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Quiet satisfaction crept into her smile. The sudden shift in Julio's expression and tone almost made her feel guilty - almost. When it came down to it, Chel was happy she could still elicit some kind of awe, whether derived from reverence or fear. "Relax, I'm not here to smite you. I interrupted your peaceful moment, I get that. You probably don't get many of those on this miserable rock." If she had to guess, police officer. Or detective. Something that required a hard stare and a stiff lip.

“...it’s just...” What could he say, honestly? That she was far from home? So was he. That she seemed...not like how the stories described her? She didn’t need or want to hear that. If she maintained any of her original power, chances were, she wouldn’t hesitate to knock him back a few paces, either. He remained still and mulled over what to say, squinting a little.

“...No, I don’t, but...” he shrugged slightly, taking another sip of his drink. “That don’t mean...I mean--shit. Shoot?” Could he swear in front of her? What the fuck were the rules? “...Sorry, but like--” he shrugged, still staring - and trying not to, all at the same time. “You’re...a goddess, right?”

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If only she were so lucky, to still claim blood relatives all over the globe. No, Chel stood as a remnant of a distant history, determined to survive the passing of time, holding on with every whisper of her true name. "It was my home, too. Lived all over, went wherever they called for me." His query drew a chuckle. "A leave of absence. The name Tlazolteotl's been overshadowed by La Virgen and each of the saints for some time, now." A gloved hand raised her to-go cup to him. "Call me Chel."

“....Who called for you?” Sudden wariness pricked at him. Was she a demon? That’s usually the kind of person who got called places - at least, on an Isle like this. It seemed highly unlikely she was some kind of nurse on call or a flight attendant or something. It was also none of his business.

His blood ran cold, however - colder than the air outside, which, really, wasn’t that harsh, Julio, like most phoenixes, was just a Big Baby when it came to wintry weather. Tlazolteotl was a name he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with, and he realized, no, not a demon.

Something much, much worse.

Slowly, he reached out to take the offered hand - thinking it unwise to disrespect her now. And he regretted every stupid word he’d said thus far besides.

“...Sandoval,” he offered, shivering from something other than cold. “Julio Sandoval your uh. Eminence...”

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"The accent. It's never easy to place with just a few words, but I know the Americas well enough to pin one down." Chel explained, ignoring his previous statement with a small sliver of a smile and a quirked brow; her prideful inclination towards swift divine warnings waned with a gust of wind. The cold seemed punishment enough. "Though, if we'd met before, I'd remember you. I don't forget faces very often, which can be lucky or unfortunate, depending on who you ask. How'd you end up here?"

“...Thought I’d done a decent job’a hiding it.” Grimacing, he brought the drink back up to his lips and huddled more in his layers again. Dark eyes scanned the road in front of him, mulling over Chel’s voice in her head. Come to think of it, she sounded not unlike some of his relatives, too - maybe she was some kind of cousin. Who knows. He knew at least that he had whole flocks of them scattered across the globe.

His father made a point of bragging about that quite often, after all.

“...Sheer dumb luck or that smart mouth you mentioned,” he groused faintly, shrugging his coat higher up onto his shoulders. “What brought you here, other than your apparent desire to talk to strangers?” At this his lips curved, ever so slightly.

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Unfazed by his half-hidden glare, the Aztec goddess smiled to herself. "I'd hope not. Smart-mouthed grandchildren were never my favorite." Dark eyes stared down at her drink, then looked up at her grey surroundings. She missed it, sometimes. Mexico. But it certainly didn't miss her. Chel only visited when she was wanted, and well, she was still on the isle. Self-imposed exile, in a way. She turned then, and studied him quietly. "Mexico?" A guess, based on what little she heard of his accent.

Sipping his drink and allowing the cold to sting his nose ever so briefly, Julio huddled up in his many layers a bit more, scowling at the hustle of the street he was on. Even during the colder months, Normandy was still a thriving community - especially with the approach of the holidays with all the artists and craftsmen around. “Who’s smart-mouthed? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, girl.” 

Huffing faintly, Julio glanced at Chel again and cocked his head to one side, wondering why she seemed - slightly familiar, maybe. “How’d you guess? You seen this mug before?” He flashed her what could’ve been a grin but really landed more on a grimace.

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Summer had come and gone, yielding to autumn's changing leaves and bitter chill. Residents traded in shorts for thick scarves and warm coats, cold lemonade for hot chocolate. Despite her preference for warmer climates, Chel couldn't deny herself the near comical array of seasonal drinks coffee shop menus had to offer. Peppermint mocha in hand, she sat down on the far end of a park bench, casting a sidelong glance at a shivering phoenix. "If you hate the cold so much, you should be indoors."

Julio had just been trying to find a means to an end - a day off and time to spend with himself. He was homesick, especially this time of year - when he should be back in Mexico, or at the very least, L.A. Miserable and sniffly, he instead was stuck on this raw, damp rock for the next conceivable future. It felt less and less like a job every day, and more and more like a prison sentence.

Wrapped around his Americano and trying to imbibe as much of the hot liquid as possible before it cooled, Julio jolted a little at the address and shot the woman to his immediate left a considerable scowl. Luckily, said expression was mostly obscured by a tartan scarf - one of two, the other a plain off-white thing that’d clearly seen better days.

“I’m sorry, you suddenly my abuela with a leg job, mami?” He was in no mood to have his only day off hijacked by rude, weird, or otherwise.

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change(ling) of the seasons;

When describing wine, people had a tendency to overdo it. Their handfuls of flowery writing – talking about “notes of chocolate”, “hints of citrus”, “aged oak”, or “undercurrents of currant” – “undercurrants”, if you will – were of little use to the poet-god, who sat in stewing silence, savoring a cabernet in the moonlight. His eyes glowing in the dark; Angus surveyed the pre-Samhain veil that barely fluttered between their world and the next. He straddled it without moving or obvious fracture – sitting on his throne of fraying hazelwood, the fence meant to keep out things such as he too broken to manifest its power fully. Besides; the hazel had always been one of his boughs, and the rowan, and the ash. He was a god of the wilds as much as he was that of the written word – a threat in the form of flourishes; each punctuated mark a bullet for his gun. He could spear a man with a simple emphasis on “death”, and he was more than willing to gouge out the eyes of the unsuspecting with a particularly lurid turn of phrase.

              No, Oengus was not here to make merry this evening, but rather, to sip the efforts of the dusty earth and ponder what was to come.

              “T’e season fer blackberries has passed.” The vaguely-dejected tone caught him off-guard, but Angus did little to let it show. He instead took another sip of the musty fermentation; let the rot of grapes and naturally oxidized chemicals seep into his silvery tongue. Jackie, her bare feet swinging in the dark, surveyed the veil alongside him. Starlight gathering in her downy hair, she fixed the poet-god with a knowing look and cocked her head at an odd angle. On anyone else, it might’ve been unsettling. On Jackie, it was downright hair-raising. Angus took in another sip of wine before he offered her the clay bottle in turn.

              “It will come again,” he suggested mildly. Jackie made a noncommittal noise of pseudo-agreement and clenched the bottle in her bony hands. It took her a moment to remember her shape and, rather than slip into a long-beaked form that sought the liquor as she normally might, she attempted to drink it as a warm-blooded being. What she lacked in poise she made up for in enthusiasm. When Angus found the bottle passed back to him, he found it lighter and more stained. Jackie smacked her lips and warbled faintly; a pleased coo in the back of a throat made for the consumption of mealworms and seeds.

              “We’re due a difficult Winter,” said the poet and the deity, bright gaze fixing itself on the fluttering whisper of fabricated delineation that was the Veil once more. Jackie, picking at her teeth with an iron-hued nail, looked between the wanderer and his wandering eye. No sound escaped the division of worlds but the faint rustling of things; like animals in leaves. It could’ve just been the woods and fields beyond what only they and few others could see, but each of them knew better. Jackie took a moment to digest wine and thought.

              “Aye, we are,” she said finally, and adjusted her perch on the fence. Will-o-wisps had come out to lure amongst the barley and the bogs. The nameless marshes moaned and gurgled; muck and mud settling with the beasts that wallowed in the depths, drowning unsuspecting passersby in feelings of unease – drenching them with sweat, till they slipped and disappeared into maws of silt and peat. Everything stank of wet, fertile earth and the slow deterioration of things to gestate underground for the Winter. The calendar of Courts had begun to shift; and Angus felt himself upon the wheel; his body stretched across the expectations of various parties. But he wasn’t tied to any one thing; not anymore.

              Save the person they were watching hover around the veil like a tourist at a piece in the Louvre – or a man about to jump from a bridge. Mossy was pacing widdershins around the thin curtain, unable to quite grasp it but able to feel the warmth and violence radiating out from under its gossamer flow. His face streaked with dirt and creased with agony, the changeling pawed aimlessly at the dirt and dragged himself on his knees.

              “T’is is a troubling time o’year fer some,” noted Angus, unmoved for a moment in body, but not entirely in soul – were one to believe any creature from beyond the Veil could possess one, that is. Jackie made a faint coo of acquiescence and dragged her talons absently across the peeling wood upon which she and the deity sat. Angus set his clay container of wine on the ground, spilling a little to give thanks, and drew himself down off the stakes. His bare feet found the tilled earth, bog hay, and blood where something had given itself back to the Mother in sacrifice as he padded his way toward Mossy.

              Through the Veil, the changeling could see the approaching figure as he ought to have been – but even without the influence of such a fracture in reality, Oengus always appeared True to Mossy. A tall figure crowned with leaves, flashing eyes and splashes of words writhing across his skin. He was wound in his writing; bound to his word. A fey god, but a god nonetheless; however primordial or bilateral he might’ve been – a double-edged sword made vague semblance of man, cutting through the darkness and the heat to offer Mossy a hand.

              “Arise now and come,” Angus said to him softly. Jackie had joined him, her watchful eyes boring beetle-black and contemplative through the thinning shroud. Mossy, sweat beading his brow, remembered to ungrip the handful of soil he’d wound his fingers around to wipe it on his fraying shirt before placing his fingers in his god’s. Angus paid no heed to supposed filth – man or silt or otherwise. He simply pulled Mossy up till they were on level; as level as a crouching giant and a resolute [if somewhat shorter] being of great insurmountable power could be. The Veil whispered and swayed, catching light from wisps. Jackie caught one and popped it in her mouth with surprising swiftness. Angus’s eyes never left Mossy’s once he finally ensnared his gaze.

              “We know what ye need.”

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mindshadow

“My ability to self-report is about all I have going for me,” Frankie had almost-quipped at Cavan when last they spoke. Scout had found him balancing weights and forty five minutes into a conditioning circuit of some kind - and has commented on it, wryly pointing out that Frankie hadn’t been ordered to do that. “Morning routine; focus - If I lose that, I’m as bad as any of you.” Far from being offended, Cavan had nearly laughed. If only because Frankie remained as stupidly stubborn as ever. But there were no weights now. No morning. And certainly no laughter. 

Blood dripped, slow and untroubled, running a red rain down a face set in a menacing snarl. Thunder boomed, or possibly moaned. Chains in the form of lightning thrashed across the sky, rattling the branches of the black woods that provided the backdrop against which the violence was a tableaux. Breath, heavy and sharp, threw itself on the mercy of the air. Tight fists clenched and trembling, were drenched and split. Animal blood and human. A chrysalis of sweat finally broke, and, rolling, drew the blood down toward the unmoved earth. Rain began to congeal on the leaves overhead, the canopy bowing to submit itself to the air. A hurricane of hate had produced debris and discord; a destructive carcass of malice manifesting in the woods. Frozen for a moment, the hunter with a howl in his eyes finally threw his entire body back and up, a reared serpent subjecting itself to the sky above. His scream was a living thing, eating the wind. It was almost immediately culled by a dirty hand closing over his maw. “Be quiet,” rasped Cavan, dark-lined eyes darting about the boughs and thickets. The remains of the kill on the forest floor were pulp, squelching under cloth boots. Frankie’s teeth sank into the Scout’s fingers and Cavan barely reacted, other than to apply pressure to the hinges of Frankie’s jaw. The lithe soldier snapped anew, legs swinging up to grapple with Cavan’s arm. He hung briefly suspended, attempting to throw them both into a roll. Cavan regained his balance and Frankie unlatched, twisting out of Cavan’s grip and going for his knife on the desecrated ground. Cavan kicked it away and in the process caught Frankie with his toe. There was no glimmer of recognition in the hinter’s eye, only a blank hollow that swallowed all cognizance. Were he more human, Cavan might have been unnerved. “You need to get it together,” he suggested sharply. Frankie jerked a little as if the words had registered, eyes ticking away to something Cavan couldn’t see. Slowly he turned, this time - and wary, Cavan watched. “If you let him see-” Cavan stopped, momentarily baffled as Frankie picked up one of the dead animals - a fawn - and cradled it in his arms. “…he’s going to have questions.” “Call the aerial unit,” Frankie rasped. Cavan stared at him. “What, like a sylph, or…” Frankie began to slowly walk past the Scout, still holding the demolished deer. “We gotta bring Gary home,” the hunter said. Cavan looked down at the deer, freshly perplexed. “Who’s…” “He’s dead.” Frankie took two steps and sat, the deer clutched to his chest. Blank, dark eyes registered none of the early evening light, nor the fires in the distance. Something in the rain let out a mournful sound. “Yeah, you killed him, buddy,” Cavan pointed out, crossing his arms and leaning on a nearby elm. Watching. Biding. Keeping one eye out for Sig. “…I know,” Frankie said distantly. But there was something different in the tone this time. Younger. Cavan followed a movement to find Frankie slowly burying his face in the deer’s dank fur. “She was my aunt.” “I’m aware,” he said, a few moments later, and then didn’t speak again for several hours. When he raised his head, he got up. Brushed by Cavan. Got his knife. Skinned the deer and began to pare the meat from its bones. Scout didn’t press the issue, but logged it away for later. Humans were too complicated by far, and it wouldn’t do to have those complications picked apart by curious parties. Especially those who took things apart for a living as a law of the land. Simple as a flood to purge the earth or a fire to raize the forest. Cavan didn’t think Frankie needed a natural disaster. He was just worried about a mutual one they knew.

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but for you it would never be such salvation.

The ghosts are loud tonight.

Schmendrik stands surveying candles and lesson plans, his back to the magnificent windows of his house's private study. Moonlight streamed in; through the gossamer curtains and sepia, stained figures only he could see. Could feel; gaseous hands curling into the folds of his clothes, cold lips pressing whispers of hate to his ears. There is nothing he can do. Given the state of the world, it's all he can do to hold o to the desk and shut his eyes. To allow them to grieve and rend his hair and shirt, tearing at both with their spindly fingers. Warped mouths twist and moan, abyssal hurricanes of icy regret. Should've fought harder, murmured one. Why us? Hissed another. Schmendrik swallows, twisting in their grip.

“What can I do?” He asks the wraiths. Their tattered figures dissipate and writhe; forming smoky symbols on the air. Words inscribed in their faces; etched with fury and lined with pain. Old men; children, young women, countless others who stretch for miles beyond what he can physically see before him. A little girl takes his hand with an icy squeeze and Schmendrik feels her last breath as if it is his own. Tears prickle; bloody and raw at the edges of his eyes. She points, but at what, he does not see.

“What can I do?” He repeats himself desperately. A teenager stumbles toward him silently, limping. His face is a mishmash of scratches; as if someone had tried to blot his existence out of photographs. His head jerks to the side and his arms lift, motioning that same, defiant gesture that implies action. Yentl’s face shifts to an expression of despair. No voices are consistent enough for words; but all are loud – clamoring, gongs and groans, cymbals and song. They are mourning.

“I’ll go home,” he promises weakly, sinking down behind his desk. Perhaps that is what they want. Back to America. To stop what he can. To do what he can. The ghosts fall in as a cascade, silvery and soft. Their pressure builds across his shoulders, each tightening their grip. He feels the energy in the room change as the noises increase. The walls are shaking. The lights are brightening; then dimming – a pulse; the only pulse a ghost can have. The choir of wandering apparitions howls.

“I’ll go,” Schmendrik manages to say, trying to lift his head. It is pushed into the desk and his hands are drawn behind his back. The poltergeists keep him hostage. One stoops low to press her lips to his ear again, and finally, he discerns words for human ears,

“Do not let this happen again,” it says.

When he opens his mouth to respond, he finds he has no voice – his study is plunged into blackness and he wakes from a nightmare; stricken and sick.

Around him, the walls feel very small.

And all is far too silent. - I don't deserve to speak the name of G-D. Being who and what I am, I have revoked my right to approach the word of the Lord aloud.

No one would guess a man with the name of Etienne J. Murray to be who he is – a formerly Jewish, formerly human, formerly prospector of gold who likes the occasional whiskey and singing session. Liked. Well. Likes. I can still (somewhat) enjoy whiskey, at any rate. Gold and humanity are behind me, of course, but some things cling on – while I don’t always sing, I can (sort of), and Judaism is too deeply rooted in me to ignore.

But I’m getting off-topic. I can feel it. Shockingly I’m not much of a talker, but here we are. You did ask.

You asked me how I feel about my faith. Well. Given the recent difficulty of things, it’s hard. It’s hard for me personally because I’m so estranged from, you know, religion and all of that I don’t even know if I have a say. ‘You feel me’; as Chad would say? You don’t know Chad. That’s fine. Nobody needs to know Chad.

Anyway.

I’m pissed. Quietly; deeply pissed. I’ve made it my sole focus to go after assholes and take care of my own that way. Not so much avenging angel as I am Very Hungry Hippo with a lotta smaller hippos to feed, though – you haven’t committed any crimes, though, right? You’re just a reporter. Fuck it, I’m fucking with you. Don’t look so stressed. One wrong word and I’m afraid you’re gonna snap, twigs.

It’s so easy to hate. It’s lazy. It’s uncouth. I spent four fucking years following the Yukon gold rush to the end you see before you – four miserable, damp, bloody years panning for nothing. For shit. I traded blows with so-called men of faith over their treatment of Algonquins and black folks – doesn’t make me a good ally. I could’ve done more. It was the 19th fucking century; sure, but I’m still angry at myself for not doing more. But greed owned me more than the G-D I kept praying to, somehow. The off prayer of “fuck don’t let me fall down this big hole” that I finally forgot to ask the day…it happened.

Doesn’t make me hate G-D though.

I don’t hate much, anymore. I used to be full of it. Greed and hate. Now it’s just gluttony; hunger. Endless. I had to have something else to fill the hole when…arguably, I shoulda died down there in the mines. Or, I shoulda had faith somebody would find me. Or faith in G-D or whatever.

But there again, faith only gets you so far – hard work and determination; standing up for yourself and your beliefs? That’s something else altogether. Faith will back that, I think.

So I have faith in my methods now. G-D might not support everything I do, but I don’t even know if I’m fully His anymore.

And I’ll keep removing scum from the bottom of the fucking pond up if it means there’s a little less garbage in the world G-D did (or didn’t) make.

-        E.J. Murray as interviewed by Dusek Reznik

- He turned off the news and sat motionless in his chair, staring into the dark space where the living room sat vacant and bare.

 In this cool, quiet void, Byron knew he existed, and for a moment, everything felt…safe.

 It crashed upon him with a suddenness; a wave that swept beneath him and carried him away into the hushed nothing – a gap where God ought to have been; perhaps, were he still worthy of faith and acceptance and acknowledgment. He had lived the past several years as a shell of a person – only now coming back to things such as a personality, a future, and a voice – none of which he still believed he fully deserved.

 Upstairs, Kegan slept, unbothered by most things save the absence of Byron beside him – Byron; an insomniac and a restless spirit by nature, had taken the liberty of looking up global news to follow just in case someone, say, exposed supernaturals or threatened to invade the supposed “safe-haven” they all inhabited (albeit just how ‘safe’ that haven was still remained to be seen).

 In doing so, Byron had witnessed not any preternatural destruction or threat of war between species, but rather, a war between humans that was not so much blossoming as it was reigniting. The torches and pitchforks were reminiscent of ancient days; better-covered and more widely-distributed. The hatred spread with diseased intent; an inflammation that fanned over the globe and sought to burn alive any who dared try to put it out.

 When he’d stopped shivering long enough to come back to himself and remember who and where he was, Byron swallowed the barbs and needles in his throat that came from outright terror – and, shutting his eyes, tried to find something in the dark. He groped blankly for a handhold or a foothold in the bleak absence of light – numbly shuffling forward in his mind to seek what made him; him. Who he was, what he was, and where, why, how – what could he do? Helplessness was another wave that broke upon him and left Byron in an ice-cold sweat.

For the first time since his turning, Byron Jones sat down, faced the east, and began to pray.

 -

I stumbled into faith the way a blind man finds an oasis in the desert – sheer luck, or misfortune, depending on whether he drinks or drowns.

My cross was the one I wore to burn my fears away – a pair of Gucci sunglasses to deflect the light and a boatload of sunblock to hold me closer than moss to the gravestones of my predecessors. Though I rose up from blood; I was not a savior – though I came from a war, I was not a soldier.

I was, for all intents and purposes, not someone you’d expect to care about the comings and goings of all things religious.

Neon churches on a Nevada strip that was bare in more ways than one I called my covenant. My congregation was the unfortunate; sex workers, tourists, violent criminals, hustlers, bouncers, semi-automatic-toting gangsters. I was in the midst of a den of thieves and miscreants; loving every ounce of it. Blood money; sweat money, tears weren’t allowed – I thrived in the leather backseats of cars so expensive they’d drain the bank accounts of Dubai and the Swiss alike.

I was…who I was. I still am.

I find myself surrounded, nowadays, by these people – agents of chaos (or Khaos) all; supplementing success for fame and empty promises.

And then faith found me a home in a kosher deli where the old man working there didn’t mind giving me buckets of the blood he drained from paring animals. He didn’t speak English; so I learned Hebrew. He didn’t want to talk, I sat in silence with him. We watched the news together and eventually, he began to open up.

His name was Aaron; he was a Jew from Utah who’d wandered down to Nevada on a pilgrimage after his wife had passed away. He thought he could do some good here; provide people with something genuine and well-meant. Well-made, too, as he did all the work himself and refused to ask for help. I could respect that about him, being much the same way.

He taught me, slowly and roughly, about the faith, and I was fascinated. Imagine; me, a vampire, meandering into Judaism. It’s not bad though. It’s not necessarily good, and I don’t recommend it on a daily basis (because…ow), but. It’s something real. Something I could sink metaphorical teeth into and feel the pulse of without the fear of draining it dry.

Faith was a well.

Faith was an oasis in the desert.

And when Aaron died; because he would not let me turn him, I mourned in the way he would’ve wanted.

And I keep his faith alive some forty years later.

The Star somehow doesn’t burn the way a neon cross does.

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Jamal (in b&w)

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Japan, 1984.

"There won't be a third time," his brother warned him. Hermes, still brokenly trying to claw his way into a bomber jacket three times his size, didn't answer. But he clocked what Apollo meant, through the heroin had and incense clogging the room. The first time Hermes surrendered his immortality, it was for a slave boy in Syracuse who found his face on a temple wall and kissed it, begging for freedom. A war criminal, allegedly, hadn't a hope of release in any form. He would work until he was dead, and that was the mortal world. Hermes retrieved him from darkness without his caduceus and raised him to walk on green fields to envy Elysium. His repayment was a destruction of his temples, and a laying to waste of his offerings by a man who boasted of fooling the gods. Hermes had wandered, a broken amnesiac who was nothing without his worship. Afraid and reduced to a shell of his former self, Apollo found his brother crouched in a cavern in Crete, screaming hoarsely in their ancient tongue of love lost and betrayal's sting. Until Apollo, all Hermes could remember were the eyes of his betrayer, and the scars he left oh his skin with mockeries of burnt offerings and thrown stones from demolished places of worship. Of love. Apollo filled him once more with the flaming power of the gods, and the younger, more naive God became just a bit bitterer. It didn't stop the second time from happening, though. He locked eyes with his brother in the crooked mirror. It was 1984, a decade after the second disaster and two or so before he'd meet Rowan of Only One Name. In the tense electricity of the room, Apollo silently judged him, a figure of black, white, copper, and gold - surveying one of tin, rust, neon, and garbage. The myriad of colors smeared across Hermes' form suggested joy but inferred worse. Nagasaki had been unkind. Most cities were, especially in this particular decade. It had taken Apollo almost four years to find him again. "If you came to berate me-" Hermes was cut off as Apollo raised a hand, the gesture eerily similar to the one he used to conduct his power. Dark fingers curled and the sun god sighed, clove smoke blowing into tepid air. "I came to remind you. To warn you. To not love again." His voice hardened with warning on the final words. Hermes scoffed, then coughed, rummaging around in the costume trunks nearby - the old stage was his hiding place, his life a comedy of errors. It seemed only fitting. Dionysus would've been proud. Or laughed. More likely the latter. 

“Who the fuck are you to tell me about love? Your idea of love is to chase girls till they turn into monsters and to love men until they burn or bleed out.” The words were venomous, but spoken lowly. Apollo cocked his head with a vague hint of warning, and Hermes instead focused on finding something in the backstage drawers once more.

The stage also reminded him of her. His dancer. The second coming; as it were - how he had tried to breathe life into cells corroded by cancer and caught hell for it instead. How he had to watch her waste away, how he gave whatever he could to her who made him feel alive again. How she wanted freedom; too, and he, a thief to his porcelain bones, tried to steal it for her. Even if it meant freedom from her own mangled and decaying body. He'd give her that, give her all, and still he was not enough. Apollo found him curled on her grave still wet with fresh earth, howling drunk and shuddering apart. The sky had opened and lightning struck, and Hermes was himself again - but worse. And here they now stood, watching one another in a mirror, each thinking he was in the right. Or more likely, one right, and the other bluffing. So were the chess matches between the gods. And, as always, between the brothers. "You can't just throw your immortality around like a fucking boomerang, man, because I'm sick of fetching it back for you," Apollo said abruptly. Black eyes burned in the dark, filled with sparking scorn as Apollo spoke again. "That ain't my job, and neither are you." There was a beat, then, more urgently, Apollo said, "I can't keep aiding in your gods-damned self-destruction, Hermes. I won't do it." "I got it," snapped Hermes, temper rising as he finally wrenched the jacket into place over his bony shoulders. "Where the fuck're my sandals?" Apollo raised his eyebrows, then Laughed. A soft, ugly sound. Three syllables worth. Hermes froze in front of the mirror, glancing back at his brother with doubt in his eyes. Apollo's smile was cruel as the midday desert sun. "How fucked up were you that you don't remember?" Hermes' stomach dropped to his shoes. Apollo shrugged with his brows and tapped his cigarette, getting to his feet. Golden brown skin shimmered with power as he adjusted his cuff links, each a golden wink in the gloom. "Apollo, please." Hermes' sharp tone faded away to almost nothing. Apollo looked at him with a blank face, eyes flickering over the thin frame and stuck-out bones defiantly trying to make an exit from paper thin skin. The cigarette found his lips again, and the smoke found Hermes' eyes. "Pathetic," breathed Apollo. When the smog cleared, he had vanished, leaving his half sibling behind in his ruin. He was true to his word. Mostly. When Hermes fell in love a third time, Apollo came back - If only to watch the inevitable unfolding of the play, and one last curtain fall.

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“..You’re good at a great deal m-many things,” Talia pointed out, eyes turning up at the corners. Lir’s confidence was always shaken by the progress he’d made in the past - how he wasn’t as quick as Elof or as ferocious as Astrid, perhaps. He was constantly comparing himself to others, and Talia sought to help him shed that second, uncomfortable skin and come into his own. He deserved to feel worthy of who and what he was - especially when he continued to work hard and train. He was getting better, but not unlike herself, confidence would likely always be a nagging element of difficulty for the two of them. 

“I’ll just h-have to show up and ch-cheer you on next time,” Talia teased, lightly adjusting a lock of Lir’s golden hair with dainty fingers. “I a-also want to c-come to learn pointers, coincidentally...” Her lips quirked and she watched him break into mirth once more - his was the best laugh, really. It was a crackling fire well-kept by logs and light. It was warm and welcoming, and one of her favorite sounds.

Her eyes shifted across Lir’s face at his statements, studying with fresh calculation the lines of his face. He and his people were warriors - to stand still was not really in their nature. Not even Lir’s, even if he was, arguably, the softest of them all. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, nor did it make him weaker than the rest. If anything, it made him stronger - more likely to survive, perhaps, than some. “Do you think,” Talia asked slowly, turning a flower between her fingers, “s-something else is coming?”

A summary of Summer roses; TAG: Lir

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It felt like the years had been stripped away from him - that he had been decimated in a matter of moments, reduced to adolescence in vampire logistics once more. Proteus had been a Summer love; someone who was the Danny to his Sandy, albeit eons ago. It was lifetimes for most, even lifetimes for the undead. And while, for the most part, their outsides stayed the same, what went on within changed. They were the Dorian Grays of the world; frozen in time and rotting from within. Lorie seemed almost mad to keep his optimism for this long - and perhaps it was madness that sparked optimism in the wake of unwanted horrors like Carlo’s unending reign. Empires fell, but new ones rose. The syndicate and its crimes continued on in new forms; seeking architects and aids in every way to build monumental success. 

Lorie was meant to be a cog in that great machine, but instead, he sought to break it. Every gear Carlo constructed, Lorie shifted out of place. A temperamental, spoiled child to the last, even now, he felt like throwing himself on the ground and committing his emotions to a tantrum. Tantrums these days usually consisted of maxing credit cards and partying like a rockstar, but they were fewer and further between - thanks to people like Q, for example, who always managed to make him laugh instead of cry.

Lorie had done his fair share of crying despite his showmanship and his optimistic tendencies. He was tired of it - tired of crying, tired of mourning, tired of being used. 

He blinked and the shadows shifted, stealing to the back of his eyes, rather than the forefront. In a moment, he was shyly smiling again, offering Proteus the fond expression of someone who was genuinely happy to see him. It fooled most. He wondered if it’d pass for Proteus. 

“Yvan’s just protective,” Lorie breezed, waving a hand and shifting his basket on his other arm, smile lopsided and laugh lines crinkling back to life. “Nothing up my sleeve,” Lorie joked--then, feigning focus, reached up and pulled a card from midair - the Ace of Spades, which he turned to offer to Proteus. “But there is that.” 

He dropped back on his heels and waited a beat before responding, voice mild. “A couple years myself. Just trying to avoid daddy dearest.” The smile turned slightly sharper. “But we all have our reasons for bein’ here, I’d wager.”

Promise me a place in your house of memories; TAG: Proteus

ricorper-tow:

“…a few years?” It made sense, in a way. Such a vast space so contained could become a paradox of itself - an Escher sketch of intricate design. A hundred hunters could make a nest there, a dozen dark elements could rise from the shadows and into power without anyone noticing for quite some time. Why shouldn’t someone like Proteus be able to keep his head down and move on with life?

At the mention of Yvan, however, Lorie’s already-cold blood ran colder still.

There was something broken about Yvan’s loyalty - always had been. The aspects of how he’d been hired were shrouded in mystery, the elements of his employment even more so - he was a private man, and it only made sense that Yvan would’ve kept it from Lorenzo. This. Kept him from Lorenzo. 

“…He neglected to say.” Formality slipped over Lorie’s words; a balm. A political oil. He was a sword slipping back into its sheathe, the sharp edges still noted but the dangerous aspects obscured. Velvet occluded steel, suede dissuaded. Leather wrapped itself around him as he huddled in his coat ever so slightly. There was fire in his deep brown eyes now, filling the vacant spaces between shades with flickers of red. “Had he, I would’ve said hello sooner…” His teeth, sharpened in an act of instinct anew, pressed against his bottom lip briefly.

“…you’re not a bother,” never had been. “I’m just surprised.” 

“Yeah.” Shrugging under his jacket, Proteus rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “Just me,” he added with a flicker of a grin and a slight bounce on the balls of his feet. He wasn’t sure whether it made a difference or not. Obviously, it wasn’t true. Jami counted as far more than a roommate or friend. But he didn’t have the coven in tow. Hadn’t even talked to them in July, which seemed an impossible thought.

If that made a difference to Lorie, he didn’t know. But it was beginning to seem likely that it might mean something to Lorenzo Borgnino.

Maybe he had spoken too soon before. Because there was something there. Not a savageness, but perhaps. A brokenness. A corruption that came from being the playthings of those that saw themselves as Gods. He knew it. He had seen it in himself, in Darius, in Briseis, in Jami. He just never expected to see in in this set of brown eyes.

Momentary regret hit Proteus. He had known he was using the ‘wolf to his advantage when he had said it. Squaring his shoulders, he ignored it. He had enough problems, enough strays. “I should have asked… or presumed. You know Yvan,” he offered a weak smile. “He’s not very forthcoming with information.” His interactions with the ‘wolf had been limited, but he wasn’t hard to know. Anger and bitterness and a twisted loyalty that even Proteus couldn’t understand. He would bite the hand that fed him, and the hand that tried to free him. He was a wolf with a bloody maw, and that was the way he would stay.

Proteus wished him far away from Lorie.

He tried for a grin, sending the dark thoughts away.  “Usually, you’re the one that’s full of surprises.” And winced before the last syllable was past his teeth. Surprises like his lineage. Like his blood.

Still, it had seemed like an invitation to stay, so Proteus gave it one last attempt. “Have you been here long?” 

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Godfrey Gao photographed by Bert Sivakorn

[ricorper-tow-blog]

“Ah, so I sh-should’ve gone d-downwind,” Talia suggested, reaching out a finger to tap Lir softly on the nose. “I w-will learn. In t-time to be a subtle as a sigh.” Her lips quirked, trying in turn to reassure him as he reassured her. Her eyes shifted across the valravn’s face, studying each angle. He was such a sharply-featured young man, she noted. Someone so soft with such an angular face. Lir himself was a surprise. She just preferred both the wrapping and the gift, so to speak.

Her face filled with color as his fingers grazed her cheek--eyes dipping downward with a modest flick of gingery lashes, smiling briefly at the ground. A few digits plucked a poppy from the stack of flowers and moved to tap Lir on the nose with it, lower lip caught under her teeth to keep from laughing. Her gaze matched his again - she was getting better at that, she hoped - and she offered him a refreshed grin, shaking her head slightly. The poppy twirled between her fingers, pausing only when Lir chose to adorn her with a blossom instead. 

“Did you win?” She inquired, her voice quiet and intrigued. “Your sparring.”  She mirrored his gesture with the poppy, then, placing fiery orange-red against Autumnal gold. He was wheat and heat and song, and she admired him for all his sunshine. He never seemed to run out of it.

“I’m much better f-for seeing you likewise.” A pause, and then, softer, “enjoying the peace.”

A summary of Summer roses; TAG: Lir

[ricorper-tow-blog]

“...a few years?” It made sense, in a way. Such a vast space so contained could become a paradox of itself - an Escher sketch of intricate design. A hundred hunters could make a nest there, a dozen dark elements could rise from the shadows and into power without anyone noticing for quite some time. Why shouldn’t someone like Proteus be able to keep his head down and move on with life?

At the mention of Yvan, however, Lorie’s already-cold blood ran colder still.

There was something broken about Yvan’s loyalty - always had been. The aspects of how he’d been hired were shrouded in mystery, the elements of his employment even more so - he was a private man, and it only made sense that Yvan would’ve kept it from Lorenzo. This. Kept him from Lorenzo. 

“...He neglected to say.” Formality slipped over Lorie’s words; a balm. A political oil. He was a sword slipping back into its sheathe, the sharp edges still noted but the dangerous aspects obscured. Velvet occluded steel, suede dissuaded. Leather wrapped itself around him as he huddled in his coat ever so slightly. There was fire in his deep brown eyes now, filling the vacant spaces between shades with flickers of red. “Had he, I would’ve said hello sooner...” His teeth, sharpened in an act of instinct anew, pressed against his bottom lip briefly.

“...you’re not a bother,” never had been. “I’m just surprised.” 

Promise me a place in your house of memories; TAG: Proteus

ricorper-tow:

It was mortifying, but Lorie couldn’t think of anything more appropriate than pretending to blend in with the shelves of the All-Mart - 

In another life, he could’ve been suave. He could’ve been cocky and high-class; someone sophisticated and charming who never let anything affect him poorly. He was, in this fantasy, someone who could take a hit and keep on going. There was nobody and nothing to deter him, only a certain air of self-assurance and confidence that dissuaded all manner of discomfort. People parted like the sea before him, and he was left to swagger through the waves; untouched by salt.

Instead, this Lorenzo Borgnino was embarrassed to be so much as seen by someone he thought had vanished long ago - someone who, without a word, had up and disappeared at dawn, leaving him empty days void of starlight. He swallowed a bitter taste and shut his eyes, trying to will himself out of existence. He could’ve gone to mist, and normally, he would’ve - but perhaps the sheer panic of the moment rooted him to the spot instead. A poor excuse for an instinct, that.

As the plate was pushed from his face, Lorie’s eyes flashed open - hoping, somehow, it’d be a confused zombie attendant or a passerby who was simply looking for the proper picnic utensils. 

Instead, Lorie was greeted by eyes he last saw in his dreams, a face that would’ve put to shame the statues his father built. Empires fell for faces like that, and Lorie’s pathetic house of cards had come crumbling down.

“Proteus,” he tried, voice cracking only vaguely at the edges. “It’s see to nice you.” Fuck. “It’s nice to see you. Here. In this. Here.” His words trailed off lamely and he grimaced a little, slowly rising to his full (albeit unimpressive) height again.

Cornered by the past - or more aptly, he cornered himself with it. 

“It’s…been a while,” he tried, ever unsure. “It’s–yeah.” Words were hard.

Almost as hard as feelings.

Even after all this time, there was nothing in Lorie’s face that hinted at his lineage. No cruelty, no aristocratic savagery. Proteus saw more of that burning in Jami’s hazel eyes that he saw in Lorie’s entire hunched, hidden form. Not that he had ever seen it in him. Not when Lorie had been angry with him; or intoxicated; or when Lorie had been stretched out over him, moving in the darkness, teeth buried in his neck.

Whatever brutality swam in the Borgnino blood had skipped a generation.

As Lorie gave voice to his name, Proteus’s gaze dropped. There were so many ghosts here on this Isle, though most of them were tangible and some still had heartbeats. So many ghosts that had populated his past, that had broken his heart. Florescent lights shone on bags of blood in his basket, thin lines of neon white reflecting. It was all so futuristic, and somehow, it all tasted like past regrets.

At the linguistic fumble, his gaze darted back up. “It’s nice to see you too,” he murmured, voice little more than a whisper. The lights above them were humming. The background of paper plates and picnic supplies were melting away as Lorie’s face – unchanged, except perhaps a hint of tiredness – was all he could focus on.

Watching Lorie – his Lorie – stumble around him; seeing the pain… the shame in his eyes. Knowing he was the cause of it… That he had left a space in their sheets, not because he had fallen out of love but because he had fallen in love with a Borgnino… It was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Blinking them away, he glanced at the zombie attendant who was still mopping the floor. The blood soaked mop was doing little more but spreading the blood, a slow-moving whirlpool of scarlet.

“Lorie…” He looked back at him. Met his eyes and knew just how much he hadn’t fallen out of love. A Borgnino. He had fallen for Carlo Borgnino’s heir. He carefully withdrew his hand from the plate, from so close to Lorie’s cheek where it had rested so many times before. Tucking it back at his side, he shifted his weight as if he could ground himself on the tiles. “I’m sorry.”

[ricorper-tow-blog]

I am return!