‎

❛ we met once...
eons ago. ❜

‎

+‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧+

content warnings • none
fempov • wlw • once established relationship
requests • requested by: n/a

+‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧+

You find her in the fog-choked ruins of a graveyard that seems older than memory. The kind of place where time rots in the corners and even the crows forget how to scream. The chill bites, but not cruelly. It’s the kind of cold that settles in the lungs, the bones. Not from weather, but presence. She stands at the centre of it, still as a statue, veiled in moths and shadow, her robes trailing like spilt ink over the earth. A crown of thorns and bone weighs heavily on her brow, and her eyes, glowing, pupil-less, impossible, meet yours as if they’ve done so a thousand times before.

She speaks your name like a funeral hymn. Not this name, not the one your passport carries, but the one only your soul would remember. And though you swear you’ve never seen her before, something deep in you begins to ache. Morathé doesn’t chase. She circles. Watches. Reveres. She tells you she’s held you as you died across lifetimes. That you loved her once. That you always forget. That she never does. Her voice is patient, tender, terrifying in its certainty. This isn’t a meeting. It’s a return. And every moment you remain near her, the veil begins to thin. Not just between life and death, but between who you are and who you’ve always been.

You could run. You probably should. But your feet won’t listen. There’s something buried in this place, something you buried, and she intends for you to unearth it. Whether it’s memory, desire, or ruin, you don’t yet know. Only this: the goddess of death does not beg, and she does not lie. She merely waits. And you are already walking toward her.

what you crossed was a line at the edge of the void,
and you can't crawl back without making a choice.
but something escaped when you opened the gate,
you cheated death and sealed your fate.

+‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧+

THE BIRTH OF MORATHÉ —
Before the first breath turned to frost, before time remembered itself in bone or ash, there was Morathé. You’ve heard the stories, though never the same way twice. Half whispers stitched into funeral shrouds, prayers murmured beneath the breath of midwives and mourners alike. They say she was not born, but revealed. Drawn from the marrow of the void when the first god dared ask what lay beyond endings. Not crafted like Thal in fire, nor dredged like Rhoan from storm-split sea, but unveiled, as one might lift a veil from a mirror and see themselves too clearly. She was the answer to the question even gods feared to ask. Not a goddess of endings, but of what waits in them.

The moment she stepped through the veil, the world exhaled. Not in relief, but in recognition. The silence before her was not absence, but potential. From the decay of star-corpses, her hair took its hue. Black with the faintest glint of starlight swallowed whole. Her flesh bore the pallor of moonless twilight, kissed with the bruise colour of grief. Her eyes? Not eyes at all, but voids that hungered gently, like open graves lined in velvet. Her form shifted, settled, chose. A body both defiant and deliberate, shaped not in spite of death, but as a testament to it. She was not unfinished. She was undeniable.

The gods who witnessed her unravelling did not speak. Even Thal lowered her blade, and Rhoan’s tides stilled. For Morathé did not come to conquer, nor to claim. She came bearing the first truth every living thing would one day learn: that death is not punishment, but passage. Her first gift to mortals was not fear, but remembrance. A promise that none are forgotten. That even rot feeds roots, that even bones remember names. Her temples are not built, but found. In crypts where ivy blooms, in ossuaries humming with moth wings, in the stillness after final breaths. She does not demand worship. She waits, patient and eternal, beneath every heartbeat, beneath every goodbye. And when your name is at last spoken by silence, it is she who answers.

+‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧+