#——— ⟢ 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐃𝐎𝐌𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒅 】₊ writing.

[nelithic]

　𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐥 ████ ,　𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 　/　drabble ₊

the first time her mother received their lord father, she thought her the most inestimable creature in all gradlon.

young and eager to please, she had witnessed little more than the passing of feet wreathed in royal cloaks, knelt down and head bowed to honor his arrival and blacken not the name of her mother in disgrace. that he could be understood as ' father ' then had never once crossed her mind. her existence in his origin came detached and absolved of presumption, unmoored from connections of the body or the heart ; as it was with all her siblings, he was progenitor as a god who with a wave of one hand fashioned life and law: his blood and fangs a gift not to be squandered.

though tender of age, she understood that others across the land received similar visitation, that their proud and strong gradlon reigned and culled and cycled only as result ; but, being tender of age, still she imagined her mother somehow exceptional. them, somehow exceptional.

. . .

throughout history, magic had always run rich in the line of the fell dragons. but none so fertile as those born from their subjugated counterparts. the mage dragons of elusia had long lost their history. but among them, there were those who preferred it that way.

nel grew with no elegant, splendid horns, wreathed in rune and cloth. no tie to the fogbound fields of the snowy kingdom of man, whose blood ran similarly quicksilver with magic and ritual. her attention was directed and shaped with care to the red sun of her inheritance, gradlon's waiting throne beneath the lord-god's watchful eye, reserved only for the righteous by strength.

you are the lord sombron's child, and only partly mine. inheriting all of his greatness, and none of my wretched kind's weakness.

but she could still teach her something. brutal, punishing, exacting as could be: it was time, and it was love. the concoction of her might was in half owed to her, and this the young nel was never made to forget for each spell that wracked her limb from limb, agonized her nights on end, imprisoned her without remorse.

if you wish to be relieved from pain, or if you desire freedom, then be stronger. then you can have everything you want. i will not save you. nor will your brother.

. . .

but matricide begins the same as fratricide: a contained storm that loses control. she had been aware of her mother's growing frustration with her children's inaction for some time now, steeling herself for the reckoning that, given her temper, would inevitably come.

nil would not seek his strength in the orchestrated death of his sister, no matter how she pushed.

and nel would raise no hand against her brother in that promised defense, no matter how she warned.

where had she gone wrong as parent? after all, her daughter had everything if not for this, a simple and natural action that for incomprehensible mulishness, she would not take. a crown aligned, and a father's approving eye. what is a mother's desire if not for her young to excel: far beyond expectation, far beyond even herself, and win for that accolade, safety, success. where had she gone wrong, that the priceless fang of a precious child, pride of the brood and of her heart, should be turned upon her instead with everything she had instructed?

in that cool and unflinching rage so reminiscent of their liege lord, not bloodlust but bloodbelonging, as easy a thing as to die. in this, she witnessed sombron again—— and knew that her daughter kept the blood of kings.

. . .

centuries later, that daughter would stand upon the elusian ground and wonder at the home the mage dragons must have walked once. but perhaps that one had never walked at all. had she been born here? or had she too only ever been a product of that raging sun? to ask back then would have been out of the question.

so grasping amidst the fog, she reached out again as she had over and over since those days long flung:

what had been her mother's name? and what had she looked like? m. . . m. . .

there was no hope. after all, she had been born a fell dragon, raised a fell dragon — a birthright to kill, and a birthright to forget.

　

　 NEL has mastered dread fighter.

[nelithic]

ever since awakening from that shifting dream, there has been something amiss. compared to the little ones, her kind proved hardier, less susceptible to bodily illness and injury —— so where had this come from?

hand pressed to chest, she stifles another faint rise of nausea, swallowing down the caustic burn of acid at the back of her throat,

frowns.

( it could not be the chained girl — pasithee's — doing . . . none of the others had appeared to suffer ill effects; and she cannot imagine an illusionist so powerful would have little better to do with her magic than harass an individual with some manner of reflux. )

breath leaves on a forebearing sigh. another night sleeping upright, she supposed.

to be continued.

[nelithic]

　𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚 ,　𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 　/　drabble ₊

"if imitation is required, then so be it. nil's safety is all that concerns me."

we would never be human, my brother and i. we could never hope to pass. even as i said these words to the divine dragon, i recognized that it was concession only. we needed somewhere to stay, a place to rest our weary forms, and regain our strength to continue on. i would make any placations and reassurances necessary to ensure this, so long as we needed it, and leave them behind when it was no longer of use. such simple falsehoods were common, a quotidian tool to dull the fangs of the prowling and jealous until another day. they would still come, of course. just as we would still depart.

　　　　——— ⟢　

we would never come close to human, my twin and i. their faces made this clear. the divine dragon was hopeful and naive, and believed baselessly in our ability to make ourselves at home because, they assured us, they had been able to do the same.

on many occasions, i said to them: "that success is owed in part to your nature as a divine dragon. you underestimate the strength of a systematic distrust."

always, they would reply that my ' systematic distrust ' could only be dismantled by time and visibility, that given enough show of good intent, the others would have no choice but to accept us. i expressed that nil and i were not here to give shows of our intent, nor was it vital to us to earn the humans' trust. we had no interest in becoming the ' good ' fell dragons for others to praise.

always, they frowned. and i was unable to tell if my words had disappointed or saddened them.

　　　　——— ⟢　

"so, why the lance?"

a curious voice broke through the haze of sweat, exertion, and the punishing summer heat. i looked down to my bruised hands, to chastened palms rough and raw from the abrasion of wood, and planted the training weapon point-down in the ground between us to rest. it was as much an acknowledgement of their question as it was a wordless statement to come no closer, and in this single gesture simultaneously provided answer.

"i thought you said you wouldn't fit in."

"i have not."

and this was not untrue. seasons had passed, and nil and i had still not found a more remote, more willing sanctuary. and the faces had not changed. still we undertook tasks together and together only, at times with the divine one for company and otherwise a solemn and happy pair. for though there were those in the army who may stomach us one or the other, both at a time set them ill at ease. i did not fault them, for it did likewise for me. and i would not let nil alone, whose blood was too gentle still to wield steel against soft humanity should they strike first.

"my brother has made some progress with his axe. with a spear, i possess another means with which to protect him."

"ah," the divine one said, as though this was expected, though there appeared to me a distinct hope that there was more to be revealed. i sensed a certain expectation — that it had been a natural decision to complement the preferences of those around me: my brother's hatchets; the divine dragon's sword.

but i would disappoint. the consideration had never occurred to me; only that, of the options available, the spear proved most versatile. to slash, to pierce, to strike bluntly, close or at distance; to be thrown, and lighter weight than an axe.

and above all, to keep the enemy at bay, and nil behind me.

i turned the human weapon on the divine one now to demonstrate this. their startled blue eyes shone wide beneath the sun. "facing your sword will assist me in improving quickly. three seconds and i will attack."

　　　　——— ⟢　

we could never have been human, my other half and i. after all, the humans had all taken their leave, what few remained of them, splintered and swept away like shards of glass.

and now it was quieter than it had ever been — in gradlon or amid the army camps.

regardless of what we intended, we had become the ' good ' fell dragons in the end. some of their faces had eventually changed because of this; others had not. i wondered whether seeing this had satisfied the divine one, had made them believe we had indeed managed to fit in with time and visibility; i had never had the chance to ask. regarding the fresh grave now, the spotless stone, the clean engraving, i felt that so long as this may have perhaps been true, my own intentions ceased to matter. and the praise and judgment of others ceased to matter.

my hands were once again bruised, raw from battle though the old callouses had long faded, and i tried to summon the memory of them again through vision too clear to be appropriate. i willed my eyes to weep, and it did not come. i gave that to nil instead, asked him to weep for both of us.

the spear drove point-down in the grass between the two of us once more, beside the pedestal's simple tomb, as though the iron sought the one who rested beneath it like a compass needle.

i could not reach. my hands could not reach. my tears could not reach.

yet with this lance, i may . . .

. . .

　 【　nel has mastered halberdier　】

　

　┃┃┃　

▀▀ 　BOTANICAL HEADCANONS　₊　|　abatina : is there anything in life your muse has changed their mind about over time ( due to becoming more educated on the topic , certain experiences , etc .) , or that they would change their mind about under certain circumstances ?　|　asked by @heriteur

[nelithic]

　𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭　/　dancer mastery ₊

　　　　　　　　　　　　　❪ fell xenologue spoilers near the end. ❫

　　　　　　　　　　　　✶

two thousand years ago, she danced.

all day and all night. morning to night, to morning again. summer to winter, to summer again. her feet became calloused as a dancer's; her hands became cramped, her bones strained and at times shattered. she bruised, she bled, she rose again.

as with any performance, the stage did not end because she grew tired. the audience did not stop watching. she could not disrupt the formation of this finely choreographed production for such simple things as a sprained ankle, a mending limb, a broken heart. and as with any performance, they were not one or individual, but the whole — a cabaret of matching hisses and reptilian hides, fangs not one inch high or one inch low, a perfect row of smiling grimaces just as father made them. all day, all night, they danced. they were brilliant as gems were brilliant; they were each of them full of imagination because there is nothing that works harder than the mind in such darkness where the eyes cannot see.

and because they were each of them visionaries, one scale off of sombron after the next, the show would never end. put ten thousand artists upon a stage where each of them can dream the world but never touch it and the show will never end.

in her sleep she danced. she held pevar's hand in one and snapped his ribcage with the other, dragged the tines in to pierce his lungs. they spun whirlishly as he struggled to spill her innards with his last gasping breaths.

in her waking she danced, punctured teirvet's throat with her fangs, a bite like a lover's. her poison was teirvet's poison was the poison of each and every one of them; they had practiced this routine countless times, almost playfully, and for a time it had been the closest she thought siblings could ever be — a closeness gradlon's eternal bolero could never permit: they passed mere inches by each other with every step and never, never closer — but then teirvet like countless others had dared to slip, and with that, the unending rehearsal was pushed out before the house in yet another reenactment of the original sin, tearing curtains from the walls in its fever. even the congregation had fled in its wake. but their homeland's composition was a composition of error, made for missteps and casual casualty, or perhaps it should be said that it was in fact a pageantry of these very things. and so when hysterical daou had come at her too afterwards with rage over the death of his twin, with glee over the death of his twin, with excitement, with grief, with vengeance, with gratitude, screaming that he would get her until he was hoarse, screaming that he would get nil, that he'd taste his blood, that he'd kill him if she couldn't, he would kill him, killhimkillhimkILL HIM, in what other way could she have felt close to him but in a dance?

it was the only way any of them felt close to one another.

the only way any of them loved.

one thousand years ago, she danced this old dance again: the dance of siblings, of family, of loved and hated and scorned and cherished ones. it was the dance only they could dance — who closer than twins? of whose half neither would have lived nor grown without the mirror half, of whose bone marrow lived in synonym with the other's, loaned out like the heart loans blood to the hands and the feet in understanding that it would come recycled back someday.

they danced to the death, finally. as had always been meant to be and as she had been avoiding; as she had left gradlon avoiding but which, she always suspected, would find her nevertheless. their steps were long, long overdue, and now there was no audience left to watch. a gallery of corrupted, and false spectators from another world — shades, only.

it did not matter in the end that it was she who killed herself or nil who killed her or rafal who killed her or she who killed either of them. that the hands they had both been dealt stained and redeemed the blood that flowed.

all that mattered was that it had finished. the curtains would finally close. the stage would empty into the wings. the house would never fill again.