@fallesto grabbed your attention: 🤍 Love train! Send this to all the people who deserve love! don't forget to spread the love! 🤍
N’awww thank you !! this really means a lot !! <3 <3
@fallesto grabbed your attention: 🤍 Love train! Send this to all the people who deserve love! don't forget to spread the love! 🤍
N’awww thank you !! this really means a lot !! <3 <3
AS BEAUTIFUL IN LIFE, SO SHALL SHE BE IN DEATH. / ( bernadette had died in a room smelling of blood and roses ; bernadette had died screaming, the very life thrashed viciously out of her. ) the people had wept at the news. and so shall they mourn for her, for a time. and then that, too, shall pass. for all but donna, dearest disappointing donna, who thinks that she will mourn her sister for all eternity.
worthy, worthy, worthy. bernadette had been. / and i am not.
and yet, and yet, the holy mother is benevolent to take her beneath her blackened wings to comfort her. to be seated beside her and to look upon her wretched face when others would not. to offer gentle words of guidance out of this bleak void that she is trapped in.
❝ mother. . . ❞ she sobs, and is unsure of the title is directed to one absent cosmina beneviento. her mother, who had torn pieces of her hair out and clawed at her own face, had declared the future of the house lost. ❝ she -- papa is tending to her, trying to make her well again. she said things before... unkind things but, i know she did not mean them. please forgive her, too, if you will. ❞
quiet and devout, the unofficial ambassador of the family. it is one among many responsibilities that she realizes with slow horror that will befall onto her now ; her, the ill - prepared second daughter.
❝ i wish that he had taken me instead. ❞ she whispers, wanting to bury her face into the black robes with shame. the talons running through her hair have temporarily calmed her state of sobbing, but her sorrow has a stranglehold. ❝ it would have been best. bernadette was your joy, your prodigy. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. she brought happiness to us all, and i. . . i am a poor trade - off. ❞
@fallesto / continued from ( x )
@fallesto said : Perhaps my only real expertise, my only talent, is to endure beyond the endurable. * Mia (Miranda)
ethan’s eyes flicker towards mia when she speaks. teeth sink into bottom lip, a sign of DISCONTENT. he worries about her more and more ; the way she chooses to try and ignore everything that happened in louisiana... the way she likes to act as if it’s all just FINE... it troubles him. this latest answer only enforces that, too. perhaps ignoring the truth, pretending nothing ever happened, is how mia DOES endure. perhaps it’s how she goes about her day, acting as if they’re a normal family, when in actuality, they’re anything but normal. ethan cannot look past it, but somehow, she does. ENDURANCE. she endures it by ignoring it. it’s admirable, in a way— but when he wants to talk to her? talk to her about the things that have happened? their trauma? it STINGS. “ you don’t HAVE to endure though, mia, ” ethan murmurs, face contorting with a flicker of emotion. “ you can TALK to me. ”
❛ i can always count on you. ❜ (Harley To Joker)
&. 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.
🃏 -----;; “Of course you can count on me, my dear.” The clown replies in an almost sickly sweet tone, grin pulling further across his features. As if he hadn’t used her to escape Arkham not too long ago. “And I can always count on you, right Harley?” He questions, green eyes turning to focus on her now.
@fallesto Continued from here. She's quiet as the other woman, angel (?) demon (?), bird (?), speaks. By all appearances, every word was meant. By all appearances, Fiamma meant many of the things she herself had said in the past- a good portion of them had been lies. Still. It could not be denied that this village was entirely unnatural. In fact, she had witnessed six impossible things before breakfast. Better than simply believing them. The origins of the little indents upon Fiamma's chapped lips become evident as she chews upon them in thought. No, she has not bought what she's being sold, but it is better to remain neutrally curious. The village was a curiosity so it did not take much in the way of acting. For Fiamma to immediately pretend that she believed in Mother Miranda would be unbelievable to anyone capable of rational thought anyways. Especially so to this woman who may or may not have magic powers. Cult leaders did not get where they were by being gullible- magical or not. That task was left to the lowest of their followers. "What you say is true," she begins with carefully measured words, "the world out there is not kind..." Neither was Fiamma really, but that was beside the point. "With that in mind, I am having a hard time wrapping my head around how everyone can be happy?" It had to have come at a steep price and certainly not all people reaped the benefits of it. No way. Even if the potentially magical bird woman -who seemed like a cross between an angel, a folkloric antagonist, and someone who would make her run through a labyrinth in order to rescue her baby brother- was somehow above human fault, what of the villagers? In Fiamma's experience, there was not a soul alive who did not have their own selfish agenda, whether they were willing to admit it to themselves or not. “I am sure that in staying I will learn, but... it just sounds too good to be true.” The slight smile and subtle wonder in her voice were entirely put on. Absolutely. Even if she were somehow in the heaven oft depicted in art museums all over Rome Fiamma would still ask the angels ‘so, this is nice and all, but what’s the catch?’. Nothing is free.
Her hands shook as she held the gun out in front of her. "It would have been more of an apology if you had stayed dead." She moved on hand under the butt of the gun in an attempt to steady it. It wasn't every day you meet the monster that haunted your nightmares.
@fallesto sent: ❛ you’re late . ❜ * Miranda
dialogue prompts. / accepting.
something icy settles deep in his bloodstream, traveling along through his veins & clinging tightly to every nerve in his body. with it, cold bitterness settles on his tongue, a taste that immediately sends him recoiling as it seeks to expel the unwanted invasion from his mouth. is this fear ? perhaps. a milder version, maybe. one that lingers without the threat of certain torment or agony at the end of its string. closer to uneasiness in its presence, as it creeps along his spine & sets every hair on his body on edge. there is reprimand to her tone, & the unspoken sentiment makes karl uncomfortable. despite his late arrival, he would prefer if the burden of attention during this particular “ FAMILY GATHERING “ did not fall on his shoulders.
“ m’sorry ‘bout that, ” he mumbles, fingers gripping the brim of his hat & tilting it in a small, apologetic gesture. hopefully enough to sate the priestess for the moment. he does not offer assurances that his mistake will not be repeated, nor does he openly seek forgiveness. those are futilities better suited for alcina or moreau.
heisenberg slips ( none too quietly ) into the church pew frequently reserved specifically for himself, nose scrunching at the scent of sewage & decomposition that clings to the fabric of the seat in small splatters on one edge - obvious evidence of moreau’s attempts to claim the space for himself in karl’s temporary absence. the monstrosity’s presence in the corner, at least, indicates that miranda did not see heisenberg’s infraction of tardiness worth losing his designated place amongst the lords.
continued from here:
“WHAT?” A simple inquiry mostly masked behind the very obvious panicked tone that carried it, it was spoken more from a reaction to the order than with any real expectation of being answered. There was no answer that could be provided that would have been satisfactory, at any rate, none that he would have embraced.
The reality was, what was the alternative to the sacrifice that she suggested with her instruction to him to vacate the area? Either one of them died, or they both did, there was no grounds available that seemed to offer them a more positive route.
It was only natural that he resist reality. Maybe as a form of rebellion against fate, or otherwise.
His name was Trunks, not a very typical name. But he wasn’t a typical guy.
And the lady before him, well, she didn’t seem to be the typical sort of person either. There had to be something of steel within that organic shell to offer up the sacrifice that she had. It went against the prime directive of the mind and body to be so selfless, to go against the urge of self preservation for the sake of others!
“I don’t even know your name!” THAT seemed a horrific fact almost as degrading as their currently precariously dangerous situation.
“We’re both getting out of here together.” He didn’t look like the sort of bloke who could be wedged away from a decision once he made up his mind. “We can’t make it through this horde, so let’s abandon this post. We’ve got to regroup.”
@fallesto admitted mother miranda would have needed ‘how to be a modern human 101′ lessons for Plot Reasons and alcina dimitrescu immediately volunteered because clearly. CLEARLY. with her firm grasp on modern living. she was the perfect woman for the job.
“NO WINGS.” This was their third lesson. The Connections were eager for Miranda’s in-person presence, and this was perfectly understandable. She was the mother of all they sought to create, the ever-lasting figure of tenacity and awe-inspiring superiority. But their pushing came at costs: long, indefinite periods of absence, waiting for the data and science to harmonize with the orchestral symphony of grief in Mother Miranda’s own mind. Perfectly reasonable, and terrifying also. LET ME PUT MY CLAWS IN YOU, MIRANDA, Alcina wanted to hiss across the salon table, AND SCAR YOU IN WAYS THAT WILL KEEP YOU SAFE. Not actual claws, you understand, but a few relevant lessons in all the things that she had to learn for the sake of business, and enterprise, and wealth. It sounded so common, even in her mind’s eye. Upon the first lesson, she’d both insisted on teaching Miranda and been indignant about the chore of making her priestess a commoner also, leading to a slow process during which Miranda had keenly asked: why couldn’t she wear her ceremonial face mask when in the outside world. Alcina, having in that very moment received a grim but shocking reminder of how much work there truly was to do, relaxed into her role after that. With smug, prideful certainty she had the measure of this situation now: MIRANDA NEEDED HER. Lesson two had ended abruptly and in disaster after asking for her daughters to assist with educating them on the use of new phones. Once the girls had left, the two had quietly agreed that letters would suffice, for the first few months at least. PLEASE DON’T LAST THAT LONG, she thought to herself, but held her tongue. It was the height of over-indulgent foolishness to hand-wring and fret like a child. Moreau, Beneviento, Heisenberg - none of them were knowledgeable or clever enough, there were no other options, and she accepted this foisted role of educator with poise, grace, and no small amount of obscene self-adulation. “NO wings, NO ceremonial mask, NO talons. You know how solemnly I would encourage you to stay true to the prophetess that you are in normal circumstances, but these circumstances are far from normal. You must be the wolf in sheep’s clothing, draga mea, and spend as little of your energy as possible on what you can give these people of your self, and as much on what you can give them of your knowledge. To this end,” she cleared her throat, and pushed a leather bound folder with plastic pages full of images, “I have commissioned a personal assistant from a very reputable agency to pre-select some acceptable clothing options. You’ll mark the ones you like, and I shall see to the rest. With the help of your personal assistant, we will procure a truly modern perspective on our preparations.” Picking out Miranda’s clothes for the journey brought her no small amount of delight. Like an overfed dragon, she lingered in the deliciousness of control. The smirk was hard to keep from her face, but manfully she attempted to stay solemn as a tomb. “I warn you: this style of dress is different to your own. There are a lot of pants - for women - in this catalogue, dragostea mea. As is custom for modern American women.” This, she wasn’t sure how Miranda would react to. Either it would be something the priestess just accepted gladly without a second thought, or she’d have a slow hesitation which would eventually erupt in some stressed reaction later. It could go either way. Her large gloved hand dropped the folder onto the salon coffee table that lay between then, and she waited.
Val shook her head in response when Mother Miranda questioned whether it was necessary to watch her. "No, Mother Miranda. 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝. You have nothing to worry about." The statement was only partially untrue; though Val would never leave the village, not out of loyalty to Miranda, but for her own reasons, she sometimes certainly 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 she could. Never mind the fact that she was supporting Lord Heisenberg with his secret rebellion.
𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎. A word that was difficult for her to associate with this cold and lonely place; the village certainly did not feel like a home to her. The only time she felt truly at home in the village was when she was by Heisenberg's side; 𝚑𝚎 felt like home, not the village itself. But, to Miranda, she had to put on the act that she was one of her devoted "children". "No reason really. I just... 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 is all..."
@fallesto from here.
THE BLOOD MOON WAS UPON THEM, THE FLOCK HAD GATHERED WITHIN THE FIELDS AND THE SACRIFICES OF THE LIVESTOCK WAS AT HAND, AGAINST THE WISHES OF LORD DIMITRESCU.
LORD DIMITRESCU. There great and powerful ruler. So wise, so caring, so trapped within his own lust for more power and wealth. TO THIS MAN, THE LIVESTOCK WAS PROFIT – HIS PROFIT. He had entertained the priestess and nothing more. Tolerated her existence and nothing more. To him, she was an unruly pest. Someone who was sweeping through the village with radical thinking. Sermons about some ancient god. Talks about tradition and the old ways, in how remembering them and honouring them would offer a better life. FREEING THEM FROM THE BURDENS OF STRESS, OF WORRY, OF CONCERN. To give yourself over to the black god, was to make your life simpler, easier, better for you and your family and for a time Lord Dimitrescu tolerated this. But like all men who strive for more, whose hands wish to reach across the table and take all for himself, there was a line – and it had been crossed. The village offered very little to him. THE WINTERS NEVER ENDED. They where harsh, very little could be grown, but the livestock – was famed throughout the lands. A REVENUE SOURCE THAT WAS BEING SPILLED UPON THE SOIL. To him, wasteful, to her a necessity.
“WE CALL ON THEE WITHIN THE ENDLESS STEP AS THE MIDNIGHT MOON RISES ON BLACK WINGS, WE AWAIT THE LIGHT AT THE END… IN LIFE AND IN DEATH, GLORY TO MOTHER MIRANDA”
THE FLOCK HAD GATHERED WITHIN THE FIELD. A dozen creatures had been slaughtered, with no end in sight. There throats slit, heads tilted back to allow their crimson to spray onto the soil. To soak it, to sink deep within. To fed that which slumbers under them all. THE PRIESTESS STOOD WITHIN THE CENTRE OF THE FLOCK. WATCHING AS THE VILLAGERS WOULD OFFER UPON THE BLACK GOD. Her eyes shifting upwards as she would stare at the harvest moon. How full it had become. How plentiful this offering was to the black god. Yet all was not peaceful. Not all of the village had attended as requested. Lord Dimitrescu had refused. Those loyal to him had refused. THE APPEARANCE OF HIS RELATIVE, THE YOUNG ALCINA WAS WITHIN ATTENDANCE. No doubt to experience local customs for the first time. Yet the crowd was not restful, the arrival of Lord Dimitrescu enforcers, Uriaș and Străjer. The two men who control the village in his stead arrived. With a dozen more men at their call. STINKING OF CHEAP WINE AND ALE. Carrying torches, pitchforks and other weapons. There weapons used to hunt the creatures of the forest, used to kill the crows and birds of the village and now they sought to use them on their own. THEY WERE HERE TO BREAK THE CROWD, TO STOP THE WASTEFULNESS OF THEIR ONLY INCOME.
“UNDER THE COMMAND OF LORD DIMITRESCU, THIS MADNESS IS TO CEASE AT ONCE. RETURN TO YOUR HOMES THIS INSTANT, END THIS POINTLESS SLAUGHTER. OR YOUR LORD WILL BE FORCED TO ACT TO CLAIM BACK HIS LOSSES.”
THE POWERFUL VOICE OF STRĂJER WAS ENOUGH. Most of the crowd started to break away, turn on their heels and walk from the gathering. When that wasn’t enough, Urias would raise his shotgun into the air, and fire several times, his lackies would do the same and that quickly changed. From a walk, to a sprint. As the crowd was in chaos. THEY WHERE FIRING INTO THE AIR, THE PEOPLE SCATTERED AND, IN THE CONFUSION, STRĂJER HELD HIS RIFLE UPWARDS, NOT INTO THE AIR, BUT POINTED DIRECTLY AT MIRANDA. Străjer – she would remember that one. AS IN THE CONFUSION, THE MADNESS HE WOULD FOLLOW HIS LORDS’ INSTRUCTIONS AND TAKE THE SHOT. The bullet would be fired, hitting Miranda in the chest as they all fled from the scene. Străjer, his brother and his lackies would run, the crowd would run, everyone that had gathered has fled. LEAVING ONLY MIRANDA AND SURPRISINGLY ALCINA AS WELL.
“Am I?” THE PRIESTESS REMAINED STILL. SHE HAD NOT FLINCHED, SHE HAD NOT MOVED AN INCH. Străjer had shot her from a distance, through the chest, with a weapon whose solo purpose was to kill and yet the priestess had not fallen. SHE WASN’T DEAD. Her reaction was that of none, as if nothing had happened. There was no great wail that escaped her. No collapsing to the ground. No final gasps or clawing for air. SHE JUST STOOD WHERE SHE HAD, HER EYES SHIFTING DOWNWARDS AS SHE STARED AT THE CRIMSON THAT PAINTED HER CHEST, THAT HAD SPILLED FROM THE WOUND THAT STRĂJER HAD GIFTED UPON HER FROM THERE LORD. What was this meant to be – painful? What has this accomplished for them – nothing. Her hand was raised as she would touch the wound, confused almost at the sight of it. Failure was at hand. TO REACT ACCORDINGLY. She merely looked away, at the bodies of the animals left on the ground, at the pieces of clothing and weapons that had been dropped in the madness and then finally at Alcina. “It is only a flesh wound.” SHE LIED. She felt nothing, not even annoyance at what had happened. IT WAS TO BE EXPECTED FROM THOSE THAT DID NOT, COULD NOT UNDERSTAND. Like children, they lashed out at what confused them, a childish tantrum and nothing more. LORD DIMITRESCU. He had attempted to murder her and he had failed.
“We, the House of Dimitrescu, make decisions, cousin.” Lord Michael Dimitrescu had said, in his clipped and strange accent - a cross between austere British and local Romanian. “And my decisions on that woman ...” he always said it with such disgust. She always felt a knee-jerked defensiveness that she would never articulate to him. His vitriol was too potent. “... Are final. She would have them all moving in blood and shit and potato peelings and mushrooms to call out to a God.” One thing they shared, she thought as every single way they differed roared through her mind like a freight train, was their hatred of common muck and mess. But Mother Miranda had her moments. She could be so refined. Michael poured a glass of water for himself, and turned to look out of the window that dwarfed them both. “God is far away. I am their Lord - I am right here.”
“So is she.” Alcina said insistently. If he would only listen to her, things would be different. Miranda had a charm, a momentum. A gift. It was short-sighted and wrong to ignore. “Alcina.” Michael said softly, softer than she’d ever heard him before, cup raised to his lips, eyes surveying all that he ruled, distant and not even turning to look at her. “Don’t attend the ritual tonight.” Wordlessly, she left. Michael may have been the Lord of the people here, but who gave a damn? She wasn’t a lowly villager. She was something else - something better, something more important. She was rich, god damnit. Thoughts raced through her mind as she readied herself, wanting to look as regal as possible for tonight. If she looked the part of a God, perhaps the little priestess would get on her knees for her. On her way to add kohl to her eyes, she stopped, and stared into a mirror of her own, not unlike Michael. She ought not make jokes like that. This was so much worse than having the hots for a backwater priestess. This was deeper. Sickeningly romantic and direly forbidden. The pain of longing was so deep in her chest already that it felt like a knife. She wanted to whisk the other away, take her to see the world and return again, new clothes and entreat her to stay in the Castle, alongside Alcina. But Miranda would never. She wouldn’t leave, she wouldn’t want Alcina - or any woman - by her side in that way, and she wouldn’t like the outside world to boot. And, besides: the castle wasn’t Alcina’s to give. Better to let go of this foolish notion of life here. Let go of it all. And go where? Back to a house in Mortara with the ghosts of two silent parents? Back to upstate New York, where she’d stare through the eyes of man after man, and have to beg them to make their money for them, to be allowed to do what she was damn good at? FUCK MICHAEL . SHE WAS GOING . These memories ran through her head while she watched Miranda get shot. Forever and a day, that scene would be in her mind, haunting her. She saw the bullet bite into her, saw the first spray of blood, saw the dark trickle of blood gurgle and pump out over her breast, staining the dark dress wetly. Frightened fools ran, scared by the bullets that were yet to come. ALCINA ONLY FEARED THE ONE LODGED IN MIRANDA’S CHEST. Miranda will die, and Alcina will be all alone, as she has refused to admit she always has been since birth. Ever clever, she stayed a moment to try surmise what way the crowd was headed, and then bolted to Miranda. Loyalty didn’t mean shit in the face of a gun, hm? But she? She was different, special, loyal. And Miranda was going to die, unless they got that wound treated. “You’re bleeding,” she said, because when under pressure and frightened it was good to repeat what a Lady knows to be true. Grounding, even. Their first proper conversation, Miranda pressing her hand to Alcina’s chest, flashed through her mind. She pressed her fingers to Miranda’s chest now, frantically hopeful to keep her together, keep her whole. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FILL THE EMPTINESS INSIDE OF ME, NOT SPILL OUT YOURSELF. But Miranda just sort of . . . brushed it off. Stood there, eyes indifferent, solid as a rock, and simply looked at Alcina. But Alcina’s hand was on the wound. “You were shot.” Alcina insisted, voice wavering. It was cruel to make her say it, she thought, to make her repeat it given that she felt how she did. It was cruel to have her love someone only to rip it away. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE ME. YOU’RE MINE. She wanted to blurt it out to not just to Miranda, but to everyone. The world wasn’t allowed to go away: it was tantamount to theft. “You were shot.” She said again, fingers peeling away from Miranda’s chest in horror. The blood was warm, tickling the hairs on her arm as it ran down to her elbow, going sticky as it slid between her rings. For a long moment, she stared at her hand, before looking to the wound. There wasn’t one. Miranda was eager to move on, but Alcina stood and stared and stared and stared. “You were shot.” She said for a third time, obviously in shock. The memory was scorched into her. From childhood, for better or worse, she’d had a mind like a steel trap. SHE KNEW WHAT SHE SAW. This was all going too fast. “Stop.” Alcina whispered. “STOP.” She repeated, hard and cold. In two red-drenched hands, she cupped Miranda’s face, looking up at the other with the intensity of a mind, cracking. Miranda’s blood smeared across her face. Every creature suffered a primordial aversion to blood - being able to see blood meant something was wrong. But under the moonlight, over the stench of mud and animals going cold, and alone - perhaps it could be intimate, also. I see inside of you.
“Don’t lie to me.” Alcina whispered, head swimming with the impossibility of it all. Was Miranda a miracle worker? Was she human? How? How had this happened? Their faces were an inch from one another, and her heart was hammering like a drum. “What’s going on? You should be dead. How are you . . . How are you alive?” More than truth, she wanted confirmation. Confirmation she was right. Confirmation also that Miranda was well. She wanted comfort, even if her glassy little heart wouldn’t ask for it.
@fallesto liked for a toxic starter
To be pinned under Mother Miranda’s gaze is to be an insect caught in a spider’s web. Her very presence sapped Donna’s self esteem like the greediest of leeches. It was a hollow sensation. Fists balled and singular eye staring at a crack in her boarded floor. Her face bled the heat of humiliation and her words were not those a more lucid Donna would ever dare to speak.
“I could never be naught but a failure in your eyes. All I desire is to be LEFT ALONE!”
@fallesto continued from x
THROUGH GRIEF SHE HAD HOPED TO FIND ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS, BUT THIS ONE WAS DROWNING AND TOO AFRAID TO EVER CHANGE, SUCH HIGH HOPES DASHED IN AN INSTANT.
To be so CLOSE, to be so NEAR, to have almost REACHED though the DARKNESS and PULL her DAUGHTER back into her arms. DONNA was PERFECT in every single way, the one she had been WAITING for, the one that came to her and was EVERYTHING she had hoped she would be and MORE. The CADOU bonded with her with EASE. Her body ADAPTED quickly and DEATH did not come for her in an INSTANT like it had so many others. Unlike the others who SURVIVED, there was NO mutations, NO physical gains, NO mass or changes given to her. Her PHYSIQUE remained, her HUMANITY was intact. Unlike the others, she had NOT become a creature from the DEPTHS of NIGHTMARES, she had not become useless to her, UNTIL SHE DID. Her SORROW was too GREAT, the GRIEF that clung to her heart – PROBLEMATIC.
“BE AT EASE –“ She stood before her. HOPING, PRAYING that she was WRONG, but it was there. FESTERING before her eyes. The cadou REJECTING her as a SUITABLE HOST. The flesh of the right eye BOBBLING almost, skin SHIFTING and MUTATING as if the cadou itself was trying to ESCAPE from the depths of her SORROW. Her hand was raised, placed upon Donna SHOULDER to keep her at EASE, to keep her STILL, to breath CALMNESS into her and stop her from doing anything FOOLISH. The cadou was a DANGEROUS gift to offer SOMEONE, it’s REACTIONS where UNPREDICTABLE and even now, she DIDN’T fully understand the requirements for a successful BONDAGE of HOST and PARASITE.
She remained still and WATCHED, as the PARASITE would INFECT her, REJECT her and in process like the others, MARK her as a FAILURE. The MUTATED ABSCESS would continue to grow, SEALING her right eye, covering it FOREVER as a MARK of her FAILURE to be the host the MOTHER sought after. A small SIGH would escape her, GOLDEN TALONS removed from her fingers as she REACHED out, touching the MASS slowly, fingers trailing down what was once so PROMISING. As the small TENTACLES would wrap around the SOFTNESS of her skin as she would rest her hand to cup the side of her face. Another mistake CREATED. Another failure PRODUCED.
PERHAPS SHE WAS WRONG, THAT IT WAS HER OWN GRIEF THAT WAS TOO GREAT, THAT SHE WAS THE ONE DROWNING IN THE DARKNESS, TOO AFRAID TO HAVE ACCEPTANCE FOR WHAT WAS TAKEN.
It was OVER. Her eyes would close as she would be at EASE. Donna would LIVE, but she would NOT be the one she had SOUGHT after. Another FAILURE, like the WOMAN before. So much HOPE, so much PROMISE and all for this – CREATURE. Her hand remained still, her THUMB gently brushing the MASS, what was meant to be her DAUGHTER, her ONE and ONLY. As she ALLOWED her hand to drop to her side as she sat HERSELF down upon the CHAIR. All this TIME and EFFORT, all of this WORK – and for WHAT. Another DAMAGED SOUL much like her own, another who could offer her NOTHING in return.
“SO CLOSE –“
The change had been subtle at first. A tension in her cranium, not unlike the sensation she had experienced during the surgery. Throbbing headaches that had the Lord bent over the toilet if she dared sip at anything less offensive than water. Even as Donna lay shivering on sterile laboratory tiles, vision kaleidoscoping into scrambled pictograms, she reassured herself of NORMALITY. It had been an invasive operation and side effects were expected. Sweating, balled in her hospital gown and near maddened by phantom sensations, Donna still clung to hope. Clung to the idea that she could make a better daughter yet. A second chance gifted to her on a silver platter if only she might stay her eccentricities for once if her life.
Donna Beneviento was a failure. Vision in her right eye has degraded to simple bursts of light and dark. A parasitic worming sensation of her very skull softening under the pressure of probing tendrils. More than once had the fledgling Lord considered simply cutting the tainted flesh loose from her body as one might free themselves from a gangrenous limb. To rid herself of the pain and the unreality that plagued every waking moment. Her eye twitched and bulged under the pressure on her optic nerve, threatening to birth a writhing newborn from the rheumy flesh.
And so, Donna stood, barely, before her blessed creator. Words of such incredible heresy dribbling from lips that were cracked and flaking.
“Forgive me mother... I tried... I f-followed your word to the letter. I am w-wretched. Must you carve me again and remake me. I will do better. I will be stronger. I-”
She trembled leaflike and leaned heavily against Miranda. Hands not so daring as to soil this angelic being with her own infection. No, they clawed at each other in some vain attempt to distract her from Miranda’s disappointed. It bit deeper than any knife could. In that moment Donna could only dream some bolt electricity would fell her in an instant. Incinerate her unworthy corpse to ashes.
“...I promise I will be good.”
“I want a child, Miranda. Motherhood hungers within me. I starve for it.”
@fallesto - MOTHER MIRANDA.
TO WANT THE IMPOSSIBLE. SUCH A REQUEST TO MAKE, BUT FOR HER SHE WOULD MAKE THIS IMPOSSIBILITY POSSIBLE FOR ALL THAT SHE HAS DONE.
“DRAGOSTEA MEA, I UNDERSTAND what you SEEK, what CLAWS within YOU, I KNOW more than ANYONE else this YEARNING, this CALL. You must ANSWER it.”
Within her LABORATORY they held this CONVERSATION. Underneath the village, HIDDEN away from wondering eyes, she would work in PEACE and SOLITUDE. Trying to perfect her work, trying to unlock the answers that have been denied to her and now she brings this before her. A CHANCE to EXPLORE. A chance to create once more. A CHANCE to FURTHER her work and understanding. To cross that bridge of understanding and get one step closer to her DAUGHTER. WELCOMED. She walked around the room, hand trailing across the table, over COUNTLESS jars of her CREATIONS, yet to be used creatures that she had crafted her. Stopping before the cells that only HOUSED the DEAD, those that she held hope for and those that had FAILED her.
“UNFORTUNATELY, you CANNOT conceive yourself. Your BODY has CHANGED to greatly, a FOREIGN body within you would be DEEMED a THREAT and TERMINATED.”
A SACRIFICE. To give life like theirs, you had to TAKE. Her body, like her own had mutated too much. Life could not be CREATED, only TAKEN. She would take a jaw from the table, REMOVING the seal as she approached her, taking her hand, her THUMB circling within the palm before the talon would pierce through the fabric of her glove and flesh, BREAKING through her skin as the BLOOD would escape her. Her hand TURNED, the BLOOD pouring within the small jar, the golden talon remaining within the WOUND to DENY her body from REGENERATING.
“There are other METHODS. Allow me time to PREPARE, but in return you must yourself PROVIDE an OFFERING. Several to be SURE of SUCCESS.”
She would FREE her hand, stepping back as she held the CONTENTS of her BLOOD in her hand. Her blood, fed to a CADOU and then the parasite placed upon a SUITABLE host, would provide her what she yearned for. Yet as she knew, the bonding was dangerous. Those that she BROUGHT, would perish. The chance of SUCCESS was SLIM, but they had time, more than enough to PERFECT it. “Do NOT take from the FLOCK, they have PROVEN to be ill suited to the CADOU.” FOREIGNERS would be required and her reach was great. She held LITTLE doubt the most FAVOURED would seek out only the FINEST for herself and with that, a new opportunity to work upon PEOPLE from lands further than their own.
“LEAVE me. I will ENDEAVOUR to make this a REALITY for you. Call upon ME when you have what SATISFIES you.”
I WANT . I HUNGER . I STARVE . All easier than admitting to the truth: I NEED pathetically. I NEED mortifyingly. I NEED pitifully.
DRAGOSTEA MEA, I UNDERSTAND THIS CALL. ANSWER IT. The Countess’ chest heaved, letting go of a breath she wasn’t even aware that she held. Her eyes shut together, relieved, and when they opened again they were glassy. She’d rarely ever in her life cried, let alone from much beyond rage - but here she sat, heart hauled in her throat, and gloved hands rushing to the base of her neck to loosen what had felt like a noose of a request only seconds prior. Miranda crossed the space to her, and for one breathless moment she assumed that Miranda might press one slender fingered hand to her stomach, where all those years ago she slit Alcina open and implanted her sacred Cadou, and there, a child would be. It was so easy to forget, in moments like these, that Miranda wasn’t a God. That was the most horrible thing about magic / science / religion. Even the parasites could feel like gifts. “ I won’t disappoint you. ” She said. She meant it. She meant every word. It would never have occurred to Alcina to question why the first thing she said had to be that. The invisible leash Miranda wrung about her neck with soft words and disarming acts was one she long ago wrote off as a necklace. YOU CANNOT CONCIEVE. YOUR BODY HAS CHANGED TOO GREATLY. In a second, she felt her hopes dash, and anger began to bleed through the broken glass. All slowed by shock, all slowed by the way Miranda held herself. It was this or the climacteric, wasn’t it? Her golden eyes trace Miranda’s jaw, and think of the bone beneath it, mirroring the rough one the priestess held in her hands. I may be the Dragon; the belly; the mouth; the one who would endlessly devour, she thought, but you, Miranda, are a brain. Alone and aware of it. She didn’t know why she thought such a harsh thing, except to make herself feel better in her infertility. AN INFERTILITY, she squared her jaw, THAT I ALREADY UNDERSTOOD MYSELFTO HAVE. THIS IS NOT AN INJURY. THIS IS FACT. I MUST SIMPLY STOP CARING. Her hand was Miranda’s to injure. It hurt. It bled. But most things worth having did. Mostly, she thought it romantic : Miranda’s golden talon, inserted into her gory, bleeding hand. MOTHER AND MOTHER, CREATING A CHILD TOGETHER. She didn’t even mind that it ruined the glove. Alcina realized that while she was defensive of certain things, her clothes for example, Miranda would cut them to pieces as pleased her. That was the nature of love. That was the nature of hierarchy. That was DUTY. “I will provide the necessary elements for which you have asked, Mother Miranda.” I WILL PROVIDE ENDLESSLY. MY CHILD WILL WANT FOR NOTHING. The rest of Miranda’s instructions paired well with her own blood, dark and red and singing. Something hideously smug surfaced in her. She would have a child by Miranda, and no one had ever helped them. She and the priestess had taken all they had, and now they would do the very same again for a CHILD. If Alcina didn’t abhor the nouveau riche, she would consider herself a SELF-MADE WOMAN : made by Mother Miranda & her inheritance & her hunger alone. Her hand healed the second Miranda removed her talon. “Before I go.” The Countess stood. There was no way, not a hope in hell, that Mother Miranda would display such power and generosity and she not react. She wasn’t a helpless damsel - she was a soon to be mother. “You realize . . .” Alcina wasn’t sure how to say it. She composed herself, squared her shoulders, and dabbed her fourth finger to her under eyes, wiping away any wetness without disturbing her makeup. Shaking her head free of doubt, perfectly coiffed hair shaking too, she lets out a shaky, steadying breath. “You realize I can never repay you? If it works. To this point in our shared history, I reckon our count roughly even : equal in love, equal in favours, equal in wounds. But this . . .” Alcina wished Miranda would react more openly. In a way she might more easily understand. She’d long since given up on waiting for that day, where the blizzard inside the other cleared. “I’ll try so very hard, Mother Miranda. All I have is yours if you give me this.” All she had was Miranda’s anyway. This child and its life included. She had awaited this moment with such tender hopelessness, and in a moment all had been gifted. “I love you so severely that it might destroy me.” She said, because she was overcome with emotion. It was not the type of romantic, coupled love that she expected to be reciprocated. It was the love of a devotee. A proud creature, offering the thing she thought was of most value : her rich, vain soul. Her sore, consuming heart. “Thank you.”
@fallesto asked: come, come, the worst is past: no more grief, tears or despair..
that’s rich , coming from the woman who breeds despair . he restrains a scoff , avoids letting that irony show anywhere on his expression , except for behind his eyes . there lingers much of his hatred . 𝗢𝗕𝗦𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗚𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗦 . he tips his head , the rim of his hat hiding his face for a few seconds from mother miranda’s gaze . and then he looks upon her . the woman who took his life from him . but then again , what much life would he had lived if she had taken anyone else ? 𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗟𝗬 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗔 𝗟𝗢𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗡𝗘 . he knows that when she looks on him all she sees is her work , and nothing underneath . that’s how it’s always been .
he smiles . ❛ you’ll never see me cry , mother . ❜ anymore . he spent whatever tears he had in those earlier years . there’s no point in crying over something if you can change it . 𝗔𝗗𝗔𝗣𝗧 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘 . each word still tastes like poison in his mouth when he speaks to her , though . ❛ there’s nothing to be sad about . ❜
@fallesto liked for a book dialogue starter.
“ i have… a moment ago I had a foreboding… a curious foreboding… that this is the last time I shall see you. “