By the time the Princess had regained herself the dark of night had consumed the world outside. 

She found Rapture by the campfire, just sitting there before her eyes.

He had not bid to disturb her, for by now, in regards to her trances, he was far too familiar.

She pulled back her palm and then turned to look upon the final three of the mural’s depictions. 

The first depicted the evolved Vanir crashing into a new world, burrowing into its core, and then making that its nest.

The second depicted Ash escaping as the world turned hollow, and within that Ash fought the Einherjar, who bid to ascend and be born again as Vanir.

The last mural was the same as the first, hence closing the cycle: that is to say that it depicted the newborn Vanir choosing mortals to make into their Einherjar.

Should these images be true, should this cycle exist, then how feeble was their world?

How small were their mortal lives in the eyes of the Yggdrasil Race?

What were they to the gods who ruled not just this world but countless more?

She did not bid to discuss this dreary matter.

He served up their dinner, she didn’t ask but she knew it was meat with a healthy side of fruits and vegetables which her birds had confirmed were safe for them to consume.

She did not eat, she couldn’t, for her mind was worn out, exhausted from those visions and the truths they had revealed to her.

“Eat,” Said the young man, who seized her bowl and raised it to her cheek, “You need to keep your strength up.”

She glanced upon him then, but found that he didn’t bid to look her way and just continued to hold onto her meal until she chose to take it into her hands.

She thanked him and began to sip at the bowl, even then however only a third was in her gullet before she paused herself in thought again.

Her eyes fell back upon Rapture, who was glancing endlessly into the darkness beyond the entrance of the temple.

Her brows creased, she bid to ask it at long last.

“Rapure...what are you plotting?”

He did not answer her, only shot her a glance, that and nothing more.

Yet by now she knew of the Scylla's pursuit, and worse, of Artemis’ betrayal.

They were trapped, enemies hold the front, monsters stalked at the back.

She had an inkling of his intentions but she did not dare to confirm her guess.

She didn’t want to be right, but she did not try to stop him either.

She couldn’t argue against his plan on the merit of it.

Perhaps it was his influence, or maybe the revelations of her dreams?

Whatever the cause, she knew what was coming, knew what it meant, knew how many would perish, how many would suffer, and yet she didn’t stop him.

The Princess swallowed down her soup in silence, then closed her eyes and went to sleep.

She did not want to sleep, did not want to dream, but sleep she did, for she had to be ready.

She needed to be fit, fed and well rested so that she was ready to act upon the decisive moment that was yet to come.

________________________________________________

For the beast, frustration was a largely foreign emotion, until those two appeared, that was.

The female didn’t seem too much of an issue, it rarely saw her, and even when it did she only ever seemed afraid.

The only thing to note was that her golden hair and golden brown skin infuriated the beast, and it did not know why.

Some remnant memory from its vaguely recalled humanity, perhaps?

The creature had no way of knowing really.

She had no way of identifying the traits native to the Jupitarian breed, traits that Lucretia had in common with all her kin.

She simply knew that she loathed those traits, and she did not know why.

The male was the larger problem however.

He slipped away whenever the beast got close, and he was capable enough to vanish from her sights completely.

He was too quick, and oftentimes had the ability to seize up the female and flee as swift as it was necessary.

She simply could not catch him.

The female human seemed stronger in her eyes, but she didn’t seem to be able to make any proper use of that power.

Thus The Scylla, whose children stalked behind her, feasting on berries and felled creatures alike, made her advance.

Every now and then, one of her spawn would drop dead from eating the wrong thing, or it’d be swallowed up by something bigger, yet the Scylla’s presence largely proved to mitigate these outcomes.

They were growing stronger, wiser, her army was shrinking in number but growing in power.

Yet still, it wasn’t enough, that wretched boy who kept alluding her maws needed to be felled, and to that end, yes, to that end, she sought out this place; the den of her mate, her counterpart.

She called to him, high pitched sounds which did not match her deep vocals from before echoed out into the swampy wilderness.

The muck began to move, it slid off his scales like water as his body emerged.

Soon he was standing tall, his titanic wings opened wide and strong gales parted the muddy coating that scattered from his hide.

He looked just like her, save for the more masculine features and brighter colors he bore.

He lacked a skirt of squid-like tentacles but in place of that he bore pitch black wings.

His flesh was the shade of the sky itself, a far lighter shade than her deep and dark ocean blue.

He ceased his howl, then stared at her in silence.

She faced him, he faced her in turn.

Nostalgia overcame both of them, and longing just as well, but neither of them could remember the reasons anymore.

Only vague memories remained of their former human lives, the lives they lived before becoming monsters.

She let loose three resounding sounds, like chirps, and he responded by turning his head like a slightly curious animal.

Soon enough his eyes half closed in understanding and his wings flapped once to part him from his place of hibernation.

He glided across the water, then crawled upon the land, his serpentine tail dragged at the soil behind him.

Head bowed, he knelt before the Scylla, but not as a show of submission.

Her gaze turned gentle, she tried to remember, so desperately, their lost humanity.

Clumsily, she held his cheeks with her clawed fingers and then raised his gaze to meet her own. They shared a longing stare, then nuzzled their foreheads together in the silence.

Not yet, not quite yet; that boy and the Jupitarian girl he guarded, they could wait just a little while.

She bid to savor the moment, although she could not tell why.

She felt melancholy, and it agonized her so much.

He was the same, and those feelings very swiftly turned their hearts back to fury, back to frustration, rage and anger.

Had a mortal man been witness to this solemn scene he’d have understood it all: he’d have understood that they were not monstrosities filled with nothing except for hatred of mankind, but rather they were lost and broken souls.

They were a man and his bride both trapped in a cycle of frustration and rage towards what they only vaguely knew they had lost in the first place, and could truly never have again.

Yet understanding alone would change nothing, no mere man had the power to save them from their suffering.

Only the Gods had that kind of power, yes, them and them alone, which was why Scylla would never let her Beacon go.

That was her last and most extravagant hope, she’d never give it up.

The faint memory of a warm hearth and loving partner, the even fainter memory of a child too young laying nestled in her arms.

That comfortable and wholesome image was something she would never give up, she would never let it go.

From all of this was she at once both the architect of her own misery and also a victim of her circumstances.