Fandom: PMMD Pairing: Madoka (Marcella) x Homura (Horatia) WC: 558
“Marcella!” Horatia cries as she jerks awake.
She finds herself lying on the cool floor of the temple. The cloying perfume of burning herbs stings her nostrils, but she is alone in the chamber. Fear grips her as she shakily rises, head still swimming from the portent of despair she witnessed.
The sea will swallow Marcella whole.
The ground rumbles ominously beneath Horatia's sandals as she dashes into the empty streets. The garden wall fresco Horatia passes, newly painted and plastered that spring, is crumbling behind her. Earthquakes arrive with the heat every summer, they say, but rarely as fierce after the festivities of Neptunalia. They alone would be nothing to fear.
When she crests the hill, Horatia must stop to catch her breath. Her chest is tight with pain, and the hazy air is difficult to breathe. From here she can see the ocean, dark and churning, boats tossed about on the waves like nothing but toys.
She knows exactly where Marcella will be. Horatia grits her teeth, clutching at the fabric of her robe, before stumbling forward once more.
When the skies choked grey with ash, and lapilli clattered like hailstones on rooftops and cobblestones, the seaside people knew they had to evacuate. The mountain they built their homes around was going to erupt. They packed their belongings and took to the harbor, sailing to neighboring islands to wait out the storm.
Not everyone chose to leave that night. Some remained stubbornly in their homes, praying to any god that would listen, to spare them. Some waited too long to leave, and only now rush to the remaining fishing boats in a panicked crowd. And some, like Marcella, remained on purpose, dedicating herself to helping as many people escape the storm as she can.
Horatia runs downhill to the coast as swiftly as her legs can carry her, heedless of the burning in her lungs or the sting of sweat in her eyes. A cracked column collapses in a plume of dust across the street, narrowly missing her. A fragment of marble ricochets and glances off of Horatia's head, knocking some of her braids loose from her tightly-coiled bun. Hot blood drips from her scalp to streak down the side of her face.
For a moment, she thinks she glimpses an unnaturally white dog with glittering rubies for eyes standing in the wreckage before her. When she scrubs the blood away impatiently with her sleeve, however, the dog has vanished.
Then Horatia staggers and falls in a heap, the delayed pain lancing sharp through her skull, as she's unexpectedly stricken with another of Apollo's visions.
Not now, not –
Behind her eyelids, images of another disaster unfold: sheets of rain blowing sideways through the ruins of a city destroyed by a titanic, colorful spectre, that whirls and whirls endlessly like a chariot wheel. Beneath black storm clouds, lying in a puddle, two maidens in foreign garb, holding each others hands as their world falls to pieces around them.
They speak in a tongue that Horatia knows not, but – she would know Marcella's voice anywhere.
As soon as her senses return to her, Horatia struggles to rise again. Her traitorous legs refuse to cooperate. Frustrated at her body's limits, Horatia looks to the sky to find that all has gone black as night.
FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM
Pairing: Madoka (Marcella) x Homura (Horatia)
WC: 558
“Marcella!” Horatia cries as she jerks awake.
She finds herself lying on the cool floor of the temple. The cloying perfume of burning herbs stings her nostrils, but she is alone in the chamber. Fear grips her as she shakily rises, head still swimming from the portent of despair she witnessed.
The sea will swallow Marcella whole.
The ground rumbles ominously beneath Horatia's sandals as she dashes into the empty streets. The garden wall fresco Horatia passes, newly painted and plastered that spring, is crumbling behind her. Earthquakes arrive with the heat every summer, they say, but rarely as fierce after the festivities of Neptunalia. They alone would be nothing to fear.
When she crests the hill, Horatia must stop to catch her breath. Her chest is tight with pain, and the hazy air is difficult to breathe. From here she can see the ocean, dark and churning, boats tossed about on the waves like nothing but toys.
She knows exactly where Marcella will be. Horatia grits her teeth, clutching at the fabric of her robe, before stumbling forward once more.
When the skies choked grey with ash, and lapilli clattered like hailstones on rooftops and cobblestones, the seaside people knew they had to evacuate. The mountain they built their homes around was going to erupt. They packed their belongings and took to the harbor, sailing to neighboring islands to wait out the storm.
Not everyone chose to leave that night. Some remained stubbornly in their homes, praying to any god that would listen, to spare them. Some waited too long to leave, and only now rush to the remaining fishing boats in a panicked crowd. And some, like Marcella, remained on purpose, dedicating herself to helping as many people escape the storm as she can.
Horatia runs downhill to the coast as swiftly as her legs can carry her, heedless of the burning in her lungs or the sting of sweat in her eyes. A cracked column collapses in a plume of dust across the street, narrowly missing her. A fragment of marble ricochets and glances off of Horatia's head, knocking some of her braids loose from her tightly-coiled bun. Hot blood drips from her scalp to streak down the side of her face.
For a moment, she thinks she glimpses an unnaturally white dog with glittering rubies for eyes standing in the wreckage before her. When she scrubs the blood away impatiently with her sleeve, however, the dog has vanished.
Then Horatia staggers and falls in a heap, the delayed pain lancing sharp through her skull, as she's unexpectedly stricken with another of Apollo's visions.
Not now, not –
Behind her eyelids, images of another disaster unfold: sheets of rain blowing sideways through the ruins of a city destroyed by a titanic, colorful spectre, that whirls and whirls endlessly like a chariot wheel. Beneath black storm clouds, lying in a puddle, two maidens in foreign garb, holding each others hands as their world falls to pieces around them.
They speak in a tongue that Horatia knows not, but – she would know Marcella's voice anywhere.
As soon as her senses return to her, Horatia struggles to rise again. Her traitorous legs refuse to cooperate. Frustrated at her body's limits, Horatia looks to the sky to find that all has gone black as night.
She's too late.