pyrrhic victory

date: seven of ten. location: saif’s office, evening status: closed to @achillesgrieves

When it comes to Saif, there is no recompense or remorse. There only is and is not. Plainly stated facts. Yes and no. Saif is Guard-Captain: yes. Saif is good at his job: in theory, yes. There’d be no reason otherwise to keep him in his position, were it not for the fact that Septimus calls on him like a dog. He points, and Saif does. That’s the case as far as he can tell, and while it might not be a pretty one, it’s on display for all to see. Armel’s particularly fond of picking apart Saif’s failures, when the opportunity presents itself, has been for a while. 

He’s got his pants on, now, at the very least, and is fumbling with the buttons of his shirt – fumbling being the most apt of words, really, given his lack of coordination. The air in the office is cool, but the light reflected on Saif’s face from the lamps is warm, and if he had some vellum or a pen he might scratch out petty words of poetry. Mindless scraps, things that float around in the space between his ears when he’s not really thinking. Something something statue-like, morose and sorrowful, caught in intense thought. Not quite the way you want to see someone after you’ve just had sex, but he’s had worse experiences. It might just be that Saif’s face does that, even when relaxed.

“You looked very grand yesterday,” he starts, because he hates silence, would rather die than be stuck in it. The only problem with feeling the constant need to chatter like an obnoxious songbird is the fact sometimes his mouth starts before his head can catch up, and in the moment, he struggles to find what to continue with. So, instead, he puts his foot directly into his mouth, because that just seems to be the running theme for the week: “did you enjoy it? The ‘Grand Tourney’?” There’s no small amount of mockery in his tone, couldn’t help it if he tried.

There was a time he would have never considered himself a self-sabotaging man. But with his age, his naiveté faded away. Making room for introspection that he didn’t quite feel comfortable with. Never does he feel so self-destructive than with Armel.

Saif watches out of the corner of his eye as the man struggles to desk. In his own office, with the door closed, he finds no reason to follow suit. Only watches how hastily Armel wants out of his presences after all is said and done. He wants desperately for it not to hurt. He wants desperately to be a man Armel could look in the eye when he fucks.

But that is not who Saif is. Not yet.

when: late evening, 7th of the 10th month where: the sanctum closed to: @achillesgrieves·

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Francis asks, their voice echoing along the hall of the Sanctum. It is empty, save for them and Saif. Francis has appeared alongside him as if out of thin air, their eyes lifted heaven-toward to take in the enormous image on the stained-glass windows. A beautiful sight, indeed. The story of Nadab and Abihu unfolds before them, covering one of the Sanctum’s four walls, beginning blue in hue and ending in fiery red, with the brothers’ demise. 

Francis follows Saif’s line of sight. They stare a little absently at it, though the smile on their face is fond and true. It is, as unsettling as it may be, one of their favorite tales of Undeath.

“Haunting,” they add after a moment, a watchful eye in Saif’s direction, “but beautiful all the same.” Whether it’s to say something of value or to simply fill the silence, it’s hard to say. Not even Francis can put a finger on it, but they turn to face Saif fully, the light filtering red over their bodies.

“Are you familiar with it?”

There is something unwelcoming about the Sanctum. Saif cannot place how much of it is them, and how much of it is The Undying herself. He thinks the pair of them, Francis and them, know how little he has cared for their opinions for so long. He thinks they can see it on him, plain as day. Francis is too perceptive for their own good, Saif would wager it’s how they’ve survived this long. The way the uncomfortable feeling sinks into your bones is nothing new to him, but he feels more guilty here. As if someone is watching him, knowing him. And he thinks, perhaps this is why so many turn to Her. Perhaps it is why he has turned to Her now.

Their voice startles him, but he’s too practiced to let it show too plainly. But it’s there, in the pull of his eyebrows and the subtle twist of his lips, he thinks they will spot it. They have never failed him thus far. He wonders how the one person he came to see could startle them.

“I’m not familiar, no.” He says as way of greeting. Though Francis gave little greeting of his own, so perhaps Saif should feel less guilty. Immortalized in stained glass, the image of these men on fire seems beautiful, holy. He could not say the same for those who burned in front of the King.

“Why do you need to know this, Marceline?”

“I will make you proud”

☓ location: stables, night of the grand tourney status: CLOSED ; @achillesgrieves·

She has taken to walking down corridors her shadow would otherwise not darken, if it wasn’t for a certain someone seeking her out. She takes the longest routes, the ones with plenty of turns for her to use to see if he still darkens her peripheral vision, and the ones that will do not have her quarters at the end of them if it means he will no longer follow. Though, lately, it feels as if she has created a problem for herself in the shape of a companion, no more substantial than one of the many stray cats that lurks the docks with a penchant for trailing behind those who wander there.

He is a persistent one; so much so that his footsteps have followed into her dreams, twisting them almost to the point of nightmares. After the grand display at the Tourney and the subsequent skepticism, however, it would have been foolish for her not to be wary of what the Guard’s persistence truly meant.

This night she has lured him to the stables, curiosity guiding her quiet feet. It becomes a dead end as she turns into an empty stall to see if he will enter. There is little in their shared world that can still manage to surprise her, but his bold choice in following, still, straightens her spine.

“Enough,” says a voice as soft as down feather, and slight in a similar way some poisons cannot be tasted in tea. 

Pale eyes aim like daggers down the length of a sharp nose— Speak, they seem to say. 

There is a feeling that accompanies walking into a trap, his instincts have never betrayed him before. It’s something akin to discomfort, but worse. Something that makes you sweat and fear. He feels it now, slowly building in his gut, as he follows her through her winding path through the castle.

There is no winning this situation he’s put himself in. But damn it, does he wish to see the end of it.

The stables are not the route he expects from her. He’s played this game with her too many times, his confidence getting the better of him every time. But never has she led him to someplace so quiet, so secluded. Briefly, he wonders if this is the end of him if she knows too much. Worse than that, if she does not believe in his side of the story.

She turns to him, and her eyes on him are something he’s not entirely ready for. Saif has never felt so seen, so unworthy. It's as if those eyes can see to his very soul. Can tell he is not enough for the position he’s been given. But her voice, for all its venom, is like a lullaby. Something to get addicted too, to want to hear again. He wonders, half-heartedly, if that’s why she speaks so little. To stop the masses from falling in love with Death herself.

“I am sorry,” It’s not even close to what he would like to say, but it’s all that comes to him.

He is not a stranger to death, hasn’t been for some time. He’s heard the cries of war, seen the anguish in the eyes of men too young. People forget, too often, that because he spends more time behind the castle’s walls he has grown soft. He wishes it were true. That the time hole up in his office had allowed him to forget his years of bloodshed. He is not a stranger to death. But he’s a stranger to her. And it’s that reason he does not let his ego overwhelm in when she slips between his fingers one last time.

It might be a futile effort — this cat and mouse game he’s playing by himself. She knows he searches for her, seeks her out far and wide. But she’s not playing with him. There is not part of this where they are equals. It should rub him the wrong way, bruise his ego. But he cannot bring it — not when it’s so true. He is not her equal.

A mistake is all it takes — one slip of her conscious — and he has her within touching distance. But with all that time he’s spent searching, he has not even begun to think about what he might say. How he might go about swaying the biggest player in this dangerous game he has taken it on himself to play. Saif, in front of her, stands tongue-tied and foolish.

He cannot tell the emotions that ghost across her face at his silence. He thinks maybe it is confusion, or perhaps frustration. But they are gone so quickly, happen so minutely he cannot possibly have time to calculate a thought. She does not move to speak. It does not come as a surprise. From what little he knows of Death, she does not talk often.

She turns to leave, and the fear that rips through him is violent and fierce. He reaches out before he can stop himself. Fingertips brush against her hand and the world stands still. He is still a fool — for who touches Death?

Underneath his fingers, she freezes. The eyes that meet his are firebright and burning, and he has seen war but this is worse. This is Death in the flesh, and he has dared to reach out and touch. Because his stubborn heart would not let him throw away his cause because of his own stupidity. His fingers feel cold, and his soul lurches. But it’s a feeling, he realizes distantly, he could easily come accustomed too.

                       FULL BIOGRAPHY. CONNECTIONS. SKELETON.