deamare

[deamare]

The arrowhead catches on fabric, tears a line through it as Ishtar pivots away only a breath too late. It clatters upon the stage floor then, and she tells herself not to flinch when wood snaps beneath her heel.

The girl could keep her distance so long as she had arrows to fire. But those would run out, that grinning shadow in Ishtar's mind would make certain of it.

Selfish. It echoes in the empty auditorium. She turns her head to where an audience should be, afraid suddenly of who might be present to witness the truth of her sin laid bare. Once empty rows have filled now with a dozen unblinking dolls, glass eyes rimmed with personal tears. Children.

"I could fix this," she says, though more like a plea than a statement. Whether it is for her opponent or their weeping audience, she isn't sure. "If I could see them again, if I could just make it stop-"

She is trembling when the next arrow flies, fingers tensing around her weapon as she remembers why she has it. It takes effort to tear her eyes from the sea of children, but she does. And she lunges.

˗ˏˋ꒰ I AM REMADE ˗ patty & ishtar .꒱

#♡ . ┊ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 — i am remade #♡ ˚· ( patty ). #lockpicnic #hey girl

[deamare]

♡ ˚·  @laslow asked:

[ 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 ] : sender and receiver are finally about to kiss, but are interrupted. (def an au otherwise i think he'd get smote on the SPOT) His hands cup her cheeks, reverent. Eyes flick to her lips, then back up to her own pretty irises. He's nervous as he leans closer. "Ishtar," Laslow whispers, a breath away, her name like honey in his mouth. They're hidden behind a gnarled old tree, stealing a precious moment alone before they must return and face the world. The distance closes until he can almost feel the press of her lips against his. His eyelids grow heavy, half-lidded-- Crunch. Startled, Laslow jerks back, though he doesn't release her face. "Someone must be looking for us, eh?" He laughs, though it's tinged with disappointment.

Everything between them is stolen-- the brush of his fingers, the tickle of his breath, the very moment itself. Ishtar is supposed to know better than foolish things like him, to resist the temptation of handsome young men. They were beneath her, mother had always said, she was too beautiful for any less than a king.

But she is still a girl, just as enticed by a charming smile as any other.

Her heartbeat flutters unbidden in her throat, eager and afraid in equal measure. If they are caught here then she is certain she will never see the world outside of her room again, and there is no telling what might be done to the man who dared lure Friege's most precious treasure from her perch.

Selfishly, she stands here anyway. Perhaps because he smells like sugar, because he is standing so close that she can feel his warmth and she likes it.

Or perhaps because she wants, just this once, to know what it feels like to be anyone else.

Her fingers are curled in the loose cotton of his shirt, whether to hide their trembling or hold him to her she is unsure. Every second moves miserably slow, too slow. Is she scared of what might change if his lips brush hers, afraid that she might wish to forget everything she has ever known to chase that sensation again?

But instead of a kiss there is a rush of spring air, and Ishtar's eyes blink open in surprise. Relief mingles with a disappointment of her own, and she looses a quiet sigh as hands release their hold on him.

"They will have expected me back by now," she whispers, searching his face a moment more before stepping just a hairsbreadth from his reach. "I'll see you again tomorrow, then?"

She does not wait for his reply.

#♡. — 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 #♡ ˚· ( laslow ). #laslow #not the angle you had planned for this i dont think but. got a little silly. #thank you for sending as always mwah mwah

[deamare]

Yes, she wants to say, more than anything.

But she is silent, frozen, watching him as though waiting for something-- anything. An answer, an acknowledgement. When he looks at her then, there is a moment of hope so foreign that it burns where it blossoms in her chest.

And it dies a moment later, when she realizes that what is behind his eyes is not an answer. It is neither invitation or promise, it is ice, and she shivers as it settles over her.

I'm...sorry.

She has cried for so many things in this life, always silently in the safety of her room, where no one could see to scold her for it. For her mother, for her prince, for her father and her brother and that sweet girl, for the lives she should have stopped from being taken.

Tonight, standing before a closed door, Ishtar cries for herself.

This-- he-- is the closest she has come feeling something that was not taught to her. All of her has been directed by another's hand, spent at the end of a too-tight leash. That was love, she was told, meant to protect her. For her own good.

But this, whatever it is, feels a way that love never had. It does not hold her in place, does not scrape teeth along her throat or hold daggers to her heart. It does not take or demand.

With a stuttering exhale, she accepts it too into the graveyard of all that could have been. Another wilted flower, dead at the hands of a girl who had never been taught what it meant to care for one.

Her own door closes between them eventually, moments that feel like hours later. She does not sleep, cheek pressed against the cold glass of her window, watching in silence until watery daylight has begun to seep past the stars.

She hardly notices the tears on her cheeks any longer.

- fin.

The mask that she had donned to give herself the strength to stand up to him cracked, and with it he found himself cracking as well. Her confusion, her hurt - she said she didn't understand, that she didn't believe that it was he who had been cruel, but where else might that hurt have come from than by his actions, done deliberately?

"You want me to look at you..." Though it was a question, he kept his tone carefully flat, lest she answer, and truthfully. Where a moment ago he couldn't, his own frustration skittering about his mind in buzzing insect fashion, now Raven found that he didn't want to, now knowing what he would find.

As the pieces of the conversation obscured everything surrounding them, it became clear that if he turned to her he would see the face of someone that needed him.

No, worse. Someone that wanted him.

It was not necessarily foreign to him, the burden of obligation bound by chains of affection, but when it had just been he and Lucius there had been the history of understanding, their lives so intertwined that the separation had been more of an amputation, and with all of the chronic illness that came afterward, the phantom pains of the missing arms in the night to wrap or be wrapped in.

But where Lucius had been as constant with him as his own heartbeat, this was different, and he had not that constancy that might have allowed him to bear host to someone else's comfort, the safety of their heart.

Better to cut it out at the root, before the flower rots. Isn't that what had happened, in the nursery those months ago? He couldn't remember, at this point that day merely pinpricks in his mind of her fingers against his.

His fingers twitched.

He narrowed his eyes, and he turned, drawing to his full height, forcing the cracks in his mask back together as he turned to look her in the eye for a moment before turning back to his door.

"Perhaps it's as you say. I'm just tired." A pause. "It was...a long journey. We should rest. I'm...sorry."

The door closed in between them slowly, and with the final click of the latch as their goodnight, he found his weight too much to bear, and Raven allowed himself to lean back and slide to the floor.

#♡ ˚· ( raven ). #peerlessscowl #to therapy for them both

[deamare]

Every time she thinks that she knows what he will do, what he will think, Ishtar is proven hopelessly wrong. She waits for his anger, for that unfamiliar cold to dismiss her once again. Neither come, and she realizes then that she has misunderstood, but what?

Her head shakes once. "I don't... I don't understand."

It would have been easier if she had been right, if he had met her with the hatred she deserves. It has been a precarious game that she has played, letting those moments shared linger longer each time, knowing that each one would make her guilt easier to forget, the truth harder to tell. For him she had forgotten her guard, and in her fear that he had finally stepped past it, she has cornered herself.

Though he does not look at her, Ishtar finds she cannot look away from him. This feeling she remembers well, the rush of trying to set something to memory before it is gone. She wonders if he will haunt her too, once he has discarded their time together in favor of better things. Of women raised to be gentle, who are not chained to ghosts.

Ghosts whose fingers have crept under her chin, have tightened impossibly around her neck and pressed against her lips. Ghosts who do not want her to have this, who seek to silence her in death just as they had in life.

"You won't look at me."

Her voice wavers, catching on her every emotion. She wants him to-- terribly, hopelessly-- as if there is even a chance that he may see something there that is not wretched.

"You say I have done nothing, that it is you who has been cruel, but I..." the hold on her throat does not relent, hard enough now that warmth begins to prick behind her eyes. "I cannot pretend to believe you."

Her flinch struck him as roundly as a blow to the face, and he took it with the same stoic exhalation. This was not what he wanted, the prickling burn against his cheek as her fear and dread began to seep into his, curling vines about his throat that made it harder to keep his breathing even.

His eyes squeezed shut, only for a moment, and when he opened them again she had moved back - and, as if on a string connected to hers, his curled fist on the doorjamb dropped and reached to stop her.

The motion was truncated, halted by his own hesitance and the firmness of her offense - at his behavior, at the dark cloud that he had dragged into full view and still refused to call it by its name.

The crack in her voice shattered in his ears like the glass of a stained window, and he felt a burst of bitter acid spit into his throat, furious now with himself for something that he knew of her only in abstract, but had sworn to himself that he would never have a part in - how many times had he seen her drawn into herself, the crushing doubt of this yet unnamed ghost, and how many times had Raven sworn that his hands would only have guided her from that abyss and into light?

"I-"

You are within your right. I have deceived you.

It might have been a heavier admission if he had not already guessed from the first that something was amiss - of course there had to have been, and there was too with he. It was why those silences, those empty spaces, had never been so overbearing with expectation. Like had called to like, even if, it seemed he had gotten there late.

"I was cruel. You don't..."

He hadn't moved, his feet rooted to the spot, unwilling, undeserving, perhaps, for what was he but another ghost waiting in queue? to take the step forward and bridge the gap that he had created, that she had cemented, though there was the draw, the pull toward her such that he felt the world tilt.

Raven still found that he could not meet her eyes, and his voice left him in a breath, nearly inaudible. "Your secrets are yours. You don't...have to get away with anything. I'm..."

He was the intruder here, wasn't he? Not this mysterious figure whose mark remained indelible on her. Who was he but the barest flicker of a candle in a dark moment. What right had he to be anything further?

#♡ ˚· ( raven ). #peerlessscowl #before i give the birthday girl her government mandated attention. indulgence #they make me sick

[deamare]

Eyes dart up to his face as he speaks, startled by his tone. It is a direct contrast to the words themselves, and so foreign on his voice that she flinches. There is no doubt that he is lying, and yet he insists.

They have drifted-- are drifting-- further now than they had been hours ago. Like sand the moment slips through her fingers, taking with it all that she had become so comfortable in knowing of him. The understanding of one another, the comfort in the other's company; with every stilted breath between them it grows more and more difficult to remember.

He's looking away from her now, standing before her as though he would rather be anywhere else. He is ashamed to look upon her, perhaps, and something within her crumbles. With him it had become so easy to forget that she was someone worth despising, that the crimson trail behind her was still hers. That void between them seems to crush her then.

The next breath she draws seems to stutter in her chest, her shoulders draw inward and she takes a slow step backwards. It would be only fair that things end this way, a fitting punishment for a fool who dared believe herself deserving of salvation.

Hands draw upwards, arms folding over her chest and nails digging into the tender skin of her arms.

"You needn't treat me so... forbearingly. I am not fragile."

As if in direct contradiction, her voice cracks on the word. She, perhaps, is not. But this-- this precious thing that dangles between them, the first breath of something other than fear or guilt since she fled her home-- most certainly is.

"You are within your right. I have deceived you." Admittance tastes like ash on her tongue, like a thousand lives taken by her hands. "But, please, do not lie. Spare me the torture of believing for another moment that I have gotten away with it."

No, he hadn't slept, not really - the same quick catnaps here and there to keep himself sharp, but not the deep rest that came from letting his guard down and keeping it there, not the deep sleep that inevitably also came with facing the judgemental stare that awaited him whenever he closed his eyes.

Who would be waiting for him in the dark? A ghost of his? Or hers?

She was a deer in sights before him, and it shocked him how much her timidity boiled the blood in his veins, the way her eyes turning from his face set his teeth on edge. His hand curled white-knuckled on the doorjamb, and he clenched his jaw at the accusation so hard that black spots dotted his vision.

He didn't reply for a moment after she trailed off, letting the silence expand in the space between them, buoyant and growing until he thought he could hear the concert of her heartbeat mingling with his, pattering a rain-steady beat against her ribcage. His eyes caught the flutter of her pulse in her throat, and though she felt so faraway, he knew that if he just reached out, he could brush his fingertips against that fear, could calm it with a breath.

"Well." The word came out clipped, a harsh, brusque syllable entirely unlike the low tones he usually used with her. "You have my apologies. If you thought that I was upset."

There was nothing to be upset over.

There was tug in his chest, building gently since they had been on the road, more insistent the moment he had dismounted from his horse and had not waited to assist her with hers, that pulled at him sharply, painfully for the first time in some years, and he found that he could not bear to look down on her in that moment, could not shoulder the burden of her shame.

His eyes narrowed, almost a wince, and he looked away.

#♡ ˚· ( raven ). #peerlessscowl #this was like genuinely not where i expected the reply to go and yet #the longer i lingered on how ishtar would interpret his body language and how like. afraid of this she is. eyah

[deamare]

Ishtar stands unmoving, frozen in place as though even the slightest action might startle him away from her. There is a fear heavy in her stomach that she cannot place. Never once has she been afraid of the man that stands opposite her, and she does not now.

So what, then, is there to fear?

Only once the door has opened does she breathe again. There is a relief in seeing him again, in hearing him speak as though they stood face to face and not miles apart.

"You have not slept either," she replies, more a statement than an argument. He's right, and he has dismissed both her and her concern in all of three sentences. She should listen to him.

But she does not move. Perhaps he might close the door on her first, it would not be new for her. The life before this one was lived to be diminished, to be spent with her every thought written off as the whim of a silly girl. She should be used to it-- she is-- and yet the idea that such an action might come from him...

She is surprised by how much it could hurt.

Fingers curl in the fabric of her skirt, unsure of what to do with themselves. There is nothing more to be said. Why hasn't she moved?

The whispers at her back coax her to; the disappointed voice of a mother, the haunting sorrow of a lover, each burying clawed hands into her wrists. She thinks they must drag her back eventually, the same way they always used to, but nothing happens.

"You were upset," another statement, her eyes dropping lamely to the ground, "if you say it is not because of me, I have no choice than to believe you. But..."

Her voice trails off. She does not believe him, and she will not if he insists, but to be so brave as to suggest what it may be is beyond her. To do so would require first admitting to herself that she has an idea and, worse yet, that she hopes it is the right one.

He was reading when he heard the knock.

More accurately, he held a sheaf of parchment in his hands - letter, accounts, briefings - none of which his eyes moved over, instead boring into on singular a in the center of the sheet, and he had heard every movement of hers from the time she had crossed the threshold into the inn, tentative footsteps following his into their hall to their rooms, heard the creak of her door as she had closed it behind her.

Heard the silence and the stillness as she waited, mirrored by the tension in his body as he waited in turn.

What was he even waiting for? For morning to break the chilly silence that now began to form violent hoarfrost in between them, gathering black ice and deep crevasses in the chasm between them?

Or was he waiting for the knock that made him shiver - not a jump, not unexpected, not unwelcome, but dreaded all the same.

It was the softness of her voice more than its contents that drew the reaction from him then, the immediate crush of the parchment in his hand as though he had been burned but could not scream.

For reasons he could not understand, even once he forced his grip to release, to gently, tremulously place the papers on the small table, Raven rose from his seat and approached the door, reaching hesitantly for the brass of the latch before passing over it entirely, dragging a ghost of a line with his fingertips along the woodgrain of the door.

His palm hovered, flat, against the plane of the door, as though he were frightened that it would burst if he touched it.

The offense done was his, he wanted to say but didn't, couldn't force the words out, his throat hitching each time he attempted to make a sound.

After a moment, two, would she wait? would she wait for him, the same way that she waited for the hand that curled around her like a cage? Raven sighed.

Tugged the door open.

"No offense done. You need to sleep. We still have a ways to travel."

#♡ ˚· ( raven ). #peerlessscowl #okayokay . okay #anyway

[deamare]

♡ ˚·  @peerlessscowl asked:

[ 𝐰𝐡𝐲 by way of 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 ] : sender has just asked receiver "why don't you love me"; sender is getting frustrated with their repressed affection and asks receiver to leave them alone. It took him a long time to notice the ghost in between them, if only because it was not his own. So used to the distance that he had put around himself from those who might approach him, Raven scarcely considered the tug of his footsteps in her direction might be met with the similar chill, the rift and the call from the other side of the veil haunting each of her footsteps away from him. It was in the small things, the gestures that he performed not by rote but by instinct, the hand not meant to be taken as they dismounted stairs or a carriage ride into the surrounding cities, the glimpses in one another's direction during a conversation with a third party, the tacit understanding they had begun to develop. And yet always, the invisible barrier that he had not until that moment noticed was the grip of fingers, at her elbow, at her hip, around her heart. She was no more distant with him than ever, but now that he saw the figure lurking in the background, she felt as faraway as if leagues of black ocean lay between them. "We'll stop in town," he said, at first softly, breaking the easy silence that had settled upon them during the ride, nudging his horse in that direction, and then said no more until they had stabled at the inn. "I'll go ahead and pay for two rooms." His tone terse, hardened and chilled, his boots hitting heavily against the rushes of the floor until he reached the door, jerking it open and stalking inside, allowing it to slam behind him in the cool night air.

Inexplicably, something between them shifts.

It is foreign and familiar all the same; the way that everything with him seems to be. There is a security to his company, an understanding that Ishtar has grown to quietly covet, that she has begun to notice when she is without.

As she adjusts her hold on leather reins and moves to follow without question, she can convince herself that the chill seeping in to the space between them is nothing but her imagination. It would not be the first time that love's ghost has tightened his hold on the threadbare rope once woven around her throat, pulling her away every time she dares step too close.

Only as she watches his back disappear behind a door does she dare to think it may have been otherwise.

So she lets him go without chase-- stepping within the building only well after he had, disappearing into the room he had secured for her without inquiring after which might be his. That is what he had wanted of her, surely, and yet she spends the next hour watching the door as though expecting him appear through it.

He does not.

Before she can think to stop herself, Ishtar steps out into the hallway. By this hour the inn has quieted, lights beneath doors extinguished. All but one, situated not even a full stride across from her own. She swallows hard against the hand that has returned to its place around her neck and steps forward, knocking against the frame once.

"If I have done something to offend you," her voice is quiet, suddenly timid, "please allow me to apologize..."

#♡. — 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 #♡ ˚· ( raven ). #peerlessscowl #jumpscare. nobody look #and NOBODY tell lord julius amen

[deamare]

♡ ˚·   @anruraiocht asked:

[ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 ] : unable to handle their fondness towards receiver, the sender lashes out and they end up in a heated argument. ( ehehe )

Ishtar stands stock still, paralyzed with wrists still stretched between iron bars and palm held open. It's empty now, carefully wrapped remnants of her untouched dinner knocked from it onto the floor. She is frozen as though she expects to be scolded, even though the only person here to do so is a girl covered in filth and bound at the ankles.

"I thought..." Mother had taught her that people would weep to receive gifts from her one day, that there would only ever be gratitude for the Goddess of Thunder.

But this girl shows none, her face contorted in an anger so raw that Ishtar cannot bear to look at it. She thinks first that she should be angry-- that is what she has been taught to be when disrespected by someone labeled as lesser-- but then that feels wrong. What was it that made this girl lesser? The cage that she had been shoved in? The kingdom that she had been stripped of? The blood of her father still drying on his throne? All done in the name of Ishtar's own.

She steps shakily back, distantly aware that she should not be here any longer than she has to, and yet she finds she cannot bring herself to run. "I was trying to help, I-"

It hits her then that to help would be to restore what has been taken, to free her from this prison built within her own home. To help would have been to never allow this to have happened at all.

Footsteps echo from further down the corridor and her time for useless apologies has met its end. There is evidence of her disobedience plainly strewn across the floor of the girl's cell, and with one glance Ishtar knows that her fate rests in the hands of the other.

As the cell disappears behind her, she thinks that perhaps it is only fair. If she is to be punished, let it be at her discretion.

And the next time that Ishtar sneaks away in search of Miranda of House Ulster, she is nowhere to be found.

#♡. — 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 #♡ ˚· ( miranda ). #anruraiocht #heated argument in like an abstract way ... listen okay #thought on this for a while and couldn't find an idea i liked for it better #so if it doesn't make sense for the prompt to anyone that isn't me ... so be it #but i think a lot about miranda and specifically like. how ishtar's encounters with her had to have been so eye opening #achievement unlocked: aware of privilege #sorry anyway #yeah #forcibly putting the idea into this that miranda wanted to like ishtar in this instance #sorry again forever

[deamare]

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝: a little assortment of prompts revolving around painful, bottled up affection and endless yearning, as well as the possible result of finally taking action. remember to tag your dark themes. add +reverse to swap the roles.

[ 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 ] : receiver notices sender looking at them longingly. [ 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 ] : receiver hears sender calling their name while asleep. [ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 ] : sender drapes a coat / cape / etc. around receiver's shoulders. [ 𝐬𝐜���𝐧𝐭 ] : receiver is hugging a coat / cape / etc. that belongs to the sender. [ 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 ] : sender is helping the receiver through a panic attack / severe anxiety. [ 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 ] : sender takes a hold of receiver's both hands. [ 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ] : sender and receiver are spooning for comfort and warmth. [ 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 ] : sender and receiver are finally about to kiss, but are interrupted. [ 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 ] : sender and receiver are finally sharing a passionate kiss. [ 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 ] : sender has just found the receiver who's been missing for weeks. [ 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 ] : after being misinformed that the sender has died, receiver is grieving. [ 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ] : sender is expressing anger over receiver's constant recklessness. [ 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 ] : sender is voicing their negative opinion about a person who appears to be close with the receiver. [ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 ] : sender has just told receiver "you belong to me". [ 𝐰𝐡𝐲 ] : sender has just asked receiver "why don't you love me". [ 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 ] : sender has harmed someone who threatened the receiver. [ 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦 ] : sender has killed someone who threatened the receiver. [ 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 ] : sender has gotten injured protecting the receiver. [ 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 ] : sender is getting frustrated with their repressed affection and asks receiver to leave them alone. [ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 ] : unable to handle their fondness towards receiver, the sender lashes out and they end up in a heated argument. [ 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ] : sender is apologising for appearing cold. [ 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 ] : sender is telling receiver they "deserve better than whatever this is".

#prompt tag ? #i have no shortage of old meme prompts but yk how it is #au for these most likely (haha…unless?) #for the ishtar wanters out there now is ur chance

[deamare]

There is a heartbeat of stillness as everyone seems to register what has happened. And then there is chaos.

Hell breaks loose as though it had been begging to all along; people in the crowd turn against one another with hardly any question. Ishtar watches for a moment, frozen, as one man stumbles toward the gallows and another shoves him away. They're arguing over these people's lives, she realizes, and familiarity sinks into her skin like ice.

Someone backs into her then, startling her out of paralysis. A woman, old enough to have known her mother as a girl, flails blindly forward. She is weeping, lips moving over and over soundlessly in the shape of a boy's name.

Perhaps that is what finally does it.

Ishtar draws her hood impossibly further over her face, eyes to the ground as she disappears into the crowd. Shoulders knock into her, angry hands searching for anything they can break reach out for her, but she does not let them stop her. She can't. Long since has she lost sight of that man in the crowd, he who had been so noble as to give her this chance, but she knows better than to waste it.

The lumber frame of death's stage meets her sooner than she expects, with so many of its guards lost in the sea of bodies. She can hear orders being shouted, commands to break the fight that seems insistent on continuing regardless. Ishtar ducks around to the back of it, feels her hands shake as she reaches to hoist herself up. She had come with no weapon, nothing to defend herself or protect these people, but she tells herself it does not matter. She cannot stop here.

Nobody watches the gallows, perhaps too concerned with vengeance to remember that there is still time for justice, but Ishtar knows that cannot last forever. She pulls herself up clumsily, finds her footing again, and darts towards the first in the line of bodies arranged for death.

"Be still" her murmur is nothing against the cacophony that surrounds them, but the boy's eyes flare wide despite that, "I am not going to hurt you."

Lithe fingers curl around rope, already hot with magic. Strands fray and snap in her touch, one by one, helplessly slow, but it is all she can do with no knife. It will have to be enough, for him and for the others after, as long as no one notices-

From the ground, someone screams. She doesn't have to look to know why, to feel eyes alight upon her like moths to flame.

The Easiest Way to Start a Riot Is to Shout "Hey Who Wants a Riot"

#♡ . ┊ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 — the easiest way to start a riot #♡ ˚· ( raven ). #peerlessscowl

[deamare]

There is a strange, almost cold familiarity to this place. It is unsettling in every way-- filled with the ghosts of what was once beautiful-- and its owner's smile wears an uncanny similarity to mother's.

Ishtar shifts, drawing her shoulders inward as though to take up as little space as possible. It is comforting to be somewhere not so unlike the life she had fled, like a too-tight embrace.

Silence is broken now only by three pairs of footsteps as she and her escort fall into step behind the Duke's embroidered coattails. Her companion speaks with an accent that she tries to disregard as familiar, and appears rather jarringly out of place against the elaborately paneled walls. Ishtar has to remind herself that he is who she should be standing closer to.

The Duke pushes open a pair of doors in a gesture arguably too grand for the dust-coated frame, and they give way with a miserable creak to perhaps the most alive room she has seen on their little tour.

An alchemist's study, she would call it, were it not so clear that it had only become one rather recently. Furniture has been pushed to the walls and draped in canvas, making room at the center for a large cauldron. Tables have also been arranged, at least three of entirely different kinds of wood indicating that none of them had originated from this room itself.

And atop them are countless tomes, journals, and scattered papers. From only a glance, Ishtar can see far more than one language she does not recognize strewn throughout the mess.

"This," the Duke lifts a little leatherbound volume from the centermost table, displaying it proudly before stepping before her, "is my bloodline's greatest creation. Handle it carefully, dearest."

Fingers brush as the book exchanges hands. It is a moment so brief that Ishtar may not have noticed it at all, were it not for the way that ice lingers on her skin long after the man has moved away.

"I will be back on the hour to monitor your progress, hm?"

And then he is gone, leaving Ishtar rather lamely at the room's center with his book in hand, blinking after him. She must be imagining the way that the room has suddenly grown warmer in his absence, or how sunlight seems to have begun filtering though the old linen curtains.

"He is rather..." Her thumb hooks the latch that binds the book and it falls open rather insistently, landing on a bookmarked page titled ingredients. "I suppose the word is peculiar."

the sins you never had the courage to commit

#♡ . ┊ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 — the sins you never had the courage to commit #♡ ˚· ( beowolf ). #sayhwaet #took me forever im so sorry #long ass reply also #i love to ramble about nothing

[deamare]

♡ ˚·  @laruarva asked:

"It should sting for just a moment, hold still if you are able please." Cotton bundled to a pad, doused in herbal remedy, pressed to the abrasion upon her cheek. It was a precautionary measure when her wounds would soon be doused with faith, but the fine line between a healers capabilities and medicines necessities was not one they had the intention to smear. "I do not believe I recognise you." An acknowledgement, spoken too light to be an accusation. "No need to shy in correcting me if I am making false assumptions, but you are not a member of the Black Eagles house, are you?" Hand retreated from her cheek, gaze sharp on her skin as they assessed the wound. A satisfied hum, hands once again raised but this time with spells coiled around porcelain fingers. "Regardless, it matters little. Tell me of yourself, if you are able. Chatter helps me focus when healing." It did not, but what use was a healer who fumbled at the slightest noise. To say they could predict her behaviour and temperament would be a bold faced lie, but from what little they had parsed of her, they felt a little prompt of reassurance that her voice was welcomed between them could do no harm. "If you need a place to start...hmm...ah, you chose to wield a tome. Is magic a practice you enjoy, or a weapon most comfortable for you to brandish?"

With eyes downcast, Ishtar allows attentive hands to take to her skin. She can hear mother fretting in her grave, loud and angry as she demands extra work be put in making sure no scar remains. For how could His Highness love a girl who shows signs of wear-- how could he ever wish to kiss a face that has been marked by a hand that is not his?

But she makes no such request now, sits still and silent, fingers curling in her lap as the wound is cleaned so that she does not flinch.

Only when they speak again does her spine stiffen. Silence hangs between them a moment, occupied only by the rustling of cotton being discarded and the suddenly too-distant bustle of the med tent around them.

"No," Ishtar answers, too quiet. She doesn't elaborate, but she looks up now. Expecting to be met with suspicion, perhaps, she is surprised to find none there. Eyes fall back to her lap as fingers resume against her cheek.

"...I come from a family of mages." Her response comes slowly, but it does. She neglects mention of her father's name or the crusader whose blood her heart beats with, denouncing her pride in them for fear. "A tome is all I have ever known to fight with."

Magic warms her skin, ever-familiar, and Ishtar pauses a moment. Fingers curl around themselves as she clears her throat, as she seeks a voice she has so rarely been allowed to find.

"Do not worry yourself with the scar," her eyes shut, "it may remain."

#♡. — 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 #♡ ˚· ( arval ). #toaboel2024 #dont mind me taking a self indulgent angle and sprinting with it #arval i LIKE YOU SO MUCH IMG ONNA DIE #thank you vi......................................tjank y

[deamare]

"If you wish for it to haunt me," her voice is quiet, "then I will let it. I have been a villain to you, princess, I will never ask you to know me for anything else."

Ishtar opens her eyes once more. Miranda glows with a hatred wrought in grief, stands proud with the strength her suffering has earned her. She will make a wonderful queen one day, when the world has learned to bend to that temper of hers.

Ishtar thinks she may have liked to meet that woman as diplomats in a world where love had been honest, where war had been kinder. And it is okay that she will not, she knows, because Miranda will become all that she was meant to regardless.

"But I will tell you this," slowly, softly, words meant to be heard by none other than she who stands before her, "I do not suffer for your happiness. Of the two of us, it was always you that was meant to find it. I have accepted this, I would never wish it otherwise.'

Fingers uncurl from her skirt, leaving wrinkles in their wake. She is a far cry from the porcelain statue her mother carved her to be, standing with shaking hands and sunken eyes. Pitiful without the fetters of a lover on her wrists, the chains of a mother around her throat. A puppet unstrung, too riddled with grief to stand for itself.

She sighs.

"Curse me until your final breath, I will understand."

"Nothing?"

Come on. Fight back already.

But as much as she hopes that Ishtar will bite back, validate her anger, anything, she just stands there and takes it. The acerbic words she had kept locked inside her heart for this very day die on her tongue. She had a mountain of complaints piled up, but seeing Ishtar cowed before her, it doesn't feel right to say them now. If she were younger, maybe, when the wounds were still fresh, she would have been unrelenting.

Now, though? What is it that she wants? After finally having the acknowledgement that she had been hurt in her hands, where is there to go but forward?

In another life, maybe they could have been friends. Without the shadows of their parents hanging over them, maybe they would have reached out their hands for each other then. They would have giggled in hushed tones, exchanging secrets and jewelry, talking about this or that.

A normal friendship between young noble girls.

...No, that's not quite true, either. To begin with, the very nature of their relationship hinges upon suffering. Were it not for everything that had happened, they wouldn't have had any reason to ever meet. They would not exist in each other's lives at all had none of this happened.

There is no "other life", just the one that exists now.

"I will curse you and your family until my last breath for what you have done to me and my father's kingdom, Lady Ishtar." For every centimeter that Ishtar lowers her head, Miranda raises hers. "But you know what? I am happier now. The peace I have earned and my continued happiness—I hope it haunts you that I grasped it for myself."

#♡ ˚· ( miranda ). #anruraiocht #mindboom

[deamare]

She nods distantly, watching as the girl scoops up the little creature like it is nothing more than a puppy. It yawns rather adorably, blinking sleep from its eyes. Ishtar looks away, peering down at her dress.

"I don't mind," comes her answer, because she never has. And there is no mother to return to that will grow angry at her for being so careless, so there's no reason to. She shifts a little, leaving space at her side to accommodate Veyle and the hatchling.

"Do you do this often? Attend to wyverns, I mean..."

˗ˏˋ꒰ wyvernsitting ˗ veyle & ishtar .꒱

#♡ . ┊ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 — wyvernsitting #♡ ˚· ( veyle ). #misericordel #the ishtar pitypartying is giving me secondhand embarrassment

[deamare]

Ishtar blinks rather slowly. Her true calling? It's hard to imagine. She has known of dancers and songstresses, entertainment meant to be bought for and scoffed at by nobility. It's pleasant to see them be something else here, but still... Her?

"I... I don't know..." Her fingers clasp together as if considering fidgeting with themselves. Perhaps if she stands still and shakes her head for long enough he will tire of his effort, and she can disappear back into the darkness of Abyss as though she had never crept onto the surface at all.

But another few moments of blinking seem to promise persistence, and Ishtar concedes with a sigh of defeat. It won't take long, and hopefully nobody will pay her any mind, so...

"If you insist."

Cautiously she casts a glance around them, watching as that girl curtsies and takes her leave, making room for a wind mage twice her height with a proclaimed excellency in flight. Ishtar swallows.

"Whatever it is you would like for me to do, I will. Just... please make it quick..."

Magic Tea Kettle

Reason +1 | Recovery

#♡ . ┊ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 — magic tea kettle #♡ ˚· ( m!corrin ). #duskofendflame #i realized corrin was dropped after i posted this so im leaving it but not counting it for wc god help me

[deamare]

♡ ˚·   @apathynoir asked:

"lady ishtar?" dwyer is leaning against a chair, far enough from his cot that it's obvious he isn't supposed to be here. the gods only know how he managed to get to where he is, blind as he's become. he does his best to face her. even if he wasn't---it's hard to tell with no voice to search for---the resolute turn of his lips and his hardened browline speaks to his attempt. "i heard that the eagles lost our round... and that you were brought to the infirmary." hands guide up the spine of the chair until he stands straight. "i know that this wasn't a true battle... but you were still injured, and i did not do my part to soothe those wounds. i did not play my part as butler appropriately." his words steep in regret, and he bows so quickly that he almost hits his head on the side of the chair he'd steadied himself on. "please allow me to extend my deepest apologies," he voices with urgency. "i only wish that i could have kept you more safe. one day, i would like to make up this blunder to you over coffee---if you'll have it."

Ishtar peers up at him from where she sits, gaze too heavy for a girl who just fumbled on an inconsequential battlefield. It isn't that simple for her. In every place that she cannot find the perfection that mother raised her to be there is mourning, and Ishtar has begun to feel sickened by the familiarity of that feeling.

But for him, this stranger she had only met hours ago, to bring his shame before her... She shakes her head once, coaxing her features into a small smile.

"You needn't ask my forgiveness," her voice is gentle. "Yours was a valiant effort, and without you I have no doubt my fate would have come far sooner."

Emotion washes over her like déjà vu. Watching him worry for her so, a reminder of the kind of care and devotion she had once known from another man in another life, it kindles a fondness in her tired heart.

"Please do not hold yourself responsible for that which cannot be changed, not for me." Her head tilts. "But, if your offer still stands, coffee sounds nice."

#♡. — 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 #♡ ˚· ( dwyer ). #apathynoir #THANK YOU FOR SENDING NEURO I LOVE HIM SO MUCH #this is so sweet im gjoing to be ill

[deamare]

♡ ˚·   @maligknightsthorns asked:

🧃"Ah darling don't look too sour. It's all for fun. Here, enjoy an extra!"🧃

Ishtar accepts the offering with a slow blink. "Oh, did I..." she rubs at her cheek as though trying to decipher her own expression and then shakes her head, embarrassed. "Thank you."

#♡. — 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 #♡ ˚· ( camilla ). #toaboel2024 #maligknightsthorns