LOVE-FORGED

date: early taurus — 998 A.L. time: twilight location: outskirts of paol closed to: @cevenus

This is it, then: the summit of lunacy. 

Chaos, a glutton ill with famine, is unruly, and Asif’s mortal vessel is atrophying from the poison of a divine fury too potent, too frenzied, to be sustained by human flesh and bone. His possessor is usually a muted hum, a symphony of echoes and whispers lusting after apocalypse. But the recent disturbance of the empire’s well-balanced equilibrium has resurrected Chaos anew, and the beast now booms with wants unbridled, tethered only by the steel of Asif’s will. 

But not even Asif, well-studied in the skill of restraint, is a match for the wrath of gods, and he can feel the early bloom of madness unfurling within, muddling the landscape of reality, disarming his will. And so, like any madman, he seeks salvation—in the arms of his ruin. 

Cloaked in dark, hooded robes, he weaves through the sand-dusted streets of the outer echelons of Paol, swathing his person in shadow, slinking through alleyways with the stealth of a well-trained soldier. He finds him near Paol’s border, surrounded by admirers and acolytes on bent knee, eyes round with want for Venus, the Silver Millennium’s paramour. Not even Asif, a born-and-bred slayer of magic-keepers, can deny the bacchanalian beauty of celestials—carved from stardust, craters, and moonshine, they were exquisite, each of them, divine in their aloof beauty and holy in their majesty. And Cedric stood above them all: magnificent, magical, miraculous. 

Desperate for a salve, a sedative, something, he pushes his way through Cedric’s crowd of worshippers, bumping shoulders and snarling curses at those who stand in his way. “Ambassador,” he half-growls by way of greeting, one hand coiling like steel around the angel’s forearm, desperate for an anchor. Sweat beads at the crown of his temple, feverish, and his voice is hoarse with the strain of inner war. “May I request a private audience, Your Holy Excellency?” he drawls, and he means to sound flip, but his jest is drowned out by desperation. “Away from your zealots,” he hisses. 

The crowd parts for Asif, as if he is a king, come to greet God upon a sacred altar.

On the precipice of darkness, Venus shines with a ferocious brilliance that compels all to look upon its light, and away from impending disaster. He is, now more than ever, Selene’s most dazzling decoration. In the time since Persia and Jove’s arrival, who have brought with them apocalypse, the Moon Princess has cast him like a spell over the empire. No corner of her conquered land remains untouched by Cedric: he’s washed over every intimate crevice in plumes of starlight and seafoam, soothing the people’s anxieties, easing their fears and grievances.

Some have resisted him—

The Paolish warrior hisses: Your Holy Excellency. 

—And others have come before him, entirely willing.

"Asif Ali.” God inclines his head. Disentangling himself from the adoring limbs of his apostates, Cedric descends to receive this darkly king: with gold-flecked decorum, with holy regalia. “Certainly,” he says, and sweeps away. “If you’d follow me.” He could feign surprise. He could tilt his head, and pretend this has not happened before, and they have never spoken. He could say, to what to do I owe this pleasure, as if these are pleasurable encounters at all. But he is not a disingenuous deity. When Cedric has led Asif into his tent, away from prying eyes and hungry mouths, he peers over his shoulder at the mortal for a moment.

The ball is a world of glitz and hollow shine, so much like kingdoms it stands for. It is not a world that Jove ever has or ever will belong to, one that they rejected long ago, just as it had rejected them. They relish in their incongruity; they are the dark tarnish on this silver world, the crack in the crystal. Still, amusing as it is to disturb the carefully crafted world, they are here for answers, for confrontation. They have only left Persia’s side (and how empty their hand feels without hers in it) to do so, and they are determined to make it worth it. The one they search for has remained as of yet hidden, perhaps still choosing isolation somewhere, hidden away, but there are other angels here, members of Selene’s court mingling with the mortal blue-bloods.

There - a gleam of Venusian gold catches their eye through a window, and with a hint of a smile, they follow. Cedric. A would be ally, born from a world of fire, all alone out in the cold air of the balcony, oblivious to the uninvited guests here to darken his glimmering world. A glint of chaos in their eye, they follow, stepping out into the early spring chill to join Venus’ angel on the balcony.

“I’ve done all the dancing I desire to,” they tell him with a flash of pearl-white teeth. Their tone is light, verging on friendly, even, but with an unmistakable edge. “It is, however, a much greater surprise to find that you are absent from the festivities, ambassador,” they say, a bite to the final word. Nonchalantly, they glide across the balcony to lean against the railing, as if they were simply here for no greater purpose than to take in the cool breeze on their marble skin. Their face however, with eyes peering sharp and inquisitive from their serene expression, betrays their facade, hinting at greater intentions. “Or perhaps you’ve lost your taste for such things while I’ve been away?”

He knows this voice. He would know it at the end of the world, at the horizon of a new one.

Cedric does not physically jerk away from them - but he tenses palpably. Any lingering tendrils of his magic now evaporate into the warm air. It’s not cold anymore. Rather, the balcony feels rife with heat, as if it were positioned right above an inferno. With her arrival, the archangel has collected the cold upon her own shoulders.

“Jove,” Cedric says, quietly. Almost mildly. He turns smoothly to face her. They have not warred for one thousand years - but he remembers this one. The sheer wilderness of their prowl; the deathful planes of their dark, hungry face. Never turn your back to Jove. Yes, if Cedric forgets war, he’ll still remember them eternally. They are difficult to forget, after all, once witnessed on a battlefield. Gods, the terror they once wrecked. Jove is worse than war. They are as gruesome, as cold, as silent as the thing war captures and guts. Ouranos is, perhaps, the animal war leaves in its wake. A snarl. A scar. 

“We weren’t expecting you,” Cedric offers, unsmiling. Rare, to see the love angel without so much as a trace of light in his eyes. “Or, I’m sure, your companion.”

He’s certain of it - where terrible Jove walks, fearsome Persia can’t be far. One thousand years would have only welded them closer. On this balcony, he won’t be able to discreetly call upon the other angels. Clever thing. He’s amputated here. Cedric considers his options: he can fight, he can stall, he can smother.

He can be honest.

“Why have you come?” Cedric’s mouth twists, just slightly, in some faint parody of a smile. “Have you tired of our Princess’ generosity?”

“The dance misses me,” she croons, slinking up beside him as a shiver runs down her spine, the cool night air settling a chill over her bare arms. A stark comparison to the heat that had enshrouded her not but a moment ago, with eyes trained expertly upon her prey. It made her sick, filled her gut with something like poison as she watched her Queen nearly swoon in his presence. 

The devil himself — called Ilo, at the top of her list — had never looked so bewitched, so eager to wrap himself around Daphne’s finger. It made her skin crawl, an acute sort of rage pricking along every inch of her skin as they disappeared into the shadows in a whirl of fine satin and obvious (loathsome) desire. 

Throat dry and nerves at perpetual unease the moment they’d slipped out of view, Lila sets out for something sweet to wet her tongue, to take away the bitter ash of betrayal starting to form on her tongue. But it isn’t until she can no longer stand the thick heat of the room, the ever present eyes and attempts to garner her attention, that she finds herself seeking solace in fresh air. And it isn’t until the cruelty spills from her lips that she realizes what will turn her mood around in an instant: something to play with.

“Though it seems your lover doesn’t miss you.”

Suddenly, in the time it takes her to cut him down at the knees, the coldness once causing her teeth to almost chatter, is melted away. A different sort of warmth encasing her where she stood, hellfire licking up her throat, seemingly curling up in tiny wisps of flame around the edges of her mouth, smile as sharp as the blade strapped to her thigh. “Do you think he whispers sweetly in her ear? Caresses her gently? He doesn’t seem like the type, but you never know.” Lila leans forward as she peppers unwanted questions, perching her elbows atop the railing, chin set atop folded hands as she peers out onto the palace grounds with a premeditated indifference, words coated in calculated apathy. “Looks can be deceiving.” 

"You’ll be wise to speak of your General with greater care,” Cedric says.

He recognizes her. She’s the golden, coquettish thing Daphne keeps at her side - though tonight, it seems Lila has drifted away from her queen’s orbit. To come bother him. In a room of silent, watchful eyes, it’s fitting, perhaps, for the demure handmaiden to speak first. Looks can be deceiving, then. She taunts him fearlessly, and with the sardonic recklessness of a soldier’s. Interesting. He tucks this piece of information away, where he might examine it later, unperturbed. Now, he merely greets her with a heatless smile.

"We do not miss each other,” he says. His we is clear. We, as in angels. Celestials. Immortal gods who precede and succeed you. “Mortals long for each other in fear that something will be lost, in the distance and time they are apart. But we are unchanging.”

We have not changed for one thousand years. He has not been another’s for one thousand years. War will always return to Love. He says this to himself with perfect confidence, with smooth aloofness. He unspools the silken thought slowly, free of anxiety, in perfect contentment. (He tries to believe himself.)

Cedric makes a decision, then. The magic, which so often pours out of him like honey, recedes slowly under his willful command. This abrasive, unflinching girl - he finds he doesn’t want to see her doused in false amour. You’ve surprised me. He’d like to see what other teeth she might bared upon him. In a crowd of beautiful people, this beautiful girl has struck the attention of an insatiable god. He’ll remember her face, from now on.

And he will allow her disrespect.

In all it’s splendor, the glitz and the glamour merely acted as distractions above the seeded problems that were threatening to seep outward with each passing day. The fragrances and decor were meant to stun but a god like this one was never so easily entertained - nor amused by the trifles of mortal embellishments. Perhaps the view point wouldn’t have been so cynical if it weren’t for the fact that all of this commotion was ruining what peace Lan could’ve enjoyed. 

Frustration was an understatement. 

Down to the last second, it all depended on the right decisions and perhaps the wrong ones were made which led to these consequences. And it was times like these that made Lan reconsider his career choices - more or less wasn’t he just a slave to a regime? Well, perhaps that was a bit too far fetched but regardless, the mercury angel was displeased. The one thing ever wanted, ever desired dangled in front of him like temptation - sinful and untouchable in the daylight. And it conflicted within, brewing up a storm that swirled like violent ocean seas. Never was Lan emotionally unstable; never had he learned such things. But then he did. As much as he devoured, he was incapable of regurgitating it out, discarding it - all of it would be forever embedded in his colossal memory. 

But despite the turmoil, he had always had a way of concealing his emotions. He shut them away like a lock, burring the key. His face remained as static as the portraits that were hung in the grand halls. He knew that this event was meant to impress: one where those deemed important enough were to present a little stage play- a game if anything. Ignorance and false confirmation of all sweet things that mortals adored - naive happiness. 

Lan would have never chosen to participate if it weren’t for the presence of a particular person. 

And well, it certainly wasn’t because of the Venusian. 

While he originally had no intent of speaking with the Celestial, it seemed like fate intended otherwise. From the way he shifted and carried himself, the behavior was almost uncharacteristic for the famous God of warmth and love. Being in his company was one that easily irritated Lan. Cedric’s demeanor was like honyed tar, suffocating and too saccharine for the functioning rationale. But tonight it was different; there was no flamboyance (or so it seemed) nor the excessive smiles that he wore like his extravagant clothes. And well, for once, Lan appreciated the look more than usual. 

“Is that a problem?” Lan remarked, tone flat and cold - but less aggressive than it’s usual icy touch. He was curious, hungering for the knowledge of whatever nonsense was occurring. And who else would be the better informant of such irrelevant things? 

Lan was selfish - in need of amusement one way or another. It kept him awake, erased the issues that were burning at the back of his mind. 

“Shouldn’t you be the one dancing?” 

After all, twirling on feet and being pretty was one of the Venus angels impeccable talents - one curated from over a thousand years - a tremendous feat that Lan would always applaud. 

Cedric’s mouth twists pleasantly. Lan.

Perhaps the Mercurian would balk at the term, but Cedric has always considered him a friend. They are disparate, contrasting creatures - one molded from the heart, another from the mind - but all the same, they are the mask Selene dons before her empire. Cedric is the flourish of gold; Lan a silver tongue. It is their unique burden to bear - this gift for masquerading.  

"No, no problem at all,” he says, and motions for the adviser to join him. “Just a shame, for you. I’m always of the opinion you’d benefit from less work, and more merriment.”

Of course, the irony isn’t lost on him. Of all the angels, he should be the one standing in the storm’s eye, gilded and invincible. This is his domain; and yet, he has rejected it tonight, coldly and without decorum. 

“I’ve danced plenty,” Cedric murmurs. Then, abruptly, smiles.

In a moment of whimsy, he takes Lan delicately by the wrist, and pulls him in, as if they are to waltz. He has played like this plenty with Ysra - but of course, Lan is a different beast. For all the time they spend together, they do not touch. Nevertheless, Cedric finds himself - to his own mild surprise - in an uplifted mood. His political companion, his friend - there is a comfort to being coy with someone who could never hurt him.

What does it take to intoxicate a god?

The answer, like the universe, is infinite - but for Ilo, a creature of bacchanalian excess - such questions demanded resolution. He had roamed this Earth for nine centuries and counting; and as the nations fell to their faces before the general who had conquered them, so had they extended the most potent of their luxuries. Vodka reaped from the cold fields of Nova, wine from the golden vineyards of Paol, opium from the poppy fields of Tsuki - and a dozen more lethal concoctions: his to indulge, his to devour. White dust to be snorted, black capsules to be crushed; needles injected into the veins of his arm until his blood ran red too. 

What poisons man; delights a god. 

Tonight was no different. He had swept the Tsuki ball like he had swept this land a millennium ago – suddenly, gloriously, without mercy or compromise. The heralds at the door shrieked as he threw the doors open in a cold gust of wind, and all at once, dozens of gazes fell upon him: in fear and alarm, in terror and hatred. 

And just for the fun of it, he had fueled their animosity; feeding on the fear which he sent out towards them, spiking their hearts, racing their pulses. Do I terrify? And as his bold stare cleared the room, their weak ones dropped like lambs at the slaughter. Perhaps his arrival tinged their festivities with a sheen of blood - perhaps he reminded them of the suffering of their forefathers, the vicious scarring of their history - perhaps they had hoped that he had accompanied Selene to Kova, too. Better to rain blood upon their northern enemies, than see the eye of the storm dance and deceive among them, a wolf hardly disguising his nature. 

But even the god of war had a place within this hall of mirrors. He had downed their liquor. He had dressed the part. He had greeted the royal aristocracy, eyes hungry even as he bowed mockingly before them, mouth watering even as he had kissed their hands. Yuna, Kou, Camille, Victor – Daphne. 

And it was on the last that he had lingered, until the edge of his appetite was satisfied.

Now, half-drunk and half-elevated on a concoction of poisons, he pushes through the crowd (not so much push, as stride uncontested) - to the far east of the ballroom; through the curtained divide, into the cold. 

His heart beats at the temperature of an eternal furnace; his blood runs molten gold. Winter here, even as it melts into spring, sends a jolt through his bones. Or perhaps it’s the figure who stands with his back to him; dressed in silk and lace, poised like a flower awaiting bloom. I would recognize you anywhere. In war and peace. In heaven and hell. And when Cedric’s voice cuts through the din of drunken celebration; Ilo almost could say: better the dance than you. 

But he doesn’t, obviously. He isn’t some lovestruck mortal girl.

“The dance fears me,” he muses. “It misses you.” He takes his place besides Venus, and looks out over Tsuki, too. In the night, there is little to behold, aside from the moon as it presides over the darkness, and the sheen of distant rivers. Ilo turns, lets his gaze roam Cedric’s profile. 

“Or,” If you dig deep enough, there’s a barb hidden in the words. “Has the casanova finally tired of being adored?”

Here he is. The inelegant wolf of war; the knife in his side; the saccharin in his veins. Ilo comes to him, finally; crushing Cedric’s unspoken demand - leave me be - under a marble heel as he moves to stand beside him. He is callous, and cruel, and formidable. It should be offensive - the unholy arrogance of him, to believe he is entitled to a place next to a lover he has so thoroughly humiliated tonight - but Cedric finds does nothing but shift closer. Touch me. I crave you as kings crave blood and wine.

Ilo is delirious. He reeks of mortal debauchery, of wine and poison. Then again, so does Cedric. The Venusian carries the scent of roiling desire, of rapture - every kiss and bite and lick like a phantom perfume. (They are both so ruinous, the pair of them. So prone to excess, so indulgent and dissatisfied.) And so, it is not Ilo’s state that displeases him. After all, how many times had they collided together in smears of oil and gin, feral and out of mind with reckless abandon? How many times had they fallen into graceless depths? 

But they have always fallen together. 

Venus and Mars. Love and War. Heaven and Hell. Ilo belongs deeply to Cedric - and Cedric to him. Yes, they were once unbounded creatures of cosmic wilderness: but this love has domesticated them both. It has taught them to watch the other take a knife, and feel the burn in their own gut. You have the exquisite ability to complete me, and madden me, and puncture me - all with a single look.

“Let them miss me.” He turns away from the darkness, and faces War, smooth and graceful. Ilo looks strange in the moonlight: too pale, too bright, too cold. “I have no more desire to entertain them.”

Cedric had bathed in worship tonight - and watched the single creature he yearned for kneel at another’s feet, for all the world to see.

“And you?” Cedric inclines his head. His unhappiness; his possessive ire - he looks upon his lover calmly, but with vivid intensity. “Have you tired of...your adorations?”

humor me.

“I appreciate your suggestion,” Cedric says, cheery.

“I am not,” Lan says, “suggesting.”

“You must understand…we admire your intellectual pursuits very much.”

The Mercurian looks ghastly and merciless. And violently ill.

“Call what you and Ilo were doing in my Archives anything you please. But do not presume to define it as anything near intellectual.”

“Your books are so lovely,” Cedric says. A blind stab at flattery.

“Yes,” Lan seethes. “They’re even more satisfying when they are open, unwrinkled, and in front of you. Not underneath a pile of sweaty, foul-smelling, discarded robes.”

“Oh, Lan.”

LOCATION: The Crystal Palace, Tsuki

STATUS: Open

Away from the din of celebration, the balcony air carries tendrils of lingering perfumes. Notes of imported jasmine and peach, magnolia and lemongrass; they have rubbed themselves into the atmosphere, like ghosts to the evening wind, and mingle strangely with the scent of receding snow. Spring is slowly rising. Life will begin, finally, to lift itself once more from the crevices of a hibernating world - something Cedric finds he’s looking forward to.

Unsurprisingly, he prefers the warmer season. He comes from molten sulfur and sun, from a world of hissing heat and brilliance. Cold settles uncomfortably about him - and this winter in particular is heavier and longer-lasting than what Tsuki expects each year. It feels distinctly unpleasant. 

No. Hungry. 

The sucking chill nips at Cedric like a mouth, and the sensation unsettles him. He’s felt awry since Magnus’s arrival, since Selene and Endymion left for Kova, since the Silver Army’s deployment to the borders. Perhaps, it is for this reason he has slipped away from the ball. There were, all at once, too many hands on his body, too many mouths against his ear, too many sets of pretty eyes exhausting him of grace.

The mortals will never not adore him. He has made it so: convinced them he is a cornucopia of elegant excess, that he is made of nothing but pearls and starlight.

But tonight, Cedric feels ransacked. He is thinking about a prophet’s mouth, whispering chaos; and of Ysra’s, the angry twist of it as she bit down on his neck earlier; and of Ilo’s, bared tonight in dizzy, sweet violence - but not for him. For her. The mortal Queen of Paol.

Something shifts behind Cedric. Footsteps; an exhale; the sound of crinkling fabric.

“You’re missing the dance,” he offers quietly. It is a greeting, and a curt farewell.

Leave me be.

enamor me.

“I’d like you to come.”

Kou looks unimpressed - even more-so than usual.

“I am the crown prince,” he says, with poorly-concealed snobbery. Such a boy. “Of course I will be in attendance.”

“With me, Your Highness.”

“I,” Kou frowns. There’s abruptly a shade of caution to his voice, his posture, his demeanor. For all his sharp-teethed obstinacy, even he knows, few rewards are worth reaping when they lie in the minefield between a certain pair of jealous lovers. “I believe the General will be…unappreciative of it.”

“Then he can be unappreciative on Queen Daphne’s arm,” Cedric mutters.

A pause.

Then, Kou erupts into laughter. Cedric is generous enough of a deity to grant him grace, on the account of his attempt to at least cover the offending noise, with a hand clapped uselessly over the mouth.

“You’re jealous,” Kou manages, finally - so amused, he forgets for a moment with whom he is speaking. There is perhaps the weakest shade of something warm flickering in his eyes. It could be pleasure. It could be mirth. Cedric finds he’s never been able to tell very clearly.

No matter. Cedric returns his smile - slowly. Something sweet coils out of him with the deft grace of a true angel, and he leans forward, leans down, just slightly. The key to Kou is not sensuality, nor magic. Both fall upon deaf ears. Rather, it is perhaps to simply unsheathe some sliver of Cedric’s cultivated humanity.

( The flush of the cheek, the bite of the lip. )

“Keep me company, Your Highness,” he says, softly.

( Blink, slowly. Breathe, as if he needs oxygen to stand steady. )

Another pause.