apocalyptic

          “And I don’t suppose you’re the savior sent to rescue it?” He scoffs. “Tell me, where have the fae been for the past fifteen-hundred years?” 

Jaerim tilts his head; his gaze, like a black hole, swallows light. The shadows begin to close around him. If there’s any truth to the fae’s words, any hint of possibility, then it must be in the way all bright and living things recoil from him now. 

Idle cowards, the whole lot of them. If they cared half as much as the fae claims, they’d have shown themselves when this mountain burned with tyranny and flooded with the blood of innocents. He got rid of the parasite; him alone. No one helped—not a soul bothered to consider him worthy of rescue when he was robbed of every decency Muwon could conceive to strip him of. He was a corpse in everything but spirit, locked underground where he lay for five years, having lost the ability to move after his muscles atrophied from starvation. All he could do was guess whether his eyes were open or not—he could not tell, in that darkness—and the only face he met was the wicked visage of his master, once, every year, until one day he fed him from his arm and brought him up after Jaerim had served his punishment, born from a dictatorial, arbitrary rule. Jaerim was as dumb as a newborn for months, mute from the abuse and confinement, even after he gained back the privilege to eat, to move, to witness the night sky again. 

It wasn’t an isolated occurrence. It was the common form of subjugation his late master imposed. 

Members of the council knew of Muwon’s methods. All of them, fucking cowards. It’s only until he became a monster that he entered their thoughts, but only enough to wish him dead—

Something rustles in the hydrangea bushes; a large, heavy force. Jaerim’s eyes snap to it and at once he makes contact with a disfigured face staring intently at him; two sharp, dark eyes stare through thick and bulbous eyelids nearly closed with deformity. 

The fae ventured his remarks with intention to insult; but it’s the appearance of this mutant that Jaerim’s violent nature is not prepared to endure. His fury springs to life, flamed on by resentment that the fae’s words triggered, and the nauseating memories of torture endured under his oppressor moves him like an instinct to fight back, to defend the land; the peace he snatched from the dead tyrant. 

          He strikes in a blink. SQUELCH. His hand pierces through the damned creature’s chest, though he does not find the heart. Jaerim rips out a chunk of meat. The mutant howls like a wild beast, worse than a lycan; its dumb, shrill screams incohesive, like it does not understand its own pain; or that it’s even alive. Jaerim gets a good look at it here: there’s no doubt there’s something human about it, an essence perhaps not mortal, but it’s as if someone took the body parts of men and stitched them together. There is no soul, no spirit in its empty gaze, even as it wails in pain. 

With another strike, Jaerim pierces through its throat. It gurgles violently and falls to its knees. He shoves it instinctively, and when it hits the ground, he kicks its head in with a firm stomp. He stares at the convulsing, dying creature in utter stillness. His heart, if it could beat, would be pounding; as Jaerim watches it convulse like a worm, his spirit agonizes over the sorry state of its existence. He can feel it. This creature was not meant to be alive—not meant to exist. A flash of pity, perhaps, is what freezes him in place. 

The mutant twitches as Jaerim dislodges his foot from its skull and turns sharply toward the fae. A fresh swell of rage rises in him; his eyes lock on to the intruder with the pits of hell burning behind them.

alozial has heard the stories; all the fae have heard the stories. the battles, the sacrifices, the destruction. they’d been close to extinction before retreating to the otherworld, the threats overwhelming. and with most of the elder fae gone, not only had they become a minority; they’d become a powerless minority at that. acting from the shadows, a few at a time. 

since then, much of the forest had become a battlefield; a warzone between bloodthirsty monsters. in their condition, and with their numbers? impossible to look after. little by little, the fae had begun to nurture the forest back to health, barring a few areas. alozial had been part of a team too, when he’d first come here. excited to prove himself and nurse another part of the forest back to health. once he'd return to the otherworld, he was sure to be treated as royalty.

but he’d not been able to prove much before they’d snatched him and locked him up. he remembers the cage in which he’d awoken first; cold, hard and suffocating. he remembers, too, the mutilated faces that had looked at him that day, their eyes dull and empty, their features distorted. as time went on came the new faces: scared, vicious; lost. none that had looked like him; all that had felt like him. 

by the third week, he’d been too drugged up to think at all, his pain numbed into nothingness. it’s the only reason he’d been able to withstand the excruciating pain of having his wings clipped (and thus, his powers taken). 

another century, another enemy. 

so, no, he hadn’t been sent here to 'save the forest'— they’d need a complete army of ancient fae to achieve that. what an absolutely foolish insinuation, the fae thinks. but then, it’d be equally as foolish of him to expect otherwise. after all, the vampire must have been dead for quite some time. its organs have stopped working, its heart is no longer beating, and clearly, its last brain cells have withered away as well.

but its other senses seem to be working just fine. jaerim locks eyes with the creature before alozial himself gets the chance to feel a moment of reprieve, however fleeting— the vampire doesn’t even grant him that much. the mutant has been reduced to something akin to a revolting pile of rotten remains. alozial doesn’t even deign to look down at it, his eyes still locked on the vampire. partially, because there is no need for him to face such an upsetting sight; the violent sounds had been enough to create a vivid image in his head. and partially, because it would be unwise to do so much as blink in the presence of this threat— a blink was all it had taken for the other creature to meet his end, too. 

it’s not the unnecessarily vile display of brutality that has put him on edge, nor the fact that one of the mutants had just been dealt with like a ragdoll. 

it’s how fast everything had happened, and the very real possibility that this could be his own fate next. trying to run would be foolish; he’d only turn himself into a prey— and not a very fast prey at that. relatively speaking.

alozial doesn’t flinch as the vampire seemingly tries to skin him alive, with nothing but the burning wrath from his gaze. the fae stands tall and composed, but unusually quiet; calculating. jaerim’s beyond furious, but if his sole desire were to kill him, he could’ve clearly done so already. which means that something is keeping him from doing just that, and it’s not hard to figure out what that is. 

jaerim’s curiosity must be insufferable for it to keep the man’s bloodlust at bay, and let alozial be the only one (that jaerim’s aware of) capable of satisfying it. unfortunately, this realisation immediately feeds into the fae’s arrogance. 

he stumbles into the en suite with a hum , fingers fluttering over various toiletries , skincare products , and hair styling tools. his and hers sinks? the husband angle was starting to be pretty convincing , but he swore off those kinds of rendezvous a long while ago ( his healing time has increased dramatically as the years passed , it's just not worth the hassle of fighting off someone's spouse ). " ha. ha. ha. giving yourself a good laugh? there's really no details to share. i went to a party. stayed at said party. and i am now post-party and ..."

dazed and confused. he swipes her into a corner and opens his gps app -- the street name is pretty familiar. business district. wouldn't have been the first time he's woken up in a random penthouse. what was that party for anyway? business or pleasure? a mix of both? he runs through the mental list of recent mergers , acquisitions , money laundering dissolutions ... hmmm , nope , he's got nada.

simon loses his train of thought further at the mention of -- "girlfriend? who? oh! are you talking about emma?" it should be noted for the record that he is referring to a woman named erica. he likes to say that he ... enjoys? her? presence? only slightly more than he would her absence , though. the two are currently on the off-again with the likelihood of the on-again being pretty low and his object impermanence has already begun to kick in.

"no can do. she's on vacation in italy - no , santorini? can't remember. either way , all she would do is call a ride share and i could really use a personalized touch." and someone sober enough to think quickly on their feet should the doorman start asking questions. the only other feasible option given the circumstances would be his brother , which --

well , he's laughing hysterically at even the thought.

to the point of tears.

still laughing.

hilarity.

anyway.

“a good laugh? gods, i wish. even your face is too tragic to laugh at,” she flatly counters simon’s accusation; not because she feels the need to defend herself, but to serve him a warning instead. “and your lack of an interesting story is starting to bore me.” to add to her point, grace feigns a yawn, not bothering to make it seem convincing.

even as the man clumsily finds his way through the unfamiliar surroundings, he doesn’t care to let her take a proper look around the room, too. in other words, his big head is blocking everything worth sticking around for. 

if he doesn't want her disconnecting the line, simon had better start putting in some proper effort.

“i have no idea who emma is.” she does— petty little details are somehow precisely the sort of details that her brain loves to remember. “my bad. i must have just messaged the wrong ex, then.” 

even if she had (and it wouldn’t be beyond her to go as low to stir some trouble for her own amusement), there would be absolutely no chance of any of his (ex)-girlfriends taking her seriously. ever. and that’s if they hadn’t preemptively blocked her number. she isn’t sure if those particular incidents are the work of simon himself or one of his friends, and neither option would surprise her. 

but whatever vague details simon does provide her with are of absolutely no interest to her. less of the girlfriend’s whereabouts, and more of the situation he was currently trying to deal with. personalized touch? sure, she could give him that much, though it probably wouldn’t be the type of personal touch he was referring to. 

by the time simon finally catches her interest again, grace had already assumed he must be going crazy. from the looks of it, and now the sound of it, too. but he should’ve known better than to tempt her, because she doesn’t skip a beat before taking him up on his offer.

“get on your knees then,” she says, all serious and commanding. “beg. convince me.” 

CLOSED STARTER ― @acatalepsii.

               THE ORDAINED DAY OF THE HUNT ARRIVES WITH A RESPLENDENT CLEAR SKY. A gentle breeze welcomes Sangil when he leaves his estate, the chill of the night lifting with the dawn. His boots thud quietly against the flagstones beneath his feet, cloak billowing softly behind. His hair, still damp from a bath, is half-up, held together with a thin leather strap wrapped into a small knot at the back of his head. From it, a small silver charm hangs in the shape of an arrowhead. Morning birds chirp and sing among the susurration of the foliage as he makes his way towards the main courtyard, crossing small stone bridges where beneath a narrow river cuts across acres of land upon which the Kang territory is built, offering fresh water fish to its residents and shallow streams for household chores. 

The winding streets eventually lead him to a tall gate where two guards stand sentinel. Neither bother him as he enters the courtyard, uttering ‘good morning’ through a lazy yawn which they respond to by politely bowing. As much as Sangil tries to stay away from the central estate, he’s instantly recognized as a Kang, therefore everyone defaults to treating him with extreme decorum. Honestly, this is why he prefers the town square. 

The courtyard is wide, with an open space in the center flanked at each corner by grotesque statues of stone lions that Sangil’s always thought look a little evil; their menacing faces either grinning or roaring, he can’t tell. These statues divide the path into four like a compass, followed by thinner stone pedestals for bronze cast iron fire-pits that have since been replaced by gas lamps. A lamplighter is in the process of turning these off as the faint light of the rising sun begins illuminating the blue sky above. He turns to Sangil, once again bows politely, then goes on about his work. With a small sigh, Sangil turns down the right path when he reaches the center, going toward the armory where he’s meant to meet up with his squad. 

His squad and Jiwon. 

He honestly has to hand it to Jisung for calculating the exact scenario no one wants to be in. When he was summoned here a week ago to be briefed on the upcoming hunt by Kang Jisung himself, Sangil immediately ran to get drunk at the tavern. Forget the fact that Jiwon is barely recuperated, that he has just enough strength back to justify sending him on a hunt. It’s a cruel idea only Kang Jisung could conceive of with the express purpose of punishing his son’s shortcomings. But it’s something he’s been doing for well over a decade, now. 

It’s that he’s joining Sangil’s squad that left all of them perplexed. Sangil tried his best not to show it, but he’s certain that he looked at Kang Jisung like he was wearing his head backwards for a split second when he delivered the news. Afterwards, the meeting went on as usual, for Sangil dared not question him openly, but the look he exchanged with Jiwon filled him with exhaustion and dread for a hunt that was scheduled relatively in advance, that would’ve been no problem had it just been Sangil and his squad. It’s not his cousin’s fault for getting injured, no matter how hard Jisung tries to belittle him for it, but Jiwon—even if Sangil doesn’t hate him, even if he still holds on to the image of a young passionate boy stuck with a shitty father that he once had of him—... Jiwon is still awful to be around, and he doesn’t make it any easier for the people around him. 

The two didn’t talk afterwards, they still haven’t talked since, and they’ve been standing on such rocky waters ever since Sangil dragged a half-dead Jiwon to the Blackwood Hospital and he repaid him by telling him he wished he’d died instead of Sun, and Sun’s not even dead. That’s how tiresome Jiwon’s mental state is at the moment. Any compassion Sangil extends is met with a firm slap to the face, leaving absolutely no room for reconciliation. His cousin's paranoia has grown into a bloated, ugly mess.

So when Jisung, ever the engineer, contrived of the perfect set of circumstances to reduce them to their ranks by reminding one that his position can still be taken under his feet, and the other that he’s catching on to his intentional, subsequent fuck-ups… Well, they’re left a little dumbfounded. 

“Morning!” 

He’s dragged out of his thoughts by a bright, cheerful voice. Petra is grinning at him from beyond the threshold of the armory, poking her head out to wave at him. 

“Wow, noticed me last second. Are you sure you’re not too hungover for this?” She steps out of the way as Sangil enters. He gives her a tired smile. 

“Morning,” he mumbles, suppressing another yawn. He didn’t drink at all last night. 

Petra was the first to arrive, so Sangil discovers as he glances around inside before he takes a seat at the table in the center, nodding towards the armory keeper who bows in turn behind the tall wooden clerk desk. Petra’s already fiddling with her crossbow, carefully waxing the taut string as if the keeper doesn’t handle all of this for them when they surrender their weapons for maintenance. 

Immediately, Sangil starts to doze off with his feet propped atop the table while he leans his weight on the chair’s hind-legs, pulling his hood over his face to block out the lamplight. Petra clicks her tongue at him. Tsk, tsk. She doesn’t bother him though, used to his cat-like languidness, so she retakes her seat and moves on from her crossbow to wipe down a quiver of bolts. 

They wait for the rest of the squad to arrive in peaceful silence.

The squad and Jiwon.

he’s still furious over the fact that sangil, like a hypocrite, went behind his back in order to reclaim his position (even though he knows it’s ultimately his father’s decision). 

he’s still embarrassed about failing to take down a newborn lycan and getting absolutely wrecked in the process (even though that blame should fall on sky for distracting and betraying him). 

and besides that, he’s still hurt, tired, frustrated, annoyed, and simply not in the mood to deal with anyone at all—least of all sangil and his group of idiots. 

it’s not that jiwon has never crossed paths with these people before; among the hunters, there isn’t anyone whose name he doesn’t know. if he plans on following in his father’s footsteps one day, that’s about the very least he should start with. he’ll need to know who he’s dealing with and what their strengths are, and whether their ideals truly align with the ideals of the clan. besides, as with sangil, he doesn’t quite trust their loyalty enough to disregard them completely. 

jiwon’s been on hunts with kev before, back when sangil and him would still train together. a valuable asset on their prolonged hunting trips, he’d concede, but only because he remembers never having to go hungry. a feat that had seemed far more impressive back when they were children and those meals had been the highlight of their stakeouts. at present, jiwon would urge kev to focus on improving his hunting skills, rather than his cooking skills. 

he remembers jacob, too, but only because of how unremarkable the man had been. quiet, boring, always sticking to himself. if the man’s ever had an opinion of his own, jiwon does not recall him voicing it out loud. rika doesn’t either, but she must be the only one in sangil’s squad he’d even consider bringing along. not because of her pleasant disposition, but because rika knows how to get things done quickly, quietly and effectively. 

the last addition— already getting on his nerves as soon as she greets him— she must be the one who annoys him the most. bright, eager and young— as young as his own little sister, and equally as enthusiastic. there’s no reason for her to be joining any hunts whatsoever, especially not with someone who commits to nothing and half-asses everything. like jiyeon, petra should be spending her time helping out at the hospital, not putting herself in life-threatening situations. sangil’s clearly just accepted whomever offered to join his squad, and jiwon has to refrain from not immediately ordering her to fall back. 

not his hunt, not his decision to make. just for today, he’ll have to remember that first. 

but even a simple task (keeping his mouth shut) is proving to be difficult, when his cousin is already (still?) half-asleep in his chair, probably sleeping off yet another hangover. carelessly leaning on just two legs of the chair (and inviting jiwon to kick those out from under him as well). 

but he can’t. he can’t disrespect the leader of their hunt. even if his name is kang jiwon, and even if he really, really wants to. 

his eyes must betray him after having stared at the chair so intensely; the young female seems to read his mind before jiwon can speak up for himself. “don’t worry— he’s not sleeping!”  

jiwon makes a face at her in turn, as if to say: who asked? who cares? if he'd chosen to give in to his urges and wake sangil up the hard way, that would've been entirely his prerogative.

he can’t get himself to properly greet sangil or anyone else, nor does he bother to hide the disdain in his voice. 

i've been searching for a trail to follow again... take me back to the night we met.

[ ✉ SMS : DO NOT ANSWER ]

oh you'd be bored to tears your life reduced to a vapid wasteland without the gift of my presence you're welcome truly if y

his phone begins to ring and cuts him short - and honestly , he's a little disappointed about that.

usually grace has the decency to allow him to wax a little poetic about his inner light shining brightly and bringing joy and bewilderment to ... to ... what was he even talking about again? something , something , world peace -- whatever , doesn't matter , he's too hungover to hold onto the train of thought anyway.

"that's a funny way of asking me what i'm wearing , but i'll take it." unfortunately , it's hard to be cheeky when your throat sounds as if you've swallowed a pound of rusty nails whole. he coughs into his -- someone's -- sleeve , letting his cheek rest against the soothing fabric with a sigh.

again, it’s her curiosity that keeps grace from disconnecting the call. that, and the fact that simon sounds as though he must be suffering the horrible consequences of his own actions. music to her ears, this is. she doesn’t even feel the need to curse at him (for the moment), squinting at the screen to get a better look at… whatever is going on at the other end of the line. 

see— now she’s paying attention. 

“only you could manage to make those robes look ugly,” grace notes distractedly, barely even looking at the man she’s insulting. “whose place is that, anyway? do they know you’re there?” 

her face lights up then, as if she’s just figured it all out, and she gasps in delight. “oohhh, okay— should i call the police, or should i call her husband? i'm in a good mood today, so it's your pick.”    

it’s a bluff, though not one that she’s afraid to follow up on. either way, simon’s screwed. otherwise, he wouldn’t have contacted her. the only reason she hasn’t called yet is because she won’t be there to witness the drama. for now. she completely dismisses his demand by ignoring it (and talking over him). 

He stands eerily still, and though he’s mostly turned away from her, she catches sight of his strained expression that, if she had more time, would bring forth a frantic apology. The intensity with which he regards the vase is almost enough to compel her to stop, but something stronger moves her to swing the door open and escape the room. She’ll make amends later; Angus’ patience and levelheadedness is a whole legion beyond the person she’s seeking to address first. 

          Out in the hallway, Aylin has the sense to stay a few paces behind Max, and to keep her wits about her so as to not be caught off-guard by another flying rock. She watches her backside with pleading eyes, as if her gaze alone could beseech her to stop avoiding her. They’ve been in this exact scenario countless times—well, even worse—Aylin recalls getting on her knees to beg Max to calm down, once, when she had hurled a particularly targeted remark about her father with a fierce desire to upset and offend her. She had been seeking revenge for something or other, no doubt. For the life of her, Aylin cannot recall why. They’ve had so many fights, she can scarcely remember what started any of them. 

Still, Max has never injured her despite the ample times she nearly has, or threatened to, and Aylin has a sixth sense to tell her how far she can cross the line before Max tries to kill her. She cannot deny that a part of her feels more alive than she has for the past handful of months—it’s frankly disgraceful how much validation she’s instantly received from Max’s reaction. Her mere presence is enough to send her off like a wild thing; Aylin doubts anyone has the same effect on Max as she does. 

          “Wait!”

          It occurs to her then that Max has the ability to manifest rocks and fling them toward her at will, and that she tried to, and that Aylin hasn’t retorted in a like manner. If Max will use her divine gifts without reservation, then by all means, Aylin should, too. 

She presses her lips together in her newfound commitment, willing forth the gifts of her mother. The swell of power is in her throat, burning with command, and when it breaks free, her voice is like a siren call: sweet like a lover, hopelessly alluring, and in every way compelling. 

what’s even more frustrating is that aylin’s desperation almost manages to trick max into feeling a sick sense of satisfaction. or worse than that— relief. as if this would be a good thing; as if aylin isn’t a master manipulator at her core. she may be the one chasing after max, but she’d be a fool to believe that somehow grants her the upper hand. 

so when aylin tells her to wait, max does the exact opposite. her strides are long and fast, not quite running, but not quite walking, either. had it been anyone else, she would’ve laughed at the absolute embarrassment of chasing after someone who clearly wants nothing to do with you. in aylin’s case, it isn’t that easy. as much as max would like to turn around and enjoy letting her beg for it, she knows it’ll be only a matter of time before the roles will be reversed. aylin will find a way to weasel her way back into her life, manipulate her feelings, and mess with her head another time. the only way not to fall for it is to not engage with her— even if that means having to deny herself a sweet moment of gratification. 

her mind’s been set: don’t be tempted, just keep walking. and yet, her body seems unwilling to obey her commands. slowing down, wondering, considering. it takes her an embarrassingly long moment to understand what’s happening: by now, she should have anticipated it. 

it may seem cowardly, not looking directly at aylin— max would agree, if she weren’t so aware of those damned powers of her. thus, she feels only mild humiliation as she covers her ears before turning around, her anger still raging through her veins. 

won’t you at least look at me? 

the words echo in her head; sweet, desperate, pleading. as if she’s just a helpless little girl, and not some twisted, mind-controlling lunatic. she’s got half the mind to close her eyes, too, but that would only make her look weak (as opposed to stupid; a battle between two evils, in which max would prefer to look the latter). 

but if she can’t walk away from this threat, the best way to fight it would be to threaten it in turn. and if walking away isn’t an option, then the next best thing would be to face it directly. it takes her only a few, angry strides to stand in front of the other. looking through her, not at her. “try that again and see what happens— there are no consequences here.” or there are, but none that concern her. 

what’s more concerning is the immediate effect of standing so close to the other. maxine tries her best to keep her breathing shallow and her senses suppressed, but there is no resisting the allure that naturally radiates from aylin— from all of aphrodite’s children, to be exact. it’s not as if aylin is anything special in that aspect. she’s just got to remind herself that fighting their seduction is yet another mental battle to be dealt with. 

“go on,” she taunts, taking one slow, ominous step in aylin's direction, “mess with my head again.”

another step.

Zendaya

He considers this grim fate with his sharp face set in a calm, ruminant expression. It’s almost as if he were at a butcher’s stand deciding how to prepare a slab of meat before he decides which cut to purchase. He really could make use of the old pits that have gone vacant for nearly two centuries, but then, what have his kindred done for him recently, other than fail at their duties? If anything, he should be throwing them below the earth. 

And just like that, Jaerim decides the fae’s fate on a whim. It pleases him to act humanely, after all; he used to fight for this right when he was still collared to Muwon’s tyrannous chain.

Funny, that. 

     “Jaerim,” a handsomely cordial smile flashes on his face. Jaerim’s always been curious about the fae, though he doesn’t suppose this one will let him get close. Perhaps it’s all for the best that he doesn’t get lured in, if that’s really what they do. In a life as long as his, novelty is hard to come by. Shame.

     “I own this land, as it is. And as it is, you’ve taken the freedom to move in.” He lifts his eyes to the trunks of the redwoods and sycamores in the surrounding plains, the hydrangea bushes with purple bulbs and the tiny heads of white abelia’s, the pit of ivy home to countless crawling insects. Jaerim has spent the last five centuries on this mountain; he’s older than some of these trees, and like them, he stands sentinel over the land. 

     “I won’t deal with the predators you invite with your mere presence.” Jaerim’s tone becomes apathetic, his gaze cold. For as long as Adeline resides on Mount Son, nothing—no one—will jeopardize her peace and safety. He makes sure of that. 

all of this registers subconsciously in the back of his mind. none of it is new, or unusual, except for the one thing that does stand out to him: not the scent of what is there, but the scent of what is not. and what isn’t there, is the scent of a particular one-legged human. which can only mean one thing, and confirms what he’d already long since suspected: 

silas isn’t coming. 

he isn’t anywhere near, nor on his way, nor does he seem to be at all concerned about this place or alozial himself. 

fine, then. maybe he should just take the man’s remaining leg the next time he does care to show his face. silas has got no need for any legs, anyway, if he’s going to be this unreliable. 

it’s the mention of another name that interrupts both the silence and his thoughts, though it takes him a moment to register it as the vampire’s own name. mostly, because he doesn’t remember asking (not for a name, that is). disdain flashes in his eyes, as if the mere idea of this introduction is somehow offensive to him. no more or less so than the claims that follow— only because those are ridiculous enough to be laughed at. he would laugh, if he thought it was at all funny. 

“this land was never yours to claim,” alozial counters coolly. there’s a newfound sense of authority to his words, though he isn’t quite confident enough to lower his hands. just in case. “the earth does not belong to you, the wildlife fears you, and the plants won’t even bloom.” it’s unfortunate he doesn’t still have his powers, alozial thinks— he would’ve liked to see jaerim get swallowed by a casket of vines. thorny, so they could rip his flesh apart and use his leftovers as fetilizer (then again, that might only end up poisoning the lands). 

if he still had his powers, this time, too, he could have laughed at the audacity of jaerim’s command. he would’ve been less offended if he’d had the actual means to get rid of this intruder. but alas, his position is not quite as favorable. 

and yet, his anger overwhelms his fear. 

“this forest has been under the protection of the fae since it grew its first roots— it’s your own kind that has been disrupting the harmony.” his gaze bores straight through the vampire, the ghost image of the forest behind burning in alozial’s head. one vine, one single vine, would be enough to restrain him; to strangle him. the desire to do so burns with a heated intensity, as if sheer willpower will miraculously help him succeed. it’s hard to decide whether to die or be humiliated. 

but it’s not jaerim’s place to tell him to leave— alozial wants to tell him this, not so politely. he would have, if, if, if. instead, he simply, slowly shakes his head. 

CLOSED STARTER ― @acatalepsii.

               ANGUS LEADS HER THROUGH AN OLD, TOWERING GATE AT THE EDGE OF THE PROPERTY. Aylin’s gaze follows the trail of the grey cobblestone path that stretches towards a jutting mansion in the distance, flanked every dozen or so feet by a pair of mostly decrepit stone sculptures. As they come by one, Aylin gets a closer look and notes the large ornament is in the shape of a vase sat atop a platform, where moss is clinging to the cracks on the stone and from the top, some type of flowering vine is spilling out of the vase, dangling over the overgrown grass below. Angus is going on about a barrier that’s guarding the property, something about how he and his brother nearly died setting it up, but Aylin is distracted by the patches of wildflowers growing further beyond the path, and the bits of weed and dandelions growing between the cobbles at her feet. Insects hum dreamily about some of the plants, and robins sing high overhead, and the blue sky shines cloudless above them. 

          “How big is this place?” She interrupts her host. 

Angus looks irked for a split moment, pressing his lips into a thin line, but gracefully goes on to explain how the property includes some of the craggy hills in the west, the large lake in the north, and part of the woods toward the east. It is… Impressive, she decides, and sees Angus a little differently now that she’s witnessing the full scope of his wealth. She had always waved away his polite manners—overly sophisticated, she’d thought, must be making up for something—and assumed Angus just thought very well of himself. Now, she understands why Angus always felt out of touch at the university. He apparently grew up like a prince. If she had this type of upbringing, she thinks with some envy, she would no doubt stick out among the plebs, even more than she does now.

          “Just so you know, you’ll have a personal room, but there might come a point where you share that space. We’re not at full capacity at the moment, however, that could change soon.” He explains, and already Aylin plans to make sure that never happens, for as long as she’ll be staying. She gives him a very sensible nod. 

          Angus takes her on a short tour of the mansion, pointing out the important, basic commodities, and shows her everything else in a shallow, cursory manner. He’s clearly disinterested in being a tour guide of his own home, and seems to be evading any questions regarding his childhood, for he moves on from each wing of the mansion at dizzying speed by the time he leaves her in her new room. 

          “Explore at your own leisure. I’ll leave you to it.” Is the last thing he tells her before disappearing at the end of the hallway.

Aylin heaves a small sigh, catching her breath, while she takes in her new bedchambers. There’s a queen-sized bed in the center of the room with fresh blankets and bedsheets folded on the edge of the mattress, and beside it is a large wooden wardrobe towering over the rest of the furniture in the room. There’s also a desk looking out one of the windows—she can see some of the hills from here, poking out behind the elm trees where the woodland starts—and a long, tall bookshelf with a few ornaments and decor already displayed on its shelves. Her hand trails along the polished oak, satisfied with the lodgings. 

          It’s not until three hours later, when the clock strikes 1PM, that she emerges from her room after having unpacked most of her luggage. The hallway is empty, and she wonders if everyone is at training while she pokes her head out from the hallway into some overly furnished common room and sees that it’s empty too. Well, she might as well familiarize herself with the grounds. Aylin wanders into another hallway that leads to the main hall, where she ascends the grand staircase to the third floor. She decides that she’ll take her time mapping out the mansion, top to bottom, seeing as Angus left her with nothing to do for the rest of the day, and so she sets herself to it in earnest. She finds a gallery room displaying paintings of Greek origin on the wall, and a marble bust statue of a woman at the center of the room. ‘Hecate’, it reads on the plaque, and Aylin raises an impressed eyebrow before she moves on to the next room. 

When she opens the door, she realizes she’s on the upper floor of a library. There are rows of bookshelves surrounding the upper level of the room, though Aylin doesn’t have time to note anything else. Below, in the center of the room, she spots Angus talking in front of a small circle of people. They’re facing away from her, but Angus, who is facing them, spots her immediately. They make eye-contact when he glances up. Aylin walks towards the railing with a tilt of her head. He doesn’t interrupt himself to acknowledge her. Instead, he finishes speaking to the people sitting before him in a semi-circle, and soon the scene seems clear to Aylin. He’s instructing them. 

So, this is where he ran off to. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised, but she quickly supposes that it suits Angus to be a teacher. He had always buried himself in his studies. It seemed that the entire Hecate dormitory was far more academically involved than others, given most of its students weren’t involved in sports or long hours of martial training. Or maybe she just has that impression because most of them slept through a good chunk of the day, so she only bumped into them during class. 

          “—Aylin,” Her name pulls her from her thoughts, and she suddenly feels self-conscious as the people in front of Angus start turning around to look at her when he finally addresses her presence. She smiles. The desire to make a good first impression burns in her stomach. 

          “Class just ended, but lunch is starting to be served in the dining room. She’ll be joining us in earnest tomorrow, so—” Angus makes a vague motion with his hand before he sighs and turns around. With some mortification, Aylin realizes that it was his attempt at introducing her to the group. Christ, he gave up half-way. She mentally curses him as he begins packing up his books, and just as she’s preparing to descend the spiral staircase, the cause of his hasty retreat makes itself known. Aylin locks eyes with Max and her breath gets caught in her throat. 

Max.

She knew she was going to be here, but the sight of her still makes her freeze. She’s temporarily paralyzed. She can feel Max’s scorn from here, the dark way her eyes narrow, the pure hostility that suddenly fills the room. It’s been a while since she felt this overwhelmingly negative energy. It’s suffocating.

Aylin takes a small, controlled breath. 

She can’t shrink under Max’s contempt. She’s moved on, grown, and changed over the course of the almost year they’ve been apart. And she has a lot to prove. Aylin waits until Max starts to leave to descend the stairs. She rushes towards her, trying to get her attention without making a scene in front of everyone else. 

besides, her father is the ruler of the underworld, one of the three most powerful gods out there. none of these people—not angus, nor the other students in the room—could ever hope to measure up to her (nor their parents to her father). even if angus weren’t such a poor lecturer, it still wouldn’t make any sense for him to teach her. it’s like having a child explain to an adult how to take care of their taxes: absolutely useless. 

but voicing her complaints will get her sent out of the class and back to the garden. so, maxine tries her best to keep her mouth shut and only mock that pretentious voice inside of her head. 

it’s easy to feign her interest, too— chin resting inside of her palm, eyes focused on the man’s face, and the occasional distracted mumbling to herself as she appears to be making a mental note. that’s all it takes for angus to believe she’s actually paying attention (nevermind the amount of times she’s rolled her eyes at him behind his back).

she would’ve rather spent the hour out on the training grounds, where andreas could’ve actually taught her a thing or two. well, perhaps not taught her anything, but at least he could have given her a bit of a challenge. the best she can say for angus is that the past hour has allowed her to zone out for a bit and rest up; enough so that she’d fully missed the class coming to an end. 

enough so, that she must have not heard the man correctly. there is no reason for that name to follow her here, even less so for angus to use it in his classes. no word that remotely sounds like it, either, so her mind must have really, truly, sincerely wandered off elsewhere.

still, her body responds on instinct, as if it has somehow missed all warning signs and has now been forced into immediate action. it tenses up, ready to shield itself from the impending danger. jaw tight, fingers curled into her palms. she would’ve been wise not to look directly into her direction, but it is the one thing she cannot stop herself from doing so. 

( and it’s hard to understand how she could’ve missed aylin's entrance in the first place, when her scent is suddenly everywhere. subtle, yet somehow prominent. light, yet suffocating. )

for a moment, max fails to rip her gaze away, as if disbelieving her own eyes. because there is no way that the person standing up there is truly who she thinks it is. if it were, surely someone would’ve warned her beforehand. someone would’ve cared for the peace of their little makeshift camp, and not risked starting a war. 

angus— and not just angus, his idiot brother, too, and the rest of the camp— they couldn’t possibly be unaware of their tumultuous past. but her teacher doesn’t seem to be the least bit surprised by her entrance, so he must have known aylin was coming and simply 'forgotten' to warn her beforehand (or ask for her opinion). his cowardly attempt at rushing off would’ve confirmed maxine’s suspicions, if she had at all been paying attention to him. but her gaze remains on aylin, her anger all-consuming, her intentions murderous. 

judging from the lack of genuine surprise, max is almost certain that she herself had been the only one not briefed in advance. her anger flares; some fist-sized rock soars through the air. it ominously hovers behind the newcomer— maxine vividly imagines it hitting her temple and knocking her down the stairs. that’d solve the problem and teach all these morons a lesson. it’s not her fault that angus doesn’t have the qualifications to teach her appropriately and improve her aim.

it’d be easy. quick. 

maxine considers it, taking momentarily solace in the comfort of her own powers. 

aylin moves before she’s made up her mind. towards her, not in the opposite direction. the rock crashes into some old vase instead, noisily breaking apart as it hits the ground. angus should be grateful— blood would’ve been harder to clean, and a body is a hassle to take care of, too. 

whatever aylin’s intentions are, max knows better than to stick around and let her speak. fuck aphrodite, and fuck all her children, too. 

there’s multiple pairs of eyes on her as she jumps back onto her feet and makes for the exit, crashing another vase on her way out. she doesn’t even grant aylin the pleasure of telling her to fuck off, but instead raises her hand and curtly dismisses her with one very simple, universal gesture.

starter for @acatalepsii | west of nowhere.

Simon makes an attempt to retrace his steps through a splitting headache. The car , the hotel , the hotel bar , the next bar , the next bar after that - and nothing. The tape stops. It had been a while since his last bender , but this? This was ridiculous. He stumbles to edge of the - Christ. Cell? "Hey," he calls to the circle of desk warmers huddled around a soggy , supermarket birthday cake. "Hello." Nothing. "Can someone tell me when I got here?" For a moment he begins to question his own existence. Am I dead? "Isn't it the law that I get a phone call?" That seems to get someone moving.

He's wondering how he's fallen into this predicament. Again.

Carelessness - would be his father's ( "father's" ) answer. His hand hovers over the keypad , contemplating. His brother , the lesser of many evils and one whose shit eating grin would have him doing twenty to life in this drunk tank if the bastard even breathed in his vicinity. There was always her. If only he could remember her number , filed away somewhere under a contact listed ( affectionately ) FUCK NO with a vulgar emoji. He's distracted by that familiar feeling of eyes boring into the back of his neck , and lowers the landline to his shoulder.

"Listen , I - " Don't belong here. They've heard it all before. Most likely from his own lips - Well , maybe not this particular officer. Simon's a café regular , just not on this particular shift. Had it been the usual night crew of part-time bouncers and shopping mall security guards he would have been able to buy his way out by now. 3 minutes , the cop barks , eager to return to his slice. "3 minutes. Right." 3 minutes to concoct an escape plan. How long would it reasonably take to dig his way out with a spoon? "Can I just have my phone for a second?" 2 minutes.

"Fucking A - " he grumbles under his breath, punching in the one number he could remember.

the letters are bright and taunting as they flash across his screen, casting a dull red glow over his face. a bit of an eerie sight, considering the lack of illumination in the rest of his room. it’d been hours since the sun had set— hours since the last few rays of light had tried their best not to make the place look like a desolate cave. 

its one occupant? stuck in his chair for even longer than that, unmoving. his eyes had been so glued to the screen that he’d lost all track of time, let alone cared to turn on the lights in his room. he’d ignored the numb feeling in his legs, his hunger, but most importantly— ignored the screen of his own phone. 

his parents, telling him to come and help at the restaurant (‘it’s your day off, after all’). his sister, telling him to stop ignoring their parents. repeatedly. some girl simon had tried to set him up with a few days ago, and then also the lack of messages from simon himself. 

there’s no reason for him to let it bother him so much, so there’s no reason for kade to send him another text. it’s not as if it’s the first time simon’s ignored him for hours; it’s not even the first time this week, despite claiming to be his best friend. of course, this could’ve been avoided, if only kade hadn't refused to tag along for a few drinks that night (though that had less to do with simon, and more so with the company he’d be keeping. not worth it.). 

it’s easy to channel all this frustration elsewhere, too: none of his competitive games had run smoothly today (not his fault); he’d gotten plenty of opportunity to air his grievances at some strangers in the chat. 

useless teammates, all of them. 

insults that are vocalised not a moment later, when an inevitable ban prevents him from typing another word or joining another game. and how ironic, that it is this specific moment in which his phone lights up again; an unknown caller id, though not one that kade fails to recognise. this, too, is not the first time he’s received a call from the same number. 

he could ignore it. it’s late enough for him to pretend to be sleeping. and even if it wasn’t, ignoring the call shouldn’t require an excuse. there’s no need for him to pick up. 

he shouldn’t pick up. 

simon’s voice sounds, and his heart rushes. angrily. he could still just hang up without a word. in theory. if he wasn’t hao kade, and this wasn’t kang fucking simon. 

“if it’s an emergency, there’s other numbers for you to call.” (i could’ve had an emergency, and if my life had depended on you, i would be dead by now.) 

there’s no need to ask simon if he’s fine: if he wasn’t, this would’ve been a very different conversation. 

oh , that's right. he's done it again. and outsourcing his brainpower always felt like the more practical option.

[ ✉ SMS : DO NOT ANSWER ]

you? busy? doing what exactly? what's more important than talking to me? unbusy yourself

nothing , in his mind at least. he kicks himself up into a seat , lingering long enough to let the sudden head rush subside before he lets his shoulders lift and fall.

[ ✉ SMS : DO NOT ANSWER ]

seriously i need your help with... something won't take long

annoyed, grace sprawls across her bed, aiming the camera at her face before closing her eyes and pretending to sleep. a blurry picture, but one that gets the message across.

[ text to: nerdface ] 

[ image attached ]  busy dreaming of a world without you in it 😘

unbusy yourself, he’d said. it is so ridiculously stupid, and so entirely in character for simon. and yet, her vexation is fighting its toughest battle yet to control both her curiosity and save her dignity. 

[ text to: nerdface ] 

in other news water is wet use your hands if you’re so desperate

the caller id gets declined a few more times before her curiosity wins the battle (again, embarrassing— she’d gone as far as to mute the phone). she does, however, not offer him any form of greeting other than a(n empty) threat. 

It’s a tale as old as time. He lives in a dream for a few months and the whole time he’s holding his breath for the bubble to pop. Eventually, no matter what, things go to ruin. And it’s always his fault. 

     Apollo glances at the time on his phone before he tosses it vaguely toward his bed—it hits the wall with a quiet thud before falling between the wall and the mattress, but he doesn’t notice. He’s aimlessly sitting on his bedroom floor after he got out of the shower, waiting for Sage while staring at the wall. He doesn’t know how much time passes by the time he enters the room like a tornado—Apollo simply watches as Sage immediately finds the empty spot next to him without questioning why it’s on the floor while a torrent of apologies and explanations rush out of his lips. 

     “Don’t worry about it.” Normally, he’d shut Sage up by grabbing his face and pressing their lips together, but by the time Apollo turns to him, Sage is looking at him like he’s conducting an autopsy. He finds the small wound on his neck with the precision and timing of a goddamn vampire. Apollo got it during his training with Andreas the day before. “Too haughty,” The son of Zeus had clicked his tongue after pinning him down in what felt like a blink. It’s not anything new. Andreas routinely beats the shit out of him during training, so when Sage fuses over tiny injuries like a concerned mother, Apollo honestly doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to tell him to stop, that he’s used to it, that all of the cuts and bruises on his body are a welcomed side effect to growing stronger. 

Sage doesn’t see it like that, though. Apollo doesn't even know why he expects him to. Even Andreas tells him that he’s too self-destructive in the way he fights, that he ignores his own limits. He hasn’t told anyone that it’s how his mother taught him at the dojang. 

     Sage returns to his spot with a handful of bandages and a kit, and Apollo’s impulses win over. He snatches the roll from Sage’s hand and pins him against the side of the bed before he starts unrolling the bandages around Sage’s forehead like a mummy. 

those are not the worries apollo had tried to soothe— sage knows. he knows, just as well as he knows that there’s only so many times he can remind, scold, or plead before his boyfriend will reach his limit and snap. there’s a couple of easy solutions to stop this from happening, but none that sound particularly appealing to him. 

( there are also a few non-solutions that could prevent the inevitable: feigning ignorance is his favorite. if neither of them addresses the bigger issue at hand, there won’t be any need to deal with it. sage himself certainly won’t be the one to bring it up. )

but sage isn’t the only one who knows how to dance around his—or their—issues. when it concerns his own health, apollo rarely hears him out. at times, he will sit, listen, and perhaps even nod distractedly. other times, the complete disregard for his own health is more obvious, and their conversation ends in— nothing, really. another unresolved issue to pollute the air between them. slowly, so neither of them will notice until it’s too late. 

it’s fine if the air between them feels suffocating— sage can hold his breath for a while.  

what he can’t deal with is apollo’s recklessness. at this point, the question isn't whether or not his boyfriend has made it through the day unscathed, but how badly he’s gotten injured this time. it’s in his blood is what angus would tell him; he’s a son of ares, what else did he expect? apollo wouldn’t repeat those exact words to his face, yet there’s no doubt he feels them all the same. but sage has met other children of ares before, and even if most of them are fighters, not all of them are eager to throw their lives away. 

today, it’s only a small cut. but it’s not the size of the wound that bothers him so much as its position. a little lower or a little deeper, and who knows what could have happened.

apollo doesn’t see it that way— he doesn’t even take sage’s concerns seriously. 

a light thud, and his back hits the bedframe just as his hands are emptied. too fast for sage to defend himself; too fast, even, for him to imagine being pinned against the bed for any other reason. apollo is close— his scent, his warmth, his strength— perhaps he would do better not to take the bandage away from his eyes and face him directly. 

still, he pulls away, pushing both the blindfold and apollo’s hands down between them.