amorymordecai-blog

[amorymordecai-blog]

arranmordecai‌:

Arran expected no apology, he didn’t deserve it, the fault rested on him for the gall he had shown in his actions. To leave as he had and return a dirty mess half-burnt by a cruel sun. He was unfit for the position of their son even if he would still be welcome for it… No. That too was denied him now, they had a true heir, one who would carry their legacy through and through while he could not.

Despite what he wanted, the pain and the fatigue he experienced was stripping him of such higher faculties in favour of his baser instincts that demanded he do nothing but find a source and feed. To feed until he was sated than give away to sleep or some capacity of rest, both seemed equally inviting though one top priority even while he was in such a stupor as he was trying to fight through.

His energy reserves were all but fully spent and his eyes closed not to reopen for some time, he would have been unconscious in seconds, the urge to give into that inviting darkness too strong for even the most powerful of vampire’s to ever try and go against. But then he felt something, a wetness at his half-open lips that was warm and trickled into his mouth, a tiny amount reaching his tongue and igniting an ember in him that had been all but extinguished.

There was enough in him to bite down, more and more of the life-giving liquid was pulled into him and the power of Amory’s old blood was enough to sustain and heal where another’s blood would to little more than ensure survival. He gazed up at her weakly, eyes still only half-open as he fed without restraint.

How could she know? Yes there was pain, the physical pain second only to his transformation but the emotional pain, the daggers that… child’s arrival had stabbed into his heart, she couldn’t know what that was. What it did to him. The pain of being replaced, of being given all you wanted only for it to be ripped away.    

As lucidity returned to him that was all he could think about was that. The babe in this estate, this place that used to be his home, that small bundle of crying flesh that had unknowingly stolen everything he’d ever wanted from him after he’d had it for centuries. That may have been long for some but it wasn’t enough for him, he could never have his fill of this life, of Hadrian, of Amory but now… it was no longer his to have.

So yes, he whimpered and made other pathetic noises while his skin healed over, a little energy finally returned yet he was not sated, his body was trying to overcompensate and store up more energy now that he’d gone without and come so close to passing out, or worse. To think he may not even have this life anymore, that he could be little more than dirt-smeared ashes only  fellow of his kind would recognise, and even then how would they know that it was him? Her grip in his hair and his angle of feeding kept him from seeing the thick tears running down her cheeks, instead he closed his own eyes and continued to feed, wondering if this would be the last time he’d be given this special moment, this feeling of complete security feeding off Hadrian or Amory had always given him.

He didn’t recognise the tune she hummed, but the presence of music, in any form was akin to a balm to him. Music was safe, it was his and with it he’d earned this position, he’d proven himself a worthy choice for a son…. Though now he could only hope to be a worthy ward or servant. The thought embedded within his mind and he tightened his grip on Amory’s arm, the closeness, the connection, the bond they’d cultivated would be gone now, this may be the only time she ever sang for him.

He continued to feed but the frantic sucking had faded to a more sedate action as he grew full, each pull took in less than the last as his skin once again looked unblemished and fresh, though it was still caked in a layer of dirt, that and his clothes were the only indicators of his near brush with a death.  

He was just about to finish when Amory gently pulled his hand from her wrist and Arran took a moment to tuck his fangs behind his lips, they always seemed to grow at a time of feeding but the moment had passed; he would likely never had it agin and would feed from servants, people of his own station and place.

He didn’t even hear the servant speaking.

Despite being fully healed and well fed he was still dealing with only wisps of energy, his body was incapable of truly storing and making use of such power at his young age. Getting up as Amory requested would have been neigh impossible yet he immediately began to attempt it. Luckily it seemed she was still willing to help him more than he deserved and aided him in rising to his feet.

While the thought of getting cleaned up was so appealing he’d rather have simply collapsed to his bed though his pride and Amory’s request won out and he forced his legs to take as much of his own weight as possible even though is legs wobbled with every step. The mansion had never seemed to be as large to him as it was this eve, he felt as though he’d trekked the country in its entirety before Amory teleported them to his quarters within the mansion.  

In truth, he’d barely walked a step or two and a weaker part of him wished to be honest and admit his weakness though his pride only let him respond with a quiet, “Yes, Amory.” She’d disapproved of ‘Lady Mordecai’ he recalled, despite being so weak when she spoke.

He didn’t react as she stripped him bare but instead held a shaky grip on the edge of his bed to keep himself upright as he tried to lift each leg as needed. Luckily his shirt was in such tatters it was simply ripped off and would likely be thrown into the next fire. He’d have tried to keep some dignity but it seemed he’d lost all that along with his position this evening so why bother? He may as well just suffer through it and expect only worse to come before the day was through.

Once he was bare to her he struggled to his feet again with gritted teeth raised his leg enough to get into the warm water, sighing with some relief once the pressure was off and the warm water covered him up to his neck. He suspected it was a final parting gesture but as she caressed his cheek he lent into the touch, eyes closed and replied with a soft, “Yes, thank you.” Though he doubted the conversation that followed would be easy.

He forced his tired eyes open and clunkily began to wash himself, taking a breath out of habit before dunking his head under the water. Luckily, a vampire need not breath so he remained like that for some time, washing any part of himself he could reach before moving to rise and reach whatever he had missed. Once he was sure he was clean he groaned as he forced himself up and looked in the mirror as he dressed.

Arran garbed himself all in white, his favourite colour, any strength he could think to use, and double checked himself. Dressed like nobility likely for the last time he made a slow way to the study, knocked and waited for a response before entering. He swallowed, looked at Amory and ducked his head, “Forgive my disturbance but I think we need talk. Discuss my new position, if there’s one for me.” he said quietly.    

Fire crackled in the hearth, heat snapping the logs in into dust as the glow reached out to caress her in her seat. She was as unaffected by the warmth as she was by the cold, indifferent to clash of temperatures while thoughts raced and jumbled and clamored in her mind. There was a book in her lap that she hadn’t even bothered to open. Delicate fingers traced absent lines over the embossed cover as she stared blindly into the flames. 

An irregular rhythm had taken hold of her heartbeat. The muscle was rattling incohesively in her rib cage, thrashing against its prison of flesh and bone with a feeling she could only identify as apprehension. What would happen now that Arran was fed, healed, and bathed? She could not bear to lose her son, not in any sense, but also recognized that it wasn’t her decision to make. 

With barely two centuries to his name, he was still a newling, a child. Her child. Could she stand aside and allow herself to be discarded by him? If it was what he wanted, could Amory watch as he walked away from the love and protection that she and Hadrian were so desperate to give him?

No. 

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not now, not in a hundred or a thousand years. He was her son whether he liked it or not. Arran could run to the end of the earth, as far and as fast as he wanted to, but he would never be able to outrun that singular truth. He was her son, and she would never let him go. 

Time drifted past unawares. For minutes or hours all Amory did was stare into the fire and fight back her fear that she was already too late. The thought that Arran had already made up his mind was one that churned her stomach with nausea. It filled her with dread. Her songbird was stubborn. Once his mind was made there was nothing to be done to change it again. 

An ear pricked at the sound of the door pushing open, followed by soft, graceful footsteps. Not moments later there was a rap on the study door and Amory turned her face only slightly to answer the inquiring beat. “Come in,” she called quietly, knowing he would be able to hear the words even if she had whispered them. The study door swept in with a soft creak and Amory didn’t turn to watch him as he entered. 

Arran’s gaze was down cast as he took his place in front of her as a servant might, waiting for direction or instruction, anticipating a punishment that would never come. For several long moments all Amory did was stare at him. It was all she could do, ignoring her wariness for the wave of relief that washed over her. 

He was upright. He was clean and he was healed, her blood having worked more efficiently than any balm or salve. Dressed in fresh, white garb, her son appeared as an angel before her. A comparison that might have pulled a fiendish smirk to her lips, were the circumstances different than what they currently were. 

“Yes,” she finally responded to his desire to discuss his position within their family. Amory placed her unread book atop the table beside her seat, and smoothed out the skirts of her robe before pushing herself from the chair. As she strode toward the fireplace, to claim the space beside where Arran stood at attention, she stared into the crackling fire. Not looking away from the dancing flames, she agreed, “It’s time you understood your position in this house, Arran.” 

Amory held her hand, wringing her fingers a bit as she continued to stare into the flame, not seeing the fire while inserting, “For you to understand I must tell you something that I should have told you long ago.” She looked away from the fire’s rapturous flicker and sway to stare sidelong at her son beside her. “All this time you have yet to realize what it is you mean to your father and I, and it is because I have kept a truth from you, my beautiful songbird.”

In spite of her vow to herself to not touch him until her story was told, Amory reached up to caress knuckles onto Arran’s cheek. Her gentle touch followed the strong line of his jaw and she stared woefully at his beautiful face for a moment before pulling away again. Her words sat heavy on her heart, pulling it down into her belly as though they were a lead chain secured to a heavy stone, tossed into the black of a bottomless lake. 

“I had a son once,” she stated abruptly, forcing the words from her mouth and her heart so the truth could spill into the world to be examined by them both. Still not looking at Arran, Amory muttered and amending, “Decades before you were born I was meant to have a son, but I... he...” Her voice caught in her throat and she scrubbed the pad of her thumb into the top of her palm. 

Shaking her head, she forced a breath to steel her resolve. The story was started, now it must be finished. Arran needed to know, he needed to understand. She needed him to understand, not just for her sake but for Hadrian’s as well. 

Quietly, but not weakly, Amory explained, “Hadrian and I had been trying to conceive for nearly two centuries. As you know, infertility is the curse of our kind. A turned vampire will never produce young, born vampires are rarely an exception. Hades and I, we both hail from old bloodlines. The oldest recorded. There are few with blood purer than we.” 

She stared down at her hand, her thumb still rubbing aimlessly at her heart line. “We knew it would be difficult. Breeding between vampires always is. But we could do it. If we just kept trying... I wanted so badly to give him a son.” The tears had snuck up on her, pricking at her eyes and sinuses in a surprise attack she had not prepared defences against. 

When a tear rolled from the length of her nose and fell into her palm, Amory quickly sniffed the rest back and wiped the bead of moisture from her hand. She cleared her throat, loosening the tension, before speaking again. “We nearly gave up hope when I learned I was with child.” Something of a smile surfaced to her lips at the memory of that discovery. “You cannot imagine the joy I felt, the dreams I had, the plans I made.”

Amory’s smile fell away. Another tear dropped. This time Amory caught it before it could stream down her cheek. Discretely dabbing her face dry, her story continued. “I lost the babe. It is far from uncommon, especially with our kind. Every moment from conception to birth is a danger to both babe and mother alike, but I had thought... our bloodline is so old, our blood so pure... Surely...” She shook her head and shut her eyes, the smile on her lips a miserable thing as silent tears broke through her lashes to slash down her cheeks. “Five months into the pregnancy and an agonizing pain in my middle woke me from the dead of sleep to discover bloodied and ruined sheets.”

Wiping at a cheek, she couldn’t allow herself to stop. Not yet. No matter how painful the memory was, it was more important that Arran understand. “I still had to birth him, you see. Knowing that he was dead in my womb, and that he would soon be dead in my arms, I still had to push him from my body.” Amory stared down at her hands, blurred by a wall of tears, as her mind filled her palms with that bloody little thing that never got to so much as cry. A sob broke loose with a tight, “He was so tiny. So impossibly tiny. Adon. We were to name him Adon.”

With a shuddering breath, Amory wiped her face clean of the tears she’d allowed to run free before straightening her spine. She peered up at the tall portrait that stood vigil over the fireplace, not seeing the painting but hoping gravity would ally her in keeping her tears in check. A moment was stolen to level her breathing and calm her heartbeat. She struggled to gather herself once more. 

Though not done with her story, Amory could not break the silence she’d fallen into just yet. She could not trust her voice to not crack under the phantom pain of that night centuries ago. The silence held for a moment too long.

A Cold Night - 1380 || Arran & Amory

[amorymordecai-blog]

arranmordecai‌:

“There could be so many more better ways for you to spend your time.” He wasn’t worth such attention. Arran was supposed to be a good son, he was supposed to be there for his parents, take weights and burdens off their shoulders and try to repay them for the kindness of love they’d shown him over the centuries. Instead, here he was only adding another job for his mother to have to accomplish since he was unable to deal with his grief by himself.

He melted into her touch at the request, he could never deny her, not anything; it was just a shame he still felt he knew what she needed and in some cases couldn’t have been more wrong. “I’d never turn away from you.” he whispered, “Never.” It would be an unforgivable sin and he was already guilty of such actions long ago.

Thinking on the mistakes he’d made, the way he’d acted and the vulnerable wound grief has carved out within him only built his need for comfort further. Her soothing maternal embrace was met with a desperate cling as though she and she alone stood between him and the unmoored mires of emotions he just couldn’t face. His eyes closed and he turned his face to nuzzle against her, his large hands seemed to swallow her delicate looking arms as he clung hard though he knew she’d feel no discomfort; safe in that knowledge he only held more tightly.

He’d not expected an answer, on some level perhaps it was cruel or wrong of him to ask but maybe he wanted to know if she’d got a response, if something, anything could give him any sort of reprieve from this swathe of emotions he couldn’t face. “I’m sorry,” he swallowed, voice low, quiet, barely a murmur, “It’s not my place to ask such things.” His hand rose slightly to cover one of her shoulders, maybe this could be enough? Maybe he could just remain here till all felt better.        

His eyes closed and he let out a breath, the knot in his throat loosening just a tiny but as he felt her fingers running through his hair. He’d resisted such affection when freshly turned, unable to accept it after a life starved of such action. But, his mother had been determined, even when new to the roll and when he’d given in Arran was unable to turn back, he’d not realised just how much he needed that maternal connection. He wasn’t born of her body but it was no lie to say Amory was the only mother he’d ever had in both of his lives on this earth.

“Do they care?” he asked quietly, “Can such beings really care about us when this is what they allow to happen?” His own faith may have been rarely acted upon but it was there and right now it was wounded and desperate to lash out, to blame something he could put a name too. “Chaos was supposed to be fun… We used to revel it in, do whatever, whoever we wanted to leave nothing in our wake. This isn’t chaos Mother, it’s just devastation.” Nothing to redeem it.

That was all this was. And he couldn’t power through this, there was no facade strong enough to outlast such… nothingness. It demanded to be addressed but how? How was he going to do this? Once he began he didn’t know when it would end and if his mother weren’t here he’d be too afraid to cope, he’d lash out and do something he’d regret. She was a safety net and so long as she remained this could be done. God… God he hoped it could be done.

“I don’t know either.” he whispered, “I don’t know anything at all really.” he was a fool, unworthy of position or trust if he couldn’t even cope in such a situation like grace or dignity. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, we’ve lost before but this…” he let out a shaky breath, “I don’t know what to do.” He’d never been set upon by such true grief before, “I-I’ve spent days telling other’s how to cope and I c-can’t even… I don’t-” he swallowed and tried in vein to think of the words to tell his mother what this grief was doing to him, the fear and pain he could bring other’s through yet was unable to manage himself… pathetic.

“It’s all stupid.” he responded, the harshness surprising him with its intensity, bursting forth from the foggy abyss he was trying to face, “It’s stupid that they’re gone. It’s stupid to think they’re happy. Thalia is ashes in a necklace, Brandyn met the sun and is blowing apart in the wind. Freya is in pieces and trying to hold herself together and I’m-” He stilled in his muted tirade as Amory moved them apart only to stare into his eyes and he was undone, gritting his teeth as his eyes closed a guttural half-yell was dragged from him, “It’s all a fucking farce. I’m not helping anyone sitting here thinking such stupid thoughts.” He was useless. A useless son who was barely capable of facing reality.

“I need to be doing something! Not sitting here playing music a-and crying to my mother like a child-”

His voice on the final word. He was a child. Her child. And as much as the boy wished to be a man he was still a child who needed his mother to help keep him sane and was selfish enough to demand it even as she shed tears. Pathetic. He was so pathetic. “Mother…” he murmured, a grief-fuelled mewl. Feeling her brow meet his own he bared his teeth, fangs digging into and piercing his lip, a trickle of blood running down his chin as tears fell from his cheeks in much the same way. He welcomed the pain, needed it, one more definite in all this uncertainty.

“H-how are we supposed to do that?” he asked, breath hitching in-between words, “What are we compared to them?” Arran couldn’t be to Freya what Brandyn was, “Brandyn-” his friend… A man who loved that girl unconditionally, how could he try and compare with that? He wasn’t enough. His curse in this world, he was never enough for the role he was required to fill… Never.      

“How can we do that?” he asked again, “I d-don’t know how.” He wanted, needed to do this for them but he wasn’t up to it, and everything hurt so much, each ragged breath dragged from him a failure, a manifestation of his inability to be what what he was required to be. “I can’t- I-I… I can’t Mother. I can’t.” he sobbed.

His grip was desperate, clinging to her and climbing as much against her as he could, burying himself against her in the hope he could hide from the world and all the pain it was putting him through. “I’m s-sorry.” he hiccoughed, fingers claw-like “I’m so s-sorry.” He was only letting her down again.

He’d not cried like this with her in centuries, thought himself above such actions… Wrong again. God he was wrong.

A reassurance was born with a thought and died at the tip of her tongue. Amory wanted to argue that it was his place to question the gods. It was all of their place to scream and rail at forces that demanded their reverence, when so little was offered in return. None of which found voice as she held Arran to her, kissing the top of his head while the hand cupping his cheek thumbed soft, unblemished skin and the other rubbed soothing circles into his back. 

He returned her every touch. Hands much larger than her own rubbed at her arms. Thickly muscled arms encircled her and clung with a force that would have broken a mortal in two. Arran --her sweet, beautiful, thoughtful songbird-- was lost. With Thalia murdered and Bran gone to whatever hell his grief had taken him to, it was not the gods that Arran needed. What did any of their wisdom or power matter in wake of what they had lost, when that wisdom and power hadn’t prevented their loss to begin with?

The truth was that her son would find as little comfort in her reassurances as he would in the gods themselves. The faith he’d been born into had been one he’d grown out of. Blessedly so, all things considered. But Arran did not need the gods, not as Amory did. What he needed was his family, his mother, and she would sooner cut out her own heart than let him endure this agony alone. 

“Does it matter?” murmured Amory in turn. Though hardly a time for a philosophical debate, she didn’t bite her tongue and allow his question to pass unanswered. Did the gods care? She believed they did, Amory’s faith offered a rather illogical kind of comfort, but he couldn’t find comfort in her faith when he had none of his own. 

So, holding him tighter, she mused, “Will the answer change anything? If I say yes Thalia will still be dead and Bran will still be gone and we will still be miserable because, regardless of the gods and whether they or not they care, nothing has changed.” A fact she hated most of all. 

As she bit down on her molars, Amory cursed the Accords. That blood pact she’d conscripted herself to, that she and Hades had conscripted them all to, were shackles. If not for that enchanted parchment and her oath to uphold it, she wouldn’t be a poltergeist in her own manse, haunting the halls and raging for the chance to bleed out and disembowel those responsible for this tragedy. She had never been a woman of inaction. That all she could do now was comfort to her coven filled Amory with a dissatisfied restlessness she couldn’t shake. 

Until now. Until it was Arran that needed comfort after days and days of being the backbone that his name demanded him to be. It was no easy task to bear the surname they’d placed upon his brow like a crown his human life would have denied him. He was a Mordecai, and that meant being a source of strength when there was none to be found. It demanded bravery, courage, selflessness, and it was a crown that Arran wore best of all. 

He was everything they’d ever expected him to be, and so much more. But not even Arran could be all things at all times. He had to denudate the amour he wore or it would crush him, as it was now. Though none would judge him for the cracks in his facade, it was best that he relinquish the role of “unshakable obelisk” to her, here in the privacy of his music room; with none but the gods as witness. She would take care of him, as she always did. As she always would. 

Arran needed this moment of privacy and weakness. He needed allow her to carry the weight he so effortlessly volunteered unto strong, wide set shoulders. Nearly as much as she did. Because if Amory couldn’t scour the streets for Thalia’s murderer, then holding her family close was as near to useful as she’d feel until answers and justice were found. 

She didn’t speak as Arran finally unloaded his every frustration, his grief and disgust in fate’s cruelty. Amory pulled his face from the round of her shoulder and held him in front of her. She stared into his silvery eyes, lids rimmed with red from the force of his restraint. He was safe to fall apart, and still he resisted. Because he was her son, hers and Hadrian’s, and she’d never met a more stubborn pair than the both of them. 

Well... other than their children. 

Not daring to interrupt his furious rant on the stupidity of his wishful thinking, Amory grit her teeth. Her nostrils flared as she felt the sting of emotion prick at her sinuses, pokers jabbing glowing points into the backs of her eyes. Moisture gathered before her vision but she willed them back, not allowing a single tear to dive from her lashes to race for her jaw. She had had her moment, to scream and cry and curse the gods. She had had her moment, and Hades had carried her through her pain until it she could shoulder it with the grace required of her. 

Now she would do the same for Arran. He had been graceful. He had been selfless. He had been dutiful beyond reproach. The time had come for him to be weak, for him to let go and let her carry the weight of it all for a while. 

Still holding his face between her hands, her thumbs swiped the moisture from under his eyes, the few tears that managed to escape his mulish hold. Amory shook her head in a gentle side to side. “There’s nothing you can do, Arran,” she whispered to him, as quiet and tender and loving as her caress on his face. “Not right now. Not like this. You’ve spent so long reminding others how to swim, you’ve allowed yourself to drown.”

Adjusting her hold on her face so that he could meet her gaze with those bleary, bloodshot eyes, Amory murmured, “It’s your turn.”

Of course it wouldn’t be so easy as her commanding him to let the dam break and himself fall apart. He was her son. He was a fighter, especially when that fight was against himself. A hundred things would come before him, countless details he declared more important. 

Freyja was important. Not more important, but equally so. Amory hadn’t forgotten the girl, would never forget the girl. So she answered with the truth. “We can’t ever replace them, Arran. I’m not suggesting that we even try. But we are her family. We’ll be there for her, protect her, support her, just as Thalia and Bran would’ve wanted us to.” Amory stared deep into her son’s devastatingly beautiful blue eyes and bore her own certainty into their locked gazes. “She will recover from this. We all will. We just have to feel it first.”

Stop fighting, Arran, she said without words, with her touch and the kiss to his brow and how she pulled him into her again. Amory wrapped him up in her arms and squeezed him as if she could absorb his pain and heartache into herself. When he started to apologize, the walls of his fortifications crumbling to the ground, Amory hushed the string of ‘I’m sorry’s and cradled him to her. 

As she held onto her son, holding him upright as he finally allowed himself to fall apart, Amory sang for him. Like she had all those years ago, like she had while he’d been mid-transition, fighting for the rebirth they’d promised him. She hummed the old tune and held him, because that was all she could think to do. 

Grief Comes For Us All || Arran & Amory

[amorymordecai-blog]

niseecalderon‌:

The factions all had their spaces, Nisee knew, but she’d always been… curious. When she had been younger, she’d tried to find the estate with some other girls. Even now, when she delivered flowers there, there was no going past the beautiful gates. She didn’t particularly care, it wasn’t really Nisee’s nature to be a busybody, but there was a lingering curiosity. 

“Of course,” she said with a smile.

And then Amory said something that left Nisee speechless. 

“Call and we will answer.”

It was not the words themselves that struck Nisee. She had made friends in other factions before. But the kindness in the face of the predator, the mother before her touched something in her soul. For a split second, she thought of a man’s face clear of the blood covering his tshirt. For just a moment, she felt like she had 50 years ago when a werewolf heir had offered her the only solace he could after her family had been butchered: their killer’s blood on his hands. 

The feeling Nisee felt in the moment she locked eyes with Amory was why the witch believed so deeply in the Accords. The squeeze of her hand, the small nod, and the reassurance only two powerful women both intimately familiar with feeling powerless could give each other, all of it filled her heart with a fierce hope and a sharp rage.

“And you may call on me, Amory,” she said softly, her voice like iron. “I will assist you should you need it.”

Peace had never particularly interested Amory, who enjoyed the thrill of conflict what some might dare to call ‘too much.’ When times of peace occurred she welcomed them as everyone else did, her enthusiasm born from the knowledge that it, like everything else, would not --could not-- withstand the test of time. 

The difference between past stalemates and the Accords was that the Coven had never actively forfeited their rights, yielded their power, or shackled themselves to the will and whims of mortals. She understood the benefit of peace, what she could not accept was when it no longer benefited them. With Thalia dead, murdered, it was a challenge to look away from the single tree to the forest her mate saw so clearly. 

There was a Bigger Picture that Hades could see more clearly than she. Though, in moments like these, where she stared into a witch’s gaze and saw a fighting spirit not unlike her own, and knew in her blood that should Nisee need a friend she would come if called, Amory glimpsed what Hadrian worked so diligently to maintain. There was strength in alliances. The Accords made allies out of them all. 

In theory they were stronger because of it. In practice Thalia was dead and Amory did not feel strong. Helplessness was an unfamiliar, unwelcome feeling. A sentiment that Nisee could agree with if the fierce look in eyes was anything to judge by. 

“An offer you may wish to rescind sooner than you expect, Ms. Calderon,” murmured Amory in response to Nisee’s own firm offer of assistance. Forcing the corner of her mouth to curl with something resembling amusement that didn’t touch her eyes. “For now, your services are more than enough.”

She fished a weighted, black credit card from the folds of her wallet and held it for Nisee to take, to run, and finalize her order. After a long silence, Amory didn’t know what came over her when she said, “Gods watch over you, Nisee.” Gods watch over them all.

Once a Monster | A&N

[amorymordecai-blog]

ravenreisman‌:

Raven often had doubts about her position in the Mordecai’s life. But, it seemed that every time she had them, Amory knew. She knew and she immediately crushed them. Raven felt loved and cherished with them. She never understood what it was like to have someone, or multiple people, that she was willing to give her life for. If they asked, Raven would walk into the flames if it meant keeping them safe. 

“I understand. It’s so difficult to let her have room to breathe, but if it’s what she wants, then we will wait close by until she’s ready to let us in. But, I promise, I will never let her stray too far.” Raven assured Amory with a smile.

In an instant, Amory disappeared. Raven’s hair stood on end. She knew Amory would never, ever, harm her, but it was habit to want to defend and protect herself in times of uncertainty. She was on her own as a new vampire for so long, she still had flashes of needing to look out for only herself. 

Not even half a second later, Amory reappeared in front of Raven. She crouched down to be eye level, and gently rubbed her thumb over Raven’s cheek. The Prime closed her eyes in response, a sign of relaxation, and almost submission. Amory wasn’t going to hurt her, it was okay. The kiss on her brow was one of protection, a gentle reminder that she wasn’t alone in the world anymore. 

She cocked an eyebrow at Amory’s question, the movement followed by a devious grin, “You know I am always down for a good time, what did you have in mind?”

The dark haired beauty’s assurances brought a small smile to Amory’s lips. It was soft, warm, and somewhat distant, the way her lips curled and the edges. Though holding Raven’s gaze it wasn’t the dusky siren that she saw seated before her, but a vision of a future in which they failed Freyja as they had her mother. Too much space to grieve might hinder their ability to protect her. 

Banishing the thought with a blink and curt shake of her head, Amory clung to Raven’s reassurances with absolute confidence. She trusted the young vampire implicitly, with her life and the life of her own children. Raven was not blood, she was not her child, and she was no Mordecai, but she was a confidante and trusted friend where there were precious few. Just as Amory knew with unwavering certainty that there was not a thing she would not do for the prime seated across from her, the sentiment was mirrored in kind. 

If Raven said that she would keep Freyja close, that she would keep her safe, than Amory believed her. She trusted her to do everything within her considerable power to uphold her word and every promise made. The or die trying was a possibility she didn’t allow herself to entertain. Greyshadow Coven had lost too much already. Amory would not lose Raven as well. She wouldn’t even consider the possibility. 

Just as Raven would do anything to keep Freyja safe, so would Amory extend the same vigilance onto the aptly named female. They would lose no one else, especially not Raven. 

A thought that made dematerializing and reforming an instant later as easy as breathing. Amory’s touch was one of affection, of maternal devotion mixed with familial warmth. She smiled quietly when Raven leaned into the touch and accepted her tenderness with feline grace. If anything happened to this tenderhearted female...

Gods, she needed to get out of this office and the head space she fell into within it. When she sat up straight on the edge of her desk and prompted Raven to go out for a bit of fun, Amory’s smile widened when the female didn’t so much as hesitate. With mischief in her eyes and plots playing across her lips, her tone was dusky, rich as she revealed, “I feel like dancing. Don’t you?”

help wanted | r & a

[amorymordecai-blog]

hadrianmordecai‌:

Her glare was one he knew all too well. Amory was defiant to the bone, born a rebellious woman with fire in her blood and a spirit unlike anything he’d ever known. To this day, none had compared. It was part of why he fell in love with her, the strength and elegance with which she met each night, was nothing short of admirable.

It’s what made her such a tyrant, a formidable enemy to anyone who had tried to oppose. It’s why she fought him tooth and nail when the Accords were first implemented. His woman liked her freedom, didn’t believe in being shackled by others, in her own home no less. He understood how she felt, why she hated the concept of the Accords.

But beyond all of that, Amory was a doting mother and loving wife. There was nothing she would not do for her family, her coven, even if safety meant shackling that slender neck with a noose of her own making. Amory was fierce, a fighter to the very end. Her gaze burned holes into his body as she stared him down from her much lower height. The stature doing absolutely nothing to diminish her ferocity.

He knew she was pushing his buttons to get a rise, the logical part of his brain telling him to calm down. The issue here? Amory knew exactly which buttons to push to get the logical half off his brain to shut down. Their daughter was arguably the fastest route, and as her nails dug into his wrist, cutting clean through the fibres of the shirt and into the flesh beneath, he felt not a thing.

His fangs extended on a snarl. Amory challenged the very essence of who he was in that sentence. Indicating that he’d somehow changed, that the Accords had weakened him, made him a lesser male who could not act as necessary when his family was hurt. Oh, he wanted to laugh in her face.

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Thunderous and threatening, Hadrian’s growl shook not just the air, but her core as well. It vibrated down his arm, from his hand wrapped around her neck, and into her bone marrow, setting her blood on fire with a ravenous need. The claws buried in his wrist burrowed further into flesh and bone, the scent of his blood as heady in the air as the tension between them, as the scent of her dripping desire to be ruined by him. 

Amory’s own starlit glare held his, her top lip curled back as she sneered in instigation. Wood, old and elegant, as sturdy as it was expensive, resisted her figure as Hadrian forced her against the polished surface. His grip on her neck was as unyielding as his glare, the pressure of his strength as imposing as his frame. He was crowding her not to the armoire, but through it. The wood would crack and splinter behind her, and Amory didn’t have it in her to give a damn about the blasted thing. 

The armoire meant nothing, was nothing, compared to this violent void eating away at her insides. Rage surged to fill the space, tinting her vision and burning her blood. Amory knew not even it could last. Though she had enough fury in her to rain fire from the skies and raze the coastline to ash, it couldn’t go on forever. Soon she would have to face this terrible sorrow that eroded all that it touched. Soon, but not yet. The inferno first had to burn itself out. Hellfire roared in her blood, and Amory needed to feel every moment of its rampageous burn. 

When silence met her Amory seethed. Her claws embedded deeper in his wrist and her eyes shown like iridescent beacons, windows to calamitous destruction. Stars were going supernova behind her pupils, and Hadrian had placed himself to meet her cataclysmic indignation head on at point blank range. Fangs, long and gleaming, were as sharp as daggers as she screeched a feral hiss that cut through the room as violently as his growl had. 

“Answer me you coward!” Amory screamed through burning tears. Razor sharp claws cut easily through expensive cotton, shredding fabric with the ease of cutting through air. Those extended talons sliced even the tanned skin beneath, leaving behind slashes of pink that turned red as blood beaded at the edges. Was this all that was left of the warrior she’d mated? Threat with no follow through? Bark, but no bite?

Amory couldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t accept it. She needed Hadrian to show her the terrible power he was capable of. Amory needed to feel the ferocity of the storm he kept subdued. Let his conniption consume her. If it didn’t she’d be lost to her own, and she trembled in horror of facing it without him.

Bloodied by the gashes in his wrist, Amory’s touch stained the front of his shirt as she fumbled with his belt. Unfastening the leather, then the button and zipper, was an easier task when she wasn’t fighting through tears and rage and maddening sorrow. Growling through gnashed teeth, her every movement punctuated by a frustrated and furious sound, metal clinked as the belt fell away and his pants came undone. A demanding fist held the front of his pants as Amory reached into his slacks in search of what she needed most. 

A hiss cut through her when she felt the velvet encased heat of his hardened member. Soft skin encapsulated steel, veins and ridges made her shudder with need. Amory hadn’t broken her glare away from Hadrian’s, not for a second, and her eyes were still locked with his as her lips parted and a moan squeezed past the pressure of his palm on her throat. Gods above, this was what she needed. This length, this heat, this male in all his savage glory. 

Just as she was about to encircle her fingers around him, Hadrian swatted her touch from him. Another hiss tore out of her, more feral and furious than all that had come before it. She needed this. She needed him. If he denied her an outlet, a release, a medium to vent the frenzied tempest raging in her veins, it would all destroy her, and she the world around her. 

Her frustration was momentarily forgotten when Hadrian’s grip on her neck lifted Amory from her feet completely. She lid up the armoire’s embellished door until not even the tips of her toes could graze the floor. Hadrian had lifted her nearly to eye level with himself, or as close as he could with her pinned to furnishings not as tall as himself. 

Amory didn’t fight his hold, didn’t fight for leverage, or oxygen, or to be set back down. Instead she gripped his wrist with both hands and kept her glare locked with his. Jaw set, eyes aglow, her fangs were bared in challenge of him, demanding that he take what was his, what was aching and dripping and desperate for him. 

Just like he’d ignored her before, Amory didn’t deign his question with an answer. Her response was in the white of her pupils and the Elder purple of her irises. In her gaze he’d find a vicious ‘Yes, you have changed,’ and the pinch of her brow, the curl of her lip, the nails digging once more into his wrists would be assurance enough that she didn’t think it was for the better. 

A step closer brought their bodies together, their heat and scent and emotions intermingling as Hadrian’s free hand grabbed hold of her hip and angled her pelvis toward him. She easily, effortlessly, instinctively parted her legs and welcomed him between them. Her thighs gripped his waist on reflex, holding on as tightly as she was to his wrist while they continued to glower at each other.

The moan that tore out of her might’ve been a scream if it weren’t for the pressure of his palm on her throat. Pain roared with the resonance of thunder at his hard, punishing invasion of her center. With one thrust he was seated to the hilt, and Amory’s core screamed in agonized welcome of his marauding, feverishly clenching around his girth.

Nails dug further into soft flesh, firm muscle, and hard bone, her grip on his wrist ever tightening as the burn of pain melted into scalding pleasure. The two sensations existed in harmony, and Amory welcomed the balance with crazed hunger. She was ravenous for him, for this, for what needed to come next. 

He moved and she moaned again, that would-be scream that was muted by his hold on her. His rhythm was delicious agony. Out fully, until only the tip of him remained, then savage incursion that rattled the armoir behind her. The sounds rumbling up from her chest, hissing through her teeth, were animalistic and wild, desperate beyond any capacity for reason. Amory needed more, more of him, more of this, more of the burning pleasure-pain that had her eyes wanting to roll into the back of her head. 

So when Hadrian’s rumbling voice demanded to know if she doubted he was man enough, she bared her fangs at him anew and hissed. “I don’t need a man,” she seethed, releasing her blood soaked hold of his wrist to grab the shredded remnants of his shirt. As she ripped it open in a shred of fabric and a spray of buttons, Amory breathlessly supplied, “I need a male. Fuck me like a male, Hadrian. If you still can.”

The words came out of her broken and jagged, his thrusts making it hard to think, much less speak. He was brutal in his conquest, unrelenting, unforgiving. Amory’s core smouldered like churning lava. Liquid fire dripped from her sheath, over his shaft and lower still, as he stirred her insides with delectable agony. A growled question was answered by her lips on his as their mouths collided. Nails dug into his shoulders, then his back, cutting through cotton and flesh and raking down until she had a firm grip on him. 

Yes, gods yes, this was exactly what she wanted. It was exactly what she needed. Amory needed to be ruined by him, destroyed by their shared fire until there was nothing left but exhaustion and unconsciousness. Until nothing existed but him, her love for him, and the blank reprieve of dreamless sleep.

With the creaking and rattling armoire behind her, and his hold on her neck, Amory didn’t have much by way of manoeuvrability. Still she tightened her thighs grip on his waist and managed to meet his thrusts, sinking onto his length and crashing onto his pelvis with enough force to bruise her insides from the battering neither of them had any intention of stopping. 

Amory kissed him with all the rage and fear and loss that had sent her to the Outskirts. When his fangs punctured the skin of her lip another moan escaped her. Her nails dug deeper into his back, her hips fought to meet his. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the tears that continued to fall from the corners of her eyes, but all Amory could focus on was the taste of her blood on her tongue and how Hadrian sucked, licked, and drank the crimson into his mouth. With her fingers tangled in the short strands of his hair, she bit his lip in kind, moaning again at the decadent ambrosia that washed over her tongue and slid easily down her throat. Amory’s core pulsed around him as the fire of his stolen sustenance joined the blazing inferno already gathering between her hips.

The armoir groaned, then cracked. On Hadrian’s next furious thrust, Amory felt the door she’d been pinned to cave in slightly. Her grip on him tightened and the kiss became more ravenous. She hoped they fucked the furniture t pieces. Amory didn’t care how old or expensive the thing was. The fury in her blood was destructive beyond measure. Only a passion just as ruinous could see it sated. 

“Harder,” she groaned against his mouth, breathless and pleading. “Please, Sir. Fuck me harder.”

Cast The First Stone | H&A

[amorymordecai-blog]

[amorymordecai-blog]

@hadrianmordecai  @amorymordecai

[amorymordecai-blog]

You are all that matters.

[amorymordecai-blog]

END

Best Served Cold | A&E

amorymordecai‌:

“I know, my love,” Amory replied, a sad smile playing softly at the corner of her mouth. “I know.”

She happened to agree with her daughter. Roseville’s vampires were too proud a people to be herded behind their tall walls, relying on warding magic for their safety. This was their town, their home. If any should walk these streets without fear it was them. And yet here they were, compliant to a threat and afraid of who it might take next. It wasn’t their way, and Amory herself loathed that they had allowed themselves to be subjugated by any entity, unknown or otherwise.

Anger had nod subsided with the days since Thalia’s murder. It was not likely to fade until her attacker’s head was posted on a pike in front of the Estate’s wrought iron gates. But Amory was beyond hysterics, past allowing irrational reaction navigate her next move. Always her touchstone, she could borrow some of her husband’s inherent stoicism and rely on logic and strategy to exact justice. The Coven would have its revenge, being smart about getting it would simply take time.

Patience was a learned skill that she and Eva would simply have to consciously practice. They would hone their rage with a whetstone until the time finally came to retaliate. Who knows, perhaps revenge would even be sweeter with time.

The sad smile on Amory’s expression turned understanding at Eva’s words. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes, tucking the soft strands behind her ear as she searched her daughter’s too beautiful face. “I know you care, my tiny dancer. You care so much it scares you. It always has, sweet girl, ever since you were a babe on my hip. You feel so deeply you fear there is no bottom to it.” The corner of Amory’s lips curled and she brushed her knuckles on Eva’s smooth cheek in gentle caress. “Easier to pretend you feel nothing at all than to wade the vast ocean roiling under the surface.”

That was what happened when two personalities such as she and Hadrian were joined. Amory was volatile and reactive, a churning volcano always capable of eruption. Hadrian was the deadly frigid calm of the arctic, all icy winds and soul-devouring permafrost. Their temperaments combined was no easy thing to manage. It was understandable why Eva would choose dispassion. In these troubled times there was such thing as feeling too much. Amory knew, and she’d never fault her daughter for that choice.

She held her daughter’s face in her hands and brought her brow forward for a kiss. Unwilling to leave her affection at that, she gave the girl two more; one to each cheek before pulling her into a tight embrace. “Then endeavour to give me fewer reasons to worry, won’t you?” Amory pulled back to catch her daughter’s gaze when she answered, wanting Eva to look her in the eyes as she did so.

A warm simper met her apology. “Your best is all I ask for, sweetheart. And for you to be conscientious of what you mean to your family and your coven. Be safe, if not for your own sake then for ours.” Her smile broadened with the love she had for the stunning female before her. Again Amory fussed over her daughter’s hair, smiling softly to herself as she did so, and murmuring, “Come now. It’s time for us to go home. Then we can vent some of these frustrations with some swordplay. What do you say?”

Eva knew full well that if anyone agreed with her, it would be her mother. She knew Arran did too but her mother shared that same tornado of anger which resided so immensely in her soul, that it could easily obliterate anything or anyone in its path. The youngest Mordecai also knew that her mother would be very determined to keep her safe. So trying to talk her around with making a point of how she couldn’t be on lockdown like that–how it only made her worse, or perhaps she wanted to do something productive and not sit around and wait for another murder, it seemed like she might be wasting her energy.

“You understand me….always have….”

Very few could understand Eva, but her family did–her parents, her brother and her godparent, Auri. She could be cold and uncaring there was no doubt about it, but when it came to the coven she cared very deeply and yet when things went wrong, Eva manifested that care in ways some could not see as anything but foolishness and lack of concern for anyone. It would be fair to say she didn’t help her own corner due to the fact that she could be a complete pain in the ass and intolerable to some even on a good day. Get a bad day though when hurt and emotional pain had found a place to stay in her heart, then everything she did normally was tenfold–and that included her short fuse.

She closed her eyes and leaned into her mother’s touch, each movement slow and relaxed.

“You know…because it’s how you feel, right?”

She didn’t really need to ask because Eva was like her mother in a lot of ways. Though she wasn’t sure if her mother would agree or not.

“I will. I will try, mother.”

–and she wasn’t lying. Eva spoke with truth and honesty towards Amory, her visual firmly fixed on her,  but when it came to the heat of the moment,  pain, anger and frustration suffocated her,  so the youngest Mordecai just couldn’t think that way.

There was always something calming about the way her mother would play with tousles of her hair. Maybe it reverted her to the comfort of being a child centuries ago, but it was never something she tired of.

“You all mean everything to me…more than anything at all.”

Eva smiled and nodded as her mother mentioned venting some frustration and she dangled the keys to the boutique playfully in the air.

“Oh, now you are talking.”

With a teasing glance to Amory as she flicked off the lights and linked her arm through hers, Eva wiggled her brow.

“I think I may stand a chance of winning this time.”

[amorymordecai-blog]

arranmordecai‌:

Fear, it turned out, was a far more powerful motivator than he’d imagined it could be. He’d been angry, bitter but proud when he’d left to practice his hunting. But hours spent with a thin layer of dirt between him and the sun, that searing heat forever pressed against his back had stripped him of such dignity. Pathetic as it was he still wanted to live, and if that meant begging as he was then he’d gladly do it.

Though he doubted it was earning him any real favour. If she’d grown tired of him it might only slightly help his case but even when they’d first met he’d been proud. He’d been assured of his skills and knew he’d do all he could to enhance his position and build a place that was his and his alone in the world. Now here he was on his knees in desperation for a lowly station. It seemed fate was a cruel mistress who’d given him a position on the bottom and would now ensure he remained there.  

The only reason he dared to hold her so was he knew her strength. He’d been an ignorant fool in his human years (and first years of vampirism) and thought woman beneath him, good for little more than distraction and continuing a bloodline. But Amory, she’d ensured him swiftly disabused of that notion and he’d watched her rip people apart for displeasing her. Thankfully, it seemed he would avoid a similar fate; that was a much better ending to the scenario than he’d suspected upon entering the mansion once more.

To hold her so closely, as a child would a parent, was no longer an honour he could be afforded; when a true child was born a ward was cast aside. They could become a caretaker if they’d endeared themselves well or be made a servant or cast out altogether had they displeased their carers.

Her release caused him to exhale in relief, his back a mixture of raw reds, crusting over and the tips of his shoulder blades were little more than dead, black skin. It was more akin to the burnt out remnants of a coal fire than something that had once been smooth flesh. His breaths came in sharp pants, the air wasn’t needed but the sparks of pain every movement caused needed some kind of coping mechanism; while he no longer needed to breath it seemed his body recalled when deep breaths had been a way of bearing through pain.    

His mind was half-addled from the pain, the memory of the heat and the desperate fear he’d be made to face it again; Arran was not himself. He thought he was saying the correct words, what a Lady would want to hear so she knew her power and that he could still provide worth. That was what needed to happen, it was necessary to save him from that deadly, destroying heat.

He wouldn’t raise his head, it wouldn’t be right or decent of him to look her in the eye now he wasn’t on her level; some gentry had their servants whipped for actions like that and he didn’t think his back could take any further pain without what was left of him collapsing in on itself. He felt there was so little of him left that to lose anymore would leave him… Gods, he couldn’t think what would remain. Thinking straight was becoming more of a trial, even the pattern of the floor-tiles was beginning to become hazy against his half-lidded eyes.

“F-forgive me. It was not my place to assume.” he said quietly, still looking down though his voice had lost more strength he did not have to lose. Without their enhanced senses odds were she’d be unable to hear his apology at all and that would only make things worse… he needed to say the right things…

His own senses were beginning to fail him but he could still smell blood, sweet sustenance that held the promise of recovery and nourishment; his parched throat begged for it, his back, a patchwork of cinders, ached for it. His clouded mind held enough remaining sense to be sure he didn’t deserve it. His tongue pushed against his lips, moving clumsily and managing to nick itself on his fangs that were straining to plunge into the offered flesh, to take what he so sorely needed; Arran was struggling to recall why he was denying it… he just knew he needed to.

Slamming his own head against the floor was a stupid decision, though far from the worst he’d made in recent days, and the blow knocked what little sense and strength he’d had remaining to the way-side. Seconds after he felt blood trickle down his forehead his eyes closed and he struggled to open them even a little. Arran’s bent legs gave out and he slumped further against the floor; the submissive posture giving way to an exhausted collapse. Gods… everything hurt and he was so tired… and sad… why was he so sad?  

Darkness was creeping in at the edges of his vision and inviting him to close his eyes again, sleep would keep the hurt and sad away and then- “Ahh!” The noise was pulled from half-open lips and slurred with fatigue but the pain of it couldn’t be misunderstood. The burns across his skin flared at the movement and his mouth opened for another groan of pain to fill the air around them.

All was coated with a hazy pain-filled aura now. His reasons for leaving, for returning and the seemingly all encompassing pain; it was at its worst on the base of his neck and his shoulder’s rose in a weak hunch to try and get whatever was grabbing him, pulling against sore, coarse flesh, to relieve it’s unyielding grip. But it was for nought; his pitiable strength gave out and he slumped down once again.

Something was pressed against his face, it was wet and warm and so inviting… his tongue jutted forward and rested against the warmth, instinct causing it to lap up the liquid and draw it back into his mouth. His eyes flicked up, catching sight of Amory but he was so lost to his fatiguing body, “M’ther,” his slurred speech little more than pathetic, “’urts…” the word managed to hold more misery than it should’ve been able to, perhaps the most honest he’d spoken to her since returning home.

His weak interest soon returned to the warmth at his lips and he lapped at it further, heaving his flagging head into a better position before his fangs managed to dig into the skin, taking her blood.

He fed like a babe, mindlessly taking in as much as he could, unable to hold himself in place to do so. As a small amount of strength returned to him a hand lifted to grip the forearm he was drinking from, the other rose blindly before resting on Amory’s leg. Her blood was sustain him, already the worst of his blackened skin was beginning to fade to a healthier looking red as he suckled at her arm.  

Though an apology played along the tip of her tongue, Amory did not give it voice. It would be a lie, that word and the plea that he forgive her. There was nothing to forgive, no apology to be made. The pain she caused in grabbing his tunic and yanking him upright would pass. Once he had her blood flowing through his veins, his every agony would fade. All he had to do was drink. 

Arran’s resistance had been his ruin. The boy was out of sorts and delirious. His head was heavy, his eyelids heavier still. As Amory pulled him up from the marble tiles beneath them he wobbled in her grasp, threatening collapse as a dribble of blood trickled from his brow and down the side of his face. Foolish boy, she wanted to say but could not speak around the emotion that had amassed in her airway. 

Pushing her bleeding wrist onto his lips, she wriggled her forearm a bit, pushing his lips apart and scraping the open punctures against his incisors to force as much of her blood as was possible into his mouth. “Drink,” she commanded on a breathless whisper, her other hand still firmly clutched on his collar to keep him upright. Amory gave him the slightest shake, as though the jerking motion would dislodge his better sense from whatever dark crevice he’d forced it into. “You must drink, my beloved songbird.”

Relief washed over her and Amory sighed at the sensation of Arran’s tongue laving at the puncture wounds on her wrist. The burst of energy that erupted in him was slight, but it was enough to part his eyelids and lift his focus to her face. There was a pinch between her brows, her lips tugged downward as she frowned in anticipation of him truly giving himself over to his feeding. 

The undiluted pain in his muffled voice broke her heart. Amory felt her tears roll down her cheeks in thin rivulets, pulled forth by his anguish and her innate urgency to take it from him. “I know, love,” she murmured, maneuvering him into a more comfortable position, better suited for feeding. “I know.”

Once Amory had Arran laying on his side, his head and shoulders propped up on her lap, she began to stroke his hair as fangs sharper than daggers stabbed into her wrist and deepened the blood flow. “Shhhh,” she hummed to quiet the mindless whimpers crooning up from him as he pulled in mouthful after mouthful of blood into his belly; all while her fingers continued to rake through the gritty strands of his dirty and unkempt hair. 

Gaze downcast on her son, his visage blurred by the well of tears lining her lower eyelid, Amory fought against the persistent hurt in her chest, the nagging, discomforted fear that she had nearly lost him. What would she have done had he not come home to her? What would she have done if all Hades and Auri had found out in the world beyond their Estate was dirt mixed with ashes? Amory could not think on it, not without her soul screaming in agony of the very idea. Had she lost her son... Slender fingers curled in the begrimed locks of his hair as she inhaled deeply and clamped her eyes shut, sending thicker rivulets of tears streaking down her cheeks. 

As Arran continued to feed, the suction of his mouth on her wrist growing stronger with each pull, Amory began to hum for him. The same tune her mother had sung for her long ago, when she’d been a restless child unwilling to surrender the day to the Sandman. It was the same song she’d sung to Arran during his transition, when he’d been so tormented by the pain that she doubted he’d even registered her presence there with him; doubted he could recall it even now. 

Amory did not have her son’s talent for music, but she sang for him irregardless, soft and quiet, digits dragging tenderly through grimy brown tendrils. 

Time lost its relevance the moment his fangs locked onto her wrist. Amory paid its passage no heed. She simply sat with her son cradled in her lap in the manse’s foyer, humming softly for him, and watching while he fed from her wrist as he should have from her breast as a babe. Her attention was broken away from him with movement from her periphery. 

Looking up, she noted the reappearance of the servant she’d sent to prepare Arran a bath. By the look on the young woman’s face, this was not her first attempt to catch Amory’s focus. When their eyes locked the skittish woman understood the instructions in her Mistress’ fierce gaze, and spoke quickly. 

“Master Arran’s bath is ready, Mistress.”

A nod dismissed the servant and Amory disregarded her very existence immediately afterwards. Staring down at her son, she moved her touch from his hair, down his neck and to the collar of his tunic. Pulling it aside she gauged the damage and a breath of relief left her in a quiet exhale. His skin was an agitated pink, a manageable burn that would fade almost entirely within the hour. 

“Come now, my darling boy,” murmured Amory, gently pulling her wrist from his mouth so that she could pull him upright once more. “Let us get you cleaned up.” Though she could heft him into her arms with ease, and carry him like a child through the Estate to his bedchamber, Amory would not shame him so. He was a strong male, merely weakened by the sun. To carry him like a babe would be to dishonor that strength. 

So she pulled his arm over her shoulder and stood with him, her grip around his waist holding his weight as she willed them both from the foyer in a burst of smoke. Remanifesting within his bedchamber Amory wondered, “Can you stand,” as she moved him to the cushioned bench before his bed. 

Ducking out from under his arm, Amory positioned herself in front of him and began to unfasten his tunic, pushing it gently from his shoulders to fall to the floor in a dirty heap. The shirt underneath was also pulled from his body. Once he was seated on the bench Amory knelt to remove his boots, tossing each to the wayside before the chausses were stripped from his legs. Next were his breeches, the flaps unlaced and she shimmied them off of Arran’s frame with little effort. 

Neither unfamiliar nor uncomfortable with the naked male figure, Amory’s focus did not waver. Once she had Arran disrobed, she helped him back up onto his feet and into the basin of steaming, lavender and chamomile scented water, the contents within milky and inviting. “In you go,” muttered Amory as she kept support of him until he was half submerged beneath the cloudy water. 

She sat on the edge of the tub, expression furrowed as she observed him a moment. When a sigh breezed from her nostrils Amory lifted herself from bassin’s edge and smoothed out her robes. “I will be in the study should you have need of me.” Unable to help herself, she caressed her knuckles along the side of his face, frowning slightly at the ache in her chest, before turning and striding for the exit. 

It was one thing to help him disrobe, it was another entirely to bathe him. He was her son, but he was not an infant. Much as she longed to nurture him as though he were a babe, she would not shame him in doing so. Once he had bathed he would know where to find her should he desire it. Should he desire her. Gods, if she lost him in any capacity tonight... Amory clamped her eyes shut as she strode for the nearby study. 

A Cold Night - 1380 || Arran & Amory

[amorymordecai-blog]

hadrianmordecai‌:

He didn’t notice the vase at first. She had so loved it at one point, a delicate glass hand blown by a servant child in the old country. She’d been particularly fond of it’s delicate features, and the memories behind it. He’d been infatuated with her, had made it as a token of his affection. Were the child older than 10, Hadrian would perhaps have been jealous of his attempts to woo his wife, but alas, he was safe.

A fact he would have laughed at, were the circumstances any different. Now, it laid in tattered ruins, water dripping from the walls where it smashed. Crushed flowers limp on the floor. For a moment, he watched in awe at the physical representation of their lives. Flicking his gaze back to focus on his wife once more.

She’d been crying, her face red and swollen. Christ, she was beautiful. Even in a fit of rage, when emotions proved too much to bear and the weight of the world crushed her delicate frame, she was so damn beautiful. He loved her more in this moment than he ever had before. She too, a physical representation of how he felt inside. The problem was, only one of them could fall apart.

Right now? It was her turn.

He would remain strong, Hadrian would bear the brunt of her pain. He would pick her up and carry her forth, until suddenly, it didn’t hurt quite so much. Together, they would get through this. 

“I am well aware.” The tone was the same, unchanging. “You need not remind me, Amory.” He had spent the eve with Freyja, consoling a lost little lamb. He had no idea how they were all going to get through this, but the Coven had survived worse and there was strength in numbers.

“But this is not the old world, and our ways have had to change. We cannot react the way we did, eye for an eye when we don’t know who is on the other side. No one has come forth, and honestly? I’m not sure Harlow is the one that would make you feel better. She is our ally, Mi Amor.” He couldn’t speak for the other wolves but the she wolf? One of the only mutts with a brain, a heart, a soul. “She is not the anger and rage of her brethren.”

As she stood chest to chest, touching and utterly overwhelming despite her size, he wished suddenly he was an empath with the ability to dull her pain. There were other ways, however, to keep her mind off things. His stoic facade finally broke as she threw Eva in his face, the growl that rippled through him saw his upper lip curl back from elongating fangs. The bright violet that told one of his Elder status coloured diamond eyes, the neon white iris so bright it lit the delicate curves of her face.

In a flash, a tattooed hand had wrapped itself around the slender column of her throat, and squeezed. Taking a step back, her feet lifted and toes scraped lightly against the carpeted floor as he pushed her back against the very Amoire she’d just been leaning against. His body crowded her against the french provincial doors, caging her in. 

“Don’t you dare use Eva in this.” His scowl would have made a lesser person shrink back against the wood grain. Not his Amory, she somehow looked taller, even as he dwarfed her. “You know damn well what I’d do.”

It was grating, his continued calm. Hadrian’s cadence was even, unhurried, so godsdamned smooth. He was her opposite in almost every way, and it was never a more infuriating fact than it was in that moment. Where Amory was a hurricane battered sea, tall waves crashing, speared by lightning, pommelled by wind and rain, Hadrian was more akin to the Atlantic’s doldrums; dead spots in which there were no winds, only barely rippling water and the fear that the quiet might very well drive you mad. 

He was the calm, she the storm, and there was no comfort in it. Not now. Not with Thalia dead and her murderer a continued threat. Amory’s heart was broken for the newly orphaned Freyja, she was bereft that the coven had lost not one, but two of its beloved members, and she was enraged at the very idea of allowing this tragedy to go unanswered. 

If Amory was the storm she was the kind categorically scaled to collapse buildings and uproot trees, the kind that made ruins out of cities and splinters out of forests. There was no calming this storm. Only enduring it, facing it head on if you were brave enough. Which her husband had always been.

In every regard Hadrian was her counterweight, her perfect balance. Except for now. Now he was her target. His frigid resolve had made it so, and Amory would not stop until she brought forth what she knew was stirring just beneath the surface. She wanted --needed-- to see it, to feel it, to touch him and know that though her storm tore the skies asunder, his churned the seas below. 

A scoff met his words. “I do not want their eyes, Hadrian. I want their head on a pike, their heart in my fist, their insides strewn across a field to be pecked at by the birds. I want to crack their ribs away from their spine and to rip their lungs free from their back. I will not settle for their eyes. And I will not wait for them to volunteer themselves.” 

Of course none had come forth. No one would. To lay claim to these deaths, to this specific death, was to dive into shark infested waters lathered in chum. If they were to wait for someone to step forward they may as well line their people up and allow the killer to make their choice. It was pageantry for the slaughter, ‘please, sir, take your pick.’ Amory would not allow it.

 At his defence of Harlow Khatri her top lip pulled back into a snarl, and she seethed, “We have no allies.” Her eyes narrowed on him, her glare sharp enough to drive a lesser man through and bring him to his knees. But Hadrian was not less in any regard and stood as constant and sublime as he always had, withstanding the bludgeoning of her temper. Unfazed by it. “I don’t want to feel better, Hadrian. I want reprisal. I want blood. Allies would see that thirst surfeited, and not ensconce themselves within their territory hoping that the next body that drops isn’t their own. That is not an alliance, it is self preservation and if we have fallen to that point then let there be war.”

Her chest rose and fell hard as harsh breaths stoked a wildly burning fire. Propelled forward by her unmitigated fury, Amory now stood toe to toe with the giant that was her mate. Eyes sharp. Fangs bared. Expression twisted by grief and rage. She prodded at his facade with a daggered glare and pointed words, digging under his armor and prying it from him in a way only she could. To Hell with this mask of placid calm. Winter was not soft snow under silver moonlight. It was blizzards and hailstorms, and freezing death. As wild and dangerous as any inferno, it burned just as true, and Amory needed to feel his burn. 

Something resembling glee sparked inside of her at the sight of Hadrian’s eyes come alive with that elysian amethyst glow, his pupils the white hot heat of a neutron star. His fangs shot down with a growl that vibrated not just the thin sliver of space between their bodies but the room to its entirety. Snarling right back up at him, the corners of her mouth twitched with a smirk she wouldn’t allow to fully take her lips. 

Not until his hand shot up in a flash of movement, too fast to even blur. When his large hand closed around her slender throat, Amory allowed that barely there simper to stretch fully across her lips. Satisfaction shone just under the defiant, unflinching expression she wore. Finally, she thought as he effortlessly lifted her onto the very tips of her toes and dragged her across the room. Amory’s back slammed into the armoire, her head colliding with the cherry wood door, and she hissed up at him, snarling in further provocation as his tattooed hand squeezed. 

Palms bloodied by her nails having stabbed cleanly through flesh, crimson stained the cuff of his shirt as she gripped Hadrian’s wrist in one hand. Not to try and tear his grip from her throat, but to hold it steady and herself upright as he kept her barely a centimeter away from dangling. The tips of her toes offered no leverage. She didn't want them to. She didn’t need them to. All she needed was this, was him. 

“Do I?” challenged Amory when he growled that there was no question of what he’d do if it was their daughter on that slab. Her top lip twitched as she glowered up at her mate through tears that had lessened with the heat of her anger but had not evaporated entirely. “I know what you would have done, before the Accords, before this hopeless and evanescent peace mattered more to you than your coven. That male would have run the streets red.”

On a low, quiet voice, made nearly inaudible by his grip around her neck, she seethed, “Where is that male, Hadrian? Where is the warrior I mated?” Nails still sharp as knives and long as claws, Amory slashed at his chest with a demanding, “Show him to me!” and tore through his suit jacket and the shirt underneath with ease, revealing tanned skin over hard muscle with paper thin, barely noticeable cuts start to pink. Hardly deep enough to even bleed. 

With his shirt shorn to tatters she released her hold of his wrist and worked with both hands to unbuckle his belt, muttering, “It’s him I need now.” Tears burned like acid as they streamed down her face, her focus unwavering from his while she worked his belt loose with a snarl.

Cast The First Stone | H&A

[amorymordecai-blog]

arranmordecai‌:

Many times over the centuries he’d thought on the existence of beings greater than him; he’d been raised to believe God saw all, was all and would be all. Despite coming into his own beliefs on what should and shouldn’t be worshiped he’d often wondered about his mother’s faith, if it brought her comfort, aid in harsh times.

More than once he’d attended her temple with her, out of curiosity or simple the desire to be close to his mother. He supposed on some level he could never fully let go of the desire to worship something bigger than himself, even if he didn’t actively do it. For so long he’d worshiped his parents as god-like figures but now he knew better. They were beings, amazing, indescribable, but not divine.

And as such, Arran should not cause his mother any further distress by falling apart in front of her like a newling who’d come too close to the sun… The closeness of that example steeled him to stem the tide of grief if only for a few more clock ticks. “I-It,” he paused and swallowed, the act difficult with the lump in his throat, “It is my burden to bare, Mother. You do too much for us to need to dote on me so.” He wished for it, craved it but still he denied it… Perhaps he retained more elements of Catholicism than he’d originally thought.    

At least, he did nothing to move from the position she’d pulled him into, being held at her breast brought comfort, despite how it also encouraged the lowering of his tightly wound shields it was too entrancing to cast aside. “Mother,” he said softly, gone somewhat limp in her embrace, “Have you been with your gods?”

He doubted she need answer him, it was her sanctuary, just as music was his. “Did they have anything to say? Any reason why they may have deigned it fit that we lose two of our beloved? Two with a child to care for? To raise into the night?” He wasn’t expecting an answer, and there was no anger to his tone, even the pain there was muted.

“I wonder…” Another difficult swallow, his body seemed to shiver with the effort caused to perform it and his next words came out lower still, “I wonder if Brandyn has found her yet? If they’re together, dancing to some modern drivel when Chopin would be so much more deserving.” He paused a few moments more before laugh left him, too loud, bark-like, the bitterness within the vibrations reverberating off the walls around them, so designed to carry sound so well.

“Stupid.” he mumbled, “Stupid fool.” Again, to himself, to Brandyn… to the gods his mother bowed before, he couldn’t know to whom his ire was directed. “There are so many stupid things in this world and to think they’re dancing happily while their daughter weeps inconsolably is one them. Rather selfish, yes? Putting my own comfort above such a truth… But isn’t that the way of it? Who would desire a truth full of pain when a peaceful lie is but a few thoughts away?”

He was asking too many questions, staving off grief behind words as he’d been doing to any who listened. Much as he professed to facing the truth he’d yet to really do so and he knew that. It pained him unbearably to turn and know he’d never see them dance before him again, they’d never see Freyja as one of their own, never be able to feed her for her first time.. Feel the connection as he- Arran’s hands finally slip from the piano lid and moved sluggishly to grip his mother’s arm.

“They’ll-” he whispered, stunted again by that damn lump in his throat, “They’ll never see her as she truly will be… She’ll never be able to feed off her parents.” The one moment in the world during which Arran felt utterly safe and protected was now lost to Freyja forever, “T-they’ll never have the joy of giving her life… ever again.”

He closed his eyes, “He didn’t know what to wear,” Arran shifted his head to look up at his mother, “Brandyn. He just couldn’t pick what to wear to Freya’s first outing as one of us… He so wanted to be dressed nicely for her, for Thalia. Have them all match, he said… inside and out for the first time.” He tried to swallow again but this time it was beyond him, a ragged breath was drawn in.

“Two days ago we were trying to pick out clothes for the happiest moment of their lives… a-and now, and now they’re both gone… isn’t that ridiculous?” he held her tighter, eyes now scrunched up, “Isn’t that the most, r-ridiculous thing you ever h-heard?” A sob was wretched from his as though dragged out by death itself and he buried himself against her. Another followed and it seemed he couldn’t draw breath quick enough to let a cry escape, the damned walls around them magnifying each cry as though he alone wasn’t weeping for the loss.  

“Doting on you is all I want to do, Arran,” Amory confessed softly, though not without conviction and austerity. Facing him, with her back to the piano, she cupped his cheek in her palm and searched those misty eyes. Within her own stare he’d find a desperate kind of need, a mother’s need, to hold her young to her chest and carry them through life’s difficulties. Tone still soft and equally inflexible, she murmured, “Do not deny me this, my sweet songbird. I beg you. Do not turn me away. Not now.”

Relief washed over her when he didn’t fight her hold, but allowed himself to be pulled in to her chest. Her arms wrapped around him and she kissed the top of his head while rubbing his back up and down, one hand on his cheek to caress a line over his smooth skin. She murmured quiet nothings as she held him, another kiss placed on the top of his head.

In that moment, Amory hated that he hadn’t been born of her, that she hadn’t brought him into this world with her own screams and tears and anguish. She hated that she hadn’t held him to her breast as a babe and fed him of her own body. If only so that he would know in his blood that her love for him was absolute. If Arran had been born hers, gone would be his inclination to doubt her love and his worthiness of it. Perhaps then his first instinct wouldn’t be to always turn her away when they both needed each other so desperately. 

With her cheek on his crown, her fingers in his hair, and nails scraping lightly at his back, she remained quiet for several seconds after he asked of her gods. Before she could answer he gave voice to the rest, questioning the gods and their wisdom, questioning how they could take from them two lives when there was one so precious that needed them still. Amory clenched her teeth and swallowed hard. The backs of her eyes stung as moisture began to gather along the bottom of her vision. 

An inhale filled her lungs with oxygen and her blood with resolve. Amory’s nails continued to softly rake through Arran’s short hair, scraping gently at his scalp ad she nestled her cheek on his head and rubbed his back. “The gods are ever silent when we scream at them for answers,” she supplied quietly. “The truth, my son, is that there are no answers for them to give. There is no explanation for why Thalia was taken, or why Bran was lost. Nothing to justify the void in our hearts that dwell in their place. Only chaos and injustice with which not even the gods can intervene.” 

It was a truth she had come to long ago, before Arran was born, then reborn as her son. Back when she and Hadrian had been trying conceive. She’d been desperate, maddened by her desire to bear young. It was all she wanted in the world, more than all the treasures and luxuries her mate provided for her. One day the gods had heard her prayers. The next her hopes, and dreams, and happiness for the future were dashed by bloodied sheets and stomach cramps. 

Amory had screamed and sobbed, and cursed the gods. But they were as silent then as they are now. The truth made obvious to her in that moment of despair. They are gods and answer to none but themselves. They guide. They comfort. They bring peace and purpose, but they are beholden to none in the realm of mortals. So silence is their answer, and the responsibility of interpreting that silence falls to the shoulders of those least fit to carry the weight of it.

When Arran trembled in her arms she held him tighter and kissed him again. “I don’t know,” was all she could murmur in response to his musings. A knife was carving a searing path over her sternum, plunging through flesh and bone before twisting hard. She didn’t know which would be better: to hope that Bran had found Thalia, and that they were both dancing away in the afterlife, or to wish that he had found shelter from the sun and was out there still. Lost to them but not lost forever. Was it wrong for her to pray for the former, to hope that he was at peace with the mate he had loved beyond measure?

Her arms tightened around her son yet again with he barked in humorless laughter, the sound of it bouncing off of the walls, vacant and haunting. “Why is it stupid,” she asked in return, scratching her nails through his hair, feeling the sting in her eyes once more. “Why is it stupid to wish those you love are at peace? Why is it stupid to hope that they are together once more, without the threat of this life tearing them apart ever again? Why is it stupid, Arran, to love someone so much you wish them naught but their own happiness, even if it’s separate from us in the next life?” There was but one answer. It was not stupid. It was beautiful, to love and to care so much that to cope was to believe whatever idea hurt the least. 

Amory knew not if there was an afterlife. But she did know that to hope for one was not stupid. Far from it.

Moving her hands to his shoulders, Amory pulled Arran just far enough away to meet and hold his watery gaze. Her nostrils flared as she bulled in a steadying breath, and she swallowed down the emotion tightening her throat. Her touch climbed up the slope of his shoulders, over his neck, and to either side of his face. The knife in her chest pushed deeper, the blade piercing her lungs as it drove through her rib cage. Blinks that were meant to clear the tears that had started to gather before her eyes sent thin rivulets down her cheeks to her jaw. 

Brows pinched and expression mournful, her chin quivered before she spoke again. “They won’t,” she agreed, voice warbling with the concession. “So we must for them. They are gone from this world but not from our hearts. We will watch over her for them, love her for them, and take care of her as they would have. She is our responsibility now, and we must not fail her, or them.”

She pressed her brow to her son’s and shut her eyes as she listened to him recall Bran’s nerves in Freyja’s transition, not in her not surviving it, but rather what he’d wear once she had. More tears burn streaks down her face and Amory sniffed. She pulled in a deep breath, pressed a kiss to his brow, then pulled back from Arran, her expression fortified with her resolve. 

“Yes,” she said in quiet answer to his question, nodding softly, somberly. “It’s absolutely ridiculous. Here for centuries, gone in a moment. How utterly ridiculous this life can be.” Amory pulled Arran back into her chest and held him there, burying her face in his hair and digging her nails into his shirt. 

Clenching her teeth to keep control of her forced placidity, Amory muttered a breathless, “I love you, Arran. I love you so much, my sweet boy.”

Grief Comes For Us All || Arran & Amory

[amorymordecai-blog]

ravenreisman‌:

“It’s a habit, I suppose. Assuring someone of something, immediately followed by, don’t worry. People are creatures of habit, and this is no different. Much like apologizing after a tragedy. What good does that do? Sorry only means something when it comes from the being responsible. Otherwise, it has no value.” Raven rambled a little. 

At the mention of Amory’s daughter, Raven felt a small pang of longing. She had never experienced the relationship that the Mordecai’s had with each other. Raven had the Coven, and Amory and Hadrian treated her like family, but it really wasn’t the same. It could never replace the real thing, the thing she never had. “I assure you, Amory, I will do everything in my power to keep myself and those of the Coven safe. We will not endure this same tragedy twice.” she spoke firmly with determination. 

Back to the topic of stockpiling blood, a quite familiar topic to Raven, seeing as it was part of her job. She laughed at her threat to Mikeal because she knew it was true. Amory would bleed him without a second thought. “Of course. I’ll be sure to remind him of that, should he hesitate.” 

Now, to Freyja. “I will be there every step she lets me. However, I will not push her if she doesn’t want help. Freyja has had so many people constantly checking on her, and she’s getting frustrated. If she needs space, I will oblige. I won’t stray very far though.” she assured Amory with a confident smile. 

Raven let out a dry laugh, “I’m… fine I guess.” she pinched the bridge of her nose, “I have most definitely been better, but I’m trying my best.” She paused briefly before returning eye contact with Amory, “I don’t know how you do it, Ori. I struggle to stretch myself this far, but you do it twenty times farther and you are still so strong. Am I doing something wrong?”

“It hardly means something then either,” muttered Amory in rebuke. ‘Sorry’ was a mostly useless word. Especially to one as unapologetic and unforgiving as herself. Actions would always speak louder and retribution would always be her preference. Amory had no use for ‘sorry’, had no need of it. When she made mistakes she made them right. When mistakes were made against her, well, she also made it right. 

Smiling softly at Raven, she said, “I appreciate you trying to ease my concerns, Raven. The fact of the matter is that I simply care for you far too much for that to even be a possibility. Nor would I want it to.” She wished, suddenly, that there wasn’t a desk between them and that she could take the younger female into her arms. With affection in her voice, and sorrow in her eyes, Amory stated, “We are defined by the people we love and lengths we would go to for them. Worrying for your safety is barely an inch in the leagues of what I would do for you, darling.”

She knew that “family” had been a foreign concept to Raven when she’d first joined their ranks all those centuries ago. She knew neither a mother’s love nor the ferocity that coincided. With the years spent at Amory’s side, she had had a taste. Raven might not be her daughter, but Amory adored her all the same. 

With sincerity in her tone and pride in her features, Amory confessed an easy, “I believe you.” She knew by the expression Raven was currently wearing that she meant what she said. Raven was not with limited power, and she would use all at her disposal to protect their coven. It was all that she could ask of any member of GreyShadow Coven. Expression sobering at the thought of them losing another to an attack like this one, she added, “No we will not.”

It was easier to speak of what needed to be done. There were still many precautions to be made, safety measures and fortifications that needed to be double and triple checked. Threatening to exsanguinate was an easy way to lighten the mood, but her thoughts and the conversation drifted to Freyja and Amory’s heart broke all over again. 

“It’s difficult to give her space in a time like this, after what she’s lost,” admitted Amory sadly, distant and thoughtful as she stared blindly across the room into memories and grief. “Sometimes I forget that, by human standards, she is an adult. My reflex is to take her into my arms and never let her go, protect her from all the world as only a mother can. Rarely does it occur to me that she might not want that, or me. I cannot replace what was lost, none of us can.” 

A blink refocused her on the female on the other side of her desk. A wistful smile was aimed at Raven with the observation, “It’s good of you to respect her needs. Just be sure that she doesn’t stray far from home, okay? We’ll let her mourn however she needs, just so long as she is safe while she does so.”

Raven’s laugh plucked a smirk from the corner of Amory’s mouth. She regarded the dark haired beauty fondly while she spoke. Why had neither Arran nor Eva courted this rare female? Well, she knew why Arran hadn’t. But Eva? What a fine pair they would make, as well balanced as she and Hades, and objectively more beautiful, too. Gods, she just wanted her babies to be safe and happy, and loved. And Raven had so much love to give, the darling girl. 

“Haven’t we all,” replied Amory with a scoff. She leaned back into her throne of a desk chair and stared humorlessly up at the ceiling. Only for Raven’s next words to drag her gaze back down and onto the gorgeous female, who looked so lost and life-weary. Something twisted in her chest. 

She didn’t bother with removing her pump heeled feet from the desk she’d had them perched on. Amory disappeared from her chair in puff of black smoke and reappeared on the other side of her desk, leaning back against it with her hands on her thighs as she lowered herself to lock Raven’s gaze with her own. “You have done nothing wrong,” she said, stern and severe. “I have nearly a thousand years more life experience than you, Raven. Enough time to have learned how to be where I need to be, be who I need to be, and delegate the rest.” 

Amory cupped Raven’s cheek in her palm and thumbed over soft, supple skin. “I am not stronger than you, dearie. Just older.” A smirk twisted the corner of her mouth as she added, “Plus Hadrian is my better half, and leaves me with all the easy stuff.” She winked. It was a lie, of course. Hades was her better half, but the balance of burden was evenly distributed between them.

Leaning forward, Amory pressed a kiss to Raven’s brow and thumbed her cheek again before standing upright. Arms folded in front of her bust, and she crossed her legs at the ankles, still leaning back on her desk. “How about you and I go have ourselves a spot of fun?” A dark cloud had settled over the Blackdell Gates, and Amory could sorely use some fun to counteract the pain in her chest.

help wanted | r & a

[amorymordecai-blog]

niseecalderon‌:

Nisee smiled and gave a shrug. The truth was that her rosemary supply was in no danger, Herbs in particular responded to her, and the general cost of most of her arrangements was not… particularly small. Nisee was talented and loved her work, but she also knew its value and tended to charge appropriately. “As you wish,” Nisee agreed, not wanting to push the vampire who seemed so near to breaking. It also occurred to her that charity sometimes seemed insulting.

Nisee took the card and nodded. Delivery would likely take more than one trip, unless Madison was not otherwise occupied. She made a mental note to check with them later. “I generally oversee the deliveries so that the care of the flowers can be properly explained, but understand if you would prefer I not enter your sanctuary. I’m sure one of your gardeners would be capable. They should last a bit longer than the… typical arrangement.” 

It was true for most of the plants that grew in her greenhouses, and Nisee had never been quite sure how it worked. She didn’t expend any of her magic to keep the plants alive, but it was as though the ones that grew under her care were often hardier than their wilder cousins.

Nisee was oddly reassured by the vampire swearing vengeance, and she briefly wondered how everything had come to this. The more attacks, the more diverse the victim pool, the more she was certain it was something that did not originate in Roseville. Even those who didn’t care for the Accords were generally kept in check by them. So she just nodded at the woman, understanding in her eyes.

As she had when Arran had mentioned the loss of her family, Nisee stiffened. But she relaxed a little at the look on Amory’s face. Amory was a mother, different though it may be from her own experience, and it was no secret that the Mordecais were a close knit family. “That is very kind of you,” Nisee said honestly. At Amory’s next words, Nisee felt a sharp stab of sadness. “I think,” she said carefully, “that you may be stronger than you realize, Mrs. Mordecai.” She paused, then added, “I think we will need that strength in the coming days.”

It was not a matter of preference that kept Nisee from ever stepping foot on even the Estate’s well manicured front lawn. The fact was that the witch could not pass the gates, couldn’t so much as locate the road that turned into the driveway. All of the Estate, all of it’s acreage, was warded by Nisee’s very own High Priest, spelled so that only those sponsored by all five Elders would be permitted access to the grounds and the lavish manse at it’s heart. 

Amory did not dislike Nisee Calderon. Truthfully, she had a soft spot for the witch. Just not soft enough to invite her into her home. None outside of the GreyShadow Coven had that privilege, nor would they. Not now. Perhaps not ever, and Amory preferred it that way.

Just as she was about to offer Talisan’s assistance with delivering the flowers to The Manor, she caught the words and pulled them back. While it’d help the witch make the delivery in one trip she was not likely to welcome the help. As Amory had no interest in making the witch uncomfortable, not when she had already agreed to go to these additional lengths, she decided it best to leave well enough alone. Nisee would manage, as she always did. 

“That would be for the best,” she said instead, not sparing so much as a smile as she regarded the lovely woman before her. “Our groundskeeper should be more than capable in their maintenance. Thank you Ms. Calderon.” 

They walked together to the check out counter and Amory stood on the patron’s side of the desk, attention momentarily caught by an orchid as her thoughts wandered to the final preparations still to be made before Thalia could be laid to rest. A hard blink, which sent another tear from Amory’s lash down her cheek, and a shake of her head refocused her on the witch and their conversation. Steely resolve replaced bone marrow. Her blood burned with the violence of her determination. A couterblow would be made. As soon as they knew who against, they would avenge all of those lost to this unnamed evil. 

Nisee tensed at her words and the slight flinch didn’t go unnoticed. Simply unremarked upon. Amory understood the recoil, could imagine that mention of what and who she had lost was to pick at an open wound. If time had scabbed it over, words were sure to tear it wide all over again. But they needed to be said, as Amory could not recall if she had said them before. 

A small smile found its way onto her lips at Nisee’s comment at Amory’s own strength. She nodded in curt agreement then, unsure herself as to why she did it, Amory reached over the counter and placed a hand on top of Nisee’s. Fingers squeezed gently as she held the other woman’s gaze. “Should you need strength, Ms. Calderon, I offer you GreyShadow’s. Call and we will answer.” A final squeeze and she pulled her hand back, quiet smile fading from her lips.

Once a Monster | A&N

[amorymordecai-blog]

beautifullyxtainted‌:

Now Eva wasn’t exactly reserved when it came to saying what was on her mind, even with her parents, but she still wasn’t always sure she had said the right thing. She didn’t fear her mother at all but certainly knew when she had crossed the line on certain things. So she did watch Amory’s mannerisms and the way she held herself, wondering what she was going to say next. She was pretty sure if the Accords weren’t in place, her mother would have created holy hell by now–that was how Eva felt too, only she was letting it make her slightly reckless.

The youngest Mordecai wanted to march into each faction and cause chaos until somebody told her something that would benefit and solve the murders. Yet instead, she’d singled out one or two, even humans and made life difficult for them. She hated to admit it though but nobody was really any clearer on who was responsible. Yeah, the wolves were the only ones not to lose one of their own at the moment but when Eva was calmly thinking–and yes sometimes it was possible, she gave them enough credit to know that fingers would automatically be pointed at them. So if it was one of theirs, they must be completely stupid–so she didn’t think so. Maybe she was thinking what she would do. If she was going to commit murder she certainly would not bump off members from different factions, leaving her own untouched.

–probably why if given the choice and her own free rein she would stick to popping off one or two humans because they usually were the ones who pissed her off the most.

“Good….”

Eva pressed her lips together and replied quite simply after hearing heads would roll if it happened again.

“Because I hate the fact whoever…whatever it is..is not just killing, but also affecting how we damn well live. We shouldn’t have to live like that..not us!”

There was anger in her tone and a hint of disgust that anyone was able to change the way they lived because that was exactly what was happening right now.  Though immediately afterward, Eva let an expression filter through which showed she was concerned too.

“You know it’s not just because of that. I do care about who we have lost.”

Her line of vision dropped momentarily before looking back at her and a warmness covered Eva’s face. She welcomed the touch from her mother, eyes half closing as she cupped her face. It was something she would never tire of. The kiss to Eva’s brow made her smile gently.

“..and I love that you care so much. I just hate when you worry, that’s all.”

Amory’s arms around her, gave Eva all the security she ever needed and more. She’d never been short of her parents love whilst growing up and even now she always felt she could have it when she needed. To her they were perfect–even if some might think differently–but not dare say anything.

“Alright. Sorry. What I meant was please try and not worry, but I totally understand why you do and I promise I’ll do my best.”

Large blue hues focused on her mother, wondering if correcting herself would make Amory at least smile a little.

“I know, my love,” Amory replied, a sad smile playing softly at the corner of her mouth. “I know.”

She happened to agree with her daughter. Roseville’s vampires were too proud a people to be herded behind their tall walls, relying on warding magic for their safety. This was their town, their home. If any should walk these streets without fear it was them. And yet here they were, compliant to a threat and afraid of who it might take next. It wasn’t their way, and Amory herself loathed that they had allowed themselves to be subjugated by any entity, unknown or otherwise.

Anger had nod subsided with the days since Thalia’s murder. It was not likely to fade until her attacker’s head was posted on a pike in front of the Estate’s wrought iron gates. But Amory was beyond hysterics, past allowing irrational reaction navigate her next move. Always her touchstone, she could borrow some of her husband’s inherent stoicism and rely on logic and strategy to exact justice. The Coven would have its revenge, being smart about getting it would simply take time.

Patience was a learned skill that she and Eva would simply have to consciously practice. They would hone their rage with a whetstone until the time finally came to retaliate. Who knows, perhaps revenge would even be sweeter with time.

The sad smile on Amory’s expression turned understanding at Eva’s words. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes, tucking the soft strands behind her ear as she searched her daughter’s too beautiful face. “I know you care, my tiny dancer. You care so much it scares you. It always has, sweet girl, ever since you were a babe on my hip. You feel so deeply you fear there is no bottom to it.” The corner of Amory’s lips curled and she brushed her knuckles on Eva’s smooth cheek in gentle caress. “Easier to pretend you feel nothing at all than to wade the vast ocean roiling under the surface.”

That was what happened when two personalities such as she and Hadrian were joined. Amory was volatile and reactive, a churning volcano always capable of eruption. Hadrian was the deadly frigid calm of the arctic, all icy winds and soul-devouring permafrost. Their temperaments combined was no easy thing to manage. It was understandable why Eva would choose dispassion. In these troubled times there was such thing as feeling too much. Amory knew, and she’d never fault her daughter for that choice.

She held her daughter’s face in her hands and brought her brow forward for a kiss. Unwilling to leave her affection at that, she gave the girl two more; one to each cheek before pulling her into a tight embrace. “Then endeavour to give me fewer reasons to worry, won’t you?” Amory pulled back to catch her daughter’s gaze when she answered, wanting Eva to look her in the eyes as she did so.

A warm simper met her apology. “Your best is all I ask for, sweetheart. And for you to be conscientious of what you mean to your family and your coven. Be safe, if not for your own sake then for ours.” Her smile broadened with the love she had for the stunning female before her. Again Amory fussed over her daughter’s hair, smiling softly to herself as she did so, and murmuring, “Come now. It’s time for us to go home. Then we can vent some of these frustrations with some swordplay. What do you say?”

Best Served Cold | A&E

[amorymordecai-blog]

@freyjaxbeaumont

                            yes, it  h u r t s  

                 you fear you will come apart 

                           with the pain of it 

                                         but, darling, you are a star

                                    and stars were made to  BURN                            so, blaze.    blaze until the whole sky glows                                                  you will not break                      this is not your destruction… this is your becoming

[amorymordecai-blog]

@arranmordecai @beautifullyxtainted

                                                    you are loved

                                   you are loved more than you know.

                             i hereby pledge all of my days to prove it so.