( as a leader--or, more importantly, as the person abandoned in the aftermath of a mess that's been left behind, like a child that's just left all his toys tossed out along the floor, waiting for unsuspecting adults to stub their toes on blunt toy carriages or pierce their skin with the sharp points of molded dragon wings--there are always sacrifices to be made. decisions, choices, reluctant and grim resolutions. but for a city that's been drowning in its own blood for years, is there really anything left that can fix it at all?
she finds out too late, of course, that julian's taken that task onto his own shoulders--the way he takes everything, like his body is some perfectly imbalanced scale of good and evil and anything he can desperately dump into one side of it may erase the guilt that burdens the other. she doesn't have the time to figure it out herself, to find the answers before he's making his deal and sealing himself away with the heavy weight of silver chain and deep, deep red demise--she doesn't get to tell him that it's not his job to do it, that he's already given enough with his death and his help and his constant vigilance even in the face of all her own failure. and it makes her angry, in a way that feels unrelenting, a climbing frustration that builds and builds and builds until she's lashing out.
lucio won't be returning - that's the first task, the easier task, and the one that requires no thought at all. the anger is useful, there, potent and powerful, and it tarnishes her shine a little. she knows it makes her dirty, but it's hard to care.
seeking her own audience with the devil - this requires a little more finesse, and she doesn't say anything against the warnings that asra gives her because she knows that he's right. she can't fight the truth, but she also won't let herself succumb to it; as bad of an idea it is, as much as she knows he'll hate it, as much as it feels backhanded and strange to trade for a wealth of power for the life of someone else, she does it anyway.
and - as odd as it feels, when the anger breaks and the power surges and the strange blood beads and crawls down the skin of her hand like it might find its way underneath. the weight of a heart in her chest that isn't hers. the overwhelming dread of being no longer human. her penance to vesuvia, to her family, to asra, to portia, to muriel, even to him, and how's that for the biggest self-sacrifice, julian? are we even yet?
maybe it's been days, weeks, months, there's no way that she can really tell--the transformation is nearly immediate, anyway, and the realm is covered in some sunset hue that never really betrays any passing of time at all. the city is safe, and given that she won't be trying to merge this world into the other--as least for now--that means everything gets wrapped up nicely, right? and she knows that julian is here somewhere, cowering in some dark room behind locks that her hands should easily find the key to; she knows because the devil ran on about it, proud and pleased, before she put her fingers through his chest and wrenched out a still-beating heart. julian's chains are her chains, now. so why is she so reluctant to find him?
maybe it's why her fingers whisper over the door handle like it's going to burn her--golden tips, honed claws, and hands drenched in a blackness that seems to emanate from her so thoroughly that she thinks even chandra would hate her, were she to make it to this realm at all. she misses her company. she misses company.
but then, power is a delicious thing in and of itself...isn't it? )
Well.
( the door opens, finally, a frame of light that shines a sharp triangle out onto the floor of the room where julian, in his cowering, feathered form, has been locked for some time now. he probably expects some towering humanoid goat there, ready to taunt him and rip him to shreds again, pluck his feathers from his wings one by one or make a fist to tighten the invisible chains like another noose.
what he gets, instead, is nadia standing there in the black silk of her gown, a tumbling sunset of hair that wisps over her shoulders and plunges in at her hips, red eyes and sharp horns and the urge to scream at him for doing any of this at all. )
secret option number three
she finds out too late, of course, that julian's taken that task onto his own shoulders--the way he takes everything, like his body is some perfectly imbalanced scale of good and evil and anything he can desperately dump into one side of it may erase the guilt that burdens the other. she doesn't have the time to figure it out herself, to find the answers before he's making his deal and sealing himself away with the heavy weight of silver chain and deep, deep red demise--she doesn't get to tell him that it's not his job to do it, that he's already given enough with his death and his help and his constant vigilance even in the face of all her own failure. and it makes her angry, in a way that feels unrelenting, a climbing frustration that builds and builds and builds until she's lashing out.
lucio won't be returning - that's the first task, the easier task, and the one that requires no thought at all. the anger is useful, there, potent and powerful, and it tarnishes her shine a little. she knows it makes her dirty, but it's hard to care.
seeking her own audience with the devil - this requires a little more finesse, and she doesn't say anything against the warnings that asra gives her because she knows that he's right. she can't fight the truth, but she also won't let herself succumb to it; as bad of an idea it is, as much as she knows he'll hate it, as much as it feels backhanded and strange to trade for a wealth of power for the life of someone else, she does it anyway.
and - as odd as it feels, when the anger breaks and the power surges and the strange blood beads and crawls down the skin of her hand like it might find its way underneath. the weight of a heart in her chest that isn't hers. the overwhelming dread of being no longer human. her penance to vesuvia, to her family, to asra, to portia, to muriel, even to him, and how's that for the biggest self-sacrifice, julian? are we even yet?
maybe it's been days, weeks, months, there's no way that she can really tell--the transformation is nearly immediate, anyway, and the realm is covered in some sunset hue that never really betrays any passing of time at all. the city is safe, and given that she won't be trying to merge this world into the other--as least for now--that means everything gets wrapped up nicely, right? and she knows that julian is here somewhere, cowering in some dark room behind locks that her hands should easily find the key to; she knows because the devil ran on about it, proud and pleased, before she put her fingers through his chest and wrenched out a still-beating heart. julian's chains are her chains, now. so why is she so reluctant to find him?
maybe it's why her fingers whisper over the door handle like it's going to burn her--golden tips, honed claws, and hands drenched in a blackness that seems to emanate from her so thoroughly that she thinks even chandra would hate her, were she to make it to this realm at all. she misses her company. she misses company.
but then, power is a delicious thing in and of itself...isn't it? )
Well.
( the door opens, finally, a frame of light that shines a sharp triangle out onto the floor of the room where julian, in his cowering, feathered form, has been locked for some time now. he probably expects some towering humanoid goat there, ready to taunt him and rip him to shreds again, pluck his feathers from his wings one by one or make a fist to tighten the invisible chains like another noose.
what he gets, instead, is nadia standing there in the black silk of her gown, a tumbling sunset of hair that wisps over her shoulders and plunges in at her hips, red eyes and sharp horns and the urge to scream at him for doing any of this at all. )
I suppose you belong to me now, isn't that right?
( nice to see you again, doctor. )