#thread: jarviinen001

[13thwitch]

@jarviinen said: ❝ you don’t trust me? ❞

It's almost laughable. Rowan chokes back a giggle that's bordering on hysterical, bright eyes shining, and she presses her hands against her thighs under the table, trying desperately to keep her composure, or whatever's left to it.

"I don't know you," she points out, a little desperately. "And trusting people hasn't exactly helped me this far." It's the understatement of the century, truth be told. "Trusting the Talamasca hasn't helped me this far." Not Ciprien. Trusting Ciprien was the best thing she could have done. Trusting Ciprien has kept her last hope that there's good in the world intact, a delicate gossamer thread that would snap if not for him.

But the rest of the Talamasca? Rowan clears her throat, tries not to think too much about it. (She knows everything that Lasher knows. She knows that there are those within the organization who have helped bring about his rebirth. Friends of Lasher. Friends of Cortland.) At the thought of Lasher, her eyes flicker towards the baby monitor on the kitchen counter, and she listens with bated breath for any sounds that the child has woken up.

Nothing. Thank god. She doesn't know how to explain it: that she hates the child more than she's ever hated anything, that she knows that Lasher is in there, but he's so small, so helpless, that hating him feels worse than trusting him ever did.

"I'm not handing him over." They think it's because she wants to keep him for herself; it's simply that she can't trust anyone there to do what needs to be done. Truth is, she's not sure she can trust herself to do what needs to be done. (Sometimes, to try and make herself feel angrier than sad, she thinks about the baby that might have been. She thinks about how he's robbed her of the chance to be a mother in a way she chose. She thinks about that fucking tomb.) "And if Cip couldn't convince me, I'm sorry, but I don't know why you think you could. So unless you have something new to add to the conversation, you're welcome to stay for a cup of coffee and a chat, but you aren't going to get a new answer."

[softersinned-arc]

@jarviinen / plotted starter.

She has learned to live with certain rules. Place selenite wands over the doorways, front and back, and the crystals at the corner of each window frame, at the top so the cats can't reach them. Rosemary on the windowsill in the kitchen, even though she rarely cooks with it. Lots of garlic planted out back, much more than she'd need. Iron nails and salt lining the perimeter of the small square of land where she buried their bones, consecrated for her own use. Offerings to the goddess; offerings to the patron; offerings to the dead. Do not ask Satu where she goes when she leaves. Do not ask Satu where she's been when she returns.

There are some things that Astoria simply does not need to know. There are some things she is, really and truly, better off never knowing. She knows just enough: Satu's work is important, important enough that she'll leave sometimes with little warning, and come back hours, days, weeks later without an explanation. For all of Astoria's willingness to let her lover have her secrets, she wonders, sometimes, if she's doing something foolish by allowing this.

(Not that she thinks she allows Satu anything, of course—Satu has never needed Astoria's permission for anything—but she is uncommonly cooperative despite her curiosity, perhaps because of the bone-deep dread that comes with it.)

Another rule: there are certain places to avoid. Dublin and Boston both belong to the Donnellys (or it did, before Astoria declawed them). Salem once, and now Madison, to the Bishops. New Orleans to the Mayfairs. She'll take her chances with the vampires of the world before she'll cross the witches again.

Still. Still. There are few people In this world who could entice her to break those rules, adopted for her own safety and peace of mind, and one of those rare souls is sitting across from her now. "It's a tempting invitation." Her lips, painted their customary red, curl up in a slow, wicked smile, and she gently cups her hand beneath Satu's jaw, tipping her head up. Tempting in no small part because she's petty, and she wants the Donnellys to see that she's thriving with their power. Tempting more so because Satu never tells her where she's going. "But are you sure you want me there?"