morathé • goddess of death

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❛ we met once...
eons ago. ❜

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

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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.

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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