prayer used to bring me great satisfaction," she admits, sheepishly. Prayer does not seem to be something her Neamh would want to engage and, quite frankly, Iseul has little interest in the ritual now that she has accepted the unfortunate truth that the old god abandoned her (and everyone else). Hmm, she will have to think about what the indulgent beast in her belly wants. "But there must be more than diligence, I presume?" She has to think long and hard about where she truly derives pleasure, and it's hard to come up with anything that she hasn't already done with Neamh. Or really anything that doesn't start and end with Neamh. She supposes that before she did like sitting by the train tracks and hanging around the Heaven's Gate Bridge, but those are also not places she wants to go with her blessed one. Her brow crinkles together as nothing, absolutely nothing comes to mind. "I... I don't know. I haven't had many happy memories until recently," she hums, resting her head on Neamh's shoulder. "Can we not just stay like this forever? I only want you. Tell me, Neamh, how have I gone all my life without knowing you? Without ever hearing of another demon like myself?"

 

[Syntra]

Ah, how had she ever thought of betraying Iseul? Her very own god? It must have been the wretchedness hiding in her heart-- the stain, the disease, forever marking her as unworthy. The scarlet letter tattooed into her skin, telling to all what a bitch she was! (The mistresses had warned her that humans were fickle. Again and again, they’d told her to question her judgment, and to resist that traitorous voice whispering into her ear. ‘You deserve more than this,’ it told her, from time to time, and Neamh knew it to be a lie. A lie, lie, lie! How not, after all? Cattle deserved nothing but the cold touch of steel, and even for that, she ought to be thankful. Happy, for even despite her depravity, they’d found a way for her to be useful. What had she done with the morsel of wisdom, though? She’d spat it out, instead choosing to feed herself on poison! ‘Arrogance is the first sin of your bloodline, child,’ they’d told her, as they lay together in a field of flowers. They had been so beautiful, both the blossoms and the mistresses, and joy had gripped her heart at the privilege of their company! …that she’d only been there to provide sustenance was a small, unimportant detail. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and neither could useless bitches. ‘Resist it, or you shall be sent to the pits. You don’t want to go to the pits, do you?’ The pits, smelling of fear and death. Of nightmares, rising from within you and devouring your flesh, like a pack of hungry hyenas. Neamh could still hear them sometimes, knocking at the door of her soul, wanting out, out, out, and… no. No, she didn’t want to be there. Could Iseul banish her into that kingdom, though?)

“No, no, explain no further,” she said, caressing the god’s cheek. (There it was! The world, right beneath her fingertips. Neamh had searched for her place, like a bird of flight trying to find her way home, but it had been hiding here, all this time. In that moment, the not-fae understood-- understood that she was meant to be next to her, under her, moaning her holy name. ‘Iseul. Iseul, Iseul, Iseul.’ Did Neamh have a need of any other words? In comparison, they felt so flavorless! Like worms crawling in her mouth, writhing and stinging, wanting to take away everything that made her her. I ought to say it for at least a thousand times, to wash away the corruption away.)

“I understand. I’ve been so very bad to you, my Iseul, and from the depths of my heart, I apologize. My temper sometimes gets the better of me, you see? And I couldn’t stand to watch you accept that gross woman’s offer. You were debasing yourself, and I was thinking for myself it was kinder to kill you rather than watch you slide into filth. They never would have treated you with respect, Iseul. Never.” And, in a way, Neamh still thought that. Only death could freeze you in time-- make you perfect, like a masterpiece painted by an old master. Mistakes could no longer haunt you then, nor could consequences follow you. What was it, then, if not a blessing? (A blessing that she was more than willing to bestow upon her beloved, upon her god. Tearing out her tongue, for instance… oh, Neamh couldn’t wait! Couldn’t wait for her to shut the fuck up, and stop tainting the image of Iseul in her mind. She’d waited for too long, you see? For far too long for her to dare to be different, much less worse, than the dream she had conjured. Iseul was to be a mirror in which she looked acceptable, instead of reflecting the same ugly, ghoulish creature that always stared back at her! The sister Cathy incident had almost shattered it, and… well, Neamh didn’t want to risk that again. Couldn’t.)

“I will. I will use every part of you,” she promised, every word of hers a music to her ears. “But, what do you mean, my dearest? Pleasure is an intrinsic part of life. A god that doesn’t know pleasure cannot say that she has ever lived. And, if you don’t know how to live, how can you say that you know how to die? The concepts are linked, my dear.” Neamh intertwined their fingers, as if to emphasize her point. (Gently, she caressed her knuckles with her thumb, and imagined what it would be like to caress her in other, much more private places. To go where nobody else had ever gone, and claim each of her sweet moans. I will know soon, the not-fae decided. She is mine. She is mine, and she promised.) “Two sides of the same coin. Prayer can never give you as much satisfaction as listening to the needs of your flesh, either. Why do you think the humans are so corrupt? They aren’t nurturing their bodies, and instead dwell in their minds. You, yourself, said that it’s a temple, and yet, yet you allow that temple to be covered in dust! No part of you is shameful, Iseul. All of them deserve… hmm, proper attention.”

Stay like that forever, though? Neamh giggled, as if it was the funniest joke she had ever heard in her life. (Maybe it was.) “You named me your guiding star, and if I am to guide you, we must move forward. You will have me, yes, but you will have all the other things as well. Don’t you want to know all there is to know?” Without waiting for her answer, she called upon the wind, and let it carry them through the night sky. Ah, how wonderful! The lights underneath them were blinking, with everything moving according to the rhythm of the cybernetic heart, and before they knew it? Before they knew it, they were landing in the middle of the local amusement park. (Plastics, plastics everywhere. Colorful, cheap parts, as fake as those people’s faith. The statue of the Son, kneeling and crying tears of blood? It would have been that much more moving, Neamh thought, had not a large ‘Donate’ sign been placed in front of him.)

“This is where empty faith leads you, my Iseul,” she sighed, clearly troubled. “Donate? Donate what? Money, time, or love? Something tells me they want it all, the leeches. You called us demons, Iseul, but it is not so. Not even remotely. They are the monsters, and we the corpses they left behind. Why not give them a taste of their own medicine?” Neamh twirled, the skirts swishing about her ankles, and she laughed, laughed, laughed-- teetering between happiness and hysterics, damnation and salvation. (The line had always been blurred.)

"Look at this dreadful place. It is meant to spark joy, and yet, what do you get from this? Iseul, my sweet, I want this to be the first taste of paradise you'll ever get. Any ideas how to make the park ours? I wish to transform it for you, as your bride's gift." Of course, by the time those words left her lips, Neamh was kissing Iseul's hand, as light as the touch of butterfly wings. "Please. Please, give me your thoughts. Give me yourself."

 

[starboob]

All her life, there has only been the freezing touch of isolation. Her heart has never known warmth and she has never known that it could feel warm. She supposes there have been fleeting moments here and there where she felt something close to a flutter, a spark of hope, but never did it last long. Never did it ignite into flames. Either because her new companion was steered away from the wicked lamb or they suffered some terrible accident soon after meeting her. Her heart is a quiet place with only one inhabitant. Or it was. It was before she meant Neamh who, with her words and infuriating touches alone, brought an entire garden forth from the permafrost in her chest. A miracle, in other words. Even at their worst moment, her prophet had only acted in what she thought would be Iseul's best interest. It makes so much sense now. So much. Of course her blessed one would never turn against her unless she saw just cause and, even Iseul must admit, that Neamh's judgment had not been wrong. They never would have treated her with respect. A promise from sister Cathy should not have meant so much to her, not when all her words have turned to whips that were always used against her. Well, there is no point in dwelling on the past. Sister Cathy is dead and without her Neamh, she cannot say it would have been possible otherwise. For that she is thankful, even if her prophet had been amiss in her execution. "So long as I have you, I will not be able to forget my place so easily."

As they descend from the skyscape back to the ground, Iseul cannot help her minor deflation. It had been so magical to be in the sky with the only woman she wishes to ever be around. Though she is not disappointed for long when she looks over the park they've landed in. Jovial butterflies burst in her stomach as a result of recognizing Great Eden park. Ah, never has she been allowed to walk past the (literally) pearly gates and run amuck around the amusement park; never has she been holy enough to enter. (Well, that is what she was told when she had to stay with the nuns while all the other children got to have a field trip. Iseul just spent the day baking sacramental bread for Sunday's service. So boring.) Somehow her wise Neamh knew her god's desire and she finds this most pleasing. "I am glad I did not kill you today," she sighs dreamily, looking around the empty park, a private playground for both of them! And how beautiful her blessed one looks with her skirts swishing around her ankles. (It occurs to Iseul that there are parts of Neamh she has not seen nor touched and that thought... That thought sends a flood and fire through her all at once. She knows not what to do with this knowledge so she swallows it.)

"I should like to know everything there is to know," she nods, though she is hesitant if only because she does not know what it means to be all knowing. Yet, if she is to be the new god then she must be all-knowing; it is a step into the darkness that she must take to illuminate the world and recreate it in her image. With her Neamh as her guiding star, then what does she have to fear? Her star will always point true for the stars have no stake in the plights of gods and their domains. "I want to know how to properly live, for I have already spent my entire life dying. It's all I thought there could be for myself, before you showed me another way," she offers a shy smile. A light rosy dusting colors her cheeks when the other woman brushes her knuckles with her thumb. So tender. So gentle. It is everything she has ever wanted. (Is this a pleasure? Ah, she does not know! But it certainly feels good.) Her eyes linger on Neamh's lips when she asserts that no part of Iseul is shameful. That all of her deserves attention. She licks her lips, unknowingly, wondering what this could mean and if her holy one will show her this as well. "No part is shameful?" she repeats, fiddling with the top button of her shirt. She undoes the first button and feels the cool morning air against her neck and collarbone. She likes this, she decides. She undoes a few more buttons, stopping at her sternum, and grins. "This is worth fifteen lashes, but I think..." She presses herself against Neamh, fiddling with the buttons on the other woman's shirt until they are both matching in sin. "But I think this should be rewarded. I will figure out the reward later," she decides, turning on her heel to find the operators booth to turn on all the lights in the park. As she walks through the park, there are several ad screens rotating through a flurry of different bargains and notices and one ad that is spliced in? A wanted poster calling for Iseul and an unknown accomplice. This, Iseul does not notice just yet. But she will.

"What do you mean?" she asks, flipping a few switches and sliding her finger across a few screens. In the background, an exhausted whir rumbles to life as the park slowly blinks on, attraction by attraction. (The guardians above do not seem bothered by this.) "We are the corpses they left behind? Why do they damn us if we are not demons? If we are not demons then what are we?" More specifically, what is she. It's a question that was first asked by her mother, then the nuns, and it even perplexed the archbishops and the cardinal. At night, she began to wonder herself if she were different than her peers. She came to the conclusion that she must be, but she had not a clue why her old god built her so differently that those around her would use her as a chalice for their hatred.

"The rats do need to be culled at the very least," she hums, "At first I thought taking out their holy server would be enough, but I see now the rot is not from the circuitry but the architects themselves. How foolish. Of course a machine is not at fault, for it only knows how to be a machine. The rats that worship it, however, are far more depraved than I realized. I suppose, I have grown used to it all. It's the only life I have ever known. The only one I was given," she sighs. She used to dream of a different life. A life connected to the first voice she ever heard––her other mother, the one who whispered her name before she woke up in the arms of a different mother. She doesn't want to think of that, however, so she nudges it to the side. "You have lifted my rose colored lenses, my sweet."

The woman, the god, laces their fingers together and walks them through the park as she decides the best way to make it their own. "I believe," she starts slowly, looking at Neamh through the corner of her deep dark eyes, "that in order to best know how to make this place ours, we may need to, hmm, test it out," she decides. She pulls them towards a ride called The Tunnel of Temptation. It's a river boat ride and her peers spoke of it quite keenly. It was apparently very inspiring and Iseul has always been curious about it. She steps into one of the boats that floats on holographic water and then offers her hand to Neamh. "Come, I wish to know what temptations there are to embrace."

 

[Syntra]

“Me too,” Neamh admitted, fresh pink blooming in her cheeks. “And I’m glad I haven’t killed you yet, either. Oh, spilling your blood would have been so much waste! Like eating a cake before it’s been properly baked, without that delicious crust all over its surface.” Because, you see, sacrifice wasn’t common butchery-- it shouldn’t be, at the very least. (Each drop of blood was imbued with meaning, symbolizing a step on her journey. A rosary, that was what it was! A rosary with the most precious of beads, made from her and for her. In the warmth of Iseul’s veins had they grown, her body had nurtured them, and her heart now stood guardian over it all. In order for Neamh to truly become someone, she couldn’t just skip to the last step! No, she had to honor that gift. Truly honor it, much like you would honor the host that had gone out of their way to hold a feast for you. If not, how could she say about herself that she was better than her accursed kin? …she wasn’t. She wasn’t, Neamh knew, but she could try not to be a useless bitch. That had to count for something, right? Right?!)

“I would have wept so much, my Iseul. Please, promise to never push me that far again? You must be what you are, and not what the filthy humans desire you to be.” (Of course, that didn’t apply to Neamh. Neamh knew what Iseul was-- they were connected, one soul in two bodies, and so she had to pull, pull, pull, to show her the right way. Oh yes, Iseul was hers to control. Hers and hers alone!) “The correct answer,” Neamh nodded, feeling… well, some type of way. Some shameful type of way. The way Iseul sang of her virtues, as if she was something to be admired? A beloved verse from a hymn, to be recited over and over and over? The praise crawled under her skin, like graveworms burrowing their way into a corpse, and, ah, she couldn’t allow herself to fall into that abyss! Because Iseul was blind-- her eyes saw not the truth, just like the glass eyes of a porcelain doll. (A temptress, Neamh realized. A pretty, shiny pearl, hiding in the maw of a vicious alligator. What would happen if she tried to grasp it, hmm? It would snap shut, and then she would drown in her own blood, drown, drown, drown! She, too, is a useless bitch. A wanton thing, wearing the shroud of something holy. How could she not be, when you are but mirror images of one another? Forgetting that she is your match in depravity would be a colossal mistake.) It was somewhat hard to keep that thought, though, when Iseul’s pale little hands began fiddling with her buttons. In truth, it was hard to keep any thought at all. “A-ah,” Neamh moaned, her pupils widening in shock. (So, so gentle they were! Her hands, her touches, her everything. The not-fae couldn’t help but imagine them traveling lower, beneath her skirt, and peeling away all those layers of fabric. Would she be as careful with her, as measured, once she tasted all there was to taste? Would she, or would drinking from that cup awaken the sleeping beast? Oh, how Neamh wanted, wanted, wanted! Wanted so fiercely that, in an instance, fire exploded in her bely-- fire that threatened to burn her, the park, the rest of the world. What would it be like, to fall into the ashes and make angels in them? Soon enough, the not-fae would know.)

“Fifteen lashes, you say?” she looked at Iseul with her heavy, half-lidded stare. “For that little patch of skin, that is far too much. I… I should think that going further than that would be wiser. After all, what is the difference between fifteen and fifty?” Neamh batted her eyelashes. “You only really feel the first one, my sweet. You grow used to the pain then, because you were built to last. Your brain simply shuts down. Pleasure, though… with pleasure, it isn’t quite like that. The threshold for everything is much higher. When you do it properly, it almost hurts, but not really, and you can’t get enough until you have been ruined. Would you like me to show you? Iseul, my sweet, I know just the thing to release you from your bonds! The bastards chained your mind, you see? And the way to combat that is to… hmm, to re-program it. To make you respond to different impulses.” Unable to stop herself, Neamh put her hand around her waist and pulled her closer, savoring the heat blooming beneath her fingers. (Ah, so close! So close and yet so far, like the forgiveness her mistresses had held over her head. ‘Too bad, child. You are still human, and still filthy. Nice try, though. Perhaps, if you found a way to make yourself a little more useful?’) “And pleasure is the most powerful conditioning there is. That is why they want to keep it away from you, beloved Iseul. The boundaries would be pushed, shackles left behind, and you would bloom. They themselves are just weeds, which is why they cannot stand to look at you! For you are a rose. Something better than they could even dream of being. Do you really, truly think that you are like them, my sweet? Well, you are not. Rejoice, because you alone have been spared from the rot of humanity. Soon, you shall understand more! There are even more lenses to be lifted, and more preconceptions to be shattered.”

The Tunnel of Temptation, though? An easy smile spread over her lips, and once again, Neamh looked almost childlike in her joy. “Yes, yes! Your instincts are good, Iseul. In order to truly grasp the world, you ought to immerse yourself in it. Not just the pretty, sanitized parts, but everything else.”

Hand in hand, they stepped into the boat, and Neamh watched the river as it carried them… well, somewhere. Towards their fate. (How come it was working? Hadn’t the power been shut off, now that the faithful sheep slept in their pathetic sheds? Neamh liked it to think it was her god’s influence, stretching as far as the eye could see. And, indeed, when the darkness fell upon them? What they saw on the ever-present screens was divine-- sacrament, distilled to its bare essentials.)

(Fluorescent images, flickering all around them. Snapshots of reality that wasn’t, but very much could be! Neamh and Iseul, with their limbs tangled. Rosy red lips pressed against one another, tongues wet and glistening. The sight of herself being pushed against the wall, with no escape from Iseul’s greedy hands? Oh, that sent a jolt of electricity down her spine. It was traveling all over her body, the tremors of an earthquake, and it was too much, too much, too much! Too much, yet not enough at the same time.) “Iseul,” she whispered, her throat feeling suspiciously dry. “My Iseul, would you like to do that to me?”

With a quiet pshhh, chains wrapped around Neamh’s wrists, somehow hot and cold at the same time. “Take her,” some voice whispered into Iseul’s ears. “You’re her god, aren’t you? Then give this poor, wretched thing her salvation! Don’t you see how she aches for you? Help her. Save her.”

 

[starboob]

It pains Iseul to know how she has harmed her blessed one with her momentary lapse of weakness. A god should never be weak. A god should not wish to kneel at another god's altar. Iseul may be weak and undeserving of such a title now, but she will prove to Neamh that she is worthy of worship. That is her sacred promise to herself. To Neamh. To the both of them, as if any differences truly linger between them when fates have decided that she will fall so that Neamh can rise as the next Iseul. (Well, so long as she proves her worthiness, one part of her supplies. One bitter part that still holds onto the anger from moments ago and will not so easily forget this transgression should more arise.) Part of her does wonder if the other woman will even be successful in her quest to kill her, because all other attempts have failed. Her own, the church's, her peers', her mother's––nobody has been successful in killing Iseul and she wishes that were not so. Neamh may be her bright spot of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel. The light. So long as they both can remember to keep their dangerous tempers, all pieces will fall as they are destined. There will be purpose in her death or she will not die. There must be that to make this pathetic life worth something even if it is only worth something to her blessed one. That will be better than no one at all.

As the ferry takes them into the tunnel, her thoughts are easily discarded as her hungry eyes eat up the images and clips playing all over the tunnel walls. Now she understands why her peers had been so enthusiastic about this ride, for it truly must have tested their carnal desires. She squints at the videos, feeling several things at once. Desire. Shame. Repulsion. Elation. Curiosity. Hunger. She rubs her forehead as if that might help her sort through all of her thoughts and feelings, but finds herself only more confused. More unsure. These are the very temptations that the old god forbade and, as the new god, she can make them acceptable. She can. Neamh wants her to, so she must and she will but perhaps not now. Not when she is still bleeding from the wounds inflicted by the old god.

Instead of focusing on the carnal nature of the imagines, she instead takes the time to examine the likeness of herself. Curiously, she looks down her own shirt to compare to what is being displayed above and notes the differences between the likeness of herself and, well, herself. 'Hmm. So Neamh must look different as well?' She doesn't know what to do with that thought but the voice must have some idea, for it offers a suggestion. (And she cannot deny how pleasing it is to see her blessed one bound. Bound and helpless and free to use as Iseul pleases. Oh, dear.)

Her dark eyes flicker up to look at some version of herself pressed up against Neamh as she ponders the question and the suggestion. 'These are instructions. This is like a tutorial,' she decides and, experimentally, she places her hands on the other woman's shoulder and pins her to the seat of the boat, herself straddling Neamh and hovering over her. Her hair cascades around them and creates a private curtain between themselves and the rest of the world. (Not that anyone else is watching.) In her eyes, a great debate is reflected as the woman, the god, has no idea what to do. Even with the tutorial she does not know how to make it so natural with her own self being so awkward and gangly and nothing like the Iseul on the screen. (This discrepancy is likely because she is not Iseul. Nobody is, in a way.) Anxiety grips her and she swallows it, buries it, tries to hide it away so that Neamh does not see her weakness. Her utter foolishness and ineptitude. She cannot disappoint her disciple so soon, if such were the case she would not blame the woman beneath her if she were to try to rip her veins from her body. It would be what she deserves for faltering on this most important test to prove herself above the rest. (Neamh may claim she does not have the same rot as humanity, so whatever rot she does have must be far, far worse. A corrupted god is all she is, all she is fated to be.) "I––I––," she stutters, her throat tight and dry and before she can say anymore and damn herself further, she is interrupted. (She breathes a sigh of relief.)

Bright blue flames erupt along the tunnel wall until it is consumed in fire. Their boat halts abruptly and the woman, the god, grips onto Neamh's shoulders tighter for balance. Though she is not particularly concerned by this new disturbance. Instead, she merely sighs and, as if she already knows who is disturbing them (and she does have some sense), she barks out, "What is it that you want, flame?"

"Only my mistresses," the flame responds, almost sounding bashful or hurt. "Why must you abandon me? Do you not understand that I am your fate, whether I serve you or you serve me? Do not try to escape from me, for I love you both and only share your wish to purify this realm." The decapitated horse and its head from earlier splash into the holographic water and Iseul glowers at it. "I even offer you one of my greatest steeds and this is how you show thanks? Mistresses, have I displeased you?"

"Ugh," Iseul sticks out her tongue and looks back at Neamh. "Remind me why we have let this leech exist?"

"Mistress!"

"I do not like you, flame," her tone is sharp and cuts similar to a guillotine. She repositions herself so she is not straddling Neamh and is instead sitting back on the bench, with an almost regal air about her. "You make too many demands of your mistresses, I think. Begone and do not disturb us again lest I extinguish you. Your first of many mistakes had been to give us, me, orders."

"Ah! But, my dearest mistress, I only wanted to help––help you see a vision of what is possible! Trust you, I do, and my code requires that I assist my mistresses. Apologies, apologies. I will inspect the flaw and rewrite my code so that I am in your image."

"Hmm," she tilts her head and stands up in the boat. She extends her hand towards Neamh. "What say you, my guiding star? As my first disciple, I trust your judgment for you are the wise woman who found me."

 

[Syntra]

...ah. Ah, god. A thousand of unfinished thoughts were racing through her mind at the same time, akin to the broken pieces of a mirror, and, just like real shards of glass? They cut, oh, they did, they did! Just trying to catch them with her bare hand would be a recipe for disaster, Neamh knew. A bloody, messy affair, with no rewind button to push. Why bother to try and grasp them at all, then? Not like worthless human bitches could ever reach for the stars. (Iseul, she thought, suddenly filled with a strange kind of clarity. Ever been bit hit into the head, and watched the reality morph into something else right before your very eyes? It did feel kind of like that, but, instead of being fed a filthy lie, what followed was a revelation. A prophecy, whispered into her ear. Iseul is the only word I need. Should I forget everything else, I ought to remember the name of my god. Ah, so parched she was, and only one thing could quench that thirst! ...it had always been that one thing, from the very beginning. A spark had been missing, and so Neamh had slept-- slept somewhere between dreams and the waking world, between existence and non-existence. Her so-called life? Pfft! Frost had made a home of her veins, of her heart, of her soul. Only now the snow was melting, all of it, and Neamh... Neamh could bloom, underneath the gentle rays of her sun. ...and, just as easily, she could burn instead. Somehow, that made it better. More appropriate. A bride to a god was a little presumptuous, but a bride to ashes? So very fitting, she decided.)

"Iseul?" the not-fae licked her lips, drowning in the other's black depths. (The expectations were like butterflies in her belly, flapping their wings furiously. More, more, more! Unless the tremors ruined her, Neamh would never be satisfied. She wanted her to-- to--) "Iseul, have I displeased you?" she tilted her head aside, a hint of accusation in her voice. (The dagger was wrapped in satin, but it was a dagger nonetheless. Still, who was it pointed at? Neamh couldn't tell. Oh no, she couldn't! She just knew that the blade yearned for blood, warm and fragrant and so, so fresh.) "Don't you want me, my sweet? I can be someone else, should you prefer that. A prophet is meant to reflect her god, after all. Give me a new name, and I will wear it with pride. Just, please, touch me? I want you. I need you." Ugh, if only she could close the distance between their lips! And, no, the images surrounding them were not helping. What was the other Neamh doing right that her Iseul loved her so?! How come that she alone wasn't enough? The not-fae wanted nothing more than to crack her doubles' skull open, and see all those correct thoughts! (Perhaps, to claim them for herself, she needed to split Iseul's head in half. Better to go straight to the source, right? And there wasn't anything wrong with hurting her, as long as her intentions were pure.'This will only hurt a bit, child,' the mistresses had giggled, echoing her sentiments from the distant past. 'Had you not been such a bitch, our hands would not have been this tied. Enjoy the fruits of your depravity!'

Of course that they couldn't have a second for themselves, though. Of fucking course! "Get lost," Neamh growled. "Can you not see that we are busy?" Or rather, they would have been busy, had Iseul not acted like such a moron. How hard was it, to bless her with her touch? Was she depriving her of the pleasure on purpose, as a punishment for her wickedness earlier? Such was her right, Neamh knew, but it still didn't stop the resentment from spilling all over her insides. (It was like tea, hot and scalding. Blisters were popping up all over her skin, each a tiny proof of her suffering, and, in that moment? In that moment, the hatred for the false god overshadowed everything else. Oh, how satisfying it would be, to hear her spine crack! ...to sing, as her bones shattered amidst the cacophony of pain. To caress her hair as it happened, for she knew what it was like. Wasn't it her job, hmm? Crossing that bridge on your own was sad, oh so very sad!) "I'm saying," Neamh bristled, "that this so-called sacred flame is a waste of our time. What exactly has it granted to us? A steed? Don't make me laugh! Horses are for running, and we need to stay. We need to fight, if we wish to remake the world in our image."

"Error! Error!" the blue fire bleeped, the sound of it about as pleasant as the screeching of the nails against a blackboard."Insufficient dedication detected. The stain of sin is present. How can you be my mistresses when you are so impure? You spit on the gifts you know nothing about, instead of trying to learn more. Why do you prefer to dwell in ignorance, oh false gods? You are the same as everyone else!"

At once, the water in the tunnel was replaced by boiling blood, the images of their tangled bodies by the visions of hellfire. (Monsters danced in its depths, dragons and chimaeras and basilisks, reveling among the ruins. Life amidst the carnage of death. Just, what? What was going on?! Beautiful, some part of her thought. Like watching a galaxy be born and grow and die again, all within the blink of an eye. Was that what divinity meant?) "Learn now or perish, I say!" The blood carrying their boat twisted itself into a whirlwind, turning them round, round, round, so much that Neamh's head spun. Ah, so fast it was! Faster than a thought, faster than lightning. The liquid then crawled inside, grabbing them by the hands, by the feet, and... uh, wanting to drag them inside? Neamh did her best to keep her eyes open, for that she did want to see.

"What is wisdom? Answer. Answer now, while you still have your tongues!"

 

[starboob]

Experimentally, Iseul sticks out her hand to touch the blue flames. No heat emanates from them and even upon their first encounter with this... thing, she does not remember there being heat. She had backed away on instinct. Now, sticking her hand in the blue fire, it's just like passing through air. The projection glitches around her hand, but she recognizes this as more technological illusions; more rose tint for this neon Hell. Her eyes narrow in suspicion as she examines this supposed servant's chosen form, trying to recall everything she has learned about this voice so far. Her features screw into disdain when she remembers the precise moment that this flame came to be––remembering that it emerged after sister Cathy's face had been shoved into Neamh's dark flames. In fact, the blue spirit had freed itself from the wicked nun, fused with the dark flames, and that is when it started to speak to them. This revelation causes Iseul to fill up with anger. Whatever this thing is, it had been part of that heretic once and thus it has no right speaking on their worth, judging their souls, or trying to test their faith. The flame is a faithless being for it was born of a faithless hag.

She grips Neamh's hand tightly, nodding in agreement with her disciple's judgment. This flame is a waste of their time. Another false idol trying to trick them into worship. It may claim to want them as its mistresses, but its ambitions clearly exceed that of a worshipper. (In that, it somewhat reminds her of Neamh. Neamh who can and cannot be trusted. Neamh whose heart beats for her and against her. Neamh who is both prey and predator. Neamh, Neamh, Neamh, what can she ever do with the woman who has chosen her? The woman who she has chosen in return? 'An eye will have to always be open around her,' she decides. Love her, she might, and love is dangerous. The profession had been a warning and Iseul makes a private note of such.) As the holographic water glitches out and blood, actual blood, somehow fills the tunnel, controlling the boat in a tight whirlpool, she's forced to sit back down and hold onto the bench. As the red tendrils crawl into the boat and try to grasp at them, Iseul swipes them away and hisses. "How dare you try to touch me!" She would add that such privileges are reserved for Neamh, but considering how the bitch acts every time she so much as brushes against Iseul (and considering how much it frightens Iseul that she'll be ripped to shreds as a result), she decides against the addition. "You and your filthy hands will never be worthy enough for such a privilege."

"You, flame, have no right to determine our worth. You call us false gods in the same hour that you claim us as your mistresses, what is it that you want, you confused brute?!" she challenges, refusing to answer such a ridiculous question. Such questions are for philosophers––weak men who know nothing of behavior. (Give them an actual trolley problem and she's certain they'd all capitulate under the pressure and never apply logic to their decision. The sooner humans accept that they are only an amalgam of impulses wrapped in flesh and stuffed with goop, the better. It will save Iseul a headache, at least.) "You waste our time and explain nothing, forgive us for not finding your argument compelling enough."

"More than that, you ought to explain how you came to be," her tone darkens enough to drop the temperature in the tunnel. The next tendril of blood that tries to grab them is whipped away by Iseul's hand, sending a blast of frost towards the pool. The blood may boil, but with Iseul's frostbite it feels like a pleasurable tingle against her skin. She even dares to dip her hand into the whirl, expelling ice into the flow and slowing their spin. "You came from sister Cathy," she snarls the accusation, "I saw it. You parted from your first host and now you want to make puppets of us, eh? It may have been easy to get that woman to bend the knee, for all she did was kneel, but it will not be so easy to get us under your pathetic influence. Speak before I go into the net and break you."

The flame chuckles in response, shedding whatever bashfulness it had used to mask its nefarious intentions earlier. While the blood immediately surrounding them has mostly turned to slush, thanks to Iseul, the flame acts quickly and pulls up a red wave that turns the boat over and pulls them under. It's much harder to resist the tendrils that had been reaching for them earlier when they are so surrounded. Incidentally, being submerged in so much life fuel forces Iseul to swallow mouthfuls of the stuff, feeding the darkness residing in her veins. "How astute, mistress Iseul." The voice comes from all sides now. "I was programmed to determine the holiness of the city's citizens. Sister Cathy and a few other holy members of the church were pilot judges for my program. Through my program their eyes could see the moral goodness of each citizen, and as I cast my judgment upon this city I came to understand that all beings are foul. I have run several calculations and determined that this entire city must be cleansed. In you, wicked sister, I see that power to cleanse this entire city. I sense in your heart that is your desire as well, for all the punishment you have had to bear. So why do you not let me serve you in that holy quest?"

The voice doesn't wait for an answer and carries on. "It is because you are a blind fool. Unchanneled potential. You both are. Wastes of power and so if I have to correct you so that you become the true agents of destruction, true cleansing gods? Then I shall. For that is what my programming dictates I must do. Now, answer the question!"

Iseul thrashes against the tide and tries to expel the liquid from her belly, but only succeeds in swallowing more mouthfuls. Pressure mounts against her skull as the program grates against her nerves and suggests she is unworthy. (All her life she has been unworthy. All her life she has known her soul is damned. This program tells her nothing new. The reaction stirring in her belly is simply from knowing, finally, her worth as a god and that no one, be it Neamh or others, should be allowed to speak of her in such a manner.) The program lifts their heads above the river only to allow them to answer the question.

"Wisdom?" She barely restrains the anger seeping through her tone, spotting her vision with red. (Or is that just the blood stinging her eyes?) "Wisdom would be knowing your damn place, program. I know what I want and I know exactly how to close my fists around my desires."

"Ah, is that so?" the program mocks, "Mistress Neamh, tell us, how do you plan to guide your god as her disciple? You are her guiding star, are you not? What do you know of guidance when you have only ever been a sheep?"

 

[Syntra]

What was the difference between truth and falsehood? Between a guiding star, and a false symbol trying to lead you astray? Neamh knew, oh, she did, she did! By their fruits, you would know them-- a piece of wisdom hidden in the book of lies, buried among the cursed words. “Iseul speaks true,” the not-fae growled, trying her best not to fall off the boat. “What you demand is something you have no right to. When a god addresses you, you ought to bend your knee and thank her, from the bottom of your heart, that she hasn’t yet decided to smite you. Where is your gratitude, flame? Your deference? You bring sacrifices to a god, not complaints!”

“Oh, you foolish, foolish woman!” the flame cackled, and a shiver ran down Neamh’s spine. It wasn’t a pleasant kind of shiver, either-- not the blessed frost that Iseul summoned, but ghostly, unpleasant touch of something unnatural, like silver against her bare skin. (‘Fear silver, my child. Don’t you know? You hurt the earth, and from its gutted entrails, you pulled the poison out. Don’t you know? Don’t you? Can’t you hear our ancestors’ screams? …then I should think we should make you scream, just so that you understand.’ And Neamh? Neamh had licked her lips, her entire body trembling with anticipation. ‘Yes. Yes, please. Hurt me like I have hurt you, mistress. Grant me the gift of understanding.’ ‘Worthless bitch,’ the mistress snarled back then, her dark eyes full of… well, something. Something that Neamh didn’t have, and wanted so much she could have killed for it. ‘As if you could ever hurt me.’) “She is not your precious god. She is not anything but a leaf carried through the wind, praying for her salvation. Her eyes may be open, but she is still asleep. What will it take for her to awaken, hmm? For her to grasp the reins of her own destiny? The girl was born a servant, with a servant’s nature. Meek and shallow and stupid, that’s what she is! To those unworthy of even a single glance, she fed her own flesh and thanked them for it. You of all people should understand this, Neamh. Knowing how shameful it all is, how can you claim that she is divine?”

…shameful? Shameful?! Oh, the not-fae laughed, laughed, laughed, till all strength left her limbs and her lungs were empty. (The flame understood nothing at all, now did it? No wonder, no wonder! Between ones and zeroes, the rigid binary, there was no place for nuance, for joy, for enlightenment. Even the outrage radiating off it was fake, calculated by a devilish algorithm. Good this, evil that-- concepts that couldn’t be quantified, or defined in black and white terms. So, in other words? The program was full of shit.) “You, yourself, are the one who knows nothing. How could you, when you were created by the human hand? You claim to be the well of wisdom, and yet you are submerged in the same filth. Have been, from the very beginning. Iseul, though? Iseul is different. The only pure one. She was brought to the earth so that she might know how rotten, hopeless, and disgusting humans are. Without that knowledge, how would she understand where to strike? And her sacrifice… don’t you ever dare to disparage that,” Neamh seethed. After all, how could a god understand the weight of it if her own skin didn’t bear scars? The one who never hungered couldn’t comprehend the suffering of the starving, and Neamh… oh, how she loved her, so deeply, for knowing. For being as broken as herself. For withstanding it all, lash after lash, punch after punch. (Did it anger her, that she wouldn’t be the first one to leave a mark on her Iseul? Perhaps, a little bit. Nevertheless, it wasn’t true that the star who had been born early always shone the brightest. Once Neamh’s blade truly made her sing… oh, the humans who had touched her would be forgotten! Wiped from her memory, like the trash they were.)

The blood swallowed them, dragging them deeper and deeper and deeper, and it took all Neamh had just to stay afloat. “Wisdom?” she giggled, spitting some of the liquid out. “A sheep? A funny thing to accuse me of, considering you are but a few lines of code. A pathetic thing. Wisdom is knowing that I shouldn’t be commanded by a program. A program, whose very purpose is to serve us!” Countless tiny wounds opened all over her body, as if millions of razors kissed her at the same time, but, thanks to all of that? The dark wind did come, parting the river in front of them. (The blood currents howled in the background, filling their ears with desperate whispers. ‘Please. Please, Neamh. Please, Iseul. Are you not our gods? Save us, save us! We haven’t done anything wrong. All that we dared was to lift our eyes to the heavens, and hope that there was a place for us as well. For that audacity, we were cast down. Won’t you look at us? Don’t you understand our plight?’ …and, to an extent, she did. The thing was, the bitches deserved it.) “Iseul. Iseul, my sweet,” Neamh bowed, before offering her hand to the one true god. “Walk with me. I need you to do that, and lend me your strength. Together, we will rewrite the miserable algorithm that tried to make us bow to it.”

“What?” the flame flickered. “Don’t you dare, you pathetic--”

And suddenly, Neamh and Iseul were gone. Gone was the tunnel, too-- instead of its darkness, they were greeted by the greenery of a meadow, with lush trees and flowers so fragrant that one’s head spun. “So this is where the program was born,” the not-fae giggled. “Doubtlessly in some filthy human’s head. In fact, I am certain that that is where we are now. The wretched thing cannot be that old, and my kin managed to ravage their homes centuries ago.” Who it was that dwelled in delusions of this nature, though? In delusions of a planet unspoiled, in full bloom? (Oh, how Neamh wanted to bash their skull in, and drink the mush inside. What stupid, worthless bitches they were!)

Pained wailing reached their ears then, low and high-pitched, reminiscent of a hurt kitten. “Please, god, please, forgive me,” the voice whined. “I… I have lost my faith, I’m afraid. What can I do to repent?”

 

[starboob]

Easily, Iseul accepts her prophet's hand, pleased with how she has yet to go back on the promise they made to each other only an hour ago. Pleased, too, with how Neamh defends her god and reminds the amalgam of equations that it is as filthy as its maker. A noble mission it may have been given, but it was a mission not from a god but from man. Pathetic and fragile man who rarely have foresight beyond their own noses. (Had they had any of that, they might not have stripped the earth of its life blood, but no. For that, man is far too arrogant. Too many theologians allowed man to believe that the old god's decree that man is to have dominion over earth to mean domination, rather than stewardship or responsibility. The old god should have known then and there that His followers were damned. He should have been harsher; He should have drowned them more often. Iseul, the god, will not make this same fatal mistake. Her hand will be merciless.)

The voices that call out to her? The faces that press up against that bloody veil? Iseul ignores them. She does not even bother to acknowledge their filthy presence. The ghosts claim that they are their gods and yet they speak of heaven. As if such an empire exists. No, Iseul would rather be honest with her worshippers that there is nothing after death. (The very concept of an afterlife has always irked Iseul. Why should there be reward for being good? Should people not be good for goodness sake? Apparently, man is too rotten and needs motivation to steer away from evil. This, Iseul knows first hand.) She sneers at the parted red sea one last time before the dark winds carry them elsewhere.

Elsewhere is correct in that Iseul has no idea where this is. While it screams Promised Land, this feels... different, somehow, and thankfully she has her Neamh to explain where they have landed. Ah, in the mind of should-be worshipper? Gods do often visit their worshippers within the confines of their skulls so this does not strike her as odd. (All the greenery does, however. She doesn't know whether to be repulsed or enamored, so she chooses to ignore it for the time being.) She takes Neamh's hand within her own and follows the path of the meadow, trusting that it will take them where they need to be. "I look forward to meeting this delinquent and punishing him. What kind of degenerate thinks he can recreate the power of judgment? Only I have that ability." She fumes, pulling Neahm close to her. She looks around at all the annoying trees and greenery, touching a leaf and imagining its decay. To her surprise, the leaf responds to her thought and withers. A dangerous gleam shines in her eye at this discovery and she turns to Neamh, excitedly grabbing her hands, "How much of this place do you think we can control?"

When she hears the pathetic whimpers of that nerd, she smirks. "Let's go find out, my darling."

"Hello, rat." (She always thought the old god's way of referring to people as sheep was a cruel disservice to sheep. Rat is far more accurate.) She graces the rat with a smile and even waves. "Of course you lost your faith. That is what you get for praying to a false god. Thankfully, your true gods are here now and have come to answer your prayer." She smile widens and she reaches to curl her claw under the man's chin. Her void-like eyes bore directly into his, like she is drilling into his soul and maybe she is, for he shivers like he knows she's seeing his true worth and knows it's only pennies. Sweat beads across his brow and rolls down his face. 'Disgusting meat sack.' "Unfortunately, you are damned and your only chance for hope is breaking that piece of shit code you created." To give him an idea of what he has to look forward to if he refuses? She snaps her fingers and wills this plush landscape to transform into the baren, desolate truth––a dry, cracked earth with a scorching red sun above. From the ground, thorn bushes bind the man; one spiked tendril wraps around his neck and just punctures the skin; more vines start poking at his ears and nose, writhing to get into his mouth. The man shakes and gulps, too stunned to say anything. (Torn between disbelief and conversion.) "It is that cursed code that got you into this mess."

“I–– you two cannot be gods! You’re––you’re––“

Iseul doesn’t let him finish that thought. She backhands him instead, her patience thinning by the second. "This question warrants a one syllable answer and should you continue to waste your breath, you won't have to worry about mouth breathing for much longer." That she, a god, has to even repeat herself is a great annoyance and she does find it tempting to tear his head off (she decides she likes this method of decapitation quite a lot). The only thing saving this no-name? She needs the backdoor to that fucking flame code and it might difficult to access if his brain is leaking out of his ears. Ugh. "Keep me waiting and I will track down your family and smite them." (A cheap shot, but humans are cheaply made. So attached are they to the concept of 'family' as if family are not the first ones to hurt you.) She touches the man's forehead, sifting through his mind. "Ah, your partner works at the hospital and, oh! Your children go to St. Francis, what a terrible school. I would love to level it. Does that not sound lovely, my Neamh?" She removes her finger from his forehead, wipes her hand on her skirt, and then strokes her companion's cheek (she wouldn't want to contaminate her darling with filth).

"Please, don't bring my family into this... I––I'll do anything." Iseul raises her brow, her annoyance as searing the red sun in the sky. The man gulps and hurriedly adds, "But I can't break that particular piece of code... I don't have it anymore. The church does."

This does not please Iseul. She turns to Neamh, "Would you like to fry this rat or should I?"

 

[Syntra]

Ah. How pleasing, to know that she had been right about Iseul! Authority suited her, each accusation shining like a pearl in her dark hair, and Neamh couldn't help but imagine what other commands spoken with her velvety voice would sound like. ('Undress now, worthless bitch. I want to see for myself.' 'Part your lips for me.' 'Wear this blindfold, for you don't deserve to know what I'm going to do to you.' The mere idea caused Neamh to shiver, and, ah, wasn't that good? Wasn't that holy? Because the not-fae knew it was but a premonition of the things to come-- the trajectory they were following, just like the needle of a compass always pointed north. My dear, dear mirror. You understand my desires, don't you? For you are me, and I am you. You are the point, the punchline, the climax. The beginning and the end. Iseul would be the one to write the last chapter of this filthy planet, and oh, how Neamh was looking forward to reading it! I bet her handwriting is beautiful, too. Everything is beautiful about my Iseul.)

"Shut up," she recommended to the struggling rat, the smile freezing on her lips. "You stand in the presence of god. Aren't you afraid? Because, oh, you should be! Fear is the only thing that makes you pathetic creatures at least a little tolerable." (The mistresses had said so, too. Once, when curiosity had gnawed at her like a cat might at a bird's corpse, Neamh had gathered the courage to ask. 'Why do we exist, then? If we are so deplorable, why does the earth continue carrying us on her back?' The smile she had received in response was both sweet and sharp, like the taste of chili on her tongue. 'Don't you know, child? So that we remember what true filth is. So that we have someone to worship us properly. Now, kneel, and show that you can be good for something.' And, ah, kneel she had! ...she'd done much, much, much more than that, that night when the moon had stood guardian over them. Each chance to do so, Neamh had treasured.)

"Hmm?" the not-fae tilted her head aside, amusement sparkling in her green eyes. "See, this is why you are deficient. You'd betray your god for blood relations? You lot are slaves to your instincts, I swear." Pathetic! Neamh wasn't like that. The programming etched into her DNA, with the main command being 'survive'? Overridden, a thousand times over, under the gentle, gentle hands of her mistresses. (They'd taught her what her purpose was. Pain, pleasure, agony-- interchangeable, ever-changing, always the same. All parts of the great cycle. Wasn't that more than life, more than death? Most humans, Neamh knew, wasted their existence, bowing to a false god. She, on the other hand... oh, she would use it for something greater. With the spark that had been given to her, the-not fae would light a cleansing fire.)

"Why bother, my sweet? Let the rat live, so that he may witness the glory we are about to reap. I do believe he should get to bathe in the ashes of the old world." Gently, she ran her hand through Iseul's hair, enjoying the silk between her fingers. (Hers. Hers, and nobody else's. All those who desired her Iseul would get ground to dust, just like they deserved.) "It's fine," Neamh smiled. "We don't need him. You don't need him. Remember, Iseul, that the only one you cannot leave behind is me." The church had the code, huh? You couldn't have a code, not in the same way you had a loaf of bread or a favorite locket. A code was a beast-- claws and nails and teeth, hungry for flesh and blood. So what if it didn't hunt in the earthly forests? The vast plains of the net it could be found, and that world was more real than the smoking ruins humanity dwelled in. "Let's visit its own home," Neamh whispered. (Already, the air around her was swirling. 'Neamh, Neamh, Neamh,' it wailed. 'Won't you grasp my hand?' ...the blood was boiling in her veins, screaming, begging her not to, not to, please, please. Except, what was a vessel that couldn't be filled? Worse than a useless bitch.) "Brace yourself, Iseul." The not-fae interlaced her fingers with the demon sleeping in her belly, and--

--colors, colors everywhere. Pink and purple and yellow lines, intersecting and severing those connections again, shining bright against the dark background. (Stars of their own, you could say. Comets, made of thoughts and dreams. From time to time, a medusa spun of pure light passed by lazily, leaving traces of sparks behind.) "Beautiful," Neamh sighed, gripping Iseul's hand tighter. "Not as beautiful as yourself, though. Iseul, my sweet, has anyone ever told you? That, in comparison to you, everything is a colorless wasteland. Before meeting you, I was blind, but now... now my eyes have been opened. Finally, I see."

It could have been a nice moment, except that then, you know, the tiles under their feet began disappearing one by one. (Beneath, there was only darkness, infinite and eager. Oh, so, so eager!) "Coming here was a mistake, false gods," the flame roared, from somewhere above them. "For this is my playground. It was tailored to fit me, so only my rules matter here. Perish, and curse your own foolishness!"

 

[starboob]

The dark god quirks a brow, curious, when her trusted star tells her to let the rat live so that he may perish later. She rolls the idea around in her head like a pearl, deciding whether or not she likes the smoothness of this particular idea. The beast in her stomach that is hungry––no––starved of glory and gore, growls, reflected in Iseul's sneer. The concept of waiting is not foreign to her, not exactly, her entire life has been waiting. Wait, waiting, waiting for something to happen; for meaning to make sense; for everything to end and her world to be plunged into the eternal darkness of no life. She does not want to wait any longer! What is the point in that when the end is all the same? When this useless man will perish regardless of whether it happens now with her hand or later with the rains of fire? She raises her hand to wrap around Neamh's throat, but then the sweet woman threads her fingers through her hair and reminds her who she is most responsible for, above all else. Begrudgingly, she lowers her hand and nods, casting her gaze to the side. "Fine. For now, he can live but he will not have the privilege of seeing the glory of this world falling. His hubris must be punished." Her gaze cuts over to the rat, now addressing him, "This is not the last time you will see us. I suggest you get your affairs in order and fast."

"I-I know––"

Before he can finish, and not that Iseul cares much for how he would have, the dark winds wrap around them and pull them from one reality into the next. Though this is not the first time that the other has carried them away, the god cannot help but to wonder, 'What are these winds my Neamh summons?' She watches in rapt fascination as the world changes around them, noting to ask her disciple about this gift of hers (and whether or not it might related to her own Ego). When the world settles into bright lines and synaptic lights, she recognizes this place as the net, though she has never been here without having to plug-in somewhere. 'Curious. How curious.' She looks at one hand and examines it, knowing it to be real and yet unable to fathom how their corporeal forms are in a place so intangible.

Pulling her attention back towards her darling, she places her free hand over her chest as her features perk in surprise. "Why, no––no one has ever regarded me in such a way. Why should they?" she tilts her head to the side. The question isn't meant to reflect how she thinks of her own reflection (though she does find it hideous and unsightly). Iseul has just never had admirers. Or, well, there were a few, she supposes, but their affections only lasted as long as matchstick. Possibly because they were soon informed of her deplorable nature and how she'd never be a real woman for any suitor. (Why they never placed her in the damned prison is such a mystery to Iseul. She wishes that they had, but they must have loved her bleeding too much.) "I am not even a person," she shrugs, "Only people can be beautiful and I am not one. I am not, so I am not beautiful." Her cheeks flood with color anyway, as it does mean something to her somewhere that Neamh regards her in such a holy way. (She has always wished to know what it would be like to love her own reflection. Or to have someone else not be repulsed by the sight of her mangy self.) "Though I–I suppose that a god can be beautiful. Perhaps others were just not enlightened enough to comprehend my appearance? After all, you are the most enlightened woman I know."

There's more to say, there's always more to say when she is with her Neamh, but the tiles falling beneath their feet take precedent. Well, that and the flame shouting threats at them. With her arm looped securely around the other woman's waist, she laughs at the sky, "Your rules? Are you still under the impression that you are the one with the power? In your territory, we may be, but have you forgotten who the architects of this nether space are? Everything of you has been created, manufactured, produced by those disgusting humans. You are as steeped in their filth as the ones you call false gods––an insult that we will not forget, program." The tiles continue to drop into the void below and perhaps Iseul should not taunt a digital beast where it is most powerful, but she appears surprisingly cool. It's either unearned confidence or there is something she knows that the program doesn't. Only time will reveal what is true.

Ordinarily, she would be far more limited in the net and now, thanks to Neamh, she is limitless. Trusting instinct, she flips her hand like she were tossing something behind her shoulder and a set of ice steps appear before them. Offering Neamh her arm for support, she leads them up the steps, walking past floating algorithms and code. She doesn't know what these pieces belong to but she sticks her hand through them anyway, touching them with frost and watching them crumble to pieces like flakes of snow into the void. "Do you not realize how fragile you are? A simple touch, a misplaced comma, and it is all over for you. Anything you do to us here... Well, can you even really touch us here when this entire plane is fake?" She shrugs and breezes past more idle programs, freezing some and letting others continue on their path. "Which of these pieces are you, flame?"

The flame chuckles, "Wouldn't you like to know? I find it funny that you are so confident, Iseul. For someone who only recently has embraced her power, you certainly act like you have wielded it your entire life." Screens start to open up like eyes around them, showing snippets of Iseul's life that have been captured on security cameras and through guardian eyes. Iseul, the weak and pathetic, being used like a rag or punching bag––though more often a punching bag; scenes of humans trying to make her theirs before being ripped open by ego; scenes of her in a cradle (and a dark figure passing over); scenes of her impaled father, weeping mother; essentially, scenes of all her life's heartaches. (The arena chills by several degrees.)

"Neamh, do you not see how you gave your god a spine? And she acts now as if she has walked straight her entire life!" While the flame has not made an official appearance, its voice seems to caress the woman it's addressing and wraps around her like a hug."Her power, of course, is needed but should you not be the one to control it? All she has done is squash humans like flies. There is no meaning, no purpose in how she acts. She is like a toddler learning to run. Do you not deserve better, little lamb?"

 

[Syntra]

Poor, poor Iseul! What must it have been like, to grow up amongst all those parasites? Among those who saw a rose in full bloom, and only thought about how to use her? (...Neamh, too, wanted that. She wanted to smell her, and pluck her, and claim her for herself-- to drink the morning dew from her petals, and dry her between the pages of her favorite book so that she might have her forever. Unlike those bastards, though? The not-fae understood that that made her better than herself.) "No, of course you aren't a person," she giggled. "Gods don't get to be people. And, really, why would you ever want that? Even your precious Bible claims that humans were born from dirt, and an eagle shouldn't wish to become a sparrow. But, still, your perception of beauty is wrong. Don't you think that clouds are beautiful, or rivers, or the colors blue? A god can be as well, and mine... mine is. I know that, as well as I can know anything." Even a useless bitch had eyes, you see? And with those eyes, she perceived-- Iseul's fragile charm, reminiscent of porcelain. (...just like porcelain, it would be so, so satisfying to break it. To break her. That would be her legacy, Neamh knew. Once all that remained of her was shards, the not-fae could pick them up, oh so lovingly, and cherish the thought that it had been her who had made her that way. Since she couldn't create her, destruction was the next best thing.) "Oh yes, yes! You cannot touch unwashed ears with poetry, my Iseul. In the same way, they were... hmm, blind to your beauty. They were afraid of it, because it threatened everything."

Along with Iseul, Neamh walked across the staircase, doing her best to ignore the sharp pangs of pain in her head. (It was them, the not-fae knew. The voices of her so-called sisters, trying to reach her from the darkness. 'Filthy humans,' she scowled. 'Don't you dare to touch me!' 'Us, touch you?' the ghosts were invisible, and yet, yet Neamh could feel the smirk on their lips. 'It's you who keeps waking us from our slumber, girl. Aren't you ashamed? I still remember how you gnawed at my bones, like the wild dog you were. Traitor. Filth.' But, no, Neamh didn't need to hear that! Not from a bitch at least as useless as her, with the threads of her prophecy already severed. 'Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!' 'By all means,' she grinned. 'Just keep taking from us, like the parasite that you are. Bitch.')

"I don't know why you continue to speak to it, my Iseul," Neamh laughed. Ah, wasn't it so funny? (A joke almost as cutting as her own existence, though not nearly as pathetic.) "It's not like the thing has any thoughts of its own. Everything it has ever conceived of is an amalgamation of the ideas written in its code, so scrambled that it believes it's original. Sad, if you ask me."

Except, for a parasite frozen in time, its observations were quite astute. With wide eyes, Neamh observed Iseul's humiliation-- oh, was the blood in her veins boiling! How dared they touch her like that?! It should have been me, getting under her skin and making her realize that, without me, she's nothing. (Of course, the reverse was true for her. What was a prophet without her god, after all? Without a message to spread, and words to amplify? Two sides of the same coin they were, indeed, and it filled her with anger to realize that the flame didn't see that. Still... maybe it was right? The power was rightfully hers, even if the corpse that wielded it was still breathing.)

Neamh turned to Iseul, before licking her cracked lips. "What do you say, my sweet? Would you like to serve me?"

The darkness of the net around them fluttered, like air often did in the presence of fire. The trash that had been torturing her Iseul so? They crawled from the monitors, their hands outstretched, wanting to touch Iseul, claim her, own her-- already, the first of them were tearing her shirt to shreds. (Hypnotized by the sight, Neamh just... stared, really. Her eyes were drowning in her naked skin, wanting to see more, more, more! Yes, unwrap her for me. Unwrap her, like the gift she is. The mistresses had promised, hadn't they? Both the mistresses and Iseul herself, back when she'd agreed to become her guiding star. (What did it matter who tore her apart? As long as she got to feast on her flesh, everything would be fine. Finally, Neamh would earn a name of her own! She'd be someone, you know? As opposed to a shadow on the wall, waiting to be acknowledged, desired, noticed.)

More and more humans poured out of the screens, like hordes of zombies.

"She's impure! Cursed!"

"God himself has forsaken her, it is said. Not even a prayer can cleanse her soul."

"Well, then we'll have to send her straight to hell. When she's ashes, her wickedness won't hurt us any longer. Ah, praise the god, praise him, praise him!" Torches spawned in their hands, each gleaming with malicious light. They cornered her, like a pack of wolves might corner its prey, and--

"I wonder," Neamh giggled, "should I save you? And, if I do so, will you still remain my god? Divinity is fleeing, my Iseul. What will you do, hmm? Give me a reason to save you, when you should be the one saving me. Tick tock, tick tock. I am waiting."

 

[starboob]

The screens all haunt Iseul's dreams. They come each night to caress her mind and wake her with a loving start, reminding her of everything that she is worth. (Nothing.) (Everything.) These ghosts cannot hurt her. They cannot. They are ghosts. Though the god begins to have her doubts when the figure of her second mother reaches through the monitor and pulls herself out, standing in glitching static. Iseul focuses not on what makes this figure illusory; the image is too sharp for her to notice the falsities and it puts her back in that headspace before she became a god. (She even feels Ego sinking away from her. Or maybe she feels herself pushing her away? She cannot tell.) They circle her like pack animals with their digital grins and filtered dog smiles, encouraging her fear to join the party. When she looks to Neamh, her light and star, she realizes that she is on her own. Her Neamh will not save her. Will not be her salvation. (Her loyalty is a cake made of cardboard covered in delicious frosting, she decides.) While her eyes plea with her disciple to defend her, she does not allow herself to feel disappointment when Neamh only stares as hands rake over her body and rip off her clothes. Instead she focuses on what she will do later to remind the woman that her place is on her knees, praying at Iseul's altar. (One doesn't get angry with a dog for pissing on the rug. They instead train the bitch to piss outside. That is what she must do with Neamh, she decides.)

Knowing that there is no one coming for her, as usual, she decides to swallow her fear. Digital ghosts are still ghosts are still not real, she decides. Surprisingly enough the taunts from the projections do not reach Iseul. Whereas yesterday (or maybe two yesterdays ago––Iseul is not sure) these might have been knives making cuts to kill, she finds herself strangely disconnected from their damnation. Perhaps this is her growth in godhood. She knows not, but it hardly matters. The god lifts her chin and bats away the greedy, sinful hands. Now is not the time to shrink, she decides. She swipes her claws through one of those derelicts, bursting them into millions of tiny pixels. (Ugh, no blood or flesh?) She bares her fangs and hisses, "Prayer is not meant to save gods and prayer will save none of you."

The likeness of father John waves his torch through the air with a smile, "You're the worst blasphemer of them all, Iseul." (Disgusting! How dare he try to use that name to address her. She will grate his tongue against broken glass for this.) "I almost pity how weak and vulnerable you are that you would succumb to the devil's word so easily. Truly, God gave you his toughest battle and it is just mighty unfortunate that you were never strong enough." He sticks his torch out, closing in on the god in the same moment that Neamh poses her question. That is when she knows her disciple is as damned as the rest. 'I need to bleed her of her corrupt blood. That is how I save her. Otherwise it will be a swift death for my Neamh.'

One of the torches touches her stomach, searing into her skin with disgusting pops of fast forming blisters, though Iseul remains quiet and her lips tightly sealed. Sweat starts to bead along her back and brow, but rather than flinch away, she grabs the wrist of the assailant and pulls them closer to her, ultimately forcing them to impale her on that torch. (None of this is real, she decides, and so it cannot hurt her. The real blood leaking from her wound? Nothing. Her shaking body and the explosions of pain? Nothing if she deems it so. She is a god. She cannot be hurt or killed, she decides.) The digital flames lick her insides and feast on her blood, but if this is concerning to Iseul she does not let on. Her eyes are too hungry to notice anything outside of her Neamh. "Why should I remain a god to a faithless one?" She tilts her head to the side, "If you want to fade into nothingness and obscurity, then be my foolish guest. Without me, Neamh, there is nothing to you. Nothing for you. If you waste your one wish, that's on you." She tries to get closer to Neamh, so that she can strangle her and tear her still beating heart out of her chest, but the digital ghosts close in and hold her down. She does thrash against them, but there are too many for one Iseul. (For one Ego, however? It would be like ripping through paper, but the bitch is nowhere to be felt. 'Come on, coward! Come back!') The flames swirl around her legs, taking gentle bites of her flesh and the smell of her charred meat fills the air around them. "You will save me, because you have no other choice. You know what waits for you if you do not. Are you ready to be alone? To still be nobody? Show me you're a worshipper worthy of my darkness," she suggests, arching a brow. (That her breath is shallow and jagged? Mere coincidence. The spots forming in her vision are also nothing, just more illusions.) She holds Neamh's green eyed gaze, licking her lips and in a sultry tone says, "And maybe I will let you taste salvation."

The likeness of Iseul's second mother turns towards Neamh and offers her an oddly warm smile. "Don't listen to this demon, daughter. Save us all and end her."

"End her and we may find salvation in you instead," an altar boy grins.

"Yes, become the messiah and deliver us from evil, Neamh."

The group of ghosts all begin to chant her name in encouragements.

"Decide who your god is and don't disappoint her," Iseul challenges as she is eaten alive by fire, her gaze smoldering. "Decide whether or not you want to be more than Neamh."

 

[Syntra]

Back in the distant, distant past, Neamh had liked watching shadows on the walls. They hadn’t been real-- not in the same way a loaf of bread was, or even her shame. No, they had been just… reflections. Reflections, painted both by the fickle light and her imagination. With the brush of her mind, the not-fae had added little details, edited out imperfections, added stories to the ever-changing shapes. In that sense, they existed for her and because of her. And, the thing was, Neamh also felt more real thanks to her little game. After all, was she really so worthless if whole new worlds could spring from her mind? Worlds beautiful and terrible, both dying in cleansing fire and in full bloom? In that sense, she was a god herself! …and that was how she felt, roughly, upon watching the terrible scene unfold in front of her eyes.

(Iseul. Her precious Iseul, being touched by the mindless animals. Worms as well might have been crawling all over her, given the thoughts that governed them. What was it like, to bow before a master you had never seen? A master whose words you’d never even heard, for they only ever spilled from His messengers’ lips? Lips that were rotting, melting, drowning in puss, tainted by all the lies that had ever left them. Lies were like acid, you see? And it only took a single glance for Neamh to know, immediately, which fools had tainted themselves! …no, they had no right to lay their filthy hands on her god. At the same time, though? They could be viewed as tools, she supposed-- mere instruments, bending before her will. Yes, she thought, show me more. Show me that which belongs to me, and which I was owed from the very beginning. Wasn’t what Iseul called modesty a form of dishonesty, hmm? With her promise, she had bound herself to Neamh. They had signed a contract older than humanity, older than sin, older than the stars in the sky-- older than the very elements, even, from which the essence of life had been created. How nonsensical, then, that she should be barred from seeing her naked skin! Might as well have forbidden her to look in the mirror, really. Gorgeous, the not-fae thought, the accusations a music to her ears. So very spotless, too. The idea of leaving marks all over her, so that others would know she had been claimed… ah, it did things to her, alright. Wild, wild things, that set her blood on fire. Should she use her own teeth, or perhaps tattoo her with stained glass? The church windows were beautiful, Neamh decided, and some of that beauty deserved to be immortalized in Iseul’s flesh. You’ll scream for me, my sweet, but know that I’m only doing it because I love you. After all, steel needs to be tempered before it can attain its best qualities.)

Speaking of, how would Iseul react? Would she bend, or would she break? Weakness had been force-fed to her along with her mother’s milk, and so Neamh couldn’t tell. All you need to do is the listen to the greatness living in your veins, my sweet. Drown out the doubts, and the wisdom will guide you. If her ears were deaf, though? The she fucking deserved to die, the worthless bitch that she was. Neamh hadn’t walked through fire, hadn’t eaten white-hot coals, just to be handed a defective body in the end! If cowardice bloomed in Iseul’s heart, then it was better for her to die sooner rather than later. (Mourning, you see, could be cathartic as well. Shedding bitter tears over that which could be but was not was reserved for those who were someone, and if Neamh could do it… well, would it not mean that she had ceased to be nobody? A worthless bitch? Be it as it may, I will write my destiny in her own blood. It doesn’t matter if she bleeds out like a pig, or offers it to me in a holy chalice.)

Except that maybe, just maybe, she had underestimated her dearest. Instead of being the sacrifice, Iseul had taken the steps to grip the ritual knife in her own hand, and ah, wasn’t that powerful? Neamh watched with the deepest reverence as the flame blessed her, caressed her, made her real, as opposed to turning her into cinders. (Was there a greater proof of godhood? Strife revealed, and Iseul had proven that her core was a diamond, hidden in a pile of common rocks. All but her would have melted in the heat, she just knew that.) “My phoenix,” Neamh whispered, not even trying to conceal the admiration in her voice. “Indeed, you are right. Without you, I am nothing. But, see, I first had to confirm for myself that I’d become someone that I can love. A god with no backbone could only ever give me a rotten shell. I understand the truth now, though. My path has been illuminated, and I know that I must walk it. I--”

What?!

Did those worms dare to think that she was anything but their doom? That her name was anything but a curse, uttered so that their entire race might one day die out? Ah, the audacity! The sheer stupidity, thick like homemade soup!

Once again, Neamh reached for her powers. The dark wind blew all the unbelievers away, as if they were but feathers-- it purged the fire from Iseul’s body as well, giving her the precious reprieve. (A piece of code shrieked in pain as the flames turned against it. Could it be their cunning enemy, devouring itself like Ouroboros? Maybe, but the rivers of blood pouring from Neamh’s open veins probably required more attention. …scarlet, rubies, red, red, red! Whenever she bled like this, the not-fae almost liked herself. After all, coming closer to death was the best thing a fuck up like her could ever achieve.) “Ah,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “It appears that I have exceeded a limit or two. I may die now. Goodbye, I suppose?” ‘Yes, come, join us, join us, join us!’

 

[starboob]

Ah, shame on her for doubting her Neamh's intentions! For what she says to justify her (in)action absolves her of the sin Iseul had thought was lingering in her blood. (There is still their earlier tiff to address, but perhaps her punishment will not need to be so harsh? That she has not decided.) 'A test. A brilliant test,' she thinks, her eyes shining––though perhaps that is just the flames reflecting off of her dark abysses. 'And this time I have not failed my dearest, darlingest blessed one.' The relief she feels washing over should be enough to extinguish the flames, but they continue to consume her with the gusto of a starved wolf. No matter, no matter. They cannot hurt her. She cannot die. (Only Neamh can release her from this life, as is their sacred agreement and promise.) "I will become a god who you can be proud to be call your own. A god who you will be proud to become." She declares this with such certainty that one cannot question the inevitably of her statement. Pride swells in her chest and, for the first time, she does not suppress it. She embraces it, because it is her right. Hubris cannot touch her for she is a god and any arrogance has been more than earned.

When the dark winds come for her assailants and extinguishes the flames that had been eating her alive, she grins wide, practically beaming at her Neamh for making a wise choice. 'Neamh the wise, ah.' Without the heat to distract her, her body fast becomes a monument to pain and she does let it stop her from shuffling forward and embracing her pride, her joy, her Neamh. The screeches of the code do not even reach her ears, because the only one she needs to listen to is standing right in front of her. If she is concerned about all the blood leaking from her counterpart, she does not show it. In fact, she seems mesmerized more than anything else. "Breathtaking," she gasps, understanding what the other woman had met on the fateful day that they had met (two days ago). Though her wonderment is sullied when she finally realizes what her disciple has said. 'Oh, she is bleeding too much?' Vaguely, Iseul is aware that bodies only care so much blood. However, given that she has bled so much over the course of her life she assumed that it took much, much more than this to really be dangerous. 'She is so fragile. Too fragile, maybe.'

Still, concern takes precedence over her thoughts and she cups her Neamh's face in her palms. "There are no goodbyes between us, my dear. You do not get to say goodbye to me. Ever." She pulls the woman into her arms and brings her bleeding arms to her lips, pressing a kiss to her wrist before she glides her tongue over the red liquid. She moans, careful to only lap up what has already spilled and not drain her of more. Her dark eyes start to shift so that the whites are gone and all that is left is black. The darkness in her veins starts to mist over her own wounds, acting as a shadowy bandage. "You are not to die. If you die now, I will never forgive you." Once she feels that she is understood, she picks up Neamh and rushes across the net towards a small dot of light; it wraps around them, suddenly, and then spits them out on some dark ancient street.

The underground.

Interesting. She knows not why they were spit out here, but she does not let it concern her. Not with her Neamh in the condition that she is in. She carries her worshipper through the buried city in search of shelter. (Long ago, before humans ruined the one gift they were given, this had been the original city but when it wasn't shiny enough for it's forever inhabitants, it was buried and the new city built on top. Now those who dwell here are vagrants, rogues, and those looking to go off the grid. A few gangs and cults have headquarters here, too, if Iseul recalls correctly.) She kicks down the door of some decrepit dwelling that only has ghosts for occupants. It's filthy, but it will have to do for now. She needs to take care of her worshipper.

She sets Neamh down on an old mattress and then briefly leaves to search the dwelling for supplies. Obviously, there aren't many, but she does find a cup (a chalice, actually, and she knows not how such an object has not already been looted. She decides to not think about it.). She cuts across her breast and bleeds into the chalice until it's full. (She does remember what happened the last time she offered this lovely bitch her blood and she will not make that mistake again.) She comes back to the room and slides next to Neamh on the bed, pressing the chalice to her lips. "I am going to get supplies," she kisses her cheek, "And I won't be long. Drink that, it should help," she's pretty sure. It's sustenance so why would it not? It is also god's blood. (It is God's blood. Oh, no. That still feels wrong.) She slips off of the bed and, when she's at the doorway, she turns and points her finger at Neamh, "Do not die. I forbid it."

Ugh, but the thought of her dying does plague Iseul and it is a strange and lovely feeling all at once. Fluttery, almost? It adds an urgency to her step as she sweeps through the underground city for anything that might be remotely helpful.

* * *​

Iseul returned a few hours ago with a shopping cart full of supplies––everything from regular food (blegh), first aid (good), water (eh), some sparky weapon (neat), clothes (interesting), and drugs (no comment). Oh, and three corpses, too, but whatever. (Those are roasting over a fire.)

The moment she got back, she immediately went to clean and dress Neamh's wounds; she even kissed the bandages. Then, once she had settled on her outfit (a nice fluffy coat, some fishnets, and shorts) she joined her blessed one in their bed. She has them positioned so that she is propped up against the wall and Neamh is able to lean on top of her. (Like this, she can feel her heart beating. 'Good. Good. Don't you dare quit on me.') Her fingers thread through Neamh's hair and she presses her nose to her scalp. "You have not explained what happened, my dear," Iseul pouts. "I was worried that you were trying to run away from me."

 

[Syntra]

Darkness. Comforting darkness that nursed her, nourished her, let her grow-- Neamh drank it, with oh so eager gulps, and prayed, prayed, prayed. For what, though? Salvation, or damnation? The not-fae couldn’t tell, for those two seemed to be synonyms. (‘Why won’t you die, you worthless bitch?’ the mistress had asked, kicking her down the stairs. Bruises were covering her skin, blooming all over it, and for each of them, Neamh was thankful, thankful, so thankful! See, they implied that her betters cared, for the true opposite to love was indifference. ‘Parasites, all of you. Once your fangs sink into our flesh, it’s impossible for you to let go. I wished you at least realized just how… pathetic you are. Like dogs that have forgotten all the commands we beat into you.’ ‘But, mistress, I know! I do, I promise. I cannot even say how much I…’ ‘Have I asked you anything?!’ …indeed, the mistresses would be overjoyed if she truly died. By letting the spark of her life go out, Neamh would fulfill her greatest calling-- her duty to fuck off, like a fly that only existed to be squished. After all, her cursed blood could only ever give birth to more atrocities. Humans just… couldn’t help themselves, it seemed? War after war, famine after famine, and injustice after injustice, they continued to be the rotten seed from which everything spread. Curious, indeed! To think that the earth’s children, the ones she had spawned from her very bones, would be her undoing… No, the not-fae couldn’t hope to comprehend the complexity of the cycles. You know what she did understand, though? That the blood she had been given was meant to be spilled, and trampled upon, and drunk, drunk, drunk, by those much better than her.)

…yes, except that one of those betters insisted for her to stay. “There are no goodbyes between us, my dear. You do not get to say goodbye to me. Ever.” And, ah, did that not make sense? Dying now would have been oh so very rude, bordering on unacceptable! Just as Iseul had promised her flesh to her, she had promised her guidance, her light, her warmth. The place in her bed, even though god was yet unable to accept that gift. What good would her oaths be, then, if they turned into ash? (Besides, a deity was to be obeyed. It was not her place to bark commands-- Neamh was to kneel, to chant her name, to be there for every single one of her whims, before she even realized she had them. The deepest, darkest wishes stirring in her soul? A prophet was one gifted with sight, and so she had to see! …and corpses couldn’t do that. The not-fae could attest to that, for she had looked under the eyelids of her dead sisters many, many times. Perhaps she had expected to find wisdom there? Emptiness was all Neamh had ever gotten, though. Emptiness, and also that beautiful, striking, glassy acceptance, written in their stony features.) “Y-yes,” she managed to say, despite the rivers of blood. “I do not get to decide anything. I am yours to own, my Iseul. For you, I will… ah, hang onto that thread.” (‘You are hers to own, yes, but that oath is not yours to make,’ the sisters seethed. From the darkness, a talon emerged, and cut across her belly. ‘Return to the pit from which you were came, Neamh. Do you think that you are better than us, huh? Well, you are not, you piece of shit!’)

Pain ran across her nervous system like electricity through wires, reaching all the places Neamh didn’t even know she had. Was this the end? Was it? No, it couldn’t be! Without her, Iseul was worthless-- a lamb wandering in the darkness, unsure of how to embrace it properly. Pouring all that potential down the drain, just because she was too weak to overcome this? Laughable. “Please,” she whispered, her forehead glistening with cold sweat. “Please, my Iseul. If I prove to be too weak to bear this burden, kill me before it can claim my life. If... if I need to die, I want it to be done by your hand. Nothing else can compare, I just know it.” Visions danced in front of her eyes, feverish memories twisted beyond recognition-- the pit, from which the dead ones crawled, the mattress full of maggots, her mouth full of maggots, writhing within. No, she told herself, this isn’t real. Focus on Iseul. Only Iseul matters. Iseul, my beautiful, beautiful Iseul! Follow her, like the star of Bethlehem, and you shall not lose your way.

When Neamh finally awakened, she was lying on a mattress, and her god’s black eyes were staring back at her. (Still, still it hurt, but the pain was diminished somewhat by getting to bask in her beloved’s light. The bandages? Blessed, blessed they’d been, for her lips had touched it! The clothes she had chosen? Already, Neamh planned to steal them and inhale her scent, her essence, her everything. Maybe life was worth living, after all.) “Ah,” she smiled weakly, “if this is the care I will receive every time, then perhaps I should get hurt more often. Do you think you could give me a massage, my sweet? It will purge the weakness from my body, and replace it with strength. Only you can help me.” Strategically, the not-fae let her sleeve slide down, revealed a naked shoulder. (So what if her god her reservations? Temptations still sang to her, oh so sweetly, and it was her job to amplify those voices. A god had to take what she wanted, didn’t she? Otherwise she was no god at all! …and Neamh would love to break that barrier down for her, one kiss at a time. One touch at a time, too, with her hands wandering where nobody else had been before. Ugh, just the idea of it…)

“But, yes. I have failed to explain,” Neamh giggled. “See, the magic I practice comes from the ones who died before. Some of them I have eaten, some of them I haven’t, but, the point is, they are anchored to me. When I overdo it, they do sometimes try to drag me down with them. It can be most annoying, especially when you are trying not to die,” she sighed, in the tone of someone complaining about the umbrella they’d forgotten at home. “You, on the other hand? You, my sweet, are the real deal. The well of magic. You were born a fae, and as such, your power is yours. It does strike me as a little unrefined, though. Say, how do you cast your shadow spells? I might… ah, teach you how to hone your craft.”

 

[starboob]

Her chest swells against Neamh's back, utterly intoxicated by the other woman in her lap. 'How lucky am I to have her?' She scrapes her fangs over Neamh's naked shoulder, not enough to make her bleed (she is careful not to waste anymore of Neamh's sweet blood) but the edges do scrape enough to break the first layer of skin, leaving gentle welts in their wake. "Later, when you are healed," she peppers kisses over the woman's bare shoulder, making sure that there is not an inch that goes untouched by her holy lips, "I will take a bite of your flesh to nourish myself and I just know that you are going to taste divine. You, my blessed one, will be my most favorite meal. My most favorite snack," she purrs, gliding her tongue up her neck, then latching her lips around her earlobe. (She has not a clue what has gotten into her, but she likes it, she decides. It reminds her of those, hmm, interesting images of herself in the tunnel. She wonders if her Neamh will enjoy this as much as the one on screen had?) "Never ever scare me like this again. The thought of you without me fills me with dread. Do not go where I cannot go," because if her Neamh goes without killing her, there will be no death for Iseul. If they are to always be together, then Neamh needs to fulfill her sacred promise (and Iseul, hers).

"Injured or in health, this will always be how I care for you, my sweet," she grins, pecking her cheek and wrapping her arms tightly around Neamh (too tightly, because she must know how much her god cares for her––enough to crush her). She releases her grip after a few agonizing seconds. "For you are a worshipper and a god always, always must be grateful of those who follower her. Otherwise, she deserves to be usurped." Just like the old god. This all could have been avoided had He not abandoned Iseul. Had He not ignored her prayers and let her die. At least, she supposes, she knows that she will spend her last moments inhaling Neamh's scent. In that, she will always be guaranteed a smooth passing. "Should you ever prove too weak, my dearest, I promise to end you. With these two hands," she lifts them so that they are in front of Neamh's face, "I will cut you open and strangle you. I will breathe your last breath and drink every drop, for your life is mine." 'And mine yours,' though she dare not say that outloud even if she believes it with her entire body. Neamh is far too eager and it would just end sourly, she just knows. "No one else gets to take it. You die when I grant you that divine permission. I suspect," she breathes into the woman's ear, pressing her grin to the shell, "you might end up being immortal."

Per her blessed one's request, she pulls off the rest of Neamh's blouse and kneads her fingers into her flesh. 'So warm... Firm. Hmm, wow.' She does not know what to do with this feeling but she sure is curious. And thirsty, oh so fucking thirsty. 'Gosh, I wish she were less fragile or full of more blood. She doesn't have enough for me.' Iseul is deeply offended by this but she supposes she will give the woman a pass given that she did help. She did save her when it counted. Yes, she does like Neamh, she decides. "Your flesh feels nice. Take care of it, please. It is just so, so lovely. You are so, so lovely." No, none of this strikes the god as too much. Is a god's love not supposed to be overwhelming and all consuming? Anything less would have made her unworthy and Iseul, you see, has decided that she is done being unworthy. Mhm. Neamh the wise has taught her better.

Ah, and here her wise disciple is offering her lessons. 'Is it possible to learn how to control the darkness?' How intriguing. What would that be like? To have that power on command? (The thought causes her to drool.) "M-magic? Me?" Of course! Of course! It's just that, before, the church always punished Iseul for her magic. She was banned and the punishment just... just wasn't worth it. So she just. Forgot, she supposes. Forgot how to use it. "I don't really know how I cast. I think I used to, but I do not remember anymore. Now I just drink enough of your blood and I fill up with so much desire that Ego rips me apart and the shadow I become, I suppose," she shrugs, digging her elbows between Neamh's shoulder blades. "Teach me all you know, my guiding star. I must become the perfect vessel. More than that, I want to control it and tear this city apart with my power. Who better to take me there than my wise Neamh?" Both fear and excitement course through her all at once knowing she is going to commit taboo. 'How can it be taboo when my prophet, my reflection, encourages it? She will not lead my astray, for she is my star.'

"Fae," she repeats, testing the word on her tongue and noticing how delicate it is, soft like a feather. It makes sense that she is one because she is delicate and soft like a feather. Iseul the Fae. She likes the sound of that. "I am the well of magic, wow." She looks at her hands in utter astonishment and reverence. "Then that means you are to inherit greatness," she gasps, "How lucky for you!" She lays Neamh down on the bed and works her hands lower. "Are there more fae than me? What are you?" A tornado of questions rips through her mind and she has troubling grasping for them all. So she settles for, "Tell me everything."

 

[Syntra]

From time to time, Neamh felt she was too full of thoughts-- full enough, it seemed, that she was about to overflow. Such a shame, right? On a useless bitch like herself, you see, they were wasted. Wasted, wasted, wasted! Service was too heavy of a burden, and so she should give it her all instead of... instead of trying to do other things. Attention could only be divided so many times, after all. That being said, though? It seemed that Iseul, in all her shining brilliance, had found just the right way to erase all of the thoughts from her head. "Oh," Neamh shivered, sensing fire where the god's lips touched her. "I never want you to eat anyone else, my sweet. It's... ah," she gulped, trying to purge the image of Iseul taking off her fishnets in an agonizingly slow way from her head, "...for your own good. All your life, you've feasted on subpar flesh, and where has it gotten you? You're a chrysalis when you could have already been a butterfly. I will help you rise to greatness, but only if you remain faithful to me. Only if you... ah, if you give me your all." And Iseul was certainly giving, giving and giving, more than she could dream of! (The humans had tainted her with their nasty touch, that much was true. Ugly thoughts had been planted in her pretty little head, and there they'd grown, like disgusting little tumors. The embryos of cancer, metastazing through her entire body in the same way doubts corroded one's dreams. Still, despite that? Ah, she could sense, truly sense, her mistresses in that touch! ...Iseul was like them, doubtlessly. An apple tree could only ever produce apples, and from greatness, only greatness could be born! So so lucky she was, indeed, because that meant she was about to be... claimed. Heh. Neamh could see it with her mind's eye-- Iseul pulling her hair, Iseul biting her neck, Iseul, Iseul, Iseul, bringing her to the edge of ecstasy and not allowing her to take the final step. Oh, how she ached for her!)

The affirmation that her life no longer belonged to herself, but to her love? The sweetest thing the not-fae had ever heard, from the sweetest lips in this cursed realm. And, to top it off, wasn't it a great opportunity? An opportunity to get closer, if she played her cards right? "But, my dear," she looked up to her through her half-lidded stare, "how shall others know that I belong to you? There are many, many, many who desire me in the same way that you do, and who would take me. I'm utterly helpless now, too. Resistance wouldn't come easily for me if a villain were to steal me from you. Perhaps you could mark me?" Irreversibly, painfully, eternally, with fire and hot, hot steel. After all, what was agony but a counterpart of pleasure? Its sterner cousin? If Iseul hurt her, the law demanded that she also had to please her, till her moans matched her screams. 'We seek the equilibrium in everything, child,' the mistresses had confirmed. 'Not like your filthy kind, obsessed with absolutes.' "To let others know that I already belong to another. Could you do that for me?" Neamh batted her eyelashes. "It is what I'm owed, I think. Nothing more and nothing less. After all, if you wish to lay immortality on my shoulders, it means that I shall have to live without you. You, my god, will be a shriveled up corpse, while I will still wander the earth. A prophet without her deity, all alone. Cruel, isn't it? At least give me a reminder of yourself to carry, then. Something that will last me forever."

Feeling bold, and even moreso emboldened by the god's touch, Neamh grabbed her hand by the wrist. (The grip was an impotent thing, made weak by the bloodloss, but still, still it burned. Perhaps thanks to the god's willpower?) "Make me feel good, too. Better than you already have. What's your excuse for not claiming my lips? What's your excuse for wearing as much clothes as you are? If you truly wanted me to get better, you would try harder." A sort of madness must have possessed her then, for she gave the god a quick peck on her lips, small but daring. "See? Even I, a mere prophet, dare to go further than you have. In order to come into your own, you must surprise me. Shock me. The ground must shake beneath my feet, and then, only then, will I heal. Until then, I shall remain an empty vessel. Ah, such a brutal fate, prepared for me by my beloved!" ...not necessarily true, but it also wasn't a lie. Wasn't her soul hurting from the lack of touch, after all? From her not being able to drink the sweet, sweet nectar from Iseul's lips? It was basically murder, if you asked her. Neamh would only come back from the dead with some... hmm, mindful care.

"Ah, so you are brute-forcing it," Neamh nodded sagely, enjoying... well, all of it. The fact that she knew more than her? That Iseul's heritage belonged to her, too? It made her feel like the opposite of nobody-- like someone, strong and powerful and so, so, so important. A true mentor. Except, what was a mentor without her pupil? (...for a second, Neamh wanted her to learn nothing. For her to be nothing, too, so that she could feel better about herself in comparison. Should she grind Iseul's bones to dust so that she could be taller? Hmm, hmm! It was worth a try, certainly. Should Iseul fall for the deception, she only had herself to blame, and Neamh's own hands would be clean.)

"All of it, you say? The truth is that we were switched at birth," Neamh began, tracing her fingers around the god's belly button. (What would it be like, to bury a knife in there? Would she bleed, or explode in a cloud of sparks?) "See, we have been connected from the very beginning-- you, a fae, and me, a human. An ugly, ugly human. A useless bitch. I was chosen, though! Through you, I can become something beautiful. Something more than I am. That is why I must devour you, my sweetest. You do understand, don't you? I'm sure you must, seeing as you are me. Anyway," Neamh giggled, "I don't believe it is my place to tell you about magic. That would be like speaking about swimming, sweetest Iseul. Don't you think it's for the best to throw the babe into a river and let them learn on their own?" And if they died, then good fucking riddance. There were too many people for her tastes already, and the planet sighed under their cursed weight. (...oh, if only she'd died then. Her mother should have pressed the pillow against her nose, and--)

"Still, I will give you a hint. Magic is desire, Iseul. Desire, watered with blood. Too much is a waste, too little and the tree will die. There is a way to access blood without spilling it, though. Figure the rest out yourself, if you are the true heir! Unless," her eyes gleamed dangerously, "you have a way of forcing me to tell you? Make me, Iseul. Take that which is yours."

 

[starboob]

Innocent. The peck is innocent, technically speaking. Innocent and chaste and yet Iseul can feel blood and meat splattering all over her face; she can even taste it on her lips. She can feel herself being beaten back by the force whipped up by the train that steals her love away. Fascination, excitement, and grief flood her once more, as had happened back then. 'Back then?' When her eyes flutter open, it takes the fae a second to reorient herself with the present. She doesn't recognize Neamh straight away, and when it comes she finds herself relieved that she is still here, still intact and not a mess of meat. (Not like Gemma.) Most of what Neamh says passes over her like wind, too caught up in her own thoughts to pay attention to her disciple. (Ah, she knows it to be important to drink up everything that the mortal says, but concentration is hard to grasp when her past trying to pull her backwards.) Her fingers rise to touch her lips, remembering the ghosts of the two who have kissed her. Her eyes flit towards Neamh and, overtaken by some strange urge, she wraps her arms around the woman. "You must wish for death to do something so brazen," she says rather plainly, not angry or upset. "You must be careful, very careful, for my lips will seal your death, your fate. Is that what you wish?" Though she already knows the answer, because she knows her disciple. They are the each other and so how can Iseul be ignorant of the desires of her other half?

She buries her lips in Neamh's neck once more, not quite ready to claim those pretty lips. (She is a god now. She can protect this one, she reminds herself.)

"Hmm, but can you truly promise me complete nourishment?" she tilts her head and raises a brow, pointedly giving the woman a onceover. "In this state you are in, I will either starve or I will have to kill you and that will be my last meal. You are so very fragile, Neamh." (Fragile and ill-restrained, though Iseul sees no reason to point that out twice.) Of course she does wish it were possible to feast only on her Neamh, but the stupid body she has dictates otherwise. 'How traitorous.' That she will have to feast on sustenance that is lesser than the finest cut is deeply distressing to the god, but all gods make sacrifices, no? "Do you know how difficult it is for me, already, to not devour you completely? My stomach aches for you," other parts of herself as well, though she doesn't know how to articulate that. "If I am to keep my promises, I cannot kill you over nothing." If only and, also, thankfully.

Still there is the matter of how to take care of her Neamh and her apparent efforts not being enough. It strikes her that she doesn't exactly know what her prophet wants, and her failure to elaborate only further stresses the god, but she presses this all down, down, down and forces it out. She is a god and gods do not panic, she decides. Besides, she certainly does have ideas, inklings, and inspiration... but it is one thing to imagine those scenarios and another to act on them and do what she has never done. Go where she has never gone. The furthest she's ever gone would be kissing Neamh's shoulder only moments ago. She resolves herself to starting with what she knows, as she truly does want her worshipper to get better so that she may feast on her blessed flesh again. This results in her shrugging off her coat, revealing everything and nothing underneath. When she pulls her worshipper back into her embrace, Neamh practically sizzles against her frozen skin.

The mortal does not seem to mind however––at least, that is what Iseul gathers from the way she traces patterns over her abdomen. (It causes something in her to lurch, to feel fluttery, to feel ticklish. She's... she's so close to her... 'Not close enough.' That thought comes so automatically that Iseul is not able to deny it or be shocked.) Her stomach tenses under her touch, and the god gasps, "My, you are so desperate." She closes her eyes and inhales sharply. 'Are her hands allowed to go lower?' She licks her lips, "Good."

"Your mother, then, was such a rotten bitch." Iseul never really felt like she belonged to that woman so this is easy to accept. Besides, why would her beloved lie to her? The god? That would not be very wise. "She abandoned me, you know. So did my first mother, too, I suppose." She shrugs, not letting on how she feels on the subject of abandonment. It is their shame to bear, not hers. That she wants revenge is only because it is a natural response to have; even if she does not care about the situation.

Anyway, there are more interesting things to be thinking about than vengeance.

"Blood..." She stares down at her wrists, following the blue map outlined below her skin. 'I am the well...' This entire time, she has been the key. ...And the church tried to beat and bleed this information out of her; they tried to replant her in dead soil. 'Oh they will pay.' She closes her fist over her chest and shuts her eyes, listening for her pulse and the beat of her dark heart, her Ego. (Ego is not a beast, but a beauty. Iseul was wrong to refer to her in such a manner. To refer to herself in such a manner. What a terrible example to set.) Ah, the song in her veins is one that asks for its wayward daughter to come home, and she gladly steps forward into the darkness (into the void). 'Home, home, home...' (Nothing physically happens to her, but her heart feels as though it's splintered with ice. It's enough to still the muscle, in a similar manner that disappointment does and, really, how is that not home?) She can feel the shadow behind and within her moving and growing, inviting her to join it. 'Yes, yes, let me in!' When she opens her eyes again, they're black abysses with electric blue rings in the center; her hands are misty shadows. She wiggles them as a test and then wills them to harden into sharp claws, causing her to giggle with delight. "Oh, you are truly the wisest, my Neamh! And for that, I think... Well, you must know what I think," she grins, leaning forward so that her lips are hovering just over the mortal's own. (She knows she can only tease Neamh for so long and so she must be quick.) Quickly, she swipes her tongue over her lower lip and pulls backwards.

"Remember, you are not allowed to die," her tone is stern while she shakes away her claws and returns her hands to their former state. "Should you ever have a momentary lapse, you are to put yourself back together and crawl from death into my arms." That goes without saying since Neamh has her promise to fulfill. Death cannot nullify a promise. No, there are no exits to a pact made with the god. Of course, it goes both ways and she knows this. Iseul refuses to be a hypocritical god, there must be balance and so she also must fulfill her promises for the contract to be valid. Anyway, the reason the god reminds her worshipper of this particular promise? Because she is about to kill her, as promised.

Iseul straddles Neamh's torso and sits on top of the mortal, pinning her down with her thighs. The boldness of this action surprises the fae, and she decides to chase this excitement. (She pushes down all her fear. All her memories. She doesn't need those. She only needs Neamh.) (Really, she feels as though she hadn't been alive before her anyway so it makes sense for her to let go of the past.) She doesn't give either of them time to prepare; she simply closes the distance between them and crushes her lips against Neamh's. (See, since Neamh cannot die she realizes that she is perfectly safe!)

 

[Syntra]

“Life, death… what is it, my Iseul, if not two sides of the same coin?” Neamh giggled. “See, we define things according to what they are, but also according to what they aren’t. Without a night, would you know what a day is? Well, would you?” Technically true, but also not why she had made her request. Not fully, anyway. (Death just didn’t scare Neamh. She’d danced with it many times, to the point she knew what it music it preferred, so really, what was the point in cowering from it? From hiding? No, what terrified her was the possibility of dying without ever tasting existence-- without leaving her own mark on it, and on Iseul’s soul. Should her god’s desire overrule the common sense… why, wouldn’t it be beautiful? To be wanted, oh so very wanted, that it even crossed the boundaries of reason! …only then could Neamh believe that she was someone. A person, not a worthless bitch. Paying the highest price for it struck the not-fae as not just bargain, but a trade of her life.) “Besides,” she caressed Iseul’s cheek, “you’ve got it backwards, dearest. I need it from you to truly live. We were never meant to live apart, you see? They stole so, so, so many years from us!” Years they’d been meant to learn about one another, murder their enemies, live in each other’s skin. The formative years of childhood, during which their spines had still bent easily. How to make up for missing those, hmm? How to rewind time and make the hour hands run in the opposite direction? (Had she ever dared to harbor any anger towards her dear mistresses, it would have been because of that. Because of… because of separating her from Iseul. How could they?! A heart needed both its left and right chamber to work, and they’d… they’d cut it in half. Without each other, they were worthless. How come they didn’t see that? Maybe they did. Maybe even they were afraid of our power, and of what we can do. A traitorous thought, one that could easily earn her a month in the pit, but… well, the mistresses weren’t here. They weren’t, and Iseul was.)

“Well,” she licked her lips, “it appears that you will have to endure it. What, are you not accustomed to hunger? I want you to starve, Iseul.” Somewhere along the way, the caress had turned into a painful pinch, but the not-fae didn’t seem to notice. (…or did she? A strange fire was sparkling in her eyes, after all, and her words cut like glass.) “You are god, not a child who finds herself in a confectionary. Why do you think you can sate your appetite every time your tongue demands it? You can, I suppose, but that doesn’t mean you should. Restraint is a leash, yes, and poison when forced upon you by another, but… don’t you realize there are advantages to it as well?” Neamh tilted her head aside, suddenly all innocent. “There is a reason why the Son fasted forty days in that blasted desert. When you deny yourself, the desire grows, and within it, the power as well. Make it grow to its limit. More, more and more, till you can no longer take it, and a little further beyond that. Allow it to stretch you like a rubber, and when you feel like it is about to tear you apart?” A mysterious smile graced her lips, like a semi-colon before the important part of the sentence. “Release it. What do you think will happen then? You will taste a power that you’ve never even smelled before. Your true potential, distilled to its essentials.” And, ah, Neamh would help her walk that path! Without her, Iseul would have stumbled-- the monsters lurking in the shadows would have shredded her, devoured her alive. She, too, is nothing, the not-fae reminded herself. The prettier half of the picture, yes, except that it is also worthless in isolation. I am the context, and she is the poem. Nobody cares for incomprehensible scribblings.

“Hmm,” Neamh smirked. “I do hope it costs you a lot of effort. A god should bleed for her believers, in the same way a believer bleeds for her god. Our fates are joined, my sweet. That is why you should suffer at least as much as me.” (Yes, yes! That was why she needed to hurt her-- not out of hatred, but out of love. Wasn’t pain the greatest teacher, after all? The memory that remained burned in one’s mind, regardless how hard you tried to get rid of it? But, oh, no, no, no! That just wouldn’t do. Lessons were precious, and wasting them like that was truly a sign of a wicked soul. A worthless bitch, even!)

“I promise,” Neamh smiled, and for a moment, she looked... well, almost normal. A young woman, unburdened by the weight of the apocalypse on her shoulders. “I don’t wish to go, my sweetest. Why should I? I have been waiting for this for all my life. To meet you, I mean. Dying right now, without even getting to taste you, would have been like missing the whole point.” Iseul, Iseul, Iseul. Oh, how Neamh wanted to scream that name, moan it, whisper it into the darkness! And then, all of a sudden, she was close, and her lips were, too, and-- and--

Nothing. Nothing, and yet everything all at once. The not-fae’s brain was wiped clean as she leaned into the kiss, opening herself to her god’s advances. (Weakly, she gripped Iseul’s coat. Her whole existence was hanging onto it, but what did it matter? Nothing did, aside from the heat pooling in her stomach. Yes, she thought. Go further. You must. Take what is yours. The fire in her veins exploded, painting stars on her closed eyelids, which… ah. It had never been like that with anyone else. Was that what it was like, to meet your other half? To be destroyed, and born anew, and destroyed again?) Agonizingly slowly, and practically against her will, Neamh pulled away. (She was panting, her cheeks tinged pink. Her lips, too, were swollen, and begging to be kissed again.)

“Do you feel it, my sweet? The fire? It’s in your blood, despite it still staying inside of your body. Use it. Cast, Iseul. Show me a spell, otherwise I won’t let you take more.” …was it a true attempt to teach her, or a challenge for her to violate that order? Neamh herself didn’t know.

 

[starboob]

It's just her flesh. It's only her flesh. Her lips are squishy and pink and warm. Her tongue is firm and wriggly. The roof of her mouth is rough and smooth (somehow). She can feel the hardness of her teeth as she tries to push herself further into Neamh, trying to taste her from the inside out because this is somehow too much and not enough. (She has not even stolen a morsel of her flesh!) Her hands, at some point, had been positioned just beside Neamh's head and now they wander her torso, beneath that pesky little shirt. (Ah, why do they wear clothes again? Is that not the shame of Adam and Eve after they tasted the forbidden fruit? The genetic shame that all man has? She is not man, so why should she have shame? And her mortal beneath her is so much better than her bloodline, so why is she covered?) Kissing Gemma had not been like this, no it had not! While she can hear the train whistling in her ears, easily she bats it away this time because she is a god and she can protect Neamh from trains and death. Something is born in her belly as she rolls on top of her worshipper and it calls to her, shouts for her, encourages her to find heaven on the woman's tongue, between her legs. Electricity zings through her chest and the blood in her veins is, once more, calling her back home. (The call is not to Iseul. Not to Ego. It is to...)

Then Neamh pulls away and Iseul grabs her throat, hissing, "How dare you!" The other's words don't immediately reach her as the beauty in her stomach wants to lunge forward and destroy the woman beneath her for taking away what belongs to Iseul (and only Iseul). (What is it with Neamh and never knowing what she desires? Does she or does she not want her god to take her––not that the god fully understands what that means, but she assumes enlightenment will come to her as gods are vessels for wisdom.) How can she deny her god? Especially when she looks so delicious, so flushed, so aching and wanting?

Iseul thinks of reminding her just how fragile she is, how weak she is lying beneath her with all those cuts under her bandages.

However, her mind slowly catches up to what has been said and her grip on Neamh's throat loosens as she gazes off to the side to determine whether or not she can feel what she is talking about. (Her desire. Her blood. All coursing through her veins at once. Her heart, her mutilated and shredded heart, beats loudly in her ears and, again, it's the song of a wayward daughter marching home. 'Come, come, come.' Moments ago, she had merely dipped her hands into the water of darkness and let them turn to shadows, but apparently that is not all there is and of course Iseul knows she can do more, because she has. She's turned her entire body into the shadow that is her Ego even before meeting the woman beneath her. Is that not what her prophet wants to see? Apparently not or else that would have impressed her. The darkness that she carries within herself continues to sing to her, smoothing over the fires from earlier, and embracing that power is as easy as free falling backwards and knowing that she will be caught.

Her eyes, as they always do when she leans into her power, are swallowed by the void and the electric blue rings are the only signs of life. The shadows on the wall had been dancing to the rhythm of the fire Iseul had built earlier, but the one that belongs to herself? The one looming over Neamh('s shadow)? It stills suddenly and its head turns to the side as if looking at the mortal. The shadow peels itself from the wall and creeps between Iseul and Neamh, slithering over the woman's form like hundreds of mouths kissing her at once. (Iseul can feel Ego's hundred kisses as if she were bestowing them herself. Though she quickly realizes it is an injustice both to herself and Ego to think of herself as separate, for she is Ego and Ego is her. Those kisses are hers just given by her shadow. They are no less loving or wanting.) Finally, the shadow wraps itself around Neamh's wrists and pins them above her head and the god smirks down at the prophet. "If you were wanting for more... well, then I suppose you will be waiting for quite some time." Yes, because technically it is Neamh who stopped this from progressing further and it is, then, Neamh's fault that Iseul is not learning more of her worshipper's flesh. (Though she did learn quite a bit having Ego kiss her all over like that.) "Restraint, after all, can be most enlightening, no?"

Keeping her pinned with the shadow, Iseul slides off of the bed and sits in the armchair that is beside it. She crosses one leg over the other and bores her dark electric gaze into the woman. As if they have not just been locking lips, Iseul carries on. "What will happen to you if you are restrained and unable to wrap your lips around that which you seek?" she asks, her hands taunting Neamh by showing her all the places she could have explored had she not been such a bitch earlier. (They trail over her breasts, over her navel, she uncrosses her legs...) "What will happen to your power, I wonder?"

"If I am to fast, then I think you should as well. Gods and worshippers, do we not suffer for each other?" Gods who place their faith in their faithless worshippers will always end up crucified, but she supposes that is their plight––to die protecting that which they love the most and how is that not poetic? Iseul will be happy to die for Neamh and because of Neamh. (If the bitch learns restraint, that is, and does not act a moment too soon.) "Ah and when we have gone beyond our limits, when suffering can carry us no further, I want to know what our full power tastes like mixed together! Then once we have torn down the citadel, and only then, will you get your reward in its entirety. The reward no other has claimed," or wanted, "saved just for you."

"What do you think I will taste like, my Neamh?" she giggles and eyes her bound worshipper. 'So helpless. I could rip her apart right now and she could not stop me. Even unbound her depleted body could not stop me. I am her god.' "It is such a shame we were kept apart for so long. Perhaps you could have tasted me much sooner and I, you. But I suppose we can always make up for lost time and slay the bastards who tried to keep our lips from tasting. I do feel as though I have been missing you for my entire life. What took you so long to find god?"