The Greeks built their temples to face the east, letting the light of the rising sun shine through to wash their patron gods in golden radiance. It was no wonder, he imagined, that the Athenians built themselves to be the most brilliant of all men: what a clever ingenuity, their architecture. But perhaps it was only to be expected. Perhaps there was simply an inherent urge buried in all of their hearts to turn towards the sun and her beauty, to lean into warmth as opposed to it; perhaps any one of those ancients could have devised such a notion, following the urges of their own hearts. Was it so inconceivable to think that they might all be drawn to her, just as the plants and planets themselves were?

Rationalization, he knew, could not excuse him entirely. The whole world orbits the Sun, he can tell himself, There is no reason that you should not. But that does not mean he can look himself in the mirror and feel that it is true. No, it would be wrong and unjustifiable to compare his eastern star to their Sun: he did not orbit her but rather believed in her in the sort of manner that he did not believe in anything else. Let the impious fall to the ground before her, let him know what it meant to worship; to see, now, the truth of piety and all that it demanded of the flesh of mortals. ælthǽ, mákaira thæá, mál' æpíraton eidos ǽkhousa; psykhíi gar sæ kalóh sæmníi ayíisi lóyisin.[sup]1[/sup]

Now, he traced that golden thread towards the east, following its pull as he walked and walked. Dark trees fell away all around him as he walked until he felt that he had gone too far to turn back, had left his clearing behind and disappeared into the night. How often had he thought about it, to simply walk and not look back and never return? To leave it all behind? When would his deserter heart rear its ugly head and set him on that path, away from it all? But no, this was not the same as he imagined, sometimes: this was walking towards the light, towards her, towards it all. This was not the same as his mistakes in the past; this was not the same as that one time, when he ventured beyond the safety of his clearing, beyond the four-point star, into the vast abyss of the hosts. This was no quest for victory, a tireless voyage into seas of memories to come out triumphant. This was reverence, turning from the familiarity of his own territory — his souls, his core — to step into the dark and trust her to bring him out of it on the other side. This was faith.

A radical notion. Prior, he had believed only in two things: the inevitability of Death and the divine wrath of Fate, cruel goddess. There was no room for faith in the faithless, those faithless not only in god or kingdom but in themselves as well — what good was faith to one who was already doomed, wrapped in Fate's red silk? If there are gods, they are harsh ones; your faith means nothing to them, and there for may as not exist. No gods could rule him, no gods could demand his attention when he could not demand theirs. But a goddess.

A goddess.

Perhaps it was only for this reason that he might look to Fate and believe in her, even while turning his back to all others — perhaps his existence, deep down, far beyond his souls, had known innately that it would be a goddess to demand his faith; perhaps it was not merely that he believed in Fate, and therefore found that he might have faith in a goddess, but rather that he knew inherently that there would be a goddess one day to claim his reverence that allowed him to honor Fate because she was a goddess (though not the goddess). Divinity that commands must be female, for so is she.

Light, flickering through the forest. Not quite that golden radiance, guiding him forward, guiding him to her, but rather something softer: the flicking blues of light reflecting off of water, shifting and lapping idly at one another. He ventured forward without question, let the roaring of the gorges sink into his bones and stepped into the clearing that cropped up, seemingly on its own, in his path. A meager river trickled by, so small and unassuming, emitting such noise, and she stood waiting for him just as he had innately known she would be.

[b]"Will you save me?" she asked, words sliding down his spine, and he stopped before her and listened with the reverence demanded of him. Yes, he wanted to say, knowing he couldn't; always, his thoughts insisted, the heat of her name on the tip of his tongue. "Will you chase me, this time?"

"I chased you before," he said, the memories rising and falling idly, distantly; there was something else there, too. He looked at Indigo and told her the truth and yet there was a burning under his skin, the subtle whisper that he was missing something. He didn't chase her, once. He didn't follow her. He couldn't have. The certainty of it ran contrary to the past that spoke to him, and for a moment the duality stopped him short.

"Will you find me this time?" she asked, unwavering, offering no clarification of what she meant, of what he was feeling. She'd said this time and yet she did not question him when he claimed to have followed her that time, too. An itch under his skin, straining, screaming to keep moving, keep looking, to find her before he lost her again.

"Yes," he said, the glimmer of some awareness there, some sliver of Echo budding in his chest, resting quietly beside the burning flame of need, "I will find you. I won't lose you, this time."

I love you, he thought, and kept walking. He had to find her, but he could not find her here; there was something more pulling him forward, through the trees, on and on through the darkness as the clearing faded and the burning in his chest expanded. She was a flame, sinking deep; the only flame that would not escape him, shooting up in the world around him, burning roses and bedrooms — this flame would not leave him, but he had to find her, catch her, save her.

The trees gave way as he knew they would, the darkness fading and vanishing as he walked across the plains, blind to anything but the golden thread calling to him. Castle ruins rose in the distance, and he walked towards it, through it; stepped over broken cobblestones and the ghosts in the earth as he ventured slowly. He could feel her here, somewhere, waiting; felt the tightening in his throat as he searched for her, found her in the courtyard.

"Stella," he breathed, triumphant, burning: trembling with the intensity of the flames as he stopped and fell to his knees in front of where she sat, wordless. "I found you." Fire creeping, devouring, threatening to overwhelm; it burned through him and he mistook it for worship, the call in his veins convincing him he had found her, had succeed, had saved her.

"You cannot find me here, love," she said, soft, pale green gaze somehow setting that itching upon him once more: a prickle amidst the embers, pulling him still, struggling to steal his attention away. "You are not looking for me."

"But I have to," he countered, and there: the purpose, the drive, the guilt suddenly blossoming, the abrupt realization coming to him out of the dark. "I have to— Ophelia, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I thought I loved you."

Fingers in his hair, wondering at the curls as she pushed them back; burning, flames following in her path, the soft whisper in his bones growing louder as she spoke, "You did, Isaac. But you cannot find me here. You can feel it. You must keep looking; I am not the one you want to save."

"Stella—" he said, fingers outstretched to catch upon her, but she was out of reach, distant, somehow; you have to keep going, she said without speaking, and he stood, reluctant, let the claim on his soul draw him away, and it was only upon stepping inside the ruined building that he felt that the burning was soothing. She is calling you.

Gravel crumbled as he walked down the halls, chasing the trail of gold left behind, chasing the traces of divinity; sacred flames lapped at his heels and burned when memories threatened to send him in the opposite direction, back towards the others, towards the past.

A door, an alter; again on his knees before it, letting the burning rage of faith curl through him, the lurking promise of finding her here — finding her, finally, chasing after her this time, not letting her go; the burning insistance that without his eastern star he would be lost, sightless. His fingertips touched the shattered remains of the wooden barrier and it all faded to darkness, only a faint glow left behind in his grasp. 

Bastille woke up with a burning in his throat, bond pulsing with the traces of golden radiance hovering so faintly in his thought. He moved without thinking, the phantom cold of the forest lingering on his skin as he followed a familiar pull, down familiar halls; things were falling away rapidly as he walked, the past fading, only the quiet knowledge that he needed to find her before she disappeared lingering.

Her door was smooth and whole when he found it this time, some distant humming at the back of his thoughts telling him it should be broken, ruined; he knocked without speaking, holy prayer caught in the back of his throat, resisting the whispering suggestion that he should be on his knees.

[ 1 Come, happy goddess, ineffably beautiful, to my prayer; for thee I call, with holy, reverent mind. Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite. ]

[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST

On the opposite end of that traipsing golden trail slept a girl, curls fanned out against the pillow she had fallen back on. It was her first peaceful rest in days; one that wasn't littered with the taunts of abandonment. This sleep was void of her fear of her past coming reaching towards her, sinking its claws in to drag her back to that godforsaken house. It had no tendrils of guilt brushing up her spine, of endless running to reach Suiteheart and Margaery on a road that only grew longer.

Tonight, Hazel dreamed of a glade: a clearing, bordered by ancient oak trees with woven branches. Sunlight warmed her skin and the grass underneath her feet. In her lap was a handful of clovers that she had plucked from the patch before her, searching for one with four petals. She basked in the summery atmosphere, contentment soaking into her skin. Laying back, Hazel raised her arms above her head, blocking out the sun so she wouldn't blind herself. Inspecting her fingers, she noticed the undisturbed color of them - the flawless, smooth skin, unmarred by scars and bruises.

Hazel smiled, toothy and wide, before running her fingers up and down her arms. Giddy with the feeling, she laughed, unaware that the sound echoed in the real world. Sitting up, Hazel reached for her bandana, ready to untie it and find flawless cocoa skin there as well. But before she could do so, something flashed in her peripheral vision. Slowly, she watched a pale blue light flicker through the wall of tangled oak branches.

Entranced, the girl stood, gossamer gown letting the clover slide to the grass. The light tugged on her, a sense of urgency vibrating in her veins. It called her name, pulling her heart forward so that she had no choice but to follow. "Salve?" Hazel called, her voice disembodied and distant within the dream. Slow steps brought her to the trunk of a particularly massive tree, its branches gnarled and rough with bark. The light was on the other side, incapable of getting in, and every fiber of her dream screamed for her to let it. Reaching for the trunk, she expected it to be warm with the sun, but instead it was cold. Shockingly cold, in fact - cold and smooth like metal, despite her being able to see the ridges of the bark.

Hazel blinked, suddenly plunging into a dark room. It took her little time to recognize her room, though she couldn't figure out why her hand was resting against her door. Her dream was already fading into the back of her memory, but the urgency had not. It spurred her on, insisting that she open the door. Then there was a knock that nearly startled her out of her wits, resulting in her flinging it open. As she did, fluorescent light from the hallway flooded her doorway and seared her eyes.

Squinting, she rubbed at her face, an overwhelming sense of comfort rising in her chest. She knew who it was before her eyes adjusted, and it came as both a surprise and not. Often he visited her room, to check on her, but never this late at night and never with this sort of urgency tugging on their bond. "Bastille?" Hazel finally mumbled, confused. "What's wrong? Did something happen?" She hoped it wasn't another observatory lockdown - she didn't have enough years on her life to live through another one. Nevertheless, she was praying that whatever it was, it didn't require nice clothing - because at the moment, all she had on was an oversized T-shirt she stole from Moon and...no pants. Classy.

ASTRAL SERAPH ★ THE ASCENDANTS ★ TAGS

As she watched him - his stiff, half-awake state - she noticed a sort of reverence in his gaze; something found often in his expression when she caught him looking at her. This was different, though...this was more intense, more motivated. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Under the heat and intensity of his eyes Hazel fidgeted, feeling out of place and incredibly self conscious. She picked at the hem of the T-shirt, trying to tug it further down her body to cover what was already covered. She felt like he wanted something that she couldn't give - that she didn't have the energy to give.

The girl raised her hand, fingertips almost brushing against the fabric of his shirt, ready to bring him out of the daze when he spoke. Immediately she jerked her hand back, the Greek hitting her ears in a foreign jumble. She wanted to understand what he said - almost desperately so - but...didn't know Greek. The way it fell from his lips was so quiet, so unlike him. Then he blinks and seems to wake more, and she's breathing out a quiet sigh of relief, feeling like he delivered a prophecy that she was going to be forced to figure out.

She didn't question it, instead waiting on his next words and rubbing her eyes to clear her mind of the haze. "Mmkay," She mumbled. This felt too much like a dream, with its ungodly late night hours and unreal context. She was trying to place the urgency that still tugged at their bond; wondering why she felt such a magnetic pull to him, such an itch in her fingertips to twist her fingers in his shirt and never let go.

A noise was punched from her lungs as he mentioned Margy - a quiet, hurt, gasping noise that had her expression pinching at the corners. Hazel froze in her spot, nails digging in to the metal of the door, her powers lending her the strength to dent it. It was too soon for this talk; she didn't want to relive that horrible day. She almost closed the door in his face because of it, if not for what he offered.

Tears rose to the corners of her eyes as her pulse stuttered, hiccuping with the raw force of grief that rose in her chest. "I don't -" Her voice broke, wobbling. She wasn't ready to hear this - wasn't ready to break in front of him, which she would. Inevitably, this would end in her tears.

After a heavy pause Hazel reached out, closing her fingers around his wrist to drag him into her room. She shut the door, too loudly, and sagged against it, knees weak in the shadow of anticipation. She wanted to say goodbye to you. Hazel covered her mouth with shaking fingers, sliding down the door to sit against the cold concrete floor. "I wanted to say goodbye to her, too." She whispered brokenly, golden optics a perfect shade of misery as she waited for him to go on.