(option 1:) ( the raven he destroyed his chains yes YES the raven is out
well, alright.
he didn't destroy his chains.
he would never.
but someone did. someone did, and when he woke up, someone had put the world to rights, too. it's just too bad someone couldn't put him to rights while they were at it. but then again—no, this is how it should be. this is what he deserves.
julian wakes up outside the rowdy raven. not the hanged raven, but the rowdy alternative. malak circles overhead, squawking until he comes-to. when he does, he's pecked at insistently until he stands. the world is so... bright. the sun is out, a beautiful day in vesuvia. for a few moments he can only stand there, hunched over on bent legs, feathered arms hanging at his sides, wings limp, shoulders slumped, squinting in the daylight. it... almost burns. it does burn. someone comes around the corner and gives a startled gasp at the sight of him. then after the initial shock wears off, a terrified scream. they run away, but so does julian. if you can even call it a "run," the way he staggers and stumbles through the alleys. it's been so long, it's a wonder he can even recall where to go. to his home that's still there just the way he left it, desperately hiding in the shadows whenever he hears anyone walking around nearby. he doesn't have the key anymore, when he gets there. he's too big to fit through the window. he yanks and pulls at the door in desperation, swearing, but can't get it open. he could pull it off its hinges, but before he gets the chance somebody comes around the corner and he flees again.
malak screams overhead, circling. he wonders briefly whether he can fly. he's never tried. he's too afraid to try now, either. instead he frantically ditches town, escaping into the woods where the other monsters live. it's the only place he can think to hide. by the time he's arrived he's terrified half a dozen people and it'd be no surprise if the city guard comes looking for him. defending himself is simple, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone. or scare anyone.
no. nobody can know he's here. not anyone, ever. )
(option 2:) ( everything is as it's been. for years and years and ages and ages and seconds and seconds. monsters outside, monsters inside. illusions, tricks, traps, tragedy. all his friends, probably dead. and if not dead, he can only pray their suffering is minimal. he can only pray that he is doing all the suffering for them instead. he would give anything for that to be true. anything, anything, anything. even though he has already given everything, he would give even more to know—
but he never will. so here he sits.
the hanged raven. it's happy hour. but it's always happy hour. the drinks magically refill. there's food, there's music, there's an endless array of wandering souls to come and go and keep him company a spell, although few ever do. fewer still are real. still, there's drinks. endless drinks. there's a chair with his name on it, practically. there's glass all over the floor, barbed branches winding all throughout the space. an ominous wind filters in through a window that looks open but isn't, really. the light is reddish-orange, flickering. like hellfire.
someone outside screams. probably not real.
he never ever leaves this place. doesn't want to. couldn't, he thinks, if he wanted to. but when the sounds outside continue, something inhuman mixed with something a little too human, a struggle, he can't help wandering to the door. he hasn't opened it in a long time. the door feels heavy as he pulls the handle and peers out into the gloom. from the outside, he's nothing but a towering black shadow, too big even to fit properly in the doorway, bathed in miserly firelight. he feels despondent and stupid, bothering with this. it's only going to be something unreal again. but he calls out anyway, his voice raw and thick with irony: )
Come now, this is no way to behave. Why don't you come settle your differences with a drink?
[to say she understood what had happened after everything would be one of the biggest lies morga has ever uttered. something compelled her to return to vesuvia with julian all those months ago. what that was, she didn't know. all she knew and understood that she was there at the masquerade that night. her son returned. julian gone. then montag. there had been no time to grieve, even after the fact when the world began to howl, twist and change. and when the world began to "settle", there was still no time. it had become that much more dangerous, and while she could've — should've — returned south...
she didn't.
part of the reason had been because there was no point to it. if the north had turned so dangerous overnight, the south would've been a deathwish. the other part... morga didn't know what to call whatever it was with julian besides (for lack of a better word) complicated. regardless of what it was, she knew julian still had family in the city. family that she'd been keeping an eye on from a distance despite best efforts to bring her into the fold of survivors proper. in the end, it was the very least she could do to honor his memory.
but then one day, the world un-fucked itself. people began to slowly rebuild their lives, and morga remained. she still kept her distance, but... she was still in vesuvia. she never understood why until the frantic, frightened whispers reached her ears. rumors that a monster yet remained in the city. the guards were better suited to calming people down and stay put, and frankly they still looked to be in rough shape. certainly not suited for fighting monsters, even if morga didn't look much better herself.
tracking it down had been easy enough. people were more than willing to point her in the direction that they'd seen it run.
it's horrifying, a young woman cried. it was black, bigger than any animal i've ever seen and teeth sharper than a bear's.
by the time she reached the woods, she had a vague idea of what to look for. and boy, was it easier to pick up the trail amongst the trees and dirt than it was in the city. protecting people... morga's track record with that was abysmal, no matter how much it pained her to admit it. now, hunting? she was good at that. three days in the forest, and she finds a fresh trail. broken branches. loose feathers. claw marks across bark and in the dirt. and in some instances, even blood. a griffin...? no. no, they were incredibly rare these days, much like the dragons and wyrms of old.
it takes another hour at best to find the "beast" in question. she doesn't have the best view of it, but... she sees it. so, she crouches, spear in hand, and waits. when it finally steps close enough, morga launches herself into the hulking figure's side and knocking it off balance. one foot goes down to pin it, and the tip of her spear sits poised mere inches above the throat as her lip curls into a snarl as she takes in its appearance. it's not as big as a man described it, and it looks more man than animal in the fa...
wait.
wait. wait. wait. those fucking eyes— it can't be. her grip tightens, and she brings the sharp tip closer. please, she asks nothing and nobody in particular. please.]
Who are you? Speak.
[distantly, she's hears a raven having a fit and screaming its tiny little lungs out somewhere above.]
( all these eons and all those jumbled, fucked up memories, many of them lost or distorted into something they never were, and he hasn't quite forgotten how to survive. call it a persistent refusal to just die already, but he manages to eke out some semblance of an existence deep in the woods. not stealthily, mind you, and there's another inhabitant of this place that he knows he needs to beware of, but he can at least feed himself. find fresh water. and shelter. protecting himself is as easy as it ever was, at least: no creature would dare come near. he's terrifying when he wants to be, which is... never, really, but it doesn't take much more than standing up tall and extending his arms, puffing up his feathers, and showing his teeth. that does the trick.
malak keeps an eye out for him. thankfully hasn't narced on him to anyone that might want to find him. or, he worries, maybe there just... is no one. either because they don't want him anymore, or because they assume he's gone forever, or because they are... god, no. he can't bear it. as painful as it is not to know, that's his cross to bear. and nail himself to it, he's goddamn determined to do. forever, if that's what it takes. he can't go back. he can't, he can't, he can't.
anyway. just because he knows how to survive doesn't mean he's the craftiest creature in the wood. he's more than easy prey for someone like morga, who he never hears coming. malak must not even realize it. he's on the way to his fresh water supply when he's rammed into and pinned down, his own scream hoarse and ironically not dissimilar from malak's. for being such a horrible, ugly, fearsome monster, the fear in his eyes and all over his face is practically palpable. his clawed hands go up in surrender. he swallows against the speartip. his gaping mouth shows a dark tongue, an excess of sharp teeth. )
I—
( my god. that face. that voice. that ruthless presence. of course he knows her. it's obvious, the recognition. he goes slack all over, eyes widening even further. real? not real? not real, can't be real. even though there is no more hellworld, no more devil, no more illusions. he can't allow himself to believe it. he gave up trying to connect with the imagined specters of his past a long, long time ago. (but if he really doesn't believe it, why hide in the first place? hmmm.) )
[something about the way he screams picks and scratches at a still-fresh wound in her heart. the last time she'd been in a position to spare someone like this, she'd been looking down her nose and the length of her spear into eyes not unlike her own. she should've done it then, if only to spare her future self the heartache she feels now. each expression that flits across her face is brief and subtle, her grip going whiteknuckled as she wrestles with each and every last one.
anger. relief. confusion. sorrow. shock. more anger and grief for a man she never mourned. everything but fear and disgust, though... perhaps because it hasn't had a chance to sink in yet. (fear isn't likely, though. she's eaten scarier things for breakfast.)]
Don't.
[she has to force the words out through gritted teeth and around the solid lump sitting far, far back in her throat. she knows what that is too, but like every other complicated emotion she's experienced, morga ignores it.]
Don't you dare lie to me, Hrafn. I'll ask you again — who are you?
[and... you know what? even with the venom and ice laced on her tongue, the spear withdraws by a fraction. her weight eases, but she doesn't remove her boot. not yet. it's not that she's afraid for her safety, but adrenaline is one hell of a thing.]
( honestly, he liked it better when the sharp point of that spear was touching his throat. his skin's tough enough that it hadn't quite broken to bleed with the effort, but a bit more would've done it. instead, she pulls it back, and he almost wants to echo her: don't. put it back. finish it.
but he just... can't. can't say it. not to her. not to—can't say her name, either. can't even think it.
instead, he curls his fingers around the spear, close to the tip. where there used to be long fingers, pale skin, a murderer's brand, there's only claws, scaly talon-like skin, blackened and bent. still, there's something familiar about the particular movement of his hands, how each finger curls one by one until he's gripping it. and about the way his lips pull back in a wince, the miserably guilty way his eyes avert. the piteousness in his rough voice. (she never had patience for that crap, but she isn't she anymore, and he isn't he and nothing is real—) )
I told you: nobody, anymore. If you were looking for someone, I'm sorry to say you haven't found him. You shouldn't be here, you... I... there's nothing here but dreams and monsters. If I close my eyes, you'll disappear, won't you? So just—
[she can feel the weight of his hand — each finger curling around the shaft and strips of leather wrapped under the point as if he were touching her wrist or her arm instead. the only thing is she can't feel-feel it. worse than that, she can feel his stare up until he looks away. it's a look morga has seen before, in the rare occasion that they'd reminisce about the bleaker parts of the past. sometimes it was a look she'd wear too, but she'd never address it herself.]
No.
[as faint as it is, it's in her voice. she's uncertain. in all her years, never has she been involved in something like this. the monsters she knew were hulking, slavering brutes concerned with eating, fighting, and breeding. living. this? oh, this was the complete opposite. for as much as he claims to be a monster, he sure doesn't look like one in her eyes.
her grip relaxes. tightens. readjusts to a different stance, one where her weight isn't behind the sharp edge of the tip. all teeth and no bite.]
I spent three days hunting a supposed beast, and I come to find out he speaks with a voice I haven't heard in months and eyes I haven't seen in just as long. I'm not leaving without answers.
( now there's a familiar expression, more or less: the curled upper lip, a signature smirk. you can almost hear the playfulness in his tone, only it's a shadow of itself now. hoarse and haggard like the rest of him, deformed. you could argue that no matter how much he changes, there's no erasing who he is. julian would disagree. but julian has been through a lot, lived in his own special circle of hell for a long time. it's hard to see past the flames when they're burning that high.
but still. those gunsteel-grey eyes follow the line of the spear up morga's arm to her face again. in spite of the grin, there's still a heavy helping of disbelief, like there's just no way his eyes totally agree with his mind. he never blinks too hard. if it's only an illusion, he... stupidly, foolishly doesn't want it to be over yet. not yet. it's just been so long. )
...Because you should. Anything familiar about me is a, a trick. It's a lie, Mo—it's a lie. You have to know that. If you're the real thing, you would. You'd know that. And you'd finish what you came here to do.
It wouldn't be the first time the "real thing" hasn't had the stomach to finish the job.
[she had a chance to finish it at the masquerade before everything went tits up, but did she take the chance? no. the one who ended up doing it... the thought leaves a sour taste in her mouth and squeezes her heart in heavy chains. no matter how awful of a person montag was, she couldn't do it. she failed him so many times in the past, so... what was one more failure on top of that? it wouldn't be the first or last time she let someone down.]
Though I'm not sure if I should be insulted or disappointed that you think I'd believe that this is a trick. A trick would be the raven I hear squawking speak in your place. A trick—
[she jerks the spear back, though not as rough as she'd like. the motion is almost gentle. or it is, up until she presses the speartip between two of his ribs. it's a bit off, but... it's the same spot she'd taken a blade in the snow. the same day the nature of whatever they have changed in that musty house in the empty village]
Was the stunt you pulled with this. Whatever you're trying to pull here? It's sloppy. My son was a better liar when he was a child.
( now, would an illusion know that? julian's brow (for what can be seen of it through the feathers and darkened skin that encroach and overtake many of his features now) furrows with consternation. could the devil have imagined it somehow? made it real? but then... why here? like this? in this world that clearly has been turned right-side up again? unless that's a trick, too. how many times did he desperately open doors and fling himself through portals, find himself home and then... it was all a lie. a trick.
but there were tells, he figured that out later. he just had to learn how to spot them. and eventually recognizing the obvious signs of an uncanny unreality only compounded his hopelessness, his fear and dismay. once he began to realize everything around him wasn't really what it seemed, the whole picture shattered. along with his heart. and his hope. so—consternation. searching for the signs that'll prove to him that something isn't right, trying to read between the lines like that spearpoint between his prominent ribs. too thin, all exposed. )
How do you... that trick, that—mark. I can't do it anymore. I gave it up. I gave everything up. Did he—how do you know about that?
[her expression shifts - something between an exasperated grimace and a very, very strained smile. it'd be almost comical if morga didn't have a weapon pointed down to kiss skin and feathers, though maybe that just makes it that much better. or worse. can it be both? it's probably both. jokes were never her forte, which is why she usually left that up to julian.
brushing it aside, morga shakes her head and drops her gaze to the feathers scattered across his sides. at the patches down the length of his torso, to his shoulders... and back to the spot she's "pointing" to.]
You took two blows meant for me. The second only after the fact, but if you didn't I...
[she doesn't know if she'd be standing here today. sure, she'd suffered worse injuries in the past but that had been when she had a full clan to fall back on while she healed. alone? morga probably would've died of blood loss or something else.]
( julian stares and stares. the spear nestled into the groove between his ribs is of absolutely no concern to him anymore. can he even feel pain? does he care? could he bleed enough? would it ever stop? can he die? would he stay dead? all questions he's asked and, one way or another, found answers to. and they don't matter. nothing mattered except... well...
except the very real sentiment that morga's recollections are stirring up in him now. his mouth falls open again, the frustrated search gone from his expression. instead there's only glassy-eyed, horror-stricken, miserable shock. where are the tells? that this is all another big, horrible lie? there aren't any. there aren't any, and nothing morga is saying is untrue. he goes so long without blinking that his eyes start to water up; when he finally does, his tears are very real, very normal tears. no inky blackness, no blood. just regular human tears. )
...I had to.
( it's all but a whisper, agonized. he exhales, then inhales again. lays his hand once again over the end of that spear like if he had a mind to he'd urge it right into his body and push it clear through to his lung, just to feel again the way it felt that day. when he took that pain away like it was his own, happily and willingly. because— )
I wanted you to be safe. It was a small price to pay to— to— no, you shouldn't be here! I don't have that power anymore! I can't protect you! I can't do anything for you—I'm not anything, I'm no one. Nothing.
[that seals it. it's him. this feather-brained fool is actually him, and morga doesn't know if she should be relieved or more angry. so, she settles for both. her lip curls back in a snarl and she removes her foot, raises the spear as if to strike...
only to pivot on her heel and throw it with enough force to embed it into the trunk of a tree with a guttural yell. the birds go silent, and for a good long minute the sound of their breathing is the only thing this forest hears. sometime during this, morga starts to pace to and fro. when she'd gone into these woods, this isn't what she expected. she expected... a bear or something, not...
not whatever this is.
his words echo in her ears, and each time it brings up a new hurt. she doesn't need protection. she doesn't deserve it, not after everything in her life. not when she couldn't protect her own family. her husband. her son. her clan — she was the last of the scourge, but that didn't mean she was so weak that she needed protection. it was her generation's job to protect them, not the other way around.
she can't think straight, so she just... picks a spot and starts from there.]
One. Don't you dare think about running away. I'll track you down and lash you to a tree if you try. Two. Don't ever tell me where I should and shouldn't be. Three. I don't de— need anyone to protect me! And if I did, where the hell were you?! You vanished without so much as a word!
( julian doesn't bother to get up. just stays there on his back in the dirt, his wings crushed uncomfortably underneath him. sprawled out, one hand resting over the place where that spear sat until morga threw it. honestly, he doesn't think he can move. sit up, stand, even crawl, he's just so utterly transfixed. in some ways bad, some ways good. seeing morga, presumably real, even pacing and snarling and infuriated as she is, is so mind-boggling and so relieving, he just... doesn't know what to do but lay there.
it's only when malak lights onto the end of that spear sticking out of the tree with a quiet caw and his feathers ruffled that he does finally move. the way he sits upright is awkward. the way he moves at all is awkward. like he's rusty and badly crafted, made up of spare parts he hasn't figured out how to use all in tandem yet. it's been so damn long, and yet he never took the time to learn this body. i mean, why would he? it hardly matters anymore. )
I was... the same thing. I was protecting you. I was protecting everyone. It was the last thing I could do to be of any use to anybody. As it turns out I... still had more to give. Not now, though. I shouldn't be here, either. If I am, it means no one is safe. This could all be one big trap. You can't even begin to imagine how insidious, how vile—this is bad. This is so bad.
[her pacing stops when malak interjects, and she takes the time to count backwards from ten. rubs at her mouth with one hand, and reaches out to offer the poor frazzled animal a gentle head rub. he can croak and gurgle all he wants, but morga knows it's some form of playful "backtalk." jaeger does it, so why would malak be any different? it also gives her an excuse to avoid julian's gaze until she's good and ready. she angles herself so she can keep him in her peripherals, but that's it for the moment.]
...I'll bite. What did we need protection from?
[of course she has suspicions after everything that'd happened over the last few months, but one can't be too certain these days.]
( it feels wrong to even think of him. does he dare even speak the name? as if he could summon him by uttering it. hey, sometimes he could. or even by thinking it too loudly. in those days when he'd still had any fight left in him, it felt like sometimes it was less alerting him to his presence by thinking too hard and more just... being eternally shadowed. just because things look normal now, though, doesn't mean they are. what if he causes something—
ah, what's the use. fear is as useless as fighting anymore. his shoulders slump with utter resignation. his whole body, his countenance, everything droops like it's being pulled toward the earth. the weight of a thousand burdens. )
Why, from the Devil, of course. Who I'm sure is laying in wait even now, waiting to strike... any minute...
( any second. but nothing happens. not even a breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. even malak seems to sit totally still and quiet, for once. just for a second. )
So long as I gave myself up, he couldn't hurt anyone. That was our arrangement. But now I'm... here.
[a threat both empty and not. it wouldn't do a damn thing to him, she knows it, but it'd make her feel something before she died in the process. and even though the arcana doesn't show his hairy face, she still reaches behind her back to pull out the hunting knife attached to her waist. just in case he had any doubts about it being a terrible joke.]
But... I won't lie, Julian. I'm... a lot of things right now. More disappointed than angry. My son made arrangements with people, and look where that got him. The only difference between the two of you is... you said it yourself; you're here.
( 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. )
( for as much as julian gets down on himself, kicks himself around and submits to dramatic feelings of perhaps at least somewhat artificial hopelessness, he used to have such an indomitable spirit. he was a survivor, you know? the storm that claimed most of his family couldn't claim him. the blood-soaked battlefields never dragged him down to their depths. the plague never landed him at the lazaret with the rest of half the population. the years he spent traveling the world couldn't whittle him down. hell, not even a hanging could actually take him out. it isn't enough that he lived through all these things, but that he fearlessly faced them down and was fucking determined to see his purpose through to the end. the same was still true when he was first dragged away in chains to the devil's twisted playground. he survived. he was indomitable. he fought. and fought, and fought, and fought...
and lost, and lost, and lost...
maybe he's getting old.
at this point it's hard to say. he doesn't know how long it's been, just that it's been such a slow, gradual, miserable process. not something that happened overnight. once he finally succumbed to his fate, submitted, accepted defeat, it's not like he opened his eyes and found himself covered in feathers and spines. it still took time. defeat, as he well knows, is not decided in a single loss, or even many losses. real defeat is in the weathering down of the army. it's in the process of exhausting their supplies, their morale, their constitution. this is like that. the torturously slow and horrific gradual transformation of man to monster was the process of his defeat. now he's beaten. thoroughly. it's over. he lost.
there's only one thread of hope left for him to cling to, and it's that, at least in his utter humiliation and torment, his friends are decidedly safe. his bargain made it so. that's all he's got. or so he believed.
when the door opens, he doesn't much have the will to look up. the illusions are such an old hat. the devil's visits are scarce enough that he doesn't fear them anymore. and anyone (anything) else that would come in here isn't anyone worth caring about. they're just monsters like him, that's all. he makes a croaking sort of warbling sound in the back of his throat, swishes his tankard around, and drinks from it. gestures drearily with one taloned hand at any of the chairs.
and then that voice. his chin lifts in a herky-jerky sort of way like he's a poorly oiled animatronic character, not a living thing. his eyes are just about the only recognizable feature he's got left, and even that's a stretch. gunmetal gray, but all the light's gone out of them. he expects an illusion. not... )
What is this?
( not what are you or who are you, but what is this? a trick of his eyes? a trap? a test? something made up just to hurt him? it's his countess, her shape, her voice, her commanding presence, but the design of her is all wrong in a way he knows all too well. it has to be him, doing something sick just to make him crazy. but why? he's already beaten. )
What do you mean, "now"? Stop playing games. It's over. I know already.
( they're crueler words than she expects to fall from her lips, and it's almost like they climb out of her mouth without her even recognizing them, almost as if they're pulled from a place that should be buried, deep and dark, hidden from even those metallic grey eyes that stare at her like she's some poorly-made illusion or like she's not precisely what he's made her to be. no, it's unfair to blame him for everything--in fact she can't really blame him for anything at all. it's her choice that has her here, even if it's tempting to force him to bear more of the burden than she knows he can rightfully tolerate.
he's beaten and low and hopeless, and sharp words and biting retorts aren't the sorts of things he needs to hear now.
julian gestures, wearily, towards any of the open chairs, and while he may have no realization of what she is, there's a shiver of something that goes through the room that makes it quite apparent to the rest of the monsters scattered about that she is not the creature any of them likely want to be caught in the path of. it's not unlike her days in vesuvia, though there was a circle of space around her built from admiration and awe, there, like a flower that needed air around it to breathe; here, it's the quiver of fear, of knowing the power that she possesses even in the unassuming flick of her fingers when she moves through the room and nothing remains in her path, no one left in the line of sight.
which just leaves julian and his sad little feathers, sitting there, with chairs aplenty near him. she melts down into one of them, folds her arms to the table, and curls a finger at him. )
You made an admirable effort, Doctor Devorak, but I couldn't just leave you here to atone for everything you've never had to. You know he could have chosen to dishonor your deal at any point, and would have, naturally, and then where would we be? Where would the city be?
( the minor movement jerks his tankard away from him by magic, slides it across the table until it ends up in the coil of her finger, seemingly held up by nothing at all. )
I make my own deals. And I can get you out of this one now, easy, if you ask nicely.
( but should she? there's a faint uncertainty there, tinging in the words, but it's selfishness that has her doubting. she can't keep him here. )
( he ought to flinch at the accusation, but he's used to the verbal abuse. or got to used to it back when there was still plenty of it to hear. the devil always did know just the right things to say to him to break his spirit, crush his confidence. make him doubt himself, fold in upon himself like a collapsing building and drown in his own guilt. the greatest weapon against julian has always been julian, really.
besides. it's hard to flinch when he's still staring, so stunned, completely unable to grasp what he's looking at. the devil, to be sure... right? but then why this form? why her face? why her voice? why? why? what kind of trick is this? he hasn't experienced anything like it before, and that makes it so much harder for him to reconcile. if it were more of the same old sisyphean torture, pushing that boulder of burden in the shape of his long-lost friends and family now only available to him forevermore as twisted illusions and haunted nightmares, he'd be able to shrug it off. but this—
julian's mouth hangs open, his gaze only shifting to watch the tankard she pulls toward her as if on an invisible string slide across the table. without really being conscious of it, all the feathers on his body start to stand on end, ruffled and frazzled until he's puffed up to nearly double the size he was when she came in. whether that's out of fear or a reaction to some perceived threat, even he doesn't know. )
...Countess?? Nad—
( no. no. there, you see, that's it! a deal> a trap! quickly, he shuts his mouth, shakes his head. )
No. No. I'm not falling for this again, just stop. I don't know what you're playing at, but why bother? What else do you want? I said I'd stay. Don't—use her face. Leave her out of this.
( it's amusing--or would be, in any other circumstance, because her eyes go from the tankard which, to some disappointment, is nearly drained, peering down into its depths, to the movement in front of her, the wide-eyed way that julian stares at her and how his feathers go, not all at once, but in patches, ruffling and spreading and rounding him up into a large black mess. it reminds her, again, of chandra, of the way she might get irritated with some perceived inconvenience and puff herself into something more menacing as though it might help her get her way; and her lips pull before she can stop herself, something rueful and sad and wiped off her face as quickly as it appears.
leave her out of this, julian is demanding, and part of her wants to slam her hand into the table--granted, it would most likely go all the way through, now, splinter the wood into pieces, and the urge to do it is there, that simmering anger that seems to spark up from somewhere in her chest like it's worming its way through all the good fairness in her heart and turning it into something else. like an apple that's got a worm at its core, eating away slowly but steadily. she doesn't blame him for thinking it's a trap. and yet-- )
Could the Devil really replicate my beauty so easily?
( it's another amusement, though it's mostly hollow. )
You said you'd stay, I know. He told me this. And now it's my realm where you will stay, if that's your choice.
( he won't believe that either, will he? she glances back into the tankard again--it's full, somehow, despite knowing it wasn't just moments earlier. she lets it rest on the table, props her gold-tipped fingers around it, drums her claws into the edge. it makes a rhythmic, rattling sound against the tin, and her lips press together against the pain that still threatens to sear through her head at trying so earnestly to remember things that are lost. )
Do you remember, before all this? Those years before he died? There was a night you were buried so heavily in your research, even Asra gave up on prying you away. You hadn't slept for at least a day, maybe more, and it was the middle of the night and you... had your hands in your hair, like you were likely to pull it out, and I didn't want you to shed all of that awful red hair all over my clean library floor.
( the memory swims, jolts--then goes stable, her red gaze focused on some knot of the wood of the table as she recounts it, or maybe it's that she can't look julian in the face as she speaks. )
And we went outside, to the garden, and the fountain, and then... You remember, don't you? How would the Devil know all this? Look at me.
( no, of course he doesn't believe that, and the hostility in his face remains. but it all falls apart when she starts to reminisce. if anything, his feathers only ruffle more as the memory pierces the hazy veil of his mind where the life he lived before used to be. the more immediate times, the ones before, and even earlier... it doesn't matter how long ago they were. he's forgotten most of them in equal measures. and then sometimes they'll come flooding randomly back, like the places in his mind where those thoughts belong haven't been emptied out, but have simply had a blanket thrown over them to stifle the light they used to shine. this—is like having that cover whipped off. his eyes squint, brows drawing together, like that figurative light isn't quite so figurative and hurts to look at.
yes... weeks before that fateful night. before he was sick and locked in his office. before he'd become so desperate and delirious that he'd be making the lesser of the deals he'd wind up making in his life. the library, where he constantly was, books spread over a table. papers everywhere. the parchment in front of him so full of notes that he'd taken to scribbling in the margins. an enormous tome propped up for him to pore through. candles burned down to stubs, almost too dim to read by anymore. his eyes had long since glazed over, and he hadn't turned the pages in a long time. asra gave up hours ago, said he was going to sleep. he hadn't replied. he'd just sat there staring miserably down at the book. clutching his hair. wanting to rip it out in clumps, to scream and throw things. so frustrated. so tired. hadn't slept in days. people still dying by the hundreds, the ashes from the lazaret so thick in the wind that everyone kept their windows closed even on summer nights. asra must've told nadia the state he was in. countess, i can't possibly stop now. i'm on the verge of a breakthrough. but he always said that. every time. little did he know he was nowhere close. )
I—
( his eyes close with consternation, struggling with the memory. it's only bits and pieces now. her hand on his, taking it away from his hair. stiff and sore as he stood up. being urged, practically pulled, out of the library. he utters the words as they come back to him in his mind's eye: )
I suppose I could use a little fresh air.
( his head snaps up in one sharp movement, eyes opening again. look at me. he's looking, alright. there's no way the devil would know. not unless—the way julian stares at nadia is like the moment she walked in all over again, only more horror-stricken, more agonized, because now the realization is setting in. the understanding of what he's seeing, even though he can't truly comprehend how or why he's seeing it, what's actually happened to her. she says "my realm" like she is the devil, but... oh, god. )
( there's something almost fascinating about watching him piece it together, the way his feathers shift and move as though there's some method to it all, a way to force his body to find the pathways that have scabbed over, where things have been taken from him, robbed from him, and left emptiness in their wake. she has those things too, little pieces that seem to scatter in the wind of her breath when she tries to focus too hard on them--it's much easier to let it all flow, like water, and the thought reminds her of asra and all of his beautiful magic, and her heart hurts, or what's left of it does, in any case, while the rest feels heavy like stone.
he says the words and it's like they slot in where her mind glosses over; yes, he'd said it that night, yes, had relented to her mostly out of obligation, surely, but she had been pleased to take him away. even with the library being one of her own favourite places--they both needed the cool night air to finally breathe. julian had taken the whole thing to desperate lengths, with desperate measures, and that's her fault too, and that's something that she's never gotten to apologize for. probably can't ever apologize for. and that's another reason vesuvia is, truly, in better hands now, right/
because if she had just been better, had found a way to weave past all of lucio's obstacles, thrown in her path, then perhaps it all wouldn't have happened like--
julian's head jerks, rights itself like his whole neck snaps back into place again. the thought makes her want to shiver. )
It's more that you should be asking what I did to him.
( and this is probably the part where she shouldn't tell him, exactly, what happened--because there is no way that he would look at her with those soft, sad eyes and still feel anything but contempt and, especially, disgust with her, for doing it at all. her gaze goes from his face back down to the cup with her hand clamped over it, and damn it all, she decides, and brings it up to her lips.
it's--
--utterly disgusting. how does he drink this? she skids the tankard back across the table towards him with the blunt base of her palm. )
He's gone. I'm here in his place. Which begs the question, really, of where you should be, now that I'm capable of helping you.
( julian catches the tankard between both hands and pulls it toward him almost protectively. except he isn't protecting his stupid drink from her, or, really, protecting her from the stupid drink, either, he just. needs to hold onto something. because the alternative is in the way he almost reaches past it, like he means to touch her instead, only to realize he doesn't dare. not because of her. because of him. because of the black scaled birdskin and claws and feathers that are his hands now, rough and decidedly wholly unpleasant. it doesn't matter what she looks like now, or what she's become, he can't... he can't. so he holds the cup, his eyes wide and round and almost betrayed, the anguish as plain as anything. )
Wha—no! You didn't do this for me. Please tell me you didn't do this for me, that's...
( why do anything, why should she have to? and why like this? and—gone? he couldn't have broken his deal, because then wouldn't his chains have been broken, too? it's a contract, isn't it? or at least those are the lies he was told, the foolishness he believed in when he did what he did to save everybody. no, it doesn't make sense. how she can be in his place. )
You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be safe. You were all supposed to be safe. That was the deal. I don't need help, you need to go home.
( it's one of the many options she should have considered, maybe: that he might see this as some sort of betrayal, as though she couldn't trust him to do what had to be done, or to fully give himself up to something that she thinks, perhaps, he was almost too keenly ready to give himself up to. after all, what batter way to pay for the things he thinks himself responsible for than to do something like this? to live an existence of suffering and disappointment and loneliness, and to make it seem worth it by declaring that it's been done for the sake of everyone else?
it's not that she doesn't trust him. it's not that she thinks he would try to break free of it. but it's more that she's tired of trusting the devil when he's been nothing but contrary--and well, she's solved that well enough, hasn't she? still, the anguish, the wide look of his eyes, is almost, almost too much for her to bear. or maybe it would have been, if she weren't made partly of something now that doesn't much care for anything else; it feels like stone, again, wedged in her chest. she looks at the table instead. )
Everyone is safe. You needn't worry about that.
( and the city is safe, from her inability, now--everyone is safe from that, too. )
You don't quite understand, do you?
I am home.
( she can feel it, vaguely: the pull of him, of everyone around them, the way that her hands could wrap around invisible lengths and pull at hot metal and strangle all of them under the weight of her whims. and maybe that's what he needs, then: she would reach across the table and slap him, but she doesn't want to hurt him outright, doesn't want to give in to that sort of mediocrity; she settles for her elbow on the table, her index finger twisting in the air, tightening the chains around him little by little. just a little squeeze. the kind that faust would love. ah, her heart hurts. )
Julian. I'm him, now. ( the kind of plain words she doesn't like, but they may be best suited for his drowning anguish. ) I won't be going back.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
OPEN: BIRD TIME
( the raven
he destroyed his chains
yes
YES
the raven is out
well, alright.
he didn't destroy his chains.
he would never.
but someone did. someone did, and when he woke up, someone had put the world to rights, too. it's just too bad someone couldn't put him to rights while they were at it. but then again—no, this is how it should be. this is what he deserves.
julian wakes up outside the rowdy raven. not the hanged raven, but the rowdy alternative. malak circles overhead, squawking until he comes-to. when he does, he's pecked at insistently until he stands. the world is so... bright. the sun is out, a beautiful day in vesuvia. for a few moments he can only stand there, hunched over on bent legs, feathered arms hanging at his sides, wings limp, shoulders slumped, squinting in the daylight. it... almost burns. it does burn. someone comes around the corner and gives a startled gasp at the sight of him. then after the initial shock wears off, a terrified scream. they run away, but so does julian. if you can even call it a "run," the way he staggers and stumbles through the alleys. it's been so long, it's a wonder he can even recall where to go. to his home that's still there just the way he left it, desperately hiding in the shadows whenever he hears anyone walking around nearby. he doesn't have the key anymore, when he gets there. he's too big to fit through the window. he yanks and pulls at the door in desperation, swearing, but can't get it open. he could pull it off its hinges, but before he gets the chance somebody comes around the corner and he flees again.
malak screams overhead, circling. he wonders briefly whether he can fly. he's never tried. he's too afraid to try now, either. instead he frantically ditches town, escaping into the woods where the other monsters live. it's the only place he can think to hide. by the time he's arrived he's terrified half a dozen people and it'd be no surprise if the city guard comes looking for him. defending himself is simple, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone. or scare anyone.
no. nobody can know he's here. not anyone, ever. )
(option 2:)
( everything is as it's been. for years and years and ages and ages and seconds and seconds. monsters outside, monsters inside. illusions, tricks, traps, tragedy. all his friends, probably dead. and if not dead, he can only pray their suffering is minimal. he can only pray that he is doing all the suffering for them instead. he would give anything for that to be true. anything, anything, anything. even though he has already given everything, he would give even more to know—
but he never will. so here he sits.
the hanged raven. it's happy hour. but it's always happy hour. the drinks magically refill. there's food, there's music, there's an endless array of wandering souls to come and go and keep him company a spell, although few ever do. fewer still are real. still, there's drinks. endless drinks. there's a chair with his name on it, practically. there's glass all over the floor, barbed branches winding all throughout the space. an ominous wind filters in through a window that looks open but isn't, really. the light is reddish-orange, flickering. like hellfire.
someone outside screams. probably not real.
he never ever leaves this place. doesn't want to. couldn't, he thinks, if he wanted to. but when the sounds outside continue, something inhuman mixed with something a little too human, a struggle, he can't help wandering to the door. he hasn't opened it in a long time. the door feels heavy as he pulls the handle and peers out into the gloom. from the outside, he's nothing but a towering black shadow, too big even to fit properly in the doorway, bathed in miserly firelight. he feels despondent and stupid, bothering with this. it's only going to be something unreal again. but he calls out anyway, his voice raw and thick with irony: )
Come now, this is no way to behave. Why don't you come settle your differences with a drink?
i told u
she didn't.
part of the reason had been because there was no point to it. if the north had turned so dangerous overnight, the south would've been a deathwish. the other part... morga didn't know what to call whatever it was with julian besides (for lack of a better word) complicated. regardless of what it was, she knew julian still had family in the city. family that she'd been keeping an eye on from a distance despite best efforts to bring her into the fold of survivors proper. in the end, it was the very least she could do to honor his memory.
but then one day, the world un-fucked itself. people began to slowly rebuild their lives, and morga remained. she still kept her distance, but... she was still in vesuvia. she never understood why until the frantic, frightened whispers reached her ears. rumors that a monster yet remained in the city. the guards were better suited to calming people down and stay put, and frankly they still looked to be in rough shape. certainly not suited for fighting monsters, even if morga didn't look much better herself.
tracking it down had been easy enough. people were more than willing to point her in the direction that they'd seen it run.
it's horrifying, a young woman cried. it was black, bigger than any animal i've ever seen and teeth sharper than a bear's.
by the time she reached the woods, she had a vague idea of what to look for. and boy, was it easier to pick up the trail amongst the trees and dirt than it was in the city. protecting people... morga's track record with that was abysmal, no matter how much it pained her to admit it. now, hunting? she was good at that. three days in the forest, and she finds a fresh trail. broken branches. loose feathers. claw marks across bark and in the dirt. and in some instances, even blood. a griffin...? no. no, they were incredibly rare these days, much like the dragons and wyrms of old.
it takes another hour at best to find the "beast" in question. she doesn't have the best view of it, but... she sees it. so, she crouches, spear in hand, and waits. when it finally steps close enough, morga launches herself into the hulking figure's side and knocking it off balance. one foot goes down to pin it, and the tip of her spear sits poised mere inches above the throat as her lip curls into a snarl as she takes in its appearance. it's not as big as a man described it, and it looks more man than animal in the fa...
wait.
wait. wait. wait. those fucking eyes— it can't be. her grip tightens, and she brings the sharp tip closer. please, she asks nothing and nobody in particular. please.]
Who are you? Speak.
[distantly, she's hears a raven having a fit and screaming its tiny little lungs out somewhere above.]
my crops are watered
malak keeps an eye out for him. thankfully hasn't narced on him to anyone that might want to find him. or, he worries, maybe there just... is no one. either because they don't want him anymore, or because they assume he's gone forever, or because they are... god, no. he can't bear it. as painful as it is not to know, that's his cross to bear. and nail himself to it, he's goddamn determined to do. forever, if that's what it takes. he can't go back. he can't, he can't, he can't.
anyway. just because he knows how to survive doesn't mean he's the craftiest creature in the wood. he's more than easy prey for someone like morga, who he never hears coming. malak must not even realize it. he's on the way to his fresh water supply when he's rammed into and pinned down, his own scream hoarse and ironically not dissimilar from malak's. for being such a horrible, ugly, fearsome monster, the fear in his eyes and all over his face is practically palpable. his clawed hands go up in surrender. he swallows against the speartip. his gaping mouth shows a dark tongue, an excess of sharp teeth. )
I—
( my god. that face. that voice. that ruthless presence. of course he knows her. it's obvious, the recognition. he goes slack all over, eyes widening even further. real? not real? not real, can't be real. even though there is no more hellworld, no more devil, no more illusions. he can't allow himself to believe it. he gave up trying to connect with the imagined specters of his past a long, long time ago. (but if he really doesn't believe it, why hide in the first place? hmmm.) )
Nobody. I'm... nobody. Nothing but a monster.
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anger. relief. confusion. sorrow. shock. more anger and grief for a man she never mourned. everything but fear and disgust, though... perhaps because it hasn't had a chance to sink in yet. (fear isn't likely, though. she's eaten scarier things for breakfast.)]
Don't.
[she has to force the words out through gritted teeth and around the solid lump sitting far, far back in her throat. she knows what that is too, but like every other complicated emotion she's experienced, morga ignores it.]
Don't you dare lie to me, Hrafn. I'll ask you again — who are you?
[and... you know what? even with the venom and ice laced on her tongue, the spear withdraws by a fraction. her weight eases, but she doesn't remove her boot. not yet. it's not that she's afraid for her safety, but adrenaline is one hell of a thing.]
no subject
but he just... can't. can't say it. not to her. not to—can't say her name, either. can't even think it.
instead, he curls his fingers around the spear, close to the tip. where there used to be long fingers, pale skin, a murderer's brand, there's only claws, scaly talon-like skin, blackened and bent. still, there's something familiar about the particular movement of his hands, how each finger curls one by one until he's gripping it. and about the way his lips pull back in a wince, the miserably guilty way his eyes avert. the piteousness in his rough voice. (she never had patience for that crap, but she isn't she anymore, and he isn't he and nothing is real—) )
I told you: nobody, anymore. If you were looking for someone, I'm sorry to say you haven't found him. You shouldn't be here, you... I... there's nothing here but dreams and monsters. If I close my eyes, you'll disappear, won't you? So just—
no subject
No.
[as faint as it is, it's in her voice. she's uncertain. in all her years, never has she been involved in something like this. the monsters she knew were hulking, slavering brutes concerned with eating, fighting, and breeding. living. this? oh, this was the complete opposite. for as much as he claims to be a monster, he sure doesn't look like one in her eyes.
her grip relaxes. tightens. readjusts to a different stance, one where her weight isn't behind the sharp edge of the tip. all teeth and no bite.]
I spent three days hunting a supposed beast, and I come to find out he speaks with a voice I haven't heard in months and eyes I haven't seen in just as long. I'm not leaving without answers.
no subject
( now there's a familiar expression, more or less: the curled upper lip, a signature smirk. you can almost hear the playfulness in his tone, only it's a shadow of itself now. hoarse and haggard like the rest of him, deformed. you could argue that no matter how much he changes, there's no erasing who he is. julian would disagree. but julian has been through a lot, lived in his own special circle of hell for a long time. it's hard to see past the flames when they're burning that high.
but still. those gunsteel-grey eyes follow the line of the spear up morga's arm to her face again. in spite of the grin, there's still a heavy helping of disbelief, like there's just no way his eyes totally agree with his mind. he never blinks too hard. if it's only an illusion, he... stupidly, foolishly doesn't want it to be over yet. not yet. it's just been so long. )
...Because you should. Anything familiar about me is a, a trick. It's a lie, Mo—it's a lie. You have to know that. If you're the real thing, you would. You'd know that. And you'd finish what you came here to do.
no subject
[she had a chance to finish it at the masquerade before everything went tits up, but did she take the chance? no. the one who ended up doing it... the thought leaves a sour taste in her mouth and squeezes her heart in heavy chains. no matter how awful of a person montag was, she couldn't do it. she failed him so many times in the past, so... what was one more failure on top of that? it wouldn't be the first or last time she let someone down.]
Though I'm not sure if I should be insulted or disappointed that you think I'd believe that this is a trick. A trick would be the raven I hear squawking speak in your place. A trick—
[she jerks the spear back, though not as rough as she'd like. the motion is almost gentle. or it is, up until she presses the speartip between two of his ribs. it's a bit off, but... it's the same spot she'd taken a blade in the snow. the same day the nature of whatever they have changed in that musty house in the empty village]
Was the stunt you pulled with this. Whatever you're trying to pull here? It's sloppy. My son was a better liar when he was a child.
no subject
but there were tells, he figured that out later. he just had to learn how to spot them. and eventually recognizing the obvious signs of an uncanny unreality only compounded his hopelessness, his fear and dismay. once he began to realize everything around him wasn't really what it seemed, the whole picture shattered. along with his heart. and his hope. so—consternation. searching for the signs that'll prove to him that something isn't right, trying to read between the lines like that spearpoint between his prominent ribs. too thin, all exposed. )
How do you... that trick, that—mark. I can't do it anymore. I gave it up. I gave everything up. Did he—how do you know about that?
no subject
[her expression shifts - something between an exasperated grimace and a very, very strained smile. it'd be almost comical if morga didn't have a weapon pointed down to kiss skin and feathers, though maybe that just makes it that much better. or worse. can it be both? it's probably both. jokes were never her forte, which is why she usually left that up to julian.
brushing it aside, morga shakes her head and drops her gaze to the feathers scattered across his sides. at the patches down the length of his torso, to his shoulders... and back to the spot she's "pointing" to.]
You took two blows meant for me. The second only after the fact, but if you didn't I...
[she doesn't know if she'd be standing here today. sure, she'd suffered worse injuries in the past but that had been when she had a full clan to fall back on while she healed. alone? morga probably would've died of blood loss or something else.]
no subject
except the very real sentiment that morga's recollections are stirring up in him now. his mouth falls open again, the frustrated search gone from his expression. instead there's only glassy-eyed, horror-stricken, miserable shock. where are the tells? that this is all another big, horrible lie? there aren't any. there aren't any, and nothing morga is saying is untrue. he goes so long without blinking that his eyes start to water up; when he finally does, his tears are very real, very normal tears. no inky blackness, no blood. just regular human tears. )
...I had to.
( it's all but a whisper, agonized. he exhales, then inhales again. lays his hand once again over the end of that spear like if he had a mind to he'd urge it right into his body and push it clear through to his lung, just to feel again the way it felt that day. when he took that pain away like it was his own, happily and willingly. because— )
I wanted you to be safe. It was a small price to pay to— to— no, you shouldn't be here! I don't have that power anymore! I can't protect you! I can't do anything for you—I'm not anything, I'm no one. Nothing.
no subject
only to pivot on her heel and throw it with enough force to embed it into the trunk of a tree with a guttural yell. the birds go silent, and for a good long minute the sound of their breathing is the only thing this forest hears. sometime during this, morga starts to pace to and fro. when she'd gone into these woods, this isn't what she expected. she expected... a bear or something, not...
not whatever this is.
his words echo in her ears, and each time it brings up a new hurt. she doesn't need protection. she doesn't deserve it, not after everything in her life. not when she couldn't protect her own family. her husband. her son. her clan — she was the last of the scourge, but that didn't mean she was so weak that she needed protection. it was her generation's job to protect them, not the other way around.
she can't think straight, so she just... picks a spot and starts from there.]
One. Don't you dare think about running away. I'll track you down and lash you to a tree if you try. Two. Don't ever tell me where I should and shouldn't be. Three. I don't de— need anyone to protect me! And if I did, where the hell were you?! You vanished without so much as a word!
no subject
it's only when malak lights onto the end of that spear sticking out of the tree with a quiet caw and his feathers ruffled that he does finally move. the way he sits upright is awkward. the way he moves at all is awkward. like he's rusty and badly crafted, made up of spare parts he hasn't figured out how to use all in tandem yet. it's been so damn long, and yet he never took the time to learn this body. i mean, why would he? it hardly matters anymore. )
I was... the same thing. I was protecting you. I was protecting everyone. It was the last thing I could do to be of any use to anybody. As it turns out I... still had more to give. Not now, though. I shouldn't be here, either. If I am, it means no one is safe. This could all be one big trap. You can't even begin to imagine how insidious, how vile—this is bad. This is so bad.
no subject
...I'll bite. What did we need protection from?
[of course she has suspicions after everything that'd happened over the last few months, but one can't be too certain these days.]
no subject
ah, what's the use. fear is as useless as fighting anymore. his shoulders slump with utter resignation. his whole body, his countenance, everything droops like it's being pulled toward the earth. the weight of a thousand burdens. )
Why, from the Devil, of course. Who I'm sure is laying in wait even now, waiting to strike... any minute...
( any second. but nothing happens. not even a breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. even malak seems to sit totally still and quiet, for once. just for a second. )
So long as I gave myself up, he couldn't hurt anyone. That was our arrangement. But now I'm... here.
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[a threat both empty and not. it wouldn't do a damn thing to him, she knows it, but it'd make her feel something before she died in the process. and even though the arcana doesn't show his hairy face, she still reaches behind her back to pull out the hunting knife attached to her waist. just in case he had any doubts about it being a terrible joke.]
But... I won't lie, Julian. I'm... a lot of things right now. More disappointed than angry. My son made arrangements with people, and look where that got him. The only difference between the two of you is... you said it yourself; you're here.
[alive.]
I should be grateful for that, at least.
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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. )
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and lost, and lost, and lost...
maybe he's getting old.
at this point it's hard to say. he doesn't know how long it's been, just that it's been such a slow, gradual, miserable process. not something that happened overnight. once he finally succumbed to his fate, submitted, accepted defeat, it's not like he opened his eyes and found himself covered in feathers and spines. it still took time. defeat, as he well knows, is not decided in a single loss, or even many losses. real defeat is in the weathering down of the army. it's in the process of exhausting their supplies, their morale, their constitution. this is like that. the torturously slow and horrific gradual transformation of man to monster was the process of his defeat. now he's beaten. thoroughly. it's over. he lost.
there's only one thread of hope left for him to cling to, and it's that, at least in his utter humiliation and torment, his friends are decidedly safe. his bargain made it so. that's all he's got. or so he believed.
when the door opens, he doesn't much have the will to look up. the illusions are such an old hat. the devil's visits are scarce enough that he doesn't fear them anymore. and anyone (anything) else that would come in here isn't anyone worth caring about. they're just monsters like him, that's all. he makes a croaking sort of warbling sound in the back of his throat, swishes his tankard around, and drinks from it. gestures drearily with one taloned hand at any of the chairs.
and then that voice. his chin lifts in a herky-jerky sort of way like he's a poorly oiled animatronic character, not a living thing. his eyes are just about the only recognizable feature he's got left, and even that's a stretch. gunmetal gray, but all the light's gone out of them. he expects an illusion. not... )
What is this?
( not what are you or who are you, but what is this? a trick of his eyes? a trap? a test? something made up just to hurt him? it's his countess, her shape, her voice, her commanding presence, but the design of her is all wrong in a way he knows all too well. it has to be him, doing something sick just to make him crazy. but why? he's already beaten. )
What do you mean, "now"? Stop playing games. It's over. I know already.
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( they're crueler words than she expects to fall from her lips, and it's almost like they climb out of her mouth without her even recognizing them, almost as if they're pulled from a place that should be buried, deep and dark, hidden from even those metallic grey eyes that stare at her like she's some poorly-made illusion or like she's not precisely what he's made her to be. no, it's unfair to blame him for everything--in fact she can't really blame him for anything at all. it's her choice that has her here, even if it's tempting to force him to bear more of the burden than she knows he can rightfully tolerate.
he's beaten and low and hopeless, and sharp words and biting retorts aren't the sorts of things he needs to hear now.
julian gestures, wearily, towards any of the open chairs, and while he may have no realization of what she is, there's a shiver of something that goes through the room that makes it quite apparent to the rest of the monsters scattered about that she is not the creature any of them likely want to be caught in the path of. it's not unlike her days in vesuvia, though there was a circle of space around her built from admiration and awe, there, like a flower that needed air around it to breathe; here, it's the quiver of fear, of knowing the power that she possesses even in the unassuming flick of her fingers when she moves through the room and nothing remains in her path, no one left in the line of sight.
which just leaves julian and his sad little feathers, sitting there, with chairs aplenty near him. she melts down into one of them, folds her arms to the table, and curls a finger at him. )
You made an admirable effort, Doctor Devorak, but I couldn't just leave you here to atone for everything you've never had to. You know he could have chosen to dishonor your deal at any point, and would have, naturally, and then where would we be? Where would the city be?
( the minor movement jerks his tankard away from him by magic, slides it across the table until it ends up in the coil of her finger, seemingly held up by nothing at all. )
I make my own deals. And I can get you out of this one now, easy, if you ask nicely.
( but should she? there's a faint uncertainty there, tinging in the words, but it's selfishness that has her doubting. she can't keep him here. )
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besides. it's hard to flinch when he's still staring, so stunned, completely unable to grasp what he's looking at. the devil, to be sure... right? but then why this form? why her face? why her voice? why? why? what kind of trick is this? he hasn't experienced anything like it before, and that makes it so much harder for him to reconcile. if it were more of the same old sisyphean torture, pushing that boulder of burden in the shape of his long-lost friends and family now only available to him forevermore as twisted illusions and haunted nightmares, he'd be able to shrug it off. but this—
julian's mouth hangs open, his gaze only shifting to watch the tankard she pulls toward her as if on an invisible string slide across the table. without really being conscious of it, all the feathers on his body start to stand on end, ruffled and frazzled until he's puffed up to nearly double the size he was when she came in. whether that's out of fear or a reaction to some perceived threat, even he doesn't know. )
...Countess?? Nad—
( no. no. there, you see, that's it! a deal> a trap! quickly, he shuts his mouth, shakes his head. )
No. No. I'm not falling for this again, just stop. I don't know what you're playing at, but why bother? What else do you want? I said I'd stay. Don't—use her face. Leave her out of this.
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leave her out of this, julian is demanding, and part of her wants to slam her hand into the table--granted, it would most likely go all the way through, now, splinter the wood into pieces, and the urge to do it is there, that simmering anger that seems to spark up from somewhere in her chest like it's worming its way through all the good fairness in her heart and turning it into something else. like an apple that's got a worm at its core, eating away slowly but steadily. she doesn't blame him for thinking it's a trap. and yet-- )
Could the Devil really replicate my beauty so easily?
( it's another amusement, though it's mostly hollow. )
You said you'd stay, I know. He told me this. And now it's my realm where you will stay, if that's your choice.
( he won't believe that either, will he? she glances back into the tankard again--it's full, somehow, despite knowing it wasn't just moments earlier. she lets it rest on the table, props her gold-tipped fingers around it, drums her claws into the edge. it makes a rhythmic, rattling sound against the tin, and her lips press together against the pain that still threatens to sear through her head at trying so earnestly to remember things that are lost. )
Do you remember, before all this? Those years before he died? There was a night you were buried so heavily in your research, even Asra gave up on prying you away. You hadn't slept for at least a day, maybe more, and it was the middle of the night and you... had your hands in your hair, like you were likely to pull it out, and I didn't want you to shed all of that awful red hair all over my clean library floor.
( the memory swims, jolts--then goes stable, her red gaze focused on some knot of the wood of the table as she recounts it, or maybe it's that she can't look julian in the face as she speaks. )
And we went outside, to the garden, and the fountain, and then... You remember, don't you? How would the Devil know all this? Look at me.
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yes... weeks before that fateful night. before he was sick and locked in his office. before he'd become so desperate and delirious that he'd be making the lesser of the deals he'd wind up making in his life. the library, where he constantly was, books spread over a table. papers everywhere. the parchment in front of him so full of notes that he'd taken to scribbling in the margins. an enormous tome propped up for him to pore through. candles burned down to stubs, almost too dim to read by anymore. his eyes had long since glazed over, and he hadn't turned the pages in a long time. asra gave up hours ago, said he was going to sleep. he hadn't replied. he'd just sat there staring miserably down at the book. clutching his hair. wanting to rip it out in clumps, to scream and throw things. so frustrated. so tired. hadn't slept in days. people still dying by the hundreds, the ashes from the lazaret so thick in the wind that everyone kept their windows closed even on summer nights. asra must've told nadia the state he was in. countess, i can't possibly stop now. i'm on the verge of a breakthrough. but he always said that. every time. little did he know he was nowhere close. )
I—
( his eyes close with consternation, struggling with the memory. it's only bits and pieces now. her hand on his, taking it away from his hair. stiff and sore as he stood up. being urged, practically pulled, out of the library. he utters the words as they come back to him in his mind's eye: )
I suppose I could use a little fresh air.
( his head snaps up in one sharp movement, eyes opening again. look at me. he's looking, alright. there's no way the devil would know. not unless—the way julian stares at nadia is like the moment she walked in all over again, only more horror-stricken, more agonized, because now the realization is setting in. the understanding of what he's seeing, even though he can't truly comprehend how or why he's seeing it, what's actually happened to her. she says "my realm" like she is the devil, but... oh, god. )
No. Oh no, no, no. What did he do to you?!
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he says the words and it's like they slot in where her mind glosses over; yes, he'd said it that night, yes, had relented to her mostly out of obligation, surely, but she had been pleased to take him away. even with the library being one of her own favourite places--they both needed the cool night air to finally breathe. julian had taken the whole thing to desperate lengths, with desperate measures, and that's her fault too, and that's something that she's never gotten to apologize for. probably can't ever apologize for. and that's another reason vesuvia is, truly, in better hands now, right/
because if she had just been better, had found a way to weave past all of lucio's obstacles, thrown in her path, then perhaps it all wouldn't have happened like--
julian's head jerks, rights itself like his whole neck snaps back into place again. the thought makes her want to shiver. )
It's more that you should be asking what I did to him.
( and this is probably the part where she shouldn't tell him, exactly, what happened--because there is no way that he would look at her with those soft, sad eyes and still feel anything but contempt and, especially, disgust with her, for doing it at all. her gaze goes from his face back down to the cup with her hand clamped over it, and damn it all, she decides, and brings it up to her lips.
it's--
--utterly disgusting. how does he drink this? she skids the tankard back across the table towards him with the blunt base of her palm. )
He's gone. I'm here in his place. Which begs the question, really, of where you should be, now that I'm capable of helping you.
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Wha—no! You didn't do this for me. Please tell me you didn't do this for me, that's...
( why do anything, why should she have to? and why like this? and—gone? he couldn't have broken his deal, because then wouldn't his chains have been broken, too? it's a contract, isn't it? or at least those are the lies he was told, the foolishness he believed in when he did what he did to save everybody. no, it doesn't make sense. how she can be in his place. )
You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be safe. You were all supposed to be safe. That was the deal. I don't need help, you need to go home.
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it's not that she doesn't trust him. it's not that she thinks he would try to break free of it. but it's more that she's tired of trusting the devil when he's been nothing but contrary--and well, she's solved that well enough, hasn't she? still, the anguish, the wide look of his eyes, is almost, almost too much for her to bear. or maybe it would have been, if she weren't made partly of something now that doesn't much care for anything else; it feels like stone, again, wedged in her chest. she looks at the table instead. )
Everyone is safe. You needn't worry about that.
( and the city is safe, from her inability, now--everyone is safe from that, too. )
You don't quite understand, do you?
I am home.
( she can feel it, vaguely: the pull of him, of everyone around them, the way that her hands could wrap around invisible lengths and pull at hot metal and strangle all of them under the weight of her whims. and maybe that's what he needs, then: she would reach across the table and slap him, but she doesn't want to hurt him outright, doesn't want to give in to that sort of mediocrity; she settles for her elbow on the table, her index finger twisting in the air, tightening the chains around him little by little. just a little squeeze. the kind that faust would love. ah, her heart hurts. )
Julian. I'm him, now. ( the kind of plain words she doesn't like, but they may be best suited for his drowning anguish. ) I won't be going back.