bigapplesauce | You're what happens when two substances collide

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You're what happens when two substances collide

The longer she dwells in this world, the more she despises it.

No one will see her.

A vengeful God-King is not something so easily ignored. She is destructive and regal and demands the attention of all who would worship her. But there are no worshipers here. There is nothing here, nothing at all, just endless swarms of humanity that apparently care nothing for Illyria the Merciless, Ruler of the Primordium, even as she grows ever more indignant and ever more enraged and ever more desiring in her need to do violence.

The vermin are to remain untouched. The vermin are to remain untouched.

So she will not touch them. She will not touch anything here. Illyria will not remain here any longer than is necessary, even if it has long since ceased to become necessary.

The mortal-built bridge will be her focus point. She stretches one shell's hand out, testing the scintillating tear of unclassifiable dimensional energy against her vessel. There is resistance there, a barrier intended to prevent any motion beyond the isolated pinprick of too-small, too-confining space. If she can reach past it, she can escape this metaphysical prison and thus seek out the way back to her world.

The God-King's shell smiles, small and self-satisfied. Nothing can hold a god.

She reaches further. The crackle of foreign energy against hers is unbearable. And then further - the shearing, rifting edge of the barrier begins to screech against her being.

She will test these waters no further. Illyria launches herself at the barrier, driving forward with fists and blazing intent, and the strength of the unfamiliar matter rips at her, eliciting a blistering, tearing roar of utmost pain and displeasure. It is unbearable. It is intolerable. But Illyria is not yet through. She will continue driving at it, regardless of the shrilling agony webbing its way through her shell, into the core of what she is -

The God-King's strength, once glaring and eternal, runs out. She no longer possesses the will or instinct to even draw herself back. Her shell howls, the pain of simply being is exquisite and unquantifiable, and Illyria falls away from the torment of the conscious world.

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She does not enjoy the principality's cries but a God-King does what it must. Until the principality retaliates, something Illyria expected but has no means to counteract when it sends its holy fire howling at her.

Immediately, she severs contact. The pain flares, the flames having surpassed the physical presence of the shell and set themselves smoldering at the non-corporeal thing inside it. It is not the awful, overwhelming wrench of the rift's edge shredding at all that she is but it is near enough agony for Illyria to retreat from both the rift and the principality before it.

One arm curls around to hug at the shell, useless as the gesture is - human, no doubt, a reflexive disgusting motion drawn from the instincts of the shell. The flames will choke and die now that the principality is not within striking distance to stoke them with its energies but they take longer than they should to gutter out.

Even before they have, Illyria glowers at the interfering creature.

"This is not your battle," she insists, the edges of her pain leaking into the words despite her efforts. "I intend to free myself regardless of the cost. To what end does it concern you, principality, if it means that in doing so I destroy yourself? To remain trapped, endlessly walled inside this miserable smear of a universe within a shell that cannot contain my true self - it is a fate worse than death. Is that what you wish for me?"

The emotion inflecting those words is new, and it takes significant searching of the shell's memories to define it. The pain hardens into icy displeasure when she locates the word - desperation.

Aziraphale breaks away from the barrier as soon as she releases him, doubling over and barely keeping himself upright. Fortunately it seems his attack did the trick, and she needs to recover just as he does. For a moment they only stand opposed, bent and breathing heavily.

Her questions are refreshingly substantive. He looks at her, slowly righting himself, the pain fading away.

"I am an angel," he says. "My purpose has always been to protect life, even it is something like you. And anyway, you - you needn't be so melodramatic. You've only just arrived here, give yourself time to adjust. You may be returned home. Or we may discover a way out of here. I know there are all sorts of people trying to develop one. But it will require patience."

He recognizes the little hint of desperation in her voice and it softens him all the more. "To allow the rift to destroy you would be like surrendering, wouldn't it." Hopefully that's putting it in terms she'll understand.

Furious at the moment's visible weakness, she straightens almost immediately.

"I have been kept against my will too often as of late," says the God-King, her voice hard but no longer tinged with - desperation. "I grow weary of barriers, restrictions, walls thrown up against my being. I cannot exist in such containment."

But she has existed in such a state, for untold millennia while shackled within her sarcophagus and buried in a hole in the world in a universe far from here. And again when she was reincarnated within this fragile little shell, and again the wealth of her powers were siphoned away for the safety of that small and different world. Illyria's life has become nothing but endless limitations for reasons she has only now begun to realize:

Because her age is long past.

Because there is no room in this or any world for Old Ones.

Because the world has changed while she has remained in forced stagnation, and now she has no place in it.

The God-King, the conqueror, the emperor of the Primordium no longer has a kingdom, nor does she have the means to build one because she is so reduced, so powerless, and so - there is a word, a human word - alone.

That is wholly aggravating.

"I have no purpose," she says, quieter. "Surrender or sustain - both options are equally meaningless."

Well, that took a turn. Aziraphale blinks at Illyria for a moment, surprised by her sudden period of - what, introspection? - but also faintly relieved by it. This is much more comfortable ground.

"You can get a new purpose," he offers gently. "I mean, we've all had to, somewhat, but especially those of us that... had a defined one in the first place." He and Crowley have certainly had to cope with a lot of upheaval in a short amount of time. There seems to be no convincing Lucifer to leave his old ways behind, but maybe there is hope with Illyria.

"You must be patient," he says, "that's all. And stop trying all this trying to break through the rift nonsense. That's a great task. One can't very well make important decisions under so much stress. You've only just arrived, after all."

"What purpose?" The shell's head goes to one side, forthright in its inquisition. She is Illyria. Since her conception she has been engineered to rule and what she could not rule she destroyed with ruthless precision. But the principality has made its views on her violence clear and with no targets upon which she can exercise that violence, the God-King is left purposeless. A drifting, formless thing.

"What role could I possibly serve here, where even insects do not see me?" That alone would be enough to drive her to attempt to breach the rift-thing's barriers once more, the fury of being ignored despite her efforts. "They look through me as if I were smoke. I besieged one of their constructions, and still nothing."

"Well, that isn't - hang on, besieged what, now?" Aziraphale's eyes widen in alarm. Just what has she been up to while he's been unaware? "What have you done? Where? This is not normal, that they can't see us, something's happened. To you and me both. I thought it was just me until now."

If she's hurt anyone trying to get attention - he shakes his head, unable to think of it. What an unbelievable bother this 'God-King' is. Like an unmanageable child, a thought which makes him miss Melanie, who is several millenia younger than this entity, and yet incomparably well-adjusted.

"An inconsequential establishment," she replies dismissively. "The vermin were unharmed, merely perturbed, and still they would not see me."

Illyria agrees this must not be normal. Even her initial resurrection in this body, less visibly magnificent than anything she has been in the past, had warranted public alarm and spectacle. And here it is as though the world has decided to mask her from anything's notice.

Save for the principality.

She is uncertain as to how she feels about that.

He narrows his eyes in suspicion of the 'inconsequence' of the establishment, but does not pursue the point further just now. When he's through squinting he sighs heavily and passes a hand over his face, looking around at all the cars and pedestrians moving blindly past them, apparently having no idea what has almost transpired here. Free to move in and out of the Rift's limits.

"We must be patient," he says. "This can't last, whatever it is. We'll find a way to reverse it, or something."

The ease of the 'we' troubles him just a bit. Is he really consigning himself to something as ridiculous as teaming up with this petulant creature? The same one who threw his soul into a tree the other night? Ugh.

"Well," he says, tremendously awkward. "Fancy a drink?"

A drink. A frequently uttered statement around those Illyria fought alongside, usually associated with a need for escape from grief and, afterwards, a marked decline in verbalization. This being is not human and nor does it seem to be in a state of extreme sorrow (she remembers the taste of sorrow, rank and disgusting), yet it elects to consume liquids of human design? Is the principality so eager to adopt mannerisms styled after those of these vermin?

"You are not grieving," she observes in mild confusion. "Why would you engage in the consumption of drink?"

"I'm frustrated," he says, "and drinking helps with that too."

Melanie's desperate prayers have stopped now - does that mean she's given up? Maybe she's just trying to exercise patience. He should get back as soon as he can, but he doesn't want to leave Illyria unattended.

"Look, just come with me, all right?" he says impatiently, holding out his hand.

Illyria makes silent note of this, frustration as a reason interchangeable with grief to initiate drinking.

When the principality offers its hand she stares at it, unwilling to display her confusion so merely settling for revulsion.

"I go where I wish," says the God-King without the slightest trace of mortal petulance, "when I wish it."

"Yes, yes," he says, in no mood. "You're very bloody impressive. Do you wish to come with me, now?"

He really wants to just grab her and take her elsewhere, but she doesn't seem to like that too much. Miss God-King needs to be treated as such, evidently. He's not really in the habit of feeling sorry for himself about circumstances (or at least, he tells himself he's not), but really - why him?

Illyria has no idea what physical contact has to do with travel. In this shell, she merely walks, slow and irritating as it is.

She raises one of her shell's hands and holds it out in front of her, staring at it with apprehension.

"I go because I wish it," she says at last, the contact having been deemed permissible.

"Right," says Aziraphale dryly. Whatever makes it acceptable to her is fine by him. He takes her hand in a firm grip, rematerializes his wings, and flies them back to his shop. The process takes only the blink of an eye for a mortal, but Illyria may appreciate the sudden lightness of being lifted, passing through time and matter, space blending together around them, until they are standing again in his bookshop.

He lets go her hand and stalks off to the back room, expecting her to follow.

"This is my place," he says. "If you demolish any of it I will be very upset."

The shifting of spatial matter is unexpected; the principality's wings have more uses than visual impression, it seems. Fleetingly, Illyria misses the days when she could do the same, could simply seize a fistful of the world's fabric and twist it to her own desires.

They land anachronic to the period of transfer in comparison to mortal perception. Recovery from travel is instantaneous; it is not so different from what Illyria is used to from her days of Old, though she is more accustomed to initiating the travel herself. She instead decides to examine her new surroundings with a fascination bordering on distaste. The principality obviously contains a wealth of its own power. It could claim its own territory here if it truly wished, rule a kingdom of its own design. Instead it apparently opts to surround itself with the tiny fluttering records of insignificant human history, the paper trappings that endeavor pointlessly, unsuccessfully, to capture the mortal patterns that stirred between lazy blinks of a great indifferent cosmic eye.

"You possess a great number of," she pauses to search out the word, not bothering to mask her disdain, "books."

Books, now Illyria remembers. These are books.

Wesley liked books.

She will not think about Wesley. The principality does not want violence done in its 'place,' and thinking about Wesley inspires a desire to do violence in response to - to grief. Thus. She will not think about Wesley.

"I possessed a far greater number in my own world," he says, "until they were all burned up because of some nonsense I got involved in. Now I'm just trying to build up my collection again."

He doesn't bother going on because she clearly doesn't care. He stops and looks behind him, leaning half out the door to the back. She seems to be Thinking again. He has a vague sense that he should put a stop to that. "Are you coming?" he prompts.

The shell's head snaps back to stare at the principality, incisive and penetrating. It is a perplexing creature. She finds it intriguing and mildly abhorrent in equal capacity. She does not know she has encountered anything of its ilk before, though it does not seem plausible; she would remember if she had.

Wordless, she follows, pausing to glare at it commandingly. She must be transparent in her intentions, for Illyria is not complying to any demands. She is merely following this path because she wishes it and it interests her. For now.

Aziraphale smirks faintly at her stalky, arrogant attitude. Obviously she doesn't want to look like she's following directions, which is fine with him. Whatever the reason, so long as she's relatively calm.

He settles into his armchair, leaving the ratty sofa open for her, and raises a hand to the liquor cabinet. A moment later he's holding a very lovely vintage Sangiovese and a glass.

"Have you ever had human wine?" he asks with wry curiosity. "It's actually quite good, if you know what to look for."

"I do not consume liquids," Illyria replies, still distracted in her evaluation of the area. She has not needed to consume anything since she was reborn in this shell. The physiology of its new configuration suggests she is capable, it simply has never interested her. She has had no cause to stoop to that level.

She cocks her shell's head and gazes at the furniture, unwilling to make it apparent that she does not know what the principality wants her to do with it.

"Feel free to sit," he says mildly, nodding to the couch. "Sorry I can't offer you a throne of blood or something, but it's more comfortable than its looks suggest."

He pours himself a generous glass and leans over to set the bottle on the little table between chair and couch. He sits back, swirling the wine for a moment.

"Have you ever tried it?" he asks. "I put it off for the longest time. Missing out, I was. That's what you're doing now."

He takes a nice long sip. That hits the spot. Part of the spot. Mostly it would be hit by knowing Melanie's all right and he's visible to everyone again, but for now, this'll do.

He's distantly aware that goading this 'God-King' into drinking may not be the soundest of plans, but he's all out of ~~fucks to give~~ sensibility at the moment. It's been a very trying series of days.

She looks at the principality. Then the couch. Then the principality.

Back to the couch.

The God-King sits, uncertain of the arrangement of her shell on this surface. It is some bizarre halfway point between standing and kneeling at the feet of a victorious foe, the only two stances of height she considers worth knowing.

"There are many things of this world I have not considered to be worthy my time," she says, disparaging. "My Qwa'ha Xahn consumed alcohol frequently. It made him cry and call me a 'smurf'."

Her shell scowls in obvious scorn at the memory of witnessing human grief. Illyria does not know what a 'smurf' is and as it was never explained to her, she still does not. She does not care. The inflection of venom with which the word was spoken has led her to believe that it must be a grievous insult of some kind.

"Mmhmm, that will happen," says Aziraphale, unconcernedly drinking around her bizarre references. She's all right, this one. When she's not trying to destroy things or attacking him. "But you are much more robust. You may enjoy it. It might make you feel even more glorious."

Deliberately goading now. He sips more, watching her over the rim of the glass.

"Go on, then," he says, creating a glass for her as well. "I'm offering. It's good policy to accept. Or does it daunt you?"

The not-terribly-oblique provocation sparks the ages-old defiance and Illyria's shell whips its glower back to the principality.

"Do you challenge me, creature?" growls the God-King. She has never engaged in the consumption of such things. Whatever constitution the principality may boast, Illyria is confident that she will best it in every respect. The feeling of glass in her shell's hand is unnatural; she is accustomed to wielding weapons with the thickness of this shell's arm, not such a fragile and tiny object.

Drinking is a new sensation, particularly for a shell that no longer contains recognizable internal organs to speak of. The faint trailing burn of the liquid is revolting but more than tolerable. It is almost laughable, could God-Kings laugh. It is a pain so small, so inconsequential, that she knows she can face such trivial hurt many times over. Illyria drains the thing, stares at it in complete triumphant disgust, and levels her proud and defiant gaze upon the principality.

"If you intend to best me you will not succeed," she replies, the corner of her shell's mouth curling upward.

For the first time all day, Aziraphale cracks a genuine grin. That's more like it.

"We'll just see," he says casually, downing the rest of his glass and filling it back up with a minute gesture. "You may be the God-King of the Primordium, but I have centuries of experience."

Can she get drunk? What will happen if she does? This is a potentially terrible idea, but he's keen to find out one way or the other. He sips his next glass slowly, watching her.

"I am older than the world. Unconquerable." In all respects, even this one. "My shell cannot become inebriated."

Illyria does not know if her shell can become inebriated.

She has never tried.

She is confident that it cannot become inebriated.

The alternative would simply not be dignified.

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