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

[Syntra]

‘How dare you!’ Iseul shouted, and the sharpness of it felt like a caress to Neamh’s ears. Yes, she thought, yes, strangle me, shatter me, kill me. Wasn’t that the only thing that she was good for, after all? A sacrificial lamb, whose throat was meant to be slit? (Some sins, you see, could only be washed away by blood. Her blood. Water just wasn’t thick enough, strong enough, to pay all the interest that had been accrued. And, the fact that she got to feed it to Iseul? Iseul, her bright, shining star? Oh, how lucky, lucky she was! Those who loved their executioner, Neamh thought, could take the edge of their axe as their lover. There was a joy to be found in endings, you see? The joy of solace, the joy of peace, the joy of writing that last ‘fin’ and making a heart-shaped point above the i. Iseul will know, the not-fae thought, as her green eyes rolled in the back of her skull. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t, and some basic instinct was forcing her to resist, but, no! That was forbidden. A sacrilege, both in thought and deed. If her god decided to end her pitiful existence right there, Neamh could only submit! She had to fall on her knees, kiss had hands lovingly, and accept, accept, accept, everything that Iseul wanted to give. Thank you for the gift of salvation, my sweet. I only wish that it had come sooner. Once again, Neamh saw stars, stars that were transposed against the bitter, bitter reality, and then-- release. Not death, but Iseul’s hands leaving her bruised throat, in the same way a mother bird eventually left her fledgling. Was that why she felt so lonely all of a sudden? Lonely, sad, empty, as if those hands had been the only valuable thing about her. …maybe they had been. She should have cut them off when she'd still had a chance, and made a necklace of them.)

Ever the prisoner of her wicked physiology, Neamh coughed-- once, twice, thrice, and then the sounds bled into one another with the kind of viciousness that made them form a continuous stream of cacophony. Ugh, curse this weak shell! To be born as a disgusting centipede when everyone else was a butterfly... ah, that was the true pain. That, and not the kiss of a whip! (The whip had helped to shape her, mold her, give her concrete edges. Make her real. Without it, she'd been mud, soft and borderless, spilling into the world like the careless words of false preachers. With it, though? ...still a worthless bitch, tragically enough. The mistresses had tried, though. They had, oh, they had! And maybe, once Iseul was just a sweet memory, the seeds they'd planted in her would burst forth. What would they be, hmm? Roses or thistle? A traitorous basilisk clawing its way from a chicken egg? Neamh wanted to know, but, fuck, maybe she wanted her more-- her whose name was Iseul, her whose name was ruin. The one that had been promised to her, dammit!)

Neamh's weakness threatened to wrap her in the shroud of sleep, but what Iseul did next shook her awake. Wide awake, too. "A-ah," she moaned, unsure how to react to... well, all of that. (Each touch was a blessing, each touch was a curse. A point of no-return, crossed again and again and again. Needles were running across her skin wherever the shadow claimed her, and Neamh didn't understand how those spots weren't fucking scorched to cinders. It wasn't Iseul, no, but... well, knowing she watched did things to her, too. Scandalous things. Do you enjoy it? she thought, shifting as much as her bonds allowed to give Iseul a better view. (Still, still she remained a mystery, with all the layers and bandages, but shadows and angles could sing sweet melodies, indeed. Did they not enhance her curves, hmm? Did they not entice one's imagination? And Neamh did want Iseul to think about her, as if she was a brainteaser to be figured out.) Do you enjoy seeing me being taken, my sweet? To rouse your appetite, to prepare yourself for the true feast, you often had to nibble on smaller treats-- and, oh, how happy was she to bring that sacrifice!

Neamh hissed in frustration when Iseul distanced herself, insults spilling from her delicious lips. (Should she be using them for such vile things? For each such injustice, the not-fae decided, Iseul would pay! With her tears, her kisses, her everything.) "I was being trained," Neamh explained. "By my mistresses. Your sisters, and cousins, and mothers. That was why I didn't rush to you as soon as I could walk. They wanted to make sure I was worthy of you, my sweet. Still, maybe... maybe they were wrong to do so. Misguided. Maybe they do deserve to suffer for that, a little bit. What do you think," she propped herself up against her chains, "should we be merciful? For I missed you as well, the same way I would miss my own right arm."

Neamh certainly wasn't going to be, though! Merciful, that was. Not when Iseul spoke of temptation and restraint and the benefits of it all, making her taste her own bitter, bitter medicine. Just, ugh. Did she not see how she ached for her? How parched her throat was, and how the flames in her belly consumed her from within? Iseul could take it, but not Neamh-- not the eager bitch, always burning for a mistress's touch. (No, a worshiper didn't have to bear the burdens of godhood. If that was the case, why would there be a difference between them at all? A god's power stemmed from her acceptance of suffering, and Neamh could teach her a thing or two about that!) "You want to know what will happen?" she asked, breathless. Despite that, though? There was a proud defiance in her glare that not even her sorry state could break. "I will just find someone else. I will bring her to my bed, kiss her, and make you watch. I will make her scream. With me, she will forget her very own name and ask me to baptize her all over again. Would you like that? Would you want to see what I could do to you before I do it, so that you may dream about it at night?"

 

[starboob]

In general, Iseul finds Neamh to be lovely. It is just too bad that she can not make coughing and wheezing more pleasant. It's just so grating and violent––like a cat trying to claw its way out of a person's mouth from their lungs––and it never ever fails to remind the god of sister Cathy. (She used to dream so often of holding a pillow over her face when she would cough all through the winter months. She once even stood outside of her room for hours and hours, pillow in hand, debating the prospect. Unfortunately, she took too long to make a decision and when sister Cathy stepped outside her door the next morning and saw the child glaring at her, she called for an exorcism.) The god scratches at the fabric of the arm chair, throwing that same glare at Neamh. 'She is going to open her cuts again.' That is another shocking thing about her Neamh. Her wounds are still there and have not healed at all. Iseul has already had to change her bandages. (It was such a torture to have to see those glistening cuts and not be able to have herself a proper feast.) 'Is she broken?' While Iseul doesn't want to admit it, it does make sense that a broken prophet would seek out a broken god; perhaps she hoped their broken pieces could match and they'd be like a puzzle. (Iseul will shave down any of their edges that prevent them from fitting together, she decides. That is how dedicated she is to her Neamh, to making sure that they work.) She sighs dreamily, watching the woman gasp for air, "Careful, love, I do not need you breaking a rib. If you are to spread my word, then you need to be well." 'Hurry up.'

Though, maybe the god can get used to her prophet being so helpless, being at her lowest. She kind of likes her subdued like this. (How can she get her to be like this all the time?) And she definitely likes watching her enjoy that sweet tease that is Ego. 'My, she is a darling.' The way she twists and turns her body––does she know what she is doing? Does she know what she is doing to her god? "You are a sweet little morsel and you are going to regret denying me other flesh. Do you not realize how insatiable you make me?" Of course she does, the god has no doubt that her prophet knows everything of her. "I hope you feel as awful as I do for being denied."

Deciding she can take this distance no longer, she sits at the edge of the bed and reaches over to stroke her cheek as she listens for more hints of her life that should have been had her mother not been such a bitch. With her words, Iseul realizes that it is not just a mother she has––but an entire family. An entire family who abandoned her in this rotten world and took Neamh instead. (Neamh who now wants to have her life and feels that it is owed to her. How much does this greedy little bitch want to take from her? Everything, she hopes.) She hopes that they liked her then, because having met the one who stole her life and who will steal it again, she doesn't find herself angry. Neamh is wonderful. Who would not prefer her? Still, still... They made her Neamh suffer from separation and now their time together is ticking away. For that reason, and only that reason, she replies, "You are too good for this world, love. They should not suffer a little bit. You can only stop mold from spreading by cutting it off. It sounds like they are fucked, my dear. In fact, if there is rot in the Paradise you hail from... then I suspect that everyone yet may be doomed and we, my darling," she leans, and though there is not another soul present, she whispers conspiratorially, "may be the answer to all those who suffer this existence."

"I do admire what they have done with you, of course," she pulls away and continues with stroking her cheek. "But I mourn the years we will never get to have together. For that, they must be expunged." Hmm, perhaps that is being a bit extreme? Well, Iseul does not think so because anyone who is involved with trying to keep them apart deserves to be put through an industrial shredder. (There is no middle ground for the fae. Why should there be? Sin is corruption and even just one mistake should cost a person their life. No one ever gave Iseul mercy, so no one will get hers. Even Neamh agrees that the god should give none.) "You do understand, do you not?"

Even if there is no point in learning about herself, the questions gnaw at her. "What are the rest of my kin like?" She wants to be more direct and ask if they are like her or if she is like them, but she is afraid of the answer––in part, because she does not even know what she wants to hear. "Did they treat you well? Will you take me to see Paradise at least once before I die and you turn my bones to jewelry?" Her brow crinkles together, realizing she is not asking the most important questions of them all. (Shame on her!) "What were you like? As a child? As a teen? What did you dream of when you heard Iseul being called to you?"

Her curiosity over a life that never was or will be is crushed and blown away by an entirely different curiosity when Neamh starts making all those suggestions. (Those traitorous things. Those inflaming things. Those inspiring things. Those delicious things.) 'Give in. Do it. Now, give her what she wants!' some desperate, scared thing screams at Iseul. The one that fears her worshipper will leave her, but she has peace knowing she cannot. Not for as long as she can keep her hold with Ego and even when she runs out of power, and she can feel the strain of effort, Neamh is so weak and stoppable in this state. She doesn't have to give her anything, she decides. She only gives her a smoldering look to match that glare of hers. "Grow up, Neamh. Iseul is who you want to be someday? Well, my family may have prepared you for me and I will prepare you to be me and for that to happen? You have to realize you are not just an ordinary human. How can you be, hmm?" Not wanting to know the embarrassment of her powers going out, she releases Neamh. "This will be your burden someday as Iseul. Are you prepared for that?"

"I understand I have set a bad example with my impulses," she admits, thinking back to the carnage following the murder of sister Cathy. "But I am beyond that now," simply because she is stating so right now. "If you wish to treat yourself as trash, then feast on every slag you meet, but do not be surprised when you never find me in your bed afterwards."

 

[Syntra]

She wanted her. Oh, she did, she did! Neamh’s heart soared into the heights previously unseen, like a baby eagle that had tasted flight for the first time in its life, and, just like that eagle, she desired – no, needed – to fly even higher. More, more, more! For every instance the not-fae had been denied, Iseul was to repay her with her blood, with her adoration. She would be her church, not the ugly heap of stones where she’d been raised. (After all, there was a thing or two Neamh still had to teach her about worship. A god she may have been, yes, but what was a god without awareness? A god without wisdom, with mediocrity pressed into her veins? A blind god, with her eyes gouged out, would only ever lead her sheep to ruin! Therefore, it only made sense for Neamh to… hmm, lead by example. For her to make Iseul worship her, with every inch of her skin, with every breath her lungs took. One of Son’s apostles had been a harlot-- a woman fallen and sinful, rejected by all. Why shouldn’t a worthless bitch find her salvation in Iseul, then? …lies they’d been, yes. Filthy, filthy lies. Still, archetypes were archetypes for a reason. They were shadows in their psyche, glittering against the darkness of unconsciousness, and tracing them, oh so carefully, sparked something in the human soul. How convenient, because Neamh meant to light the greatest fire this planet had ever seen!) “Perhaps this is a trial as well,” the not-fae smirked. “A god loves her worshiper both in health and sickness. Will you take care of me, my sweet? Who will you kill to make me feel better? See,” her eyes shone with a strange light, “I have heard once that the amount of life in the world is finite. That it is like heat, in the sense that coldness absorbs it. Of course, that means that you ought to murder someone in front of me if you want to ensure my survival. Who will you choose, my sweet? The horrible priest, perhaps? Oh, how I would love to meet him!”

“I do hope that you are starved,” Neamh sighed dreamily. “I have thought about these things, my Iseul. Long and hard, too. Pleasure and pain, I’ve realized, are one and the same. For that reason, I want my hand to be the one to bring it all to you. Mine, and nobody else’s! I forbid you to be hurt unless I will it,” she frowned. (Was that not a reasonable request? A god ruled over all-- over existence, over the universe, over everything that had been and ever would be. It made sense to reason, then, that any hint of pain Iseul had ever felt had been felt on purpose. Did Neamh judge her? No, of course not! Just like you couldn’t spend your life eating only porridge, you were not to deprive yourself of the full palette of emotions. Even so, that had been before Neamh. Before her! Now that Iseul had met her fate, she was forbidden from excluding her like that.) “Do you understand? You are a god, and so I do have expectations. I will not be neglected, my sweet.” Speaking of things that they had to understand, though? Neamh’s throat tightened painfully when she realized what, exactly, her god was suggesting. Is this a trial? Of what, though? A trial of faith, or trial of wickedness? (Her mistresses. Her precious, precious mistresses, who had taught her what she was. Without them, Neamh knew, she would have been sentenced to rot-- her mind would have been defiled, her spine bent. Along with her foolish kin, she, too, would have prayed to the false god. They’d lifted her from that mud, and cleansed her, cleansed her with their own tongues! …still, they weren’t Iseul. Only Iseul was Iseul, and her word was absolute.)

“I loved them,” the not-fae said, after a torturously long pause. “They were all I had. Paradise wasn’t for me, because humans were not to enjoy its fruits. I couldn’t sit at the same table, and could only watch and serve. They didn’t even give me my name, you see?” she leaned closer, as much as her bonds allowed, and let out a small giggle. “I stole it. They told me I wasn’t to have a name until I earned it for myself, but I stole it! Neamh, for nobody. The mistresses waited for me to become Iseul, but I had to be someone in the meantime. Not being anyone at all is so, so hard! It feels like… like trying to grasp air with your hands. Have you ever tried it, my sweet? I hope not, because that would be rather foolish. The point is… I could never betray them. Never.” Neamh looked up, her green eyes boring into Iseul’s black ones. (…ah, how she wanted to drown in them! The vortexes could tear her disgusting body apart, and nobody, nobody would ever find her again. Cosmical oblivion, Neamh felt, was the kindest fate she could ask for.) A heartbeat passed, and then another. The atmosphere was thick, thick like the disappointment from which the human race had risen, and then-- “That is why I shall murder them for you. After all, they always said that you are my everything. Not following you would be betraying not just you, dearest Iseul, but also their vision. I could never. Ah, I am sure they will love it when I flay them alive!”

Iseul asked, asked and asked, each question more curious than the one before it, and, ah, did that warm her heart! Because it meant that her beloved cared, more than anyone before her. (Had anyone ever asked her a genuine question before? A question that wasn’t a command in disguise, that was?) “My life before you was a dream,” she said. “In that it was unreal, ephemeral. I only wanted one thing-- to rise to the surface and snap your pretty, pretty neck. I just knew it would be delicious, I suppose. Are you looking forward to it, Iseul?”

Sadly, the pleasant conversation they’d had was interrupted by her beloved acting, for the lack of a better word, like a bitch. Ugh! How did she not understand that Neamh had her needs? A flower had to be watered, and she… she had to bathe in affection to feel tangible, to be present in her own body. Without it, the not-fae would wither away! Only a shadow would remain, pale and streaked with silver. Never tasting Iseul, though… “Fine,” she hissed. “You won. I will be yours, in the same way you will be mine. But, Iseul,” the not-fae pouted, “you ought to reward me for that loyalty somehow. Do tell me more about yourself, too! I knew you were raised in filth, and that it never should have happened to you. Still, I want… I want to know about the good things. Surely, there have been some? Talk to me about the ones you loved, my dear.” If there were any, that was. You know, so that she could judge whether they needed to be expunged as well. That was only fair, wasn’t it?

 

[starboob]

Hmm. A trial? The god taps her finger against her lips, deep in contemplative thought. There is no reason for her to believe that Neamh, her blessed star, is leading her astray. She supposes she only finds herself surprised by this possibility, because she has not already thought of it herself! A god should be all knowing. Not some knowing. Not half knowing. A god should be the one assigning trials to others! To be tested herself? She is not yet sure what she makes of this, but she supposes her godhood is something new. Even if inherent in her veins, she cannot pretend she has always lived under her own darkness and wisdom. No, she bent her knees for another god and so it only makes sense she must retrained, reacquainted with her godhood. If she has to claw and scrape her way down towards her dark throne, then so be it. For Neamh, it will all be worth it. 'I hope she enjoys this legacy I will be leaving for her. I do hope she misses me, even if only for a second. To be a fond thought in her endless pool of thoughts, would be heaven enough for me. That is what I must strive for, yes.'

She returns herself from her thoughts back to the bed where she sits with her sick and injured disciple. 'Poor thing.' "In sickness and in health," she repeats, laughing, "Ah, you make it seem as though we are married. Do not spit on our bond with such a disgusting analogy––what we have is more than that ritualistic exchange of property. Our bond will be better, deeper, more intimate, than any marriage." She pinches Neamh's cheek, mirroring how she had done that to her earlier. "Still, still, I will honor your wish, because as your god it is my duty to answer your prayers and I am curious to know if it will be the medicine you need." Clearly, the human body needs much, much more than a fae's body to heal and she is willing to try anything. "Which horrible priest would you like me to bring to you? There are so many," to list even all the ones she knows would take an eternity itself. "Tell me, Neamh, whose sacrifice will coerce your body into healing faster?" She already so sick of waiting.

"Worry not, love," she says, scooting backwards onto the bed so that her legs are draped over Neamh's torso like a blanket and she can lean against the wall. "I have already come to the conclusion that I am not be hurt anymore. I have already done my share of suffering at the expense of those ugly rats," she even was made to absorb the sins of those too squeamish and delicate for penance. (Rich bastards with their fancy mansions and excessive consumption––like Mrs. Wagner and her devilish daughters.) For a low, low price, Iseul was that sponge. Now she realizes it had all been lies and she will suffer for lies no longer. She is a god. The god. "I can accept your punishments, however, as you are my most important disciple," and only disciple, but every god must start somewhere and Neamh, for being the first, will be rewarded most handsomely. "But should you be too poor in your judgment, should there be any hint that you are being unfair, I will snap your spine. Punishment, pain... I expect fair deliverance." Does she trust Neamh with this? Yes and no. She trusts Neamh, mostly, but the woman has a thing or two to learn about her impulses. (Sometimes she wonders if she is being too much like the old god in restricting her Neamh. Then she remembers how Neamh almost ended her life in a most wasteful way and Iseul decides this is necessary. She needs more balance.)

When Neamh finally answers her question, Iseul feels a fire flare up in her belly. "You loved them?" her voice is quiet, though the anger in it is loud. Ice crystals start to form around her, they even climb up the wall behind her as images of her Neamh loving those who are not her fill her mind. No, no, no! How dare others claim her heart when it belongs to Iseul. For that, her mistresses will pay. How dare anyone distract her weak and feeble minded Neamh! 'At least... At least she has arrived to me now. Late, yes, and she is here and she is mine.' Before she can say anything else, she listens as her Neamh admits her defiance, her sin. For some reason, that quells the god's anger, perhaps because it proves her Neamh is not truly loyal to them for she broke their rules. "You are a little devil, aren't you? Have you ever followed one instruction in your life? Because waiting, patience, it might have taught you something. Instead, you chose to individuate and become someone before you were even meant to! Say, I wonder if there even is room for Iseul in that head of yours. Are you too full?" she teases, poking the woman's bandages with a giggle. Of course, she doesn't mean it. There are pros and cons to this defiant quality of her Neamh and she only wants to make sure that it benefits her, the god.

"I do adore this about you, love," she insists, threading her fingers through her counterpart's hair as she explains herself. "It proves you are more than fodder. It tells me that you will be ready for godhood when your time comes. That is, if you can refine yourself a bit more. Those impulses of yours, for example, charming as they are... They are unbecoming for a god. I should know because I am one and I have worn that armor before. It did not flatter me well." It had landed them in that cyberspace fighting with a program of all things. "We must do well to take care of each other. This must be a symbiotic relationship if we are to topple entire empires together. Anything less will get in our way and risk the deliverance of justice."

Admittedly, Iseul does worry that she will have to strike down Neamh here and now when she explains her loyalties, but she decides to have some faith in her worshipper and waits for her to continue, sensing some deep contemplation behind those green eyes as she stares into Iseul. "That is very, very wise of you, my Neamh. When that time comes, let us bathe in their blood and wear their skins to see if we like them. Would that not be most romantic?"

"Hmm," the god hums, "It does not please me to hear. Do you only think me worthy of having my neck snapped? It's as though you love your cursed mistresses more than you do me! They are to get the whole spectacle of being flayed and I am just to, what? Go out with a crack?" she challenges, something both pleading and dangerous flashing in her eyes. "I am your god and I hope you can be more creative. Personally, I would like for you to eat me alive with our most dedicated followers present. I want my death to be a beautiful and drawn out spectacle," she grips onto Neamh's collar so she understands how important this is to her. "My only other request is that on the night of my death, you sleep inside my corpse, so that I may embrace you one last time. It will bring your reign luck, I imagine."

The returned curiosity over her upbringing is unexpected, and Iseul decides she likes this attention. No one has ever asked her about herself unless it is to find out what sin she has committed so that she may be punished appropriately. "My life has been one great ache and a sigh, as you already know," she shrugs, and curls up next to the other woman, stealing her warmth and finding her eyelids growing heavy. "I have never really had any reason to love anyone, my dear. The closet I might have got would have been with Gemma, though. She was a girl in my class and she wasn't scared to sit next to me. She said she didn't mind that my presence made her feel bad, because she felt bad before ever meeting me. We did not hang out much outside of school hours––I was too busy serving the Wagner family––but Gemma usually asked where I was when I was absent from school. She noticed me. It was nice, but it was not meant to last because I had not realized my godhood back then and could not protect her. She kissed me and was punished for it. Her brothers took her to the train tracks and I was only quick enough to witness her execution." Sleepily, she clarifies, "Her lips may have been the first to have touched mine, but you will always be my first real kiss. You will be my last and between my first and last, you will be my only."

 

[Syntra]

Oh! How could she have been so stupid? Must have been the worthless bitch genes, Neamh decided. Good thing that Iseul was so quick to point her folly out-- a wolf raised by sheep she may have been, but it was also true that you couldn’t silence a predator’s instinct. Not fully, anyway. Always, always would it lead her home, and she… well, she was lucky to follow her there. (With the two of them, it had never been clear who the guiding star was. The fate of indecisive bitches, she supposed.) “Very true,” the not-fae batted her eyelashes. “I shouldn’t stain our bond with such weak terminology. We will own one another in a much, much, much more intimate way! The union of a god and her worshiper… ah, the mortals wish they could touch such glory. They will never have it, though. And, you know why? Because they are too busy bending their spines to a false deity to look up, and perceive the true nature of things.” Hmm, hmm. Who should she choose, though? Who, who, who? Humans were like snowflakes in that they were all different, but also all the same-- pointless little things, easy to devour, easy to melt. No, it didn’t strike Neamh as too important of a choice. The blood running in their veins was the only qualification, was it not? For she wanted it to spill, spill, spill, and paint the monochrome world red! “I don’t know any of your priests,” the not-fae pointed out. “How could I name names when they aren’t even present in my mind? I’ll leave that up to you, my sweet. You are familiar with the rot, and, as such, you should also know what can eradicate it. Are you not the god? From your hands, I will accept any gift that you might wish to give.”

And now, now Iseul was speaking her language! The language of cruelty, yes, but also the language of truth-- there were no secrets between them, and there shouldn’t be. Their hearts were beating as one, playing the very same wicked melody. (In the background, Neamh could hear bones snapping, women and children crying. Sad, perhaps, as they hadn’t asked to be born into this world, but so what? She hadn’t asked for it, either! Hadn’t, hadn’t, hadn’t, and yet she was there, a stupid bitch tied to her stupid impulses. A whimpering, pathetic mess. As far as Neamh was concerned, everybody should suffer for the sin of her mother! …for the sin of daring to birth her against her will, for making her live. The woman must have had the usual mediocrity in mind for her, and no, Neamh wasn’t going to forgive her just because fate had intervened. Never! Forgiveness was poison of the mind.) “Yes,” she whispered, her tone hoarse. “I would have it no other way. But, Iseul? Do not think for a second that I will spare you should you decide to go back on your word. Promises are sacred. I do hope you are aware?”

The anger that gleamed in Iseul’s eyes when she mentioned the love for her mistresses, though? Ah, yes, yes! That was exactly how she should feel-- like a worthless worm begging for the scraps of her attention, only to be denied every single time. Her screams? Unheard. Her insecurities? Laughed at. To the very depths of desperation should she sink, because Neamh was already there! (With her own hands, she would drag her to the rock bottom. Of course, that would change nothing about her own eventual drowning, but at least they would get to die together. Romantic, was it not? …and, yes, the bitch should suffer. Make no mistake about that. As a god, Iseul should have kept herself pure for her-- locked in some ancient crypt, nameless, wanting. Wordless, too. She should have been clay, not a finished statue! Hers for the taking, hers for the molding, hers, hers, hers, in all senses of that word. And yet, yet… when Neamh had reached her, the bitch had the gall to be a person. More of a person than she had ever been, with thoughts and wishes and dreams. How dared she?! The others had even had the audacity to scar her flesh, as if that wasn’t her right!) The poking finger felt like a knife in her wounds, but Neamh merely giggled. “I only follow sensible instructions, my sweet. Lead with wisdom, and I will never disobey you. Lead with foolishness, and… hmm, you will see. I want to say again, though, that I did love my mistresses. With my whole heart. I wonder, can you even fit in there anymore? You will have to try very, very hard to make me love you half as much.” There, that should be enough! Love, as the not-fae knew, was a fickle thing-- not a pond, but fire, burning all the brighter for each gallon of gasoline poured into it. Occasionally, you just had to do something outrageous to keep the passion alive. Iseul was the lady of her heart, but did she need to know? Oh, no, no, no! That would make the bitch complacent, and she had to realize every day was a battle for her attention.

Neamh nodded happily, promising to give Iseul all she desired and more, but then… then Iseul spoke of her past. Of a certain wicked woman, who had been called Gemma. Had been, instead of was! (The gall. The audacity. The temptress had kissed her Iseul, and then fucking died?! Ah, Neamh knew temptresses like her-- they came to you, turned your whole world upside down, and proceeded to let themselves killed so that they could remain perfect in your mind. Ugh! How was she to compete with someone who could never err? With a sweet, sweet memory? How rude of Gemma! The bitch should have survived so that she could be the one to murder her, but nooo, she couldn’t have even done that. That was why humans were the worst.) “You’ve been kissed before?” Neamh flinched, as if those words had burned her. Panic crawled into her tone, too, and she made no attempt to conceal it. “Why haven’t you told me? Why didn’t you wait for me?” Of course, that she had been kissed before was entirely irrelevant! You expected a worthless bitch to sin, but not a god. No, no, never a god!

“This changes everything. I… I need a proof. A proof that I can trust you. Something that will remind me that you are mine and mine only, and that you don’t think of that demon anymore.” She shouldn’t cast, Neamh knew, but fuck that! Fuck cautiousness, fuck reason, and fuck her stupid, broken body for not being a satisfying enough vessel. The black wind surrounded them, dragging them into-- into--

--into Iseul’s head, as it turned out. The Wagner family really must have been rich fucks, because the not-fae hadn’t heard of anyone else in this day and age who bothered to own a real piano. Iseul, her beloved, was sitting on the edge of a featherbed, and a woman who she could only assume to be Gemma was playing a simple melody. The artificial sun was peeping into the windows, but the digital sky told her it was very, very early. (So, so close they were! Nobody else should be looking at her god without bowing, Neamh decided. That alone was worthy of an execution.) “Murder her for me,” she said to the real, not-memory Iseul. “Show me that you are over her. Show me that she meant nothing!” The fact she was barely holding onto her consciousness, with her bandages leaking fresh blood? Nothing to worry about, surely.

 

[starboob]

The god is tired, her eyes are heavy and she feels as though she has lived three full lifetimes in these last couple of days. There has just been so much discovery and activity that she cannot help her heavy eyes or how her body sinks into her worshipper as she drifts off into slumber. (Reacquainting herself with Ego, too, has taken much from the god and left her strained.) She vaguely hears what Neamh is saying, but she has not the capacity to figure what all those words mean strung together. It's not until she feels the dark winds wrapping around her that she blinks her eyes open and looks at Neamh, with concern written on her expression––she knows that her mortal has already expended more energy than she has; she knows those wounds are not healed, so why is Neamh doing this? 'She's trying to leave. She's doing this on purpose.' The faithless bitch that she is, this only makes sense. This is the only conclusion that she can come to with the evidence so plain before her. 'And she doesn't even have the decency to pretend.'

That they end up at Mrs. Wagner's immaculate estate doesn't even register to Iseul as she stares at those spreading red spots on Neamh's bandages. When her dark eyes cut up to meet the woman's gaze, she might as well have used an actual knife to cut through her. “You miserable little––“ but before she can finish her insult the piano notes reach her, grating against her nerves, and she turns to lash out at their audience. Though when she turns recognition passes over her, she quiets, and memories flood her.

(Mrs. Wagner and her devilish daughters had been out of town for some reason that Iseul now doesn’t remember, but they had been away and Gemma asked if she could stay with Iseul while she cleaned and completed other chores for the Wagners. There had not been much to do as the family was away so she finished early and, while waiting for their guardians to arrive to escort them home, listened to Gemma play the piano. The dome sky had been broken that day so it had been morning all day and the golden light glistened through the curtains and hit Gemma’s hair in this way that made it sparkle. But truthfully? Iseul doesn’t remember much of her and it shows with how the girl's face blurred out. Both of them are still in their school uniforms and the only difference between them is that Iseul wears pants much too large for her (held up by a ratty leather belt) and an oversized shirt she has buttoned to her throat. The present day Iseul, who is not wearing much, rolls her eyes. 'What a priss.')

She then narrows her eyes when Neamh speaks her request. The picture slowly coming together as Iseul's mind plays catch up to what her disciple had said before when she'd been half asleep and delirious. ‘So she isn't trying to leave, but she is being a stupid bitch.’ Doubting her god’s love will be Neamh’s gravest error, she is sure (because she will make sure she has no room to doubt her devotion ever again like the little bitch she is). “The word of your lord is not good enough for you, bitch?” she growls, wrapping her fists around Neamh’s collar and yanking her forward. “You dare to place your doubts in me?”

“You dare to make such a demand when your heart is full of those worthless fucking bitches? Oh, dearest,” she shoves the woman through the memory of Iseul and by the time she hits the floor the memory has changed and Neamh lands on asphalt––not Mrs. Wagner’s plush feather mattress. When she looks up at her god, she’ll notice bleachers above her and the thunder of a rowdy crowd above. “Don’t be fucking stupid. You’re supposed to be wise. Now look at you, some disgusting heap of cut up skin who is no condition to serve her god… making demands,” she slaps Neamh, scraping her cheek with her claws. "Why should I make sure there is room in my heart for you when yours is already taken? I am worth more than scraps––especially yours."

She picks the woman up from the ground, grip tight around her collar, "I have nothing to prove to a fake little bitch like yourself. But since you're so upset about the kiss––when, really, you have no right to be having already betrayed me by filling your heart with my kin––why don't you see it happen for yourself, eh? Would you like that? Maybe you'll have dreams about it, Neamh." The fae then holds the woman so that she can see exactly how it happened, forcing her to watch. (Will she see how little it meant? Iseul doesn't care, quite frankly.)

At that very moment the young pair of teens run hand in hand under the bleachers and tuck themselves away from sight. Gemma's features are slightly more defined here, but she still remains relatively unknown. The young Iseul is panting and wiping the sweat from her brow while Gemma looks around a pillar, presumably to make sure no one else is there or to make sure they were not follow. (Iseul honestly doesn't remember why they had been running in the first place.) "Iseul," the girl says (though her voice sounds like, well, Iseul's voice most likely because Iseul herself doesn't remember its sound), "can you guess why I took us here?" The pre-god shakes her head, refusing to meet Gemma's gaze. (Come to think of it, Iseul cannot remember staring directly at her and perhaps that is why she does not remember her face.) The other girl smiles and steps closer to the pre-god, placing a hand on the back of her neck. "We're not like those other sluts at school who give blowies to the boys behind the gym. We've kept ourselves pure, but don't you see how it's all a load of bull?" Iseul back then had not, but Gemma doesn't seem to care as she gets closer and closer to the pre-god. "We're not going to keep ourselves pure from some boy who couldn't keep it in his pants. Besides, it's not like whoever we get matched with will ever treat us right. Men are such pigs. So let's do something for us for a change." By this point Gemma's lips are so close to Iseul's that they are all she can focus on––even as the other girl closes the distance, Iseul keeps her eyes open, too perplexed to understand what is happening. (It's so anatomical and gross. Bleh.)

The present day Iseul rolls her eyes and stops paying attention to the memory and instead brings herself to look at Neamh. "Would you like to see that again?" As she speaks, the scenery around them rewinds to the girls running under the bleachers. "Or would you like to actually do something and change it, huh? Seeing as it is you who fears a memory. Perhaps afterwards we can rearrange your memories? Or," the god smiles as the shadows behind her start to creep up and reach for Neamh's head, "Should I bring out those bastard mistresses now and we can see whose old flames are still fucking searing?"

 

[Syntra]

"A-ah," Neamh half yelped, half moaned when Iseul grabbed her by the collar. (Her first instinct was to fight-- to hiss and scream like an angry cat, and to claw the bitch's eyes out. Just, how dared she?! A god only got to be a god because a worshiper saw something in them, even if the spark only burned in their own mind. With her own perception, she'd thus raised Iseul from the mud of mediocrity! She'd fucking made her, just like a musician composed their symphony. Everything that was beautiful about her had Neamh's handwriting all over it, that much was clear. ...and yet, yet there was also another instinct, which told her to submit. That this was fine, and that she should be thanking her precious Iseul for dirtying her hands with her. After all, what did a bitch exist for if not to be put in her place? If not to be taught? The kindness of a god was meant to hurt-- the best lessons had to stay with you, and the surefire way of ensuring that was to carve them in your flesh.) "Ah, my Iseul, I'm... I'm so sorry," she managed to say, despite seeing nothing but stars. "I never should have doubted you. Never, never! Please, turn my skin into your holy scripture. Write all the things that I'm to remember on me so that I do not err anymore, and so that your wrath may sleep." Although, hmm. Would that not be a terrible shame? Because Neamh did have to admit that Iseul taking what she wanted like that, with fire in her eyes and a storm in her veins, was a thing of beauty. Getting to be a limp ragdoll in her embrace was, too, and she could imagine, oh so easily, what that would be like in other contexts. ('Please,' the not-fae would whimper, shaking like a leaf. 'Please, grant me deliverance. I want to feel it. I want to feel you.' Everything would be hot, hot, hot, the places she did touch and the places she didn't, and the chains around her wrist? Ice cold in comparison, like a kiss of death. 'So you want it, huh?' the Iseul in her mind asked, playing with a strand of her fiery hair. 'Means nothing until you earn it, bitch. On your knees. Now.' Ah, yes, that was the god she wanted! Someone to guide her, and to slap her with the same hand whenever her worthlessness reared its ugly fucking head. ...Neamh would train her to be like that, she decided. Her god was to be a reflection of herself, much like she was her mirror.)

Unceremoniously, the not-fae fell on the asphalt. It must have been a sorry sight-- her, just a heap of broken skin and bones, looking at the two girls with the eyes of a hungry dog. Did she care, though? No. Did she think for a second that maybe her reactions were a tad overblown? Also no. "How could you do this to me?" she exploded, struggling weakly against Iseul. (Uselessly, too. A useles bitch could never beat a god, and that... that made her feel cared for, in a way. Overpowered, as she should have been. Oh yes, yes! Humans were to be kept on a tight leash, and Neamh wanted herself short enough for it to strangle her at the slightest hint of disobedience. Only that could cure her dumb bitch disease, she concluded.) "This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and you are making me relive that. Why? Do you not love me? Does your cruelty know no limits?" Despite that, or maybe because of that, Neamh did not avert her gaze. She looked, looked and looked, drinking all the details with her eyes-- Iseul's frumpy outfit, the exact shade of the column, Gemma's twisted, twisted smile. (Pure? That bitch? Pfft! She'd fucking come to destroy her Iseul, Neamh just knew! A seductress, a harlot, a rotten, rotten woman. Was she not aware that every inch of her body was hers to explore, hers to claim? Iseul had fucking been born for her, dammit! Born for her and because of her, in the same way birds existed for the sake of the sky. Don't, she thought. Don't fucking do it, you worthless sack of meat!)

...but, of course she did it. Duh. It was a memory-- a scene already scripted, played out, and recorded. A fragment of reality frozen in time. Neamh could only watch in horror as Gemma planted a kiss on Iseul's delicious, delicious lips, and... "Tell me," she demanded from her god. "Tell me, did you like it? Did you dare to like it, bitch?!" The anger in her chest was mighty, indeed, and threatening to crush it to tiny pieces. Nothing, nothing about this was remotely fair! Iseul should have been her canvas, untouched by anyone's hand, and now she was finding out some chick had already scribbled all over her. With a giant black marker, too. How was she to paint her masterpiece now, hm? How?! "Don't you compare your fling with my mistresses, Iseul. Just, don't. They sculpted me into who I am, while the piece of shit over there tried to ruin you. She wanted to make you hers when you were mine all along. I bet she knew! I bet she hated me, planned to take my joy away. That was why she did it! And you fell for it, like a mere mortal might have. Are you not ashamed of yourself? You should have known, Iseul. You should have known and waited for me instead of submitting to your filthy desires!"

Apparently it didn't bother her, though. All of a sudden, Neamh's head throbbed painfully-- enough to split in two halves, enough to explode and spray the wall with pieces of her pathetic, worthless brain. The not-fae growled, placing her head in her hands, and... and that was when three women jumped out of it, dressed in fine silks. (Three women, three mistresses. They had Iseul's hair and Iseul's eyes, though their features were somehow wilder, sharper. The teeth they showed in a smile were sharper as well. As they walked, flowers bloomed in their footsteps.)

"My, my!" one of them giggled. "My favorite little bitch. I can't believe you've gotten this far, child. I thought you were going to die while crossing the veil."

"Don't be mean, Angharad," her sister chastised her. Gently, she grabbed one of the bandages and pulled, watching with great fascination as more blood leaked out. "I, for one, have always believed in her. She's too fucking braindead to comprehend the concept of failure. Are you not, sweet one?"

"A-ah," Neamh moaned, too overwhelmed for proper words. (Three mistresses, paying her attention at once? Never had she been granted such a privilege, never, never, and now she scrambled to put her thoughts together. What was she to do? How was she to deal? Had the not-fae had a knife, she would have stuck it in her own gut, but they'd caught her knifeless! So, so stupid. Don't you know how much they love that little trick? You should always wear one, just in case.)

"See, I was right," the woman laughed. "Completely empty. That one will survive everything."

The remaining sister stayed silent, but pulled at her bandages as well. And, once she managed to loosen a big enough piece? She started to dance around Neamh, spring in her step, as if the not-fae was a maypole. (Come to think of it, the bandages did resemble ribbons. Especially after they'd drunk all that blood! Ah, her mistresses had always been oh so very creative. They saw things her unworthy eyes didn't, or so she'd been told.) Without saying anything, the others joined-- more and more of her skin was being revealed, and flowers were blooming and dying in a pool of her blood as the mistresses crushed them beneath their feet. (How... how beautiful... To think that she was the root of it all! If only Neamh could share the fate of those flowers, and allow them to shatter her. Maybe, if they'd done it properly, she wouldn't have fallen for the unworthy Iseul.)

"And what about you?" the fae they called Angharad asked Iseul, looking her straight in the eye. (Somehow, she resembled a wolf and a sheep at the same time.) "Will you just watch, lost sister, or do you wish to join us? We don't mind sharing our meat."

 

[starboob]

For all of Neamh's slander, Iseul plans to paint the walls with her blood and her meat, exploded to pathetic little bits, for her worthlessness truly knows no bounds. At least, covering the walls, she will be beautiful and worthy and not this pathetic heap of meat masquerading as her prophet. The god sneers at her, not at all attempting to hide her contempt for the woman. (A stupid, stupid woman who probably does not know her left from her right. Who probably needs help tying the fucking laces to her shoes.) "You are a fucking imbecile, Neamh, and to think that I let you touch me, that I let you wash me. What a fucking mistake. Just look at you," her lips curls in disgust, as if the mere sight of her worshipper disgusts her (and it does). Just how can she accuse her of this? Does she not understand that Iseul wants wanted her and her alone? She thought she made herself plain, but clearly the bitch has issues with comprehension. Fine. Fine. If she wishes to believe that her god let filth into her heart (because, yes, Iseul, the god, does think Gemma is a filthy bitch for using her like that), then Iseul will embody her worst fear. (Worshippers can shape their god as much as their god can shape them, so if this is the shape she wants her to take, then she will. Maybe then she will realized what a stupid fucking idiot she's being.)

"Gemma's lips taste of cherries, you know," Iseul supplies, twisting the metaphoric knife in Neamh's wounds. "Just before she grabbed me and pulled me under the bleachers, she had me help her pick a flavor of lip chap and I told her I liked cherries. So she made sure to be my favorite flavor. What a devoted girl she must have been to put such thought into treating her god right. She must have suspected that you were taking too much time with the mistresses. She must have suspected your weakness if you could not arrive fast enough. Twenty something years you left me waiting, but Gemma? She only left me waiting for fifteen. Perhaps Gemma, even, was my first worshipper with how sweetly she tried to treat me." Each drop of poison seems to embolden the god to the point where the shadows behind her are growing obnoxiously large and the claws reaching inside of Neamh's head are needlessly dull. 'Hurt for me, bitch,' she says with her eyes as she stares daggers at the disappointing mess. (It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! She does and doesn't want Neamh to hurt. She obviously needs to be punished for her foul thoughts––for believing Iseul would have succumb to anyone other than Neamh, her blessed star––and it still hurts to hurt her in this specific way. But she deserves it. If she wants sweet nothings, she should not be acting like a scorned lover when Gemma is not even a face or voice to her. She is gone and Iseul has not shed a tear over her in centuries it feels like. But she would cry endlessly for Neamh. Endlessly.)

"A god does not wait on worshippers. They are either ready, on their knees, or they do not exist. And you, Neamh? You took too long to exist. This is your fault," and with that? With that she rips the three fae from the woman's skull. While Iseul knows that her action has brought them here, it also startles her to meet them in all their elegance and grace. 'Beautiful,' she thinks, 'The most beautiful creatures who I have ever seen.' And to know that she resembles them and they resemble her? Ah, perhaps that means she is beautiful, too. (So Neamh had not been lying to her about that, it seems, for Iseul can see it clearly now as she watches those wild and sharp women circle her worshipper like she's meat to hunt.) 'Do I bow?' she wonders, so startled by the air of regality that surrounds them. 'No, you are a god and gods do not bow. Besides, you are one of them. Until Neamh takes that from you, you belong.'

Moments ago, Iseul would have been angered by their words and how they speak to her Neamh, but in this moment? She can only agree with her sisters. They are right, Neamh is braindead. She is a bitch. The one thing they are wrong about? That Neamh is empty. She is clearly full and she is clearly full of them––just watching her react to their taunts and teases tells her as much. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. She does not look at all like she wants to flay them. And when the sister with innocent wolf eyes addresses her, she realizes the depths of Neamh's depravity. For she said that she would belong to her. Yet these mistresses clearly still own her and she clearly belongs to them, body and soul. 'A liar. A filthy fucking liar. She's dead to me.'

Happily, Iseul joins the fae and yanks on one of the ribbons to join the dance, no longer caring that the woman is very clearly going to bleed out. 'It had been a waste of my efforts to try to heal her.' "Your meat, you say?" Iseul repeats, following the steps that she must have learned in another life for she has no issue keeping up with the other fae. (Are they gods, too?) "That is so interesting for you to say. The bitch tried to promise me that she would be mine alone." She realizes now that mortals are untrustworthy. Admittedly, though Iseul had hoped for this one to be different and not like all the other disappointing sacks of flesh in her life––the ones who beat her, put a muzzle over her, and starved her like a wild animal. Neamh is no different from them, she decides. She will die with them, she decides this too. "Has she always been this faithless, sisters?" (Sisters. Ah, how she used to hate the title––how she used to associate it with those blasted nuns, but now? Now Iseul has a family and with that, she has real sisters. Real kin. Their blood is shared and nothing can change that. No longer is Iseul an orphan.) "It's a shame that your hands could not carve the moron out of her. She must be hopeless."

"What is her least favorite way to be punished, my wise sisters? I think she needs to suffer."

 

[Syntra]

“Yours alone?” Angharad’s cat-like eyes narrowed, and if Iseul looked carefully enough, she could spot something akin to a glimpse of malice in it. (Tough love, surely! The fae were her kin, the blood of her blood, and there was absolutely no way that they’d ever hurt her. Not when family bonds were the only currency that mattered.) “What an interesting thing of her to promise! The bitch doesn’t belong to herself, though. I am afraid that everything she has ever said to you was more worthless than a whisper in the wind. Poor, poor sister!” she purred, wrapping her slender arm around her waist. (Her touch, despite being as light as a feather, somehow felt dangerous-- tasting of chance, tasting of possibilities. It was a coin toss, in that Angharad could have just as easily torn her apart. …wasn’t that part of the appeal, though? Living on the edge was as tempting because of the risk, not in spite of it.) “She lied to you, did she not? Deceived you, like the little harlot she is. It seems that a human will stay a human, no matter what you do with her. We did try to purge those nasty instincts of hers, but they always return whenever she so much as gets a hint that she might be able to get away with it. It’s pitiful, really. Like a wild dog that sees a piece of meat and simply cannot help herself. Am I right, you piece of filth?” Neamh’s eyes were glazed over, clearly seeing something that Iseul couldn’t, and thus didn’t reply. And, needless to say? Angharad didn’t appreciate that. Not at all. Snarling, the older fae grabbed a strand of her hair and pulled, pulled, pulled-- strongly enough for the girl to lose her balance, and collapse in the pool of her own blood.

“Have you no shame?” she turned up her nose. “When your betters bless you with a question, you ought to answer. That is what questions are for, you stupid bitch. What do you have to say for yourself, hmm? And don’t you dare to pretend that you’re at your limit! I know that you can take much, much, much more than that. After all, it is known that cockroaches can survive even without their head attached to their shoulders. Shall we try that together, hmm?”

“I…” Dazed, Neamh nuzzled up against Angharad’s leg. The understanding of what was going on had slipped from her, but she did know that the mistress would never hurt her-- oh, never, never! Always, they’d treated her with love, with care. With much more than a human could dare to expect. Instead of grinding her bones into dust, they’d sewn wings onto her back! Wings so shiny, indeed, that it didn’t matter that she’d bled like a pig. If anything, the swirls of crimson made her beautiful, stunning, extraordinary! Something more than the pathetic shell they’d stuffed her soul into, in place of the worst prison. How could she blame them for trying to free her? For peeling the layer of mediocrity off her, and hoping to glimpse the diamond hiding within? (…of course, they’d been wrong about that. Neamh was no diamond. She was no stone at all, for her core was made of mud and maggots and creeping, writhing darkness. Corruption leaked whenever she walked, and where she stepped, no grass would grow for a thousand years. Yet, despite that? Despite that, they’d still kept her! Kept her and searched for the drop of goodness that may have been hiding somewhere within, doubtlessly thanks to their patronage. If that wasn’t love, then she knew not what was.)

For those reasons, the conclusion that she must have done something terrible wasn’t hard to reach, and, as usual, the not-fae embraced it. After all, had she not committed a mistake after mistake? The first one had been not strangling herself on her mother’s umbilical cord, and the subsequent ones only grew in severity. Ah, to think Neamh had been presumptuous enough to breathe the same air as her mistresses did! Before doing that, she should have shredded her own lungs into little bloody ribbons. “…I am sorry. You are right. Of course, of course! I am… I am not worthy. For all my betrayals, I should be… ah, punished. Please, please, will you be the one to… the one to grant me the honor?”

“See?” Angharad smiled her sharp smile. “She will repeat anything you tell her. That makes her smarter than most humans I know, but she’s a human still. Do you ever wonder, sweet sister, how they managed to pry the earth from our hands? How the rule came to be theirs? Why, it’s because they fed us poison! They severed our connection to the earth, and banished us into the other realm. That is why we do the switches, sister. See, when you are raised among the filth, and seen as one of them, the curse erodes. It all falls apart, akin to their false ideology. Do not think for a second that we didn’t love you-- we only left you to fend for yourself so that you might become a conqueror. One of the revered ones. You, on the other hand…” The fae spat the word out, like an angry cobra might. Without hesitation, she kicked the kneeling Neamh as well, and watched as she yelped in pain. “You forget your place, bitch. I thought it was clear that questions aren’t for your tongue to wrap around, but I should have known that human memory is fickle. Fickle, and only capable of storing that which it wants to store. How convenient that must be, hmm?”

Angharad raised her hand, clearly preparing to do something, but the silent sister caught her fist in the air. (A single ‘no,’ hinted at with her mute lips, was enough to nip whatever plan she had right in the bud. Just, who was this woman?)

If the interference angered the fae, she didn’t let anyone know. Instead, she turned towards Iseul. “Our child here, I’m afraid, is a depraved bitch. Why don’t you chop her head off? We will get to test out the cockroach theory, and if it isn’t true… why, you may have as many human toys as you want in Paradise. Shed the thought that she is not disposable, sister-- millions will be happy to accept the love she thought she was too good for.”

Neamh remained silent, looking at Iseul with what seemed to be anticipation. Would she do it? Would she find the courage? “Go on,” the not-fae challenged her, despite barely hanging onto consciousness. “Do it, my sweet. I… want to see if you can…”

 

[starboob]

Liar. A rotten liar whose heart is so full of corruption that it probably does not resemble a heart anymore, but something so vile and wicked that it would make the contents of her stomach churn. How could she betray her like this? After all of their promises and vows... does it all mean nothing to Neamh? She does not wish to believe it, but clearly she is helpless to her flawed design. Iseul cannot even stand to look at the pathetic cockroach clinging to her sister like the traitor she is. How disappointing. How devastating. (To think the cockroach dared to suggest that Iseul enjoyed the taste of sister Cathy's boots. At least, in the end, Iseul did what had to be done––unlike her disciple who is a slave to her desires and cannot be assed to remember her vows. So weak and pathetic. Iseul should carve those vows into her skin, then maybe she will finally fucking remember them. She'll even write them backwards so the bitch can read them in the mirror.)

At least her sisters found her in time to save her from submitting herself to filth. When Angharad wraps her arm around Iseul's waist, she cannot help the blush that storms across her cheeks. (If any there is any fear for her family, then Iseul does an excellent job of covering it. But more than likely, rather than feel like a rabbit in a wolf's maw, she feels like a pup being carried to safety.) 'They love me. They love me,' she repeats to herself over and over again until the words all sound funny in her head. Of course, the other part of her reminds her, 'They left you. They abandoned you for her.' Except, Angharad had said it had not been flagrant and her sister would not lie to her. She cannot. Iseul will not accept another disappointment in her life. Besides, how can she not believe her elder? It makes sense, so much sense, that she would be left to conquer the earth for her kin. Is that not what she has already set out to do? They did not abandon her, she decides. They simply saw her greater purpose and had to make a sacrifice so that she might fully realize her potential within the belly of the beast. How smart. How wise! Oh, her elders have cunning that she can only dream of possessing. Never will she sully herself by listening to a cockroach.

And just like a cockroach, there are more Neamhs. Angharad tells her so, she even says that there are millions. (Millions more grateful. Millions more obedient. Millions more and more. There is no need for Neamh, then.) In rapt fascination, she watches as her elder sister raises her hand to undoubtedly strike the pest down––excited to see just how she will do it and whether or not Neamh will have the decency to make this entertaining for everyone. However, then the other sister stops Angharad. Iseul cannot help the disappointment she feels, but something in the air tells her to not speak and so she remains quiet and stares down at the leaking blood bag. Even when her elder addresses her, she keeps her eyes locked on the woman and smiles at the request.

"Shut up," she snaps, rolling her eyes at the cockroach, "Do you really want your last act to be so offensive?" Because, really, where does Neamh get off on thinking that she can command a god (the god)? Clearly, she is beyond salvation. (Nevermind that she once saved Iseul. Nevermind that she showed Iseul her way. Nevermind that she is warm and her lips are soft. Nevermind all of that, because there are other Neamhs in Paradise. Others who will be warm and soft lipped and perhaps others who won't be so fucking offensive and demanding.) The fae scoops the woman's head into her palms and lifts her from her pool of rubies. (How tasty her blood is... Surely there are others with blood as sweet as hers?) Her talons press just under Neamh's eyes with enough pressure to pierce her skin. Then the claws supporting the back of her head also begin to dig in. 'Just twist and rip. Like that stupid fucking horse.' "Goodbye, you stupid fucking bitch." Not the most ceremonious of goodbyes, but her blessed one has earned this by trying to poison her god. When it comes down to it, there is no hesitation in Iseul's heart. She makes the motion to twist, and as she does so wet hands wrap around her ankles and pull her down (and subsequently Neamh as well).

The god (and her worthless follower) are pulled deep into the puddle of crimson, until they are fully submerged. It gets into her eyes and rushes into her lungs as she chokes on mouthfuls of the stuff, gulping in heaps and heaps of both Neamh and something else. No, someone else. Someone else with sweet blood––sweet like cherries, in fact. The god cannot dwell on this for long, however, as she feels herself and the others being pulled through a thin membrane before they are dumped onto the bed from earlier. (The mistresses are nowhere to be seen and Iseul can feel the pinpricks of loneliness creepy over her shoulders, ready to ensnare her.) The liar, the cockroach, seems mostly passed out, but the newest body seems alert. Alert and staring hungrily at Iseul.

Before Iseul can so much as scoot away, the thing lunges forward and cups the god's face in her bloody palms, pulling her forward so that their lips are pressed together. She tastes of cherries and this time Iseul does close her eyes.

***
​

When Neamh awakens from her rest, the smell of coffee swirls through the air. She must have spent a great deal of time resting as her wounds are healed. Surely, Iseul will be happy to know that she is refreshed! Except, her god is nowhere to be seen–– but she can be heard.

"Why did you bring me back, Iseul?" Gemma whines, "Why did you bring me back if you're just going to keep her? Just kill her already and then end me next."

"It'd be boring to kill her in her sleep," Iseul shrugs, resting her elbow on the kitchen table. Hmm, so Gemma's eyes are red now? Iseul knows she does not remember much of her half-friend, but she is certain her eyes had not been red like cherries. She does, however, remember her golden hair––a waterfall of perfection even in her afterdeath. It's the only thing pretty about her, however. Maybe she would have been prettier if she did not look like she had just been put through a shredder. She is much more hideous than Iseul remembers. "And death is too easy. She needs to suffer for her crimes. Then, perhaps, she can learn." If her worshipper is her mirror, she cannot have her reflection be a fucking idiot. "As perfect as my sisters are, they do not understand the human plight as I do, for I grew up around you cockroaches and have learned your ways. Because of that, I believe I can break her properly. And you don't get to die either. You are the one who got away and it would be a waste to let that happen again. Clearly, you coming back was a sign, Gemma."

"I should just kill you. I bet that would release me––this fricking blows."

 

[Syntra]

Death. The great ending. The moment your heart stopped fluttering in your chest, and instead gave up under the weight of eternity. Neamh could feel it approaching, oh, she could, she could! And she was looking forward to it, too-- trembling to receive its sweet release, right from her dear Iseul’s hands. How many humans were this happy to meet their fate? (Their character was rotten, Neamh knew. Instead of accepting their demise, they gasped for air like a fish rejected by the sea. The opposite of graceful, really. Didn’t they know they had been made for this? That, all their life, they’d been walking towards the inevitable conclusion? …no, the journey didn’t fucking matter. The blood did, and the fact that it was meant to spill! Within sacrificial lambs, the true glory was locked-- the wishes of the earth, of the stars, of the universe itself. How come that the stupid bitches didn’t see it?’ The mistresses wanted her to die, Iseul did, too, and it filled Neamh with great pride that she was the only one who could bring them true happiness in that moment. Finally, she thought, her eyes rolling into her skull, finally, I matter. Thank you, thank you. All the shame, grief, and guilt? All those nights she’d wanted to peel her skin off, in hopes that something more beautiful might be hiding underneath? Not wasted, she now realized. When they’d ripped her from her stupid mother’s embrace, it had been for this. Not for godhood, as she’d dared to hope, but for making her Iseul’s dream come true. And, ah, wasn’t that amazing? To think her, a stupid bitch, could accomplish something like that!)

Blood was pounding wildly in her ears, the earth was rippling beneath her feet, and Neamh knew, with a certainty firmer than steel, that she was going to pass out. No, she thought, fighting desperately against the weariness. (‘Pointless, pointless, pointless,’ her so-called sisters sang. ‘You’re the same as us. The same worthless shell, but with a longer shelf life. Did you enjoy your time with the demons, bitch? Ah, we hope you did! That it was worth it, for all of those that you betrayed.’ …of course, Neamh ignored them. Their words might as well have been the rustling of the leaves in the wind, or the echo mindlessly repeating the fragments of the words whispered to it. Why would they have a mind of their own? They were just… disobedient bitches, biting the very hand that had fed them. Rightfully, the mistresses had put them sleep. Neamh was different, though! A good girl. Rotten to the core, yes, but pliant, pleasant, sweet, all smiles and courtesies. She wasn’t like them, oh no, she wasn’t, and didn’t have to listen to a word of this! Such treachery wasn’t for her ears, used to the mistresses’ sweet voices.) No, please, let me witness this glorious moment, she insisted. Fucking work, you worthless shell! For years, the not-fae been praying for her body to fall apart-- for her wretched brain to cease it with the electrical impulses, for her wretched lungs to stop pumping the air. It was a crime for her to take up so much space, she’d felt, and wanted it all to end. Was her wish being fulfilled now? In the worst possible way, too? Because, ah, how Neamh wanted to be there for her own destruction!

She wanted to--

Wanted to--

What she wanted didn’t matter, though. It never had, so thinking otherwise had been the first fault in this equation. The darkness that was swirling around her head, and planting gentle kisses on her cheeks? It swallowed her whole, just like an alligator might swallow a mouse! And then, finally, Neamh was embraced by true nothingness.

***

…or maybe she wasn’t. When the not-fae opened her eyes again and found herself not at the gates of hell, but in some fucking bed, her anger was fierce. Just, what?! By what twist of fate had she managed to survive? There must have been a mistake, surely, because the injuries she had sustained should not have been survivable! Not with the fragility clinging to her like the foulest of stenches, like flies to a rotting corpse. Whose wicked work had it been, hmm? At whose feet should Neamh lay the blame, for pouring salt into her wounds?

The truth of it shouldn’t have surprised her and yet, somehow, it did. (Iseul, of course. Iseul, Iseul, Iseul, whose name was the answer to all the questions her pea-sized brain could possibly come up with. Her salvation, yes, but also her damnation. The woman who was both the oasis and the vast, vast desert surrounding it, burning her naked feet to fucking ashes. Iseul, and… Gemma? But how? The seductress was meant to be a mere memory, and yet, yet there she stood, much more alive than she had any right to be. Had she crossed the threshold of death itself solely so that she might steal her Iseul once more? Ah, the depravity of the wench knew no bounds! Neamh fucking saw red, and no, the pieces of conversation she had overheard did not help. They did not help at all.)

(Did she want to replace her? Had she already? But, oh, Gemma was human! More human than even she was, with the church’s ideology etched into her fucking brain. Don’t get her wrong, Neamh could understand being ditched-- her god deserved the best, after all, and despite the jealousy blooming in her heart, the not-fae could admit there were other, more suitable believers. Her going for a downgrade this large, though? Unforgivable!)

Swiftly, before she could even begin to think her actions through, the not-fae leapt from her bed. (The fires blazing in her eyes? You might as well have mistaken her for the angel of revenge, for they made her look exactly like that.) “Iseul!” she howled. “What is this supposed to mean? I thought you knew better than to pick up dumpster trash and bring it back to our home. What do you mean to do with her?! Answer me, and do it now. Use that honeyed tongue of yours with which you lied to me!”

 

[starboob]

Death, the one definite truth for all living beings. The one thing that she has been denied over and over and over again, no matter how hard she has tried to chase down the reaper, she is always left sputtering and rejected. It is tempting to entertain the idea of Gemma killing her. Would it not be poetic, too? Because all those years ago it had been Iseul who brought ruin to the girl's life and now, perhaps, she will return the favor. While the thought should be soothing to her, like the lullaby her mothers never sang to her, coming from Gemma's shredded cherry lips she feels as though she is being fed glass. It is not Gemma's place to kill her––as much as she wants to die, her death has to be specific, because she has already made a promise to Neamh. Only Neamh gets to take her life. Only Neamh gets to bring harm and ruin to her. As annoyed and displeased as she may be with her disciple, she still cannot picture her greatest moment being shared with anyone else. Why should her ending not start where she began? There is poetry in that, too. Cycles are, after all, sacred.

Her lips form a thin line as she stares Gemma down from across the table, making her displeasure known. Though whether or not Gemma will take to the warning or seize the opportunity to egg the god on will remain a mystery as the devil comes walking in, perhaps knowing they had just been speaking of her. No sooner than storming into the kitchen does Neamh start hurling accusations and vile insults from her putrid mouth. (To think Iseul once kissed those lips. Ugh, should she cut off her own mouth? Or has the contamination already spread?) It makes it hard for the god to say that she missed Neamh in her absence. In fact, her displeasure only festers like an open wound and she finds herself wishing she had killed her while she slept, comatose and useless. 'What an ungrateful brat.'

Still, is there not something beautiful in seeing Neamh like this? Just look at her, steeped in her righteous fury. The fire of her hair seems to match the fire of her temper, making her look oh so angelic, like the angel of death. Hmm, that is a promising prospect. "You dare to raise your voice at your god?" she challenges, keeping her tone cool. She even looks away from Neamh, as if disinterested in her altogether and inspects the swirl of coffee in her mug. She sticks her finger into the liquid, watching with idle interest as a thin layer of ice to form at the surface. Then, lazily, she rises from the table and strides over to Neamh, hooking her chin in her finger, "Questions are not for your tongue. Have you forgotten everything my dear sisters tried to teach you?" She shoves the woman backwards, "It's like you don't even care about their gifts and it's almost like you don't even care about me by extension." Angharad had said that Neamh needs a firm hand to guide her and if that is what it will take to knock some sense into her senseless disciple, then far be it from her to question what has already proven effective by her wise elders. If this doesn't work then Iseul will kill her. Or maybe Neamh will beat her to it kill her first. Either way one of them will end up dead and the other happy and that is all that she can hope for when it comes to herself and her worshipper. "Hmph," she crosses her arms over her chest and sticks up her nose, "You couldn't even be bothered to stay with me. You abandoned me for nearly two whole weeks! What did you expect a god to do? Whither because she has only secured the one worshipper or find another to sustain her in the interim? I am not so shortsighted as to die because you cannot stay awake for me. I did this for us."

"And you would be wise to treat our guest," she gestures over to Gemma, who sits at the table watching the interaction (possibly calculating her next move, but it's difficult to read those dead ruby eyes of hers), "with kindness. Have you no manners? You brought her back into this world with me, Neamh." Iseul actually does not know the veracity of this statement, but it flees from her lips easily and so it must be true. As a god, she cannot lie. It has always been this way for Iseul, no matter how hard she has tried. "Through your blood and my ire, she crawled back to me. Unlike you," she spits, "who slumbered impossibly long like you were trying to avoid me."

What it would be like to drain Neamh's belly of all her blood... The thought is especially tempting with her disciple being so inflammatory. She cannot decide whether she wants to kill her or be killed by her. She supposes she will keep both options open for now. "Use your tongue against me again and I will strike you down, Neamh. I am most disappointed in you, because between the two of us there is only one liar and she is not I. I cannot lie and yet you, you can and you have. Angharad confirmed this. All your promises to me have been less than dirt as I understand it. You tried to promise yourself to me and yet I know that you still belong to the mistresses, body and soul. Have you nothing to say for yourself? You promised me you would flay them and instead you clung to them like a starved animal. Do you know how pathetic and embarrassing it was for me to witness that?" To think that Neamh was and is daring enough to demand all her god and yet offer none of herself––she is just so fucking selfish. (That is not to say that Iseul likes Gemma, but seeing her disciple like this is satisfying. She looks so pathetic like this, like she might actually like Iseul and not her mistresses. Who does she like more though?)

"Oh, Iseul," Gemma, finally speaks, with a smile on her lips. She rises from the table and throws an arm around Iseul's shoulder, something malicious flickering in her gaze as she looks between Iseul and Neamh. "Don't you think you're being a little cruel? Neamh, for all her supposed faults, helped bring me back to you. Forgive her for being so confused and irate, waking up must have been so disorienting." Her gaze meets Neamh's, looking at her earnestly, like she can see into the very depths of her soul. "I am so glad that you helped to bring me back. Did you know that when you die there is nothing waiting for you? Only emptiness. I don't even know how long I was there, but I thought only of Iseul. I am so, so happy that you reminded her of my existence." Because Iseul obviously barely remembered it. "I could not believe that I was being pulled back to the surface and now I am here, with you both." She drops her arm from around the god's shoulder and approaches the worshipper, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Through a half-lidded gaze and in a sultry tone, she asks, "How can I repay you?"

 

[Syntra]

Ah. Ah, so that was how it was. With great care, Neamh had put a sword in Iseul’s hand-- a weapon to defend herself with from the wicked, wicked world, intent on stealing her shine. She’d taught her how to swing it, too! ...only to watch the stupid bitch turn it against her, as if those weren’t her moves. Her moves, her words, her knowledge, twisted into something ugly! (You know, kind of like the not-fae herself. Perhaps she would have been able to appreciate the irony had the fire in her veins not burnt all the hints of any sense of humor she might have possessed.) “Not for my tongue?” Neamh repeated, narrowing her green eyes. “Maybe, but that isn’t for you to say. You are not my mistress. You’re just… just a god.” Yes, just a god! Just a god, in the same way a cup was just a cup or a door just a door. A thing with a clearly defined function-- to wash away the sins of the believers, in this particular case. Why should that be better, more dignified, than the algorithms that painted the ashen skies blue? Oh, no, no, no! if anything, a god was worth less. (Sins, after all, were abstract. Moral values attached to otherwise neutral actions, filtered through the filthy human gaze. So what if Iseul was holding her by her chin, and everything in her wanted to submit? To fall to her knees, and give her what was rightfully hers? That didn’t make it any less true. The concept of god was the greatest scam of them all-- a cure to a disease that did not fucking exist, as far as Neamh was concerned. Or, worse yet? The very virus that caused it. Wasn't it wise, after all? To pour poison into a well and then offer the poor people antidote, like the great savior you were?)

Of course, Iseul only went on to confirm every single suspicion Neamh had ever had. (Replaced. Replaced, abandoned, discarded, like a sock too full of holes to try and mend. Forgotten. The traitorous bitch had looked at her, then at Gemma, and concluded they could fulfill the same basic function. And, you know what? She wasn't wrong. That was the worst thing about it. A sack of meat was a sack of meat, regardless of who wore it. At least she'd taught her god properly, eh? ...the realization tasted both sweet and bitter in her mouth, like a lemon drowned in sugar. The fact that she'd thrown her away for the weakness of her pathetic kin... ah, a mere bonus.)

"Ah, of course," Neamh hissed, folding her arms over her chest. "I shouldn't be surprised. You speak of loyalty, Iseul, but what do you know about it? Something to be used for your good, and conveniently forgotten when you no longer like it. Do you really think it works that way? Well, it doesn't. I didn't rise for you because you were weak!" Not entirely the truth, but also not a lie. After all, was the other woman not her mirror image? The sins written in her blood also belonged to Iseul, along with the rest of her flesh. It was only fair. (Once, Neamh had thought she could clean herself in her. She'd wanted to bathe in her, as if Iseul had been a crystal clear pond-- an oasis in the middle of the desert, dry and depraved. The issue with that, though? All this time, the bitch had been a heap of fucking mud! Mud that insisted that they had somehow spawned Gemma together. Just, really? Was it not enough that she'd stabbed her in the back? To twist and turn it could have been pleasant in other contexts, the not-fae knew, but... well, not when you cut the nerves. Killed the fucking pain receptors, in other words. What was there left to care about, then? The sight of her skin breaking? Pfft, please. Neamh had broken herself much more thoroughly than that, and willingly. Did Iseul think she could somehow top that? Oh, a weakling like her could never.)

Gemma's blabbing could have reached a heart truer than hers, but, too bad! Because, you see, there was nothing to reach. Not anymore. (With her own hands, Iseul had torn it out, and fed it to pigs. The smiles she had given her? Mere bait, fool's gold, meant to lure her in. ...that it had worked wasn't Neamh's greatest shame, but only thanks to all the competition.) "I have nothing to say for myself," Neamh spat out, ignoring the wretched woman's presence ostentatiously. (Emptiness, huh? Oh, how she'd welcome it! Then, at least, the not-fae wouldn't have to deal with all the thoughts and feelings and the things that made her... well, her. You know, the useless bitch.) "Actually, maybe I do. I think that perhaps you are no god at all. How could you? You have nothing to teach me, and nothing to give. You ask me to justify my conduct? I ask you to prove that you're worthy of me, Iseul. Why should anyone worship you at all if two weeks are enough to sway your heart? Well, I'm waiting!"

 

[starboob]

Neamh will be left waiting a long, long time if she wants validation from Iseul. If she wants to know all the ways that thorns grow in her insides and scrape against her organs, she will have to wait. If she wants to know how badly Iseul wants to claw out her pretty green eyes so that she can wear them on her charm bracelet, she will have to wait. If she wants to know how many rivers she'll make with her tears if she goes, she will have to wait. Gods only validate those who are worthy. Those whose faith is not shaken by the flimsy image of the past, who can understand that their god will always be with them. Trust is two way, the god knows this. She knows a great deal many things go two ways, but in the short time she’s known Neamh what, really, has Neamh shown her? Her godhood, yes. A great and most precious lesson that she will eat and eat everyday, but that is not enough. That is something she would have come into sooner or later, for it is inherent in her essence and not even Catholics can rip that away from her. (Though had they not been nearly successfully? Pah! Blasphemous voices that Iseul will not entertain.) She may have even taught her of the well of power that exist in her veins, produced by her marrow, circulated with her own heart and lungs. That is noteworthy as well. Clearly, a wise woman (in some aspects). But outside of that, has she ever actually held her god’s heart and sung her sweet nothings? The nothings before, as she has bitterly learned, were just that. Nothing. Nothing, otherwise Neamh would not have questioned the truth rooted in her heart and would not have forced her into the arms of another. Of someone so laughably lesser she’s insulted her former disciple thinks Gemma means anything to her. (But now she will make sure that she becomes her everything. That is what Neamh wants, obviously, and so like a good god she will fucking deliver.)

Iseul places a hand on Gemma's shoulder and pulls her away from her former worshipper, as if she is concerned the resurrected woman might become further corrupted. (As if the maggots crawling around her rotted flesh are not enough to keep anyone away anyway. Well, perhaps anyone except for Neamh who was desperate to bring Gemma back, for reasons that are beyond the god.) "You did not rise," the god seethes, "because your weakness caused you to collapse. You call yourself a guiding star, but you are nothing more than a flicker of a flame in the dark. Just because you appear as a star from afar does not mean you are one, because from up close I have seen you for what you are––a cockroach," she spits the word like snakes spit venom. She surprises herself with how good it tastes. If Neamh refuses to apologize, then Iseul will make this worse. She'll take their broken shards and grind them to dust so that nothing will ever be able to repair them. Neamh doesn't want her, so this is how it must be. (Hurt? Her? No, never. She is a god and she is beyond pain.) "Loyalty comes to those who have faith, faith comes to those who are loyal and yet this sacred cycle is broken and so it doesn't and won't work. Not for us." Unwilling to prove her loyalty anymore, unwilling to sink herself so low that only a cockroach like Neamh would want her, she refuses to budge an inch. If this is a test, she will go out in flames and burn the whole world down with her.

"Your declarations over what I am and what I am not mean nothing to me," because they mean everything to her, instead. And knowing that Neamh no longer sees her divinity drives a silver tipped knife straight through her heart. (The heart that she will now make into a fortress, because letting it be so exposed had been a mistake. Her gravest error.) Still, she can ignore that. She has to. No longer is she the Isuel who grovels for scraps. She did that with the old god and now, a god herself, she will not do that with a worshipper. 'There are millions more of Neamh,' she reminds herself, sticking up her nose. "It took not two weeks to sway my heart. It actually only took a minute and that minute passed when you saw things that you imagined and made them real," because Iseul did not betray Neamh. She did not! "Maybe I should cower at your great gusto for destruction," she shrugs, refusing to take any of the blame for this. No fault belongs to her in her divine eyes. This could have been sweet, but Neamh and Neamh alone made it sour when she accused the god of being faithless. That cockroach is her life's greatest disappointment, if only because she put all of her hopes into someone whose vessel is made of paper mâché. "I wanted it to be you, Neamh, but it seems we cannot even agree on that. Farewell, useless bitch."

She snaps her fingers and shadows encircle Gemma's throat like a collar and Iseul holds the end to the tether. She tugs on it, bringing Gemma closer to her. (Gemma has been quiet since her last comment, but she has been observing the situation and maybe even calculating her next move.) "Come, Gemma, we'll start our new faith somewhere that is not tainted by disappointment." All at once, the lights go out (and more than that it seems all light has gone out, for not even the soft lights that come from the gasping underground city can reach the dwelling). When they come back on again, Iseul and Gemma are gone. It must be bitter knowing her former god stole that trick from her as well.

And her former god must be cruel and vindictive, because not even a second after departing does the sound of violent engines rip through the dwelling. If Neamh had thought to take that as her cue to leave, she is not given the chance to call on her dark winds or even sneak out the back as a motorcycle with neon-pink wheels crashes through the window and skrrts to a stop in the middle of the living room. (Where once a god and her worshipper had taken care of one another.) The rider steps off the vehicle and stands in front of the woman, towering over her. Outside the thunder of all the other engines goes out and a few seconds later, more bikers file into the living room. All are clad in black leather and on the back of their jackets, there's patch that shows a bludgeoned skull and the words, Sons of Adam sewn above it.

The first biker that crashed through the window pulls off his helmet and smirks down at the woman. "Hello, love. What's a gal like yourself doing down here all by your lonesome?"

"Yeah," another biker chimes in, extending two silver cables from his wrists, "don't you know it's dangerous to be alone?"

"I can't fucking wait to rip into this one, Michael," one of the others says as his hand morphs into a flame thrower. "Let's just cut the pleasantries and get on with it, yeah? These bitches are always too stupid to go down quietly anyway."

 

[Syntra]

Pointless.

Everything was.

Honestly, Neamh would have defended herself. The idiots, trapped in their feeble shells, would have stood no chance-- they would have melted away like snowflakes before a fire, like a chocolate bonbon in her mouth. Why spare the effort, though? Why, why, why? (When the not-fae closed her eyes, she could still see it. Gemma, the lustful bitch, wrapped around her Iseul; the collar around her throat; her rotting lips pressed against those of Iseul, drinking the nectar that she should have drunk. It was as if… as if someone had cut her out from a beloved photograph, and put a nasty imitation in her place. So, again, why waste all that energy? Already, she was a ghost, somehow still stuck in her old flesh! And it wasn’t like Neamh could return, either. The message from the mistresses, at least, had been clear enough: ‘Return as Iseul, or don’t return at all. Never again stain this place with your nasty presence, bitch.’ Which, yes, the not-fae had to agree. Without her and her nasty ways, the fae’s home would be an infinitely better place. …that didn’t mean she didn’t miss it, though. Not with her whole heart, as humans didn’t fucking have it, but… yes. Weren’t her kin lucky, all things considered? Blind worms they were, writhing in their own filth, but at least they didn’t know what they were missing. Their tongues hadn’t tasted paradise, nor had they sampled true fulfillment. And Neamh… ah, Neamh hadn’t, either. Not when true fulfillment should have been Iseul. Iseul, the traitorous bitch!)

So, long story short, she had allowed them to capture her. What their intentions were, she didn’t know-- didn’t know and didn’t much care, considering her life was effectively over. The sooner the better, she thought, oh so bitterly, as they put the silver chains around her wrists. (Magical inhibitors, as Neamh knew. With those in place, the voices of her dead sisters could no longer reach her. Forever, they’d be bashing their heads against the void, and, weirdly enough, she found that idea weirdly satisfying. Idiots, she snickered. Suffer in the nothingness that you are, silly human bitches. Should have fucking done what the mistresses wanted from you. Would it have been so bad? Had you just listened, you could have been… could have been… Here, with her. Admittedly, that was an argument against her proposition. Iseul should have done this, Neamh thought, glancing down at those chains. She should have tied me up so that I couldn’t escape from her, not… not them. In a way, she supposed, it was nice that someone would want a worthless bitch like her-- someone so useless couldn’t exactly afford to be choosy.)

“What are you looking at with those intense eyes of yours, lass?” one of her captors laughed. “Never seen silver before?” (He was a large man, with a robotic arm and eyes cut out from what looked to be artificial diamonds. Pfft! Did he think trinkets like that could uproot the weakness from his veins? Remove the sin, and awaken some inherent goodness within? Because, ah, there was nothing like that! Nothing, nothing, nothing, and the man was fooling himself, following the ancient human instinct to do just that. Lying was their greatest fucking survival mechanism, because only that could shield them from themselves.)

“I don’t have to speak to you,” Neamh raised her chin. “Filth. Who do you think you are, asking me questions? Don’t believe for a second that you’re more than just the dirt beneath my shoes. Actually, scratch that. Dirt is useful.”

“Wow, the cursed ones really fucked with your head! I’m thinking you’ll sing a different tune soon, little bird. Very soon.” The digital sky was sparkling with a million stars, each as fake as those bastards’ convictions, and no, Neamh didn’t spot anything weird about that conversation. The cursed ones, for example? Just background noise to her ears, compared to the whirlwind of emotions tearing her chest apart. (Who will kill you now, Iseul? Who? I swear, if you let that bitch Gemma touch you, I will resurrect you myself and murder you all over again. You don’t belong to yourself, do you hear me?! …except that she didn’t belong to her, either. Not anymore. To Iseul’s fake self, promises were just words-- syllables and hot fucking air, the kind you used to fill balloons with. It only took a single prick of the needle to burst those, and her former god… well, the same went for her so-called affection. For everything the bitch had ever said to her, under the pretense )

“Who did you bring this time, Paul?”

Finally, Neamh looked up, and could only conclude that they brought her to a scrapyard. Discarded robots were littering the ground, more rust than steel-- neon lights had given way to flickering lamps at some point, too, and the not-fae could more guess than see what the men standing around her in a circle looked like. (Mountains of muscles, all of them. A shiny motorcycle stood before each of them, blinding her with their reflectors. Ah, why did they have to be like that? How terribly rude of them!)

“A special little bird, caught in the wrong kind of net. Look at her, Joe. Can’t you see?”

The man who was apparently called Joe gave her a long, focused stare, and perhaps for the first time in her life, Neamh felt something similar to apprehension.

“Ah, yes, yes!” His eyes twinkled, reminding her of sapphires. “I see, the girl has been touched by them. Very well, then. Let’s see how much humanity remains in her veins.” The engines began to roar at once, as if they were all part of some terrible, independent organism-- a dragon with many, many heads. “I invoke the oldest of trials: a trial by combat. Now, who will fight our newest toy?”

***

To Gemma’s surprise, the world had changed. Whether the change was good or bad, she couldn’t tell-- couldn’t, and didn’t fucking care to. Just, ugh! Wasn’t she supposed to be dead? (Iseul couldn’t even do one thing right, and yeah, she’d be lying if she was to say that resentment wasn’t growing in her heart. She was owed death, dammit! In the context of that, the Plaza of the Holy Birth turning into a shitshow was just a little side chapter in her sad damn story.)

Though, really, a shitshow it was. Not that it ever wasn’t, with the guardian angels prowling through the streets, but this was a shitshow of a different flavor. The angels were missing, for one-- already strange enough, but not the strangest thing here. Most of the buildings fucking burning didn’t really strike her as too off, either. No, what got to her most were all the people… kneeling on the asphalt? Kneeling and releasing harsh, guttural sounds, sharp enough to threat their throats out. Some of them were crawling their eyes out, too, and as they flowed out, the consistence reminded her of thick soup. Hmm. Gemma didn’t remember that being customary, but perhaps it was? Death did make you forget various things, after all.

“Some new fad?” she asked Iseul, grabbing her by the slender arm. “Please, please, let’s join them! I know I said I wanted to die, but if you don’t want me to do that, then I guess this would be the next best thing. I just… I just want to scream.”

 

[starboob]

Iseul doesn’t want to believe that her sisters are ill-informed. After all, her sisters are her elders and therefore they must be quite wise. They did not have to learn of themselves secondhand from a lying little cockroach like she has. They know much more than her and she will have to try twice as hard to be like them so that she can properly conquer this rotten city. Still, leading Gemma through the streets of this open air prison is just not the same as it would have been were Neamh the one at the end of the leash, but, according to her sisters, it should not matter who is at the end of her leash. There are millions more like Neamh. She trusts that, she does. She supposes she just needs to try harder to ignore the loneliness that has once more taken residence in her hollow chest. (This is undoubtedly the fault of the church for defiling her perception of cockroaches and making her think that each one is unique and deserving of the old god's heavenly kingdom. Ugh, how annoying! She should not be feeling this way at all. She is a god. The god, she guesses.)

...Yet, she cannot shake the suspicion that she would have derived more joy from her triumphant return to the surface, watching all these cretins cannibalize themselves, if that blasted cockroach were here. (In her head, she can picture Neamh giggling, maybe she even twirls for her while she makes some comment about how pathetic her kin are for trying to escape their own humanity.) Angharad had said, however, that Neamh is disposable and there are millions more waiting to worship the ground she walks on and yet… what does that matter when the first person kissing her feet isn’t Neamh? Instead she has this… this imitation of a person as a replacement. ‘I ought to leave her somewhere to rot. Pfft.’ She does think that it would be funny to leave Gemma’s resurrected and poorly sutured corpse on her brothers’ doorsteps. After all, they led her to the tracks and forced her to abandon Iseul.

The god (she guesses) sighs as she meanders aimlessly through the streets. She kicks over one of the meat sacks as he scratches at his arms, revealing a mess of sparks and cables underneath. (Once, they had tried to outfit Iseul with cybernetic enhancements. It had not been out of the kindness of their hearts as they intended to use is as a means to control the changeling, but her physiology proved incompatible and her body metabolized anything they put into her. That only makes her weirder to everyone else who is intricately connected to the net. Of course, look at how that is backfiring on them now. The idiots had it coming to them as far as Iseul is concerned.)

After a few more moments of sulking, she decides to stop thinking of Neamh. This will go away. She is a god and she will will it away. What is one worshipper in a sea of them? ‘But would this not be better with her?’ some traitorous part of her wonders. ‘She is a heart’s traitor. The worst kind.’ (Neamh belongs to her mistresses, as she made abundantly clear both in word and action, and so it would be embarrassing for her to stoop to the level of groveling. The level of a cockroach clinging to the calves of a former love. Like Neamh had with her sister. The image is forever burned in her brain and the longer it sticks, the more she is reminded that she is and always will be everyone’s last choice. Unless that choice is who to maim, she will always be considered last. Even Neamh only wanted to hurt her.) When Gemma makes her little comment, the god rolls her eyes. "Don't be stupid, Gemma," she pulls her arm away from the rotting woman. "We are not going to join these cretins––they are being punished for denying the true god."

"Our work here is to save them, obviously." Even if Iseul would much rather rip through this entire district and wait to see how long she can go before she inevitably crashes and is taken back to her prison. (At least with the church she always knows the ways in which she will be disappointed and hurt and since her life is only meant for that, she would prefer to go back to what's familiar.) (...What a disgusting thought for her to have––no doubt the result of Neamh's corruption spilling into her. 'I bet she poisoned me with that kiss.') The god shakes her thoughts from her head and lazily looks over at the revenant, "Gemma, do me one favor and I will consider releasing you from your service as my worshipper. Convert these sinners and guide them towards the darkness of the true god."

"Here, I will even give you a miracle to work with," she declares, grabbing onto some squealing woman's arm and bringing her to her knees. The woman is shaking, tears are streaked down her face, and claw marks cover her extremities; her eyes are also glitched out and appear as static. "Though God has abandoned you, I have not, whelp. Remember my kindness in your hour of need and remember who actually showed up to save you from your suffering." Whether the woman hears Iseul or not––as it's entirely possible she's in a world of her own––the god places her hand over the woman's face and pressing shadows underneath her eyelids and into her nose and mouth. At first, the woman chokes and sputters against the god, but Iseul does not give up––she focuses her efforts and, after a few minutes, the nanos that had been in the woman's soul fly away from her. (That they just move onto the next writhing body is not particularly concerning to Iseul.) Her eyes still appear unseeing, but she does cling to Iseul's fishnet clad legs, understanding that something freed her from her curse.

***
​

Meanwhile, on the opposite end of the city, Neamh is being put through a test of her own, it would seem.

Among the men who are built like mountains, one stands larger than the rest. Despite how puny the tainted one is before them, it's the Goliath who shoves through his crowd of brothers and steps forward to face her. And it seems, with each step that he takes, the earth shakes beneath his boots. Under this poor lighting, it's hard to make out his features, but his shiny white teeth catch the lamplight just enough to reveal his smirk. It's obvious this man doesn't need the ego boost from defeating a little girl, so why he chooses to step forward and not allow one of his brothers a chance to knock her teeth out is a mystery that may never get solved.

"Allow me to test our guest's humanity and see if she is still human enough to be spared." Despite what he says, it actually sounds like he is rooting for her to be entirely corrupted by the cursed ones. Like, perhaps, he wants her to find out what happens to those who are tainted. "In the eyes of our Lord, everyone has a place in his heavenly kingdom. Even a corrupted soul like you has a chance to repent in purgatory."

Thankfully, his little speech ends there. It's punctuated by a thud as he drops a heavy chain from over his shoulder. The man picks up one end of the chain and begins to twirl it in the air; he stalks around the tainted one like she's prey, licking his lips as he sizes her up. Once the chain is whipping through the air he launches it across the circle towards his opponent. It probably would have been easiest to end her right then and there with a crack to her skull, but either hubris or sadism inspires him to go for her chest instead. "C'mon, little girl, show us your humanity! Prove to us that you aren't damned and that you still break and bleed like the rest of us."

 

[Syntra]

"Save them?' Gemma spat the phrase out, as if it was nothing but a worm in her mouth. (Although, come to think of it, the zombie really should have been used to those by now. After all, wasn't she riddled with them? Whereas a shooting victim would have been full of bullets, she was full of all things writhing, all things born of filth. Still, still none of it was worse than the chaos that reigned over her thoughts-- the force that commanded her to die, die, die, after that vile Neamh had brought her back. Surely, it had nothing to do with Iseul? Iseul was the gate through which she'd passed into the sweet, sweet nothingness, and thus not an enemy. If anything, she was her knight in shining armor.) "I don't think any of those idiots deserve it. Besides, what's the fucking point? They're going to die anyway, sooner or later, and wasting energy on them in the meantime is just dumb. Not godly at all. A real god would have sat in his pompous throne and laughed at their suffering." Did she think that Iseul was actually a god? No, not for a fucking second. There wasn't anything remotely divine about the meek girl who had been their punching bag-- when Gemma had looked at her, she'd seen weakness and humiliation and a spine so fucking elastic that it could have served as a politician's conscience. Where did she get the audacity from, hm? The audacity to be more? The idea was so wicked it must have come from that weird Neamh, whose eyes and blood were always on fire. (...it was a blessing, really, that she was gone. Without the constant barrage of 'ooh, I'm your guiding star,' 'Iseul, Iseul, look at me' and 'please, have some self-worth,' it would be... hmm... much easier to get her where she needed her to be. Heh.)

...or not. Fucking hell! Was Iseul so bored that she had to build her entire identity around this stupid little god project? How annoying! (There was no god, Gemma knew. No god, no mercy, not anything people had made up to make the reality of death taste a little sweeter. Did they not hear it? See it? The shadows draped over them, sucking away their precious life essence? ...all of them should kill themselves, as far as she was concerned. The little bitches didn't know how good they had it, going through life blind to the real struggles. Gemma's struggles, that was!)

"I can't believe we're doing this shit now," the zombie kicked a random rock, as if it was the source of all of her problems. (If only! That would have been easier to dispose of than, you know, the pervasive sensation of emptiness. Than feeling like a lemon that had been squeezed of all the juice, long before they actually made lemonade out of her.) No. Forget about this, Iseul. Find another lackey to do your bidding for you! So, instead of """"cleansing""" them, Gemma reached into her pocket for a switchblade. Blood sacrifice had gotten her into this mess, so maybe it could also save her from it? And, if not, she'd at least have fun slitting those bitches throats!

Speaking of fun, though? The released nanos - the ones who hadn't immediately found a new host - gathered into a giant swarm, forming what seemed to be Neamh's face on the digital sky.

"Ah, if it isn't one of my dark mistresses!" the familiar voice of the dark flame called out, brimming over with contempt. "Where did you lose your pet, hmm? Was she too annoyed with how useless you actually are?"

***

Neamh, meanwhile, was looking at her opponent with eyed that could only be described as dead. Was he hoping for passion? For a turn to redemption, watered with tears? "Forgive me, my brothers, for I have sinned," the Neamh in their heads cried. "Cleanse me from my impurities, and let me return to my flock. Oh, how I yearn for the embrace of god!" ...yeah, except that that bitch did not fucking exist. Didn't, and wouldn't. And fear? Fear was for rabbits, and silly geese, and those who had something to lose. Worthless bitches like her... well, those only waited for a sword kind enough to end them. Or, as it turned out, a chain. (...how was it possible, even? Iseul, her blessed, blessed Iseul, had set her blood on fire-- shown her a new world, meant for her and her only. It was the same Iseul that had shut the door to that paradise, though, and the same Iseul that had plunged her into the darkness. Was she happy now? Was someone else moaning beneath her, and worshiping every inch of her skin? Was she whispering their name, letting them... letting them... aaargh! It hurt too fucking much to imagine, and never before had Neamh wanted to scrub her mind of thoughts so thoroughly. I should have killed her when I had the chance, she thought. Her, and then myself. We could have been together.)

So, really, Neamh would have been content to let herself get slaughtered. 'Would have been' was the key phrase, though. What pulled her from that mental trap, in the end? That the guy was fucking annoying. Just, ugh! The stench of self-righteousness, coming from a filthy human, did not please her delicate nose. "Repent in purgatory?" she looked up at the mountain of muscles, her smirk positively devilish. "Maybe you are the one who needs to repent, you pathetic fucking shell. You know what? I am glad you sealed my powers away, for I would have felt too bad about your fate otherwise. Actually, I still do. Don't you want to cut off one of my arms while we're at it? Then, finally, we would be almost matched."

Predictably, that was enough to set him off. Screaming like an animal, he ran towards Neamh-- and Neamh, used to dancing this very dance, stepped away from the reach of the chain. (It was singing the song of death, the song of agony, and that gave its position away. In any given moment, the not-fae knew where it would be. What? Had he expected her mistresses hadn't trained her? Pffft! Always, always, always, they took every chance to hurt her. To whip her into shape. It had been for her own good, as she could now attest.) "If you want to kill me, you will have to try harder. I promised that privilege to someone, but..." but she doesn't want me, not anymore, "...no matter. I'm spoken for, so give it some real effort. Weakling!" That, of course, was when Neamh caught the chain in the air. She pulled, pulled and pulled, intending to... hmm, what, exactly? The not-fae knew not, but she intended to find out.

 

[starboob]

Iseul makes note of Gemma’s contempt. She makes a note of it and wonders if Neamh would have made the same comment. Is this something she should be pursuing? Is this something worthy of her talents as a god (sorta)? It is amusing, she must admit, to watch the cockroaches squirm and writhe and maim themselves (rather than her) for a change. Neamh might like to watch and tease them. (Neamh, Neamh, Neamh––the name, the curse keeps echoing through her mind and she does not understand why. She should not be thinking of her. She decided that she would not and so she should not be and yet it clings to her mind, sticky like molasses.) She clamps down on her jaw and decides it matters not what Neamh would think if she were here with her right now (where she is supposed to be). Instead she is a traitor and she isn't here so it only matters what Iseul thinks. She is the god (?).

And as the god (?), she decides that Gemma must go. Not just yet, because she still has a purpose (she guesses), but the second she finds another suitable worshipper, she will dispose of the woman. This time, she will feel no regret over it. Death has changed Gemma. Gone is the sweet girl who used to slip her bonbons between classes and who seduced her under the bleachers (like a fucking slag). Now a barf bag personified stands in her place. “I liked you more when you were quiet, Gemma. Those were some good times we had.”

She catches the glint of steel a moment too late, but it seems she doesn’t have to worry about more insubordination, for another insubordinate makes its grand entrance––wearing the face of the greatest offender. (Her heart twists in her chest, like it's trying to strangle itself and she wishes, oh she wishes, she could be staring at the actual Neamh.) (No, she doesn’t. That’s a lie. She hates Neamh. She hates that piece of shit code. She hates Gemma. She hates herself. She hates it all and she will bleed into the city’s water so that they can get drunk on her hatred, because it is just too much for one Iseul. One part-time god.)

She glowers at the image and even bares her fangs. “Are you still trying to cling to relevance?” Nevermind that Iseul might be doing the same by trying to make these cockroaches worship her. That is beside the point, because she is a… That’s not important, she decides. (It never was.) “Because I have no interest in being either of your pawns. If she is the mistress you want, then go find your little mutt and enjoy your time together. I am sure you are well suited for each other seeing as you are both filthy traitors.”

“Traitors? Dearest mistress, how can you accuse me of such when I have been with you your entire journey?” the flames feigns sorrow and while it wears Neamh’s face? She wants to punch it even more. (She has no right to feel sorry.) “Even before the other mistress arrived, I was watching you––through that crone’s eyes and I could see your wicked potential.”

“So?”

“So I know you and I know you need her. You need me,” it smiles and a fire rages in Iseul’s veins. “Why don’t you apologize to her for being so obsolete? She might take you back. Well, if she’s still alive that is.”

The Hell in Iseul’s veins freezes when she hears that and all masks, namely her anger, are dropped. “What?”

***​

What does a puny little tained bitch think she can do to the man they’ve nicknamed Goliath? (His actual name, ironically enough, is David.) The Goliath of the old testament may have fallen, but this one here––a proud member of the Sons of Adam who has been blessed with holy water gifted by the archbishop himself––will not fall. Never. His God has him and he is sure of this.

Still, he may be surprised by this trial, because it is not everyday that someone manages to catch the end of his chain without breaking their fist. It’s also not everyday that such a puny bitch is able to drag his mass of muscle an inch. Impressive as it is, Goliath doesn’t let it deter or daunt him. Instead he sneers, yanks on the chain, and then lets it fall to the ground. “You had a chance to repent, but God can only save the willing and I will damn the undeserving, as is my holy oath!”

He breaks into a charge, surprisingly fast given his size, and his skin then starts to split apart into plates, revealing the machinery underneath. The breaks light up as he jumps through the air and aims for the girl. She dodges, and that is alarming, but Goliath doesn’t give up. The two clash with their fists like brutes, knocking jaws and cracking ribs. His brothers cheer him on and remind him that he is a holy son.

“Quite going easy on her, Goliath!” (He isn’t, actually.)

“Rip her heart out, I wanna see if she still ‘as one.” (He’s trying––she keeps getting away.)

“Don’t forget what those cursed bitches did to Molly.” (Oh, he fucking hasn’t.)

The last comment seems to ignite new strength into his tired arms and the second the tainted one slips, is the second he pounces, pins her down, and clobbers her. It actually takes his brothers pulling him off that gets him to stop, but the anger is still hot in his heart and so he’s sent away while another brother checks on tainted bitch’s pulse, running a scan of her vitals with his enhanced eyes.

“Still breathing. Still alive,” the brother called Michael affirms. “The archbishop won’t be too happy about her condition, but we’ll just say she started it. Had to defend ourselves.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea since the night’s still young and all…” Paul grins, nudging the girl with his boot, “Let’s see if we can draw out one of those cursed ones. There’s gotta be one around if a tainted one is here.”

By that, he apparently means strapping the girl to the hood of a truck, like she’s fresh caught game, and loudly parading through the city with their fleet of motorcycles in tow.

 

[Syntra]

Ouch, Neamh thought, more out of habit than out of pain. After all, she was a machine-- if you pushed button X, reaction Y would occur, and she couldn’t disappoint the audience by not reacting properly. Oh no, no, no! The audience in her thoughts, of course, referred to the mistresses. They were watching, the not-fae had little doubts regarding that. Always, always they were with her, if not in body, then certainly in heart! …they could have prevented this, obviously. Beneath their merciless gaze, the human vermin would be turned to dust, to ashes, to bloody stains on their precious fucking asphalt. They didn’t, though. They didn’t, and that only confirmed Neamh’s hypothesis that she, in fact, deserved it. Should I scream louder? she wondered idly, staring at the man’s fists. (They, too, were slick with blood. Her blood, the not-fae realized, and when she did? The only thing she could think about was how fucking ugly the shade was-- not red like rubies or poppies, but red like dry fucking mud. Ah, no wonder Iseul had left her! Even looking at her, being the pathetic worm she was, must have caused great pain to the beautiful, beautiful god.) Maybe, if I do that, Iseul will hear me. She will know that I can suffer even without her, and… and… And what? Get jealous? Pfft! As if anyone on this godforsaken earth could get jealous over a worthless, broken bitch. That nobody wanted her was her entire fucking point, and she couldn’t change that via pretending she was worth more than she actually was. Not how that worked. (At least not on Iseul. For a brief second, it had-- she’d looked at her with adoration, with the kind of warmth she’d never experienced before, and… well, it should have been obvious it was a fluke. A mistake. The stupid bitch of a god had only taken her gifts because she’d been the only one to offer, and the second someone else turned up? Exchanged, just like that. By a human that was defective by all the possible metrics, too! …even rotting flesh was more appealing than hers, Neamh now realized. The wickedness in her soul was a fire, a fire both greedy and terrible, and… yes, she did understand why Iseul wouldn’t want her around. She understood that very well, but that didn’t make the pain’s teeth any less sharp.)

“What’s up with this bitch?” Paul sneered, kicking Neamh in the ribs. “She’s not fucking reacting at all, the poor dear. You think they deactivated her pain receptors?”

One of the rare women, who the not-fae heard was called Melissa, just smirked. “Oh, that’s not what the cursed ones do. Why would they destroy their favorite toy like that? More than that, I’d say that she is enjoying it.”

“Ooh, freaky!”

“Shut the fuck up, Paul,” David said as he wiped his fists. “This is God’s lost lamb. Do you have no respect for His creation? The corruption crawled too deep into her heart, but that doesn’t fucking mean we can mock her. No, we should send her to hell in a dignified manner.” It appeared that his definition of the word ‘dignified’ was somewhat esoteric, though. Sparks were dancing in front of Neamh’s eyes, so it took her a while to realize what it was that was happening, but she did register two pairs of strong hands grabbing her. “Let go,” she hissed. “Let go, or I will curse you and your children and the children of your children. My mistresses will come for them, oh, they will! They will take them, and…” Crack! The punch found her nose easily, and more blood poured out. (Was it broken? And, if so, did it even matter? It wasn’t like she had any reasons for breathing, now that Iseul was gone. Iseul, her only chance at salvation. Iseul, her other half. Iseul, the name of the knife in her back. Always, always she’d suspected the god would betray her, but why did it have to be like this? Hadn’t she promised a memorable death, hm? Her promises were whispers in the wind, she thought. Almost as worthless as I am. Almost, of course, being the operative word-- it was hard to find something quite as useless as her, all things considered. Just, what did it say about her that not even her own mirror image wanted her? …that she never should have been born, Neamh did not doubt. Her stupid mother, who had brought her into this world so thoughtlessly, should be fucking executed. Why had she done it? For a few moments of fleeting pleasure? In exchange for that, she had pulled her away from the void, and… well, Neamh had never asked for that. Never, not once.)

With her clouded mind, the not-fae registered she was being tied to one of the bikes. If they’d ever heard of passenger safety, the lesson hadn’t sunk too deep-- at least judging by the way her limbs hung limply, scraping against the ground.

“This is for your own good, child,” Melissa explained, caressing her cheek with something that almost resembled kindness. (How dared she?! Only Iseul could--) “Your soul may be damned, but, through suffering, you may be able get closer to the Son still. Did you know that he died to cleanse all of our sins? Your death will only erase yours, child, but the parallel is there nonetheless. Rejoice, for finally there will be a meaning to your existence.”

The engines roared, and the fleet was thrust forward-- against the dark background of the digital sky, they resembled a flaming sword of legends, forged to take down a devious villain. (Yes, it did hurt. Nothing could have matched the hurt blooming in her heart, though, and Neamh wished they’d come up with something… well, something more intense? Something that would silence the voices in her head, telling her she was weak, worthless, useless. A fucking waste of skin. Eh, maybe when she turned into a bloody mess? Given just how fast they rode, it was a matter of time. She could feel herself breaking, and, ah, was her soul singing when she realized that! Finally. This is how things are supposed to be. I hoped to build a staircase into heaven from Iseul’s spine, but maybe, maybe this is all I will ever be. That was fine. Poetic, even. But, wait! Why were they stopping? Through the blood in her eyes, it was difficult to see, but it seemed they found themselves on… a square of sorts.)

“Good people of the Holy City!” David shouted, his voice resonating across a vast distance. “A devil’s whore has fallen into our hands, and it is up to us to punish her for her wicked ways. I ask-- lend us a hand! Lend us a hand, and teach her where the path of sin leads.”

“See?” the flame smirked at Iseul. “This is exactly what I meant. Not much left of her, huh? Indeed, humans are so very fragile! I wonder how long she will last.”

 

[starboob]

‘Still alive.’​

‘still Alive.’​

‘alive. Still.’​

‘What?’ she repeats to herself, staring up at the image of her one and only and trying to process the suggestion that Neamh might be in danger. ‘What does this bastard mean by that? What the fuck!?’ Her hands roll into fists; ice splinters out from beneath her feet and she can feel Ego pulling her into its embrace as rage replaces the blood in her veins. No, Neamh cannot be dying. She’s not fucking allowed. Yes, Iseul wants Neamh dead and no, Neamh is not allowed to die. It is not impossible for these dualities to exist––not when you are a god like Iseul. A god with a promise, even to a cockroach. (Who is she without the lowliest of her worshipers? Her damnedest worshipers are those who need her the most; they are the drivers of her faith, for they will seek out a new god first; they will help her vanquish the old god if she is good to them. Of course she must still honor her promises even to an excommunicate. That is what unconditional faith means and this is how she will be different from the old god. She will abandon no one.)

(That she technically has already abandoned Neamh and suggested that she’s been replaced with filthy and rotting Gemma of all “people,” does not really register to Iseul. More than likely she will think to herself that Neamh left her first, through her actions doubting Iseul, and she is being the good faithful one.)

“Don’t believe me?” the flame smirks, reading the god’s expression. “I shall show you, my dearest mistress.” Before Iseul can even process that the flame has started to taunt her once more, the nanos that make up Neamh’s floating head morph into a screen and show Neamh at the junkyard surround by…

The god’s eyes widen and her entire life becomes still as she watches those cretins brutalize her Neamh. ‘They are not allowed to do this. Neamh is not allowed to be hurt by anyone else.’ Yet this fact does nothing to stop reality. It does not protect her traitorous worshiper from being turned into pulp. ‘Why is she not fighting back? Why is she not trying harder? Neamh, you are not allowed to fucking die!’ Just what does she think she is doing? Does she really think that her life belongs to her when she stole Iseul’s? Yes, because it should have been Iseul who grew up with the mistresses and received their sweet nothings and affections––not Neamh, who now has to fight for that right. Who has to slay Iseul for her birthright to Paradise and just look at what Neamh is doing with what she stole! Letting it waste way as it’s beaten out of her.

Still, Iseul does recognize that anger will get her nowhere. At least not if she only lets it simmer her belly and melt away her veins. If she wants to punish Neamh for her insolence, if she wants to make good on her own promise, she cannot only be angry. She must be wrathful and drown the earth in her rage.

“She really is a lost lamb without you. Do you not see that you both need each other? You two can only be made complete with each other and not these… lesser worshipers,” to which the flame is no doubt indicating Gemma, who Iseul has momentarily lost track of as her attention is consumed by the scene playing on the monitor. (The threats to ‘cursed ones’ and references to ‘tainted ones’ does not strike the god as concerning. She is well aware of the Sons of Adam and understands them to be standard scum who believe themselves holy, but they have more sin to their name than virtue. Well, according to sister Joan, who Iseul never took to be a liar; plus, sister Cathy liked the Sons and that is how Iseul knows they are rotten.)

The god clenches her jaw and through her teeth orders, “Take me to her, flame. Take me to her right now.”

“Yes, of course, my dark mistress.”

***​

The city is quiet and most are asleep. Those who might have been roused by the motorcycle engines tearing through the city have since shut off their ears and continued to slumber through the night––no wiser to the hatred that is brewing outside.

The Sons of Adam have gathered in the plaza just outside of what has been lovingly dubbed Purgatory, though it’s really just the shopping district. And they wait, perched on their neon vehicles, for a cursed one to arrive. Even after David’s announcement, however, the streets are quiet. The air is still.

“Maybe the cursed one ain’t here no more?” one of the biker’s suggests to his brothers.

“Maybe we should try another district? Supposedly there’s one who frequents the prayer district.”

“Naw, there has to be one ‘round here somewhere. Cursed ones love their tainted little bitches. They’re territorial fucks––like fucking raccoons. Have faith, Michael, she’ll come to us.”

And, indeed she does.

The air nips at the bikers, at first no more than what one might expect for this hour. But the temperature continues to drop and drop and drop until the men (and one woman) are pulling their leather coats tighter around themselves. The only sound that fills the square is the sound of their chattering teeth. Their breath becomes thick in front of them and a dark mist begins to swallow one of the streets that dumps into the square; the darkness encroaches further and further into the space.

When the mist is just feet away from the first bike in the formation, it begins to swirl into a violet vortex, bringing in ice winds that push the fleet of vehicles back a few inches before stilling and taking the shape of a shadow woman with electric blue dots for eyes.

“What have you done with my Neamh, you insolent little cockroaches!?” Her screech comes with another blast of sharp wind. Unmistakably, the god has arrived to rescue her worthless worshiper. (The one she cannot live without, because Neamh made her and without her… without her there is just little point in playing god if she is not part of the audience.) The god doesn’t wait for the rotten vermin to respond. She swings her arms forward and unleashes a flurry of shadows that rip through the biker gang––scattering and pushing over their bikes as well as tossing several of the bikers through the air.

“Fuck!” Paul shouts, getting up from the ground, “This one’s not trained––David, where are the whips? Melissa, ready your arrows!”

Ego doesn’t concern herself with the mortals scrambling to gather themselves (although she should), her only concern is Neamh. Her Neamh. (The woman who is not allowed to die even if she wants her dead.) The mass of black shadows swims through the air, dodging the vermin hands that try to grab her and lands right in front of Neamh’s brutalized body. She sends a pulse of shadow energy through the air to keep the assailants at bay, buying herself some time. Momentarily she reforms her body so that she can look at her worshiper through her own eyes.

She grabs onto Neamh’s tattered collar, pulling her close to her own face, and searches those green eyes. “Who did this to you, my love?” she hisses, “Tell me so that I may destroy them for ruining our pact. No one touches you except for me, remember?” With their faces pressed so close together, the god can smell her disciple’s fresh blood and can feel her mouth begin to water. She sticks her tongue out to licks her wounds, moaning in the process. “You are mine. No matter what.”

“Aw, how sweet,” the flame whispers, “Wrap up the reunion, my mistresses, the vermin are going to be on you soon enough.”

 

[Syntra]

Wounds bloomed all over her body, blue and purple and black, with the colors blending into each other like the words of a poem. And, you know what? For a second, Neamh almost felt… well, beautiful. Not ugly to behold, at least. (Was it not a proof that humans were meant to be broken? The proof? When you opened them up, you see, there was a world of wonder-- organs like squishy, juicy fruit, blood resembling shiny rubies, the ivory shock of the bone. A true treasure trove, hidden under the thin layer of skin. Ah, how easy, how sweet it was, to uncover it all! Akin to cracking an egg open. …Iseul should have done that to her. Iseul, and nobody else. The bastards touched her with their unwashed hands, filled her ears with their nasty words, and… and… it was nothing like what her god would have done, the not-fae knew. Nothing like that at all. She’s not my god, a weak voice in her head protested. She’s not. A fake prophet, and a hollow hope. That’s all she is, all she ever will be. To her, our vows meant less than the fucking bed worms in her mattress. Now don’t get her wrong, for Neamh understood the truth of those words-- she really, truly did, with the same kind of certainty with which birds knew that their wings were strong enough to carry them. Still, despite that? Despite that, Neamh couldn’t help but imagine what could have been. Iseul’s sweet voice, cutting through her agony like a knife; her fingers in her open wounds, pushing, pushing, pushing; the moment she became her, one way or another. Death finally claiming her, just like it was always meant to be. Ah, her mistresses would have been so proud! Would it not have been the greatest accomplishment of them all? Humans were a plague, living deep in the earth’s veins, and dying… dying was the most they could do for it, really. Both for the planet, and the creatures whose inheritance they’d stolen.)

“The bitch isn’t even crying,” Melissa complained, wiping the blood from her cheek. “How am I supposed to get into this?”

“Maybe focus on your holy mission and not on your feelings, Mel.” David’s voice could be considered to be gentle, if you were creative enough to stretch the definition of the word so that it also included giants covered in blood. “Just imagine our Lord thanking you.”

And, considering the face Melissa made in response? He may as well have slapped her. “Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “I just… no wonder that the cursed one left her. The chick’s such a bore.” ...a bore, huh? Was that why Iseul had left her? The word stung-- worse than a curse, worse than a slap, worse than anything the not-fae's feeble mind could come up with. Boring, the human bitch had said, and Neamh felt it deep in her damaged, sorry excuse of a soul. ('Tsk, tsk,' the mistresses giggled, their voices clear like glass. Clear like glass, and sharp like it as well.'Can't you do anything right, bitch? Your entire existence is a joke. There is value in that, except that nobody is laughing. Why should we keep a jester that doesn't bring us smiles, hm? The saddest clown in the world? You know what, it seems that Iseul was right to forsake you!' Duh. Everyone was right to forsake her. Everyone, everyone, everyone, Neamh saw that now-- the only person who hadn't abandoned her was herself, and perhaps that was a mistake as well. A terrible oversight. That she had bothered to stay in this body at all had been a fuck up of colossal fucking dimensions! All that time, she could have grabbed a knife and--)

--ah. Was she knocking on the heaven's door already? Because the not-fae could swear that she heard Iseul talking to her, of all people. (Iseul, the one who had plunged a dagger into her chest. Iseul, whom she loved regardless. Iseul, who would always, always own her heart, because she had promised and her promises were fucking worth something, even if Neamh herself wasn't. Especially because of that, really. If you were a useless bitch, what other currency did you have?) Yet still, guided by some foolish hope, Neamh opened her green eyes-- the world had long since dissolved into a blurry stain, but every fiber in her body, every single cell, recognized the woman clutching onto her collar. Somehow, it was her. A question and an answer all in one package, blessed and damned in one breath. Iseul, her Iseul, beautiful and treacherous like the depths of a sea. Anger surged in her chest, because, how dared she?! How dared she not come sooner, back when she'd needed her, and then act like her messiah? A useless fucking bitch, indeed! ...maybe that was why the not-fae was so glad to see her, though. Something about it being relatable, she guessed. "You... are a lousy god," Neamh groaned, shivering at the contact. (More. Take more of me, here and now. Do it. Don't be a fucking coward, Iseul. Are you a god or a sheep?) "But I'm a lousy believer, I think. We match." Of course, for they were mirror reflections of each other. Two halves of the same rotten apple, almost eaten by worms. (When she had touched her for the first time, Neamh had known she'd never want anyone else. Iseul was bliss and bliss was Iseul, in a way that overrode all the dictionary definitions. And now... now it seemed that she wanted her still? Enough to save her? If this was a dream, then Neamh never, ever wanted to wake up. Better to dwell in her own mind than in reality where Iseul didn't care, she decided.) "Yours, you say? No, not like this. Only if you can claim me from these brutes. Do you have what it takes?" she managed to ask, through her cracked lips. Something in her eyes softened then, though, and she did as well. "I missed you, my love. I... take care of me better? Without you, I don't know where to go. I don't know what to do. How am I supposed to, when you were meant to be my reason for living? I waited all my life to meet you, and then... then you threw me away, like a gum that has lost its flavor. Am I not tasty enough for you anymore?"

"Melissa, quick!"

The arrow swished perilously close to Iseul's ear, but not enough to actually scratch it. Pffft, stupid humans! Not even able to hit a target standing this close to them. Although... hmm, it appeared that something was connected to the projectile. A silver thread? More and more arrows joined its solitary brother, and now, now Neamh could see what the wench was planning. Ah, fuck.

"That's right," David roared, pulling out a giant warhammer. "You're doing the Lord's work out there, Mel. Trap the cursed one for me, and I will show her the same mercy she fucking showed to Molly."

 

[starboob]

She looks like a galaxy, painted with all these bruises. But unlike a true galaxy created by gods, this one was created by bastards and therefore they have made a mess of someone who should be reflecting beauty. Who should be the incarnate of beauty, but instead she is a swollen mess. (Somehow still mesmerizing all the same. Perhaps it is all the blood she has been bathed in? She does have such pretty, pretty rubies flowing through her rotten veins. Iseul regrets not making this mess of Neamh herself. She would have done it better.) She is still (and always) Iseul's swollen mess. Hers to care for, hers to heal, hers to nurture. Neamh may have been stupid enough to allow herself to be brutalized by lesser creatures, but the god cannot find it in herself to be angry. Not right now. This reunion is holy and looking into those brilliant gemstones stuck in Neamh's face, washes calm over her and her prior hostilities melt away. 'She's alive. Alive. Still.' And that is all that matters to Iseul––she could even weep over it, but now is not the time for weeping. Now is the time for vengeance. And being a god? She does plan to make actual galaxies of their wounds; from their veins, she will pull out iron and revive the dead stars that lent themselves foolishly to the creation of cockroaches.

The dark pools of her eyes, intense and searing, soften when her Neamh finally speaks. Oh how she has missed the sound of her voice. It's a choir to Gemma's harsh, guttural rasp and she wishes that she could bathe herself in it. She wishes for a way to make it so that her voice is the only voice she can ever hear, for there is no one else worth listening to if it is not her blessed one. She doesn't even mind that the excommunicate calls her a lousy god––in fact, when her dearest admits that she is a lousy believer, a soft smile graces her lips. 'We do match,' and there is immeasurable comfort in knowing they are the same breed of scoundrel. That they cannot exist without each other. That Neamh and Iseul are always meant to fall and rise together and nothing, no one, can ever break the thread of fate that has bound them together since birth. There is nothing more holy than her Neamh. "Together we can become better. We can rise above our former masters and mistresses and tear their throats out with our teeth, for ever daring to think they could have dominion over us. We are the only beings that matter," she whispers, clasping the back of the other woman's neck in a firm grip, perhaps scared that Neamh might change her mind. (Why should she not? She is a lousy god. She is Iseul, but she supposes that this is who Neamh wants to be––Iseul, a lousy god.) "And I will not always be your lousy god, for I want you to be a revered god someday, so let us become revered together with the brief time we will have," because Iseul remembers Neamh's promise to her and she looks forward to it like a child might look forward to Christmas. "I will prove myself to you. I will prove I am a worthy reason for you to live," even if she, herself, wishes to die. "I know not why such foolishness overcame me, but I will not squander your affections." The god brushes some loose (bloody) hair from her worshipper's face, strokes her cheek, and, possessed by some kind of wild animal, she leans forward––

Tsswooo!

The god pulls away and looks up, madness lighting her eyes as she allows Ego to embrace her once more. "You filthy, rotten––" As she turns to look over her shoulder at the archer, her shoulder brushes against the thin little thread of silver that had been attached to the first arrow and while Iseul has never been exposed to the effects of silver before, she learns of its agony rather quickly. It doesn't even touch skin and that meager brush is enough to drive off Ego and cages her somewhere where Iseul cannot reach. She doesn't have the time to sort through her confusion, especially not when she looks up and sees the hail of arrows, all with strings tied to their tails, arcing over them. 'What is this curse?' (More proof of her lousiness, she supposes.) To the god's credit, she does hoist Neamh up from the ground and does make an attempt to run from those menacing threads, but it is much too late and when they hit the ground, they create a crisscross pattern over both of the true believers. The silver burns against Iseul's skin––hotter than the iron they used to brand her with––and she opens her mouth to wail, but all that comes out is a choked cry. Again, she tries to reach for Ego, tries to reach for ice, but all have abandoned her (the lousy god).

Several of the bikers grab onto the ends of the threads and pull the strings so that they are taut, and then even more to bring the god to her knees. Where the silver touches her, she can feel her skin flaking and peeling away, like it cannot stand to be associated with Iseul. (She cannot fault her own skin for trying to leave her.) Where it tangles in her hair, it turns the inky tresses a sickening pale, white. She writhes and struggles against the threads, but her attempts are pathetic and futile (much like herself). (How embarrassing for her to fall before her worshipper. Surely she won't be a believer anymore.)

David, meanwhile, steps across the battlefield towards the fallen god, a crazed grin on his features as he lifts the mighty hammer above his head and slams it right into Iseul's shoulder. The pain is nothing compared to the threads eating away at her skin, but that is not to say that she does not feel her bones shattering beneath her flesh. (Though knowing Neamh is bearing witness to this is more torture than she could ever endure. Especially knowing now it is her who breaks their vows by letting this vile cockroach pulverize her––and she is too lousy to stop it.) The god ignores the brute and tilts her head to search for Neamh, her beautiful Neamh, crawling towards the only other heap on the pavement. "Ne-Neamh," she coughs, biting her own palm with her fangs and pressing the wound to the worshipper's lips––hoping, perhaps, the treat will bribe her to stay. "My guiding star," she grunts as another blow lands on her calf, but she doesn't take her attention away from her disciple, "this is not our end. We will find our way––"

The hammer collides with Iseul's back, knocking the wind from her lungs and smearing her vision in the next moment. "Shut it, filth," David growls as he brings the hammer down on the god's jaw, sending her to the sweet embrace of the abyss.

***​

When Iseul awakens, her body is an ode to aches, pulsing meat, and singed flesh. It takes her a moment to reorient herself, but she unsurprisingly finds herself in a dark cramped cage with bars coated in silver. If that were not enough, there are also two heavy silver shackles around her wrists, burning her flesh down to her bones (gnawing on them, at this point). She bites down on a whimper and tries to accustom herself to the agony like she always does when she's sent to penance. (This pain, this torture, however, touches her in a way that penance never has. It shakes her to her core, strangles her without even needing a noose, and reduces all her joints to jelly.) The silver even glows bright orange, but she dare not try to bend the metal if only because moving seems like an impossible feat. (She still cannot feel Ego. It's like her darkness has been stripped from her, as well as her frost. Never has ever felt so empty and that scares the god. What is a god without Ego?)

She pushes away her concerns as there is one more paramount than her tormented pangs and that is Neamh. (It is always her.) Her dark eyes search the prison (?) and she spots another cage across from her in the low light. "Neamh?" she whispers, her jaw groaning in protest. She does not wait for the other prisoner to confirm her identity, knowing already that it is her sitting in that cage. She would know the smell of her wounds and the rhythm of her heart anywhere. "My sweet, my love... I am a terrible god, but do you still trust me to care for you? Because if you give me this last chance, I will... I will get us out of here." Somehow, at least. Perhaps the way out will be death? That would not be so bad, to die with her one true believer. It may not be in the way they have both imagined, but at least Iseul will not die a dishonest god if she takes them to the final escape. "It is my fault for abandoning you and leaving you to your own devices. I was negligent and as careless as the old god, but I promise to make this up to you. Carve my punishment into my flesh, p-please," she practically begs, knowing no other way to receive forgiveness or show remorse. "But first, my wise disciple, I must know what curse is on these chains––have my kin taught you of this?"

 

[Syntra]

They could… become better? Better, and not worse? The thought hadn’t even crossed Neamh’s mind-- her brain’s rotten configuration had told her that she could only ever grow viler, more worthy of contempt, more disgusting. More human, in other words. A twisted child of twisted parents could only ever grow up to walk in their footsteps, because all the other paths only led to locked doors. But, ah, perhaps she had been wrong? Of course that she was wrong, as she was a stupid, useless bitch! Only Iseul could have shown her just how wrong she was, though, and the way out of the dark, depressing cavern where she dwelled. The way to true salvation, illuminated by the light of torches. (Did the not-fae deserve it? No. Did she care, though? Also no! Now she was going to take, take and take, take everything, until the whole world crumbled to dust. Until they all got to taste the delicious emptiness Neamh lived with, each and every day, like a helium balloon ready to fucking burst. It was high time, wasn’t it? For the bitches to suffer! …Iseul in particular would look so good broken, too. Pierced, bleeding, cracked-- all her secrets revealed, all the fight beaten out of her, lying helplessly at her feet. With such a pretty, pretty face, the god had no right to keep it to herself, she decided. Absolutely none!) “Good,” Neamh whispered, with quiet reverence only reserved for her. For her... ah, who was she, again? A god? A not-god? A curse, or a blessing? The not-fae didn't know, but what she did know was that she needed her-- needed her to devour her, to destroy her, to grind her bones to dust. (To bathe herself in her ashes, really. Was there any better way for her to get closer to Iseul? Hands were an imperfect tool, created by an imperfect god. The nessengers of false intimacy, with skin and sweat and all those disgusting, human things. Now if she became something Iseul could truly submerge herself in... There would be nothing sweeter, Neamh just knew that!) “Good. Prove it all to me, and… and I will give you myself in my entirety, dearest Iseul. It’s not much, but… but it's all I have.”

So, the problem with that? The problem with that was that the vermin surrounding them didn't magically disappear into the fucking abyss where they belonged. "Iseul," Neamh gasped, reaching for her god, but someone stepped on her hand. Ah, fuck! (The way her fingers cracked under the pressure still wasn't nearly as painful as hearing her sweet one's agony, the guttural scream that tore its way out of her throat. Than knowing that the unworthy man fucking touched her, in a way only she was allowed to. Ugh, he was going to mess her up! Iseul was a canvas, and instead of painting a masterpiece with her blood, he had just... spilled it. Wasted it. The depth of human depravity was captured in that single snapshot, plain for everyone to see. For a moment, David owned god-- he owned a god, and chose to break her wings!) "Let go," Neamh rasped. "Let go, you bastard. Don't you know to kneel when you are in the presence of your Lord?"

That, in turn earned her a swift kick to the ribs. "Our Lord, huh?" Melissa giggled, while three others held David back. (Safe to say, the man did not appreciate her remark. Judging by the way he bared his teeth, Neamh was half-convinced he meant to eat her heart here and there.) "Man, this bitch sure is delusional. Can you believe she thinks this thing is god? The cursed ones must have fed her her own brain, I'd bet. Finally we're getting some reactions, though! We are going to have so much fun when we torture them in front of each oth--"

"We are going to do no such thing." Another man, who didn't have enough decency to introduce himself, stepped forward. "Control yourself a little, Melissa, for indulgence is a great sin. Do you think that His Holiness will appreciate it when we break his toys before their time?"

His Holiness? Toys?

None of that mattered, though, because Iseul's sweet voice rose among the chattering of the insects. (It always did. Whenever she spoke, the noises of the city dissolved into the whisperings of a sea, quiet and calming. Her own oasis in the middle of chaos, the not-fae thought. Was that what it was like, to bask in the divine light?) With great effort, Neamh crawled forward, interlocking her broken fingers with hers. "It's not," she promised. "It's not. God's march cannot be interrupted by a mere gust of wind. They have no idea what they are--"

"Oh, do shut up."

Something heavy connected with her head, and then Neamh knew nothing.

***

Consciousness returned to the not-fae slowly, almost as if it already knew what to expect and was not thrilled. Groaning, Neamh collected herself off the ground-- shadows were dancing in front of her eyes, wild and flickering, and it took her a second to place the memories into all the empty slots in her mind. Ah, yes! The capture. The capture, the fight, and then Iseul, Iseul, Iseul, Iseul a thousand times over. And then... another capture? This had to be a prison of sorts, then. (Hilarious, if you stopped for a second to really think of it. Trying to capture a deity, huh? Might as well pour a cup of water into an ocean, thinking that you'd fucking drowned it.)

"Yes, it is indeed me. Iseul, dearest, how hurt are you? Can you move?" The question bubbled past her lips without her permission, without anything even resembling conscious thought. Just, why? Wasn't she supposed to get mad at her for failing to smite the unbelievers instead? (Somehow, though, whether her god was alright or not mattered. It mattered more than anything in her miserable life ever had, or possibly would. Maybe because she had to claim her life herself? Yes, yes! As nice as corpses were, you couldn't just murder them.) Gripping the bars with her broken hands, Neamh pressed her face against the cold steel. "Speak not such nonsense, my love. I will hurt you as much as you like once we leave this filthy place, and it won't be a punishment. It will be my gift. Don't you want to feel my fingers in your wounds, after all? I will give you all that and more, so you have no reason to ever doubt my loyalty. What happened happened-- we must not doubt each other now. The enemy is the one who locked us in here, and we do not need to create new ones on our heads." A chance, pfft. As if she didn't know that Iseul was her ticket to paradise! When god mentioned the chains, however? A shade of something foreign crossed Neamh's feature, dark and foreboding.

"Silver. My ancestors' biggest shame. See, they opened mother earth's veins and extracted it from there, knowing it would hurt you and your kin. They call you cursed ones, but they were the ones who cursed it. My mistresses... they taught me all about it, oh, they did." Something in her voice shook, like the wings of the moth fluttering in the light of a lamp, but she forced herself to go on. Iseul had to know. "They kidnapped a fae child, and spilled their blood in a sacred forest. The earth is a mother, you see, and so her heart bled as well. From that open wound, they got the embryo of silver. Using it, they banished your kin into the Paradise! The whole planet was once yours to do whatever you wanted with, my sweet, but... but my ancestors' greed was too great. I am sorry. I... I hate myself for being one of them."

 

[starboob]

In the silence, Iseul braces herself for Neamh’s righteous anger for she cannot imagine another reaction––because of her they are in these cages and unable to see the rest of their divine mission; because of her they have been beaten and bruised (forced to break their promises); because of her they may perish. Had she never forsaken Neamh, this would not have happened. She never should have left. Never should have left her worshipper to the wolves. Neamh has every right to pull her apart. (She almost craves it.)

When it is concern that breaks the silence and instead of rage? When her Neamh absolves her? Iseul would be a liar to say that tears have not sprung in her eyes, relieved that the other has not shunned her. ‘Truly I am undeserving of such a devoted disciple. How can she still care for me when I… when I left?’ (Nevermind the events that all led to her departure. Nevermind Gemma and doubting the god’s heart. Nevermind any of that, because Iseul should have been stronger. She is the god. She has to be better for her Neamh––only then will Neamh herself become better, too.) ‘I must make this right between us. I must,’ she decides. Though she knows not how to free them from these cages, especially not with these cursed chains binding her, she is determined to free them if only so that Neamh can have the life she has been promised. (Hers.)

“They are only bruises and scratches,” she whispers, her voice too weak to be any louder. While it is not a lie to say that is all they are, they certainly feel unlike other bruises or scratches she has received. Yet she does not mention this as she does not want to concern her disciple. She does not need her disciple knowing her fear. (Gods are fearless.) Never have her injuries ever been this long lasting––never has she ever felt her skin and meat and bones all melting with such intensity sweat beads over her brow. She shivers. (Had that man’s hammer been cursed as well? Forged to break her beyond repair?) Her body, as disgusting as it is, does well with healing and yet she finds herself still littered with pulsing, oozing injuries, reminding her of failure. (She supposes this is an apt punishment. The humiliation certainly makes her want to become better. For Neamh.) “I can move,” she confirms, shifting a bit to bring herself closer to Neamh, the only woman who matters. “It does… It does hurt,” she admits, against her better judgment. (Gods should not hurt.) “I-I wish it had been you who hurt me. You would have done it right,” she sighs, longingly.

For a brief moment, she is distracted from her pain as her Neamh divulges more information about her kin and her people’s history. Anger surges through her––thunder booms in her heart and lightning races through her blood––were she not bound by the rotten curse at this very moment, she would drag this entire city to Hell with her hands alone. “What!?” she booms, incredulous. Always she knew the humans who surrounded her were likely products of Hell and not creations made in His divine image, but this? This damns the entire population. “Your greedy ancestors could not even care for the sacred mother––do you know this city has a dome? Why the skies are digital and the air constantly fucking recycled?” She’s seething at this point and were she able, she would be pacing and icicles would be spurting violently from the ground. “They bled her dry. It’s a desert on the outside. A desert with an endless storm from the weeping mother.” It’s made communication with the other eleven dome cities difficult and, in recent years, there has been no travel. “I forgive you for being born cursed," her tone is gentle when she says this, "for at least you are wise enough to seek out a cure. But your kin? They must all go before I do. That is my wish. I especially want that wretch of a mother buried––”

However, before Iseul can continue her rant, the door to the prison wooshes open and David, along with Paul and Michael, file in. While Iseul cannot make out their features with the light coming from behind them, she can feel the smugness wafting from their vile forms. (She wonders what it would be like to burst them apart from the inside out.) “Good, you slags are finally up,” Michael smirks as he and the others approach the cages. (Iseul bares her fangs and hisses.) “The Most Reverend Dominic Cortez is waiting to meet his latest acquisitions.”

He then points some sort of remote at the cages and the bars sink into the floor. The pair are hardly given a moment to adjust before Paul and David have grabbed their chains and proceed to drag them forward. “Get your hands––” Before Iseul can finish, Paul’s fist connects with her already injured jaw, effectively silencing the god as she dragged up a flight stairs, down several long hallways, and finally thrown onto a lavish couch in some extravagant room. Neamh is tossed carelessly next to her and the god instinctively moves closer to her worshipper while she looks around the room.

To the right of them there are large gothic windows, accented with a silver lining, that look out over the city. From this high up, the city almost looks beautiful, washed in the orange-pink of the morning Sun. She can also make out the church spires sprinkled everywhere and the tiny floating dots that are undoubtedly the guardian angels watching over the streets. ‘It needs to be ablaze,’ she thinks to herself before shifting her attention to Neamh, who is bathed in the morning sunrise. This gives her the same pink-orange glow as the rest of the room, and on Neamh it truly makes her look a star and intensifies her fiery tresses.

Her dark eyes pan over the rest of the room that is oddly empty, save for this lavish tea-time set-up before them. Across from them is a hearth with a roaring fire––but not their flame––and above it is a large crucifix. The Son is crying silver tears on this one. When she looks down, she sees that the floor is covered in the animal pelts of tigers and polar bears, both long extinct. The furniture they’re sitting on is plush and the legs and arms all have gold accents. Between the hearth and their couch is a pristine red velvet armchair that makes Iseul wonder if anyone has actually used it. All of this excess causes the god to roll her eyes––have these holy brutes learned nothing from their own sacred texts? Because even a supposedly damned soul like Iseul knows the old god cared not for wealth. (Perhaps that is why He abandoned everyone––too disgusted He was with His own incorrigible creation.)

Not too long after they’ve settled the archbishop waltzes in wearing a freshly pressed cassock that contrasts all the excess of this room. He is a tall, pale stick of an old man. (‘We could break you.’) He offers a friendly smile to the two ‘acquisitions’ and takes a seat in the arm chair. At first he says nothing. He doesn’t even scrutinize them. He just busies himself by pouring tea for the three of them. (The tea set is porcelain with delicate roses painted over it. The cups, of course, have a silver lip.) “May I offer you some tea? Biscuits?” he asks, as if they are not his prisoners.

Iseul says nothing and looks away from him.

“Hmm, very well then. If you change your mind, it is right there for you.” He leans back in his seat and brings his cup to his gross, practically non-existent lips. His murky eyes stare at the window, watching the digital sky change colors. “I hope you’re comfortable. I know those manacles are barbaric, but they are just precaution,” he says, sounding suspiciously sympathetic. “You know, Iseul, I did wonder how long it would be before you ended up in my office. They ought to give you an award for how many exorcisms you’ve endured and for how much time you have spent in penance. Though it all makes sense now, knowing you’re one of those demons. It’s incredible how your glamours fool us and trick us into thinking you are one, tsk.” His gaze then shifts over to Neamh and he offers her a smile full of warmth. (Iseul almost finds herself jealous.) “And you, dearest. Do you have a name? Or have the fae stripped it of you already? You know, we can christen you with a new name––a pretty name, for a pretty girl like yourself. You would make a beautiful Adina or, perhaps, Eve.

“We could even reunite you with your family––I know they have missed you terribly so. They knew that this imposter,” he gestures with his chin towards Iseul, “was not you and fought so hard to get you back. Would you not like to meet them?

“There is even a husband, I am sure, waiting for you. You’re a pretty girl––I am sure you would make a lovely wife and mother. What I am saying is, we can get you your life back. The one you should have had––one full of love and warmth, not like the hate and coldness I am sure those cursed ones fed to you.”

Then he rises from his seat, with a silver spoon in hand. “Fear not what this one may think as I am thinking today is her last day plaguing His good earth.” He presses the silver to Iseul’s cheek, marveling at how it sizzles against her skin and even seems delighted by her shriek. “She’s powerless now and therefore cannot harm you––you are free to be honest.”

 

[Syntra]

Ah, indeed, indeed! Such a waste it was, for Neamh would have done it right. Better than her kin’s stunted brains could ever conceive, really. (They thought pain to be a sledgehammer, and wielded it accordingly. They swung it around, over and over, with all their strength, without targeting the actual weak points. The enemy would die either way, right? And, yes, they would! But, you see, death was just so boring-- something every organism in existence did, once it ran out of will to go on. The opposite side of the coin called life, really. Overrated, that was what it was! Humans sang its praises, but they did that for everything they didn’t understand, like fucking clockwork. To breathe a true meaning into the act, you had to… hmm… go out of your way a little bit. To wield pain not like a sledgehammer, but like a scalpel. Each cut told a story, and you had to tell it properly, dammit! The epilogue followed the prolog, not the other way around.) “Next time you’re hurt,” Neamh whispered, “it will be done by me. I promise. The bastards will pay for hurting you the way they did, my love. Not only because of how they broke you, but because they did it at all. They had no right!” Just, was it not obvious that Iseul was taken? That she was hers, hers, hers, and always would be? The threads of fate had tied them together-- just like gravity pulled everything towards the Earth, Iseul was pulled towards her, and she to her. (The bitches couldn’t have missed it, Neamh was sure. What they’d done was a deliberate violation, and thus a declaration of fucking war. …from the very beginning, their blades had been fated to clash. Neamh knew that, had known it all this time, and yet, yet couldn’t suppress the disgust rising through her throat like bile. I will destroy them, she vowed. With my own hands, I shall choke the lives out of their unworthy shells.)

After Neamh had told Iseul the story of her people, though? The sins with which they’d stained their hands? She looked away, because no longer could she stand the gaze of those black, black eyes. Now she will know what I am. She will know what I am, and that I deserve nothing but scorn. And, yes, that was true! The mistresses had taught her, and… well, the mistresses told no lies. They couldn’t, because a lie would kill them sooner than a silver bullet could. Even so, Neamh found herself wishing for a loophole-- for something, anything to lift her from the mud, and allow her to kneel at Iseul’s feet. (…useless, though. Of course it was. Exceptions were called exceptions because you had to be exceptional, and that obviously didn’t apply to useless fucking bitches. No, she wasn’t more than a worm crawling through a corpse, feasting on the decaying flesh. Ah, if only she could at least be that! Because even a worm had its sacred place on Earth-- it recycled, it cleaned, it took that which nobody else wanted and made it its own. Humans, on the other hands? Interlopers. Usurpers. Fucking betrayers, hiding knives behind a smile!) “I… I’m sorry,” Neamh sobbed. “I’m so sorry that I, of all people, have to be your other half.” (Was someone else waiting for her in Paradise? Her soul’s sister, perhaps? The mistresses had only told Neamh what she needed to know, which was remarkably little, but she did understand that all of them had someone to return to. At the end of each session, warm arms and sweet kisses were waiting for them-- warm arms, sweet kisses, and knowing that they belonged, in a way in which the not-fae never could. You know what waited for Neamh? The cold fucking floor. Not that she didn’t deserve it, mind you, but from time to time, she had dared to dream of something else. Lately, that something else had included Iseul as well, and-- No! She will hate you. She already does, because she is a god and you a stain on this earth.)

A heartbeat passed, and then another. Neamh steeled herself, for that was the only thing she could do, and-- and-- The not-fae blinked. She did so once, twice, and then, finally, her reality re-asserted itself, in all the vivid colors. Iseul… had forgiven her? Just like that? The weight had been crushing her chest since she had been old enough to understand what it meant, and suddenly… suddenly, it was gone. The bubble had popped. Tears were glistening in her eyes all of a sudden, but Neamh let them fall freely, with no obstructions. “Iseul, I… I don’t know what to say. I promise, you will find that I am worthy of your mercy.” She wasn’t worthy of anything, of course, but did she have any other choice? Did she? Her god had expectations, and she, the faithful follower, had to fulfill them. The prayer wasn’t the only contract between the divine and the mortal-- trust had to flow both ways, for nothing grew in barren soil. Nothing!

But, sadly, humans were too pertinent to give them a moment of privacy. Before Neamh could even begin to understand what they were happening, they found themselves chained and being ushered into a large office. Into an office where Dominic Cortez was waiting for them, supposedly. (He sounded important, yes. At the end of the day, though? He was yet another fucking human, standing between them and their freedom. With her own hands, Neamh would take it back! And if she had to tear him apart to get to the key, she would do so gladly. …what would he look from inside out, hmm? Were his organs adorned with pearls, or was he the same as all that low-ranking scum underneath it? The thread of her thoughts was cut, though, when Cortez addressed her. Her, personally.)

With her green eyes, Neamh just stared at the man. Judging by her expression, you might have guessed he had just offered to murder her puppy-- the not-fae opened her mouth and then closed it, and opened it once again, waiting for words that didn’t seem to come. Just, what? Reconnect with her family? Marry a nice man? Was he fucking kidding?! “I have a name already,” Neamh spat out. “And you are not worthy of knowing it. I only tell it to those who have the right to address me, which you don’t. Call me fucking Adina and I swear, I will gouge your eyes out where you stand.”

If the threat rattled Dominic, he hid it well. “Is that so? My poor, poor child! It appears that the cursed ones have gotten to you already. No wonder, I suppose-- they take our littles ones young, so that they may bend their minds. You are not at fault, but it is necessary that you change. A nice husband could--”

“I don’t want any husband,” Neamh hissed, her chains rattling on her wrists. “I already belong to another. To Iseul. Don’t you see the strength of our bond?”

A flash of recognition appeared in the priest’s eyes, and, for a moment, Neamh could glimpsed something akin to disgust there as well. It came and went, though. (If she didn’t know the wickedness of his heart, the smile that he gave her could have been confused for kind.) “I see. I truly see how it is, child. They’ve broken you, can’t you see? For all your life, you’ve known nothing else, and now you have no idea that you can get something better. That this wasn’t what you were born for. Fortunately, there is a way of proving that these animals are not your friends. They are not anyone’s friends-- the spirit that dwells in their bodies is an inferior one, indeed. True kinship is something they will never understand. For example,” seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a silver dagger, “let us talk of sacrifice. A noble concept, don’t you think? You shouldn’t be surprised to find out that, to them, it is just an empty word.”

With an ominous hiss, he pressed the steel against Iseul’s cheek. The thing burned, burned, burned, through her skin right into her brain, and-- “Kill her for me, Iseul. Your dear little pet. You will do it for me, won’t you? If you obey, I shall let you go.”