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@lamprius
RUN, BOY, RUN! THIS RACE IS A PROPHECY.
happy birthday, rev!
@lamprius

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inside pockets are important because where else would you store your stack of never sent love letters and poison darts
dalygraceâ:
Grace forgets sometimes that Lucien is a therapist, and is viciously reminded of it at times like these, when his keen eyes seem to see straight through her and hit on the weakest parts of her with only a few well-meaning words. She smiles, shrugs, goes through the motions as she settles once again at the table. âTheyâre mostly healed,â she says of her fingers, resisting the urge to peel back a bandage and show off the new scar. âYouâre perfectly alright. I got here early. Sometimes itâs good to just - sit, you know?â She makes a strange, half-hearted gesture to the general space of the cafe, the low bustle around them.
She realizes then that she has nothing to say, only bland niceties rising to the tip of her tongue. Maintaining smalltalk is the last thing she wants to do at the moment, so she takes a second to breathe, to study Lucienâs face. âCan I be frank with you?â She asks, leaning forward a bit onto the table, dropping her voice. Itâs a wildcard, even for herself, but the festering bubble of love and grief in her chest drives her forward, and she continues without really thinking. âWhat is it that keeps you and Ronan together?â
Sheâs seen less of Lucien and more of Ronan than ever this past year, and itâs only served to highlight the differences between the two. Itâs always been a strange interest to her, how they make it work - how any couple with only one tie-in to the mafia does it, truly - and there seems to be varying levels of success throughout Verona. Thereâs something simmering underneath this relationship, she can tell, something she absolutely should not stick her nose into but that she will anyway, heart as raw as it is and steering her like never before.
âIâm sorry for jumping on you when youâve just arrived,â she says, a beat too late, excruciatingly aware of how stupid it is to have brought something like this up, âI just - Thereâs been a lot going on, and you were the only person I could think of that might - understand.â
He understands the sitting thing, people watching. Itâs a cherished pastime. The bandages though - he doesnât like those. But heâll draw out answers more concrete about them later.Â
âItâs alright, happy to jump into it, Iâve always been very bad at small talk.â Lamprius says, as he settles into his seat, offering a balm for her quick apology. He tugs the menu closer, and keeps his eyes trained on it as he answers her initial questions.Â
Can I be frank with you? âAlways,â What is it that keeps you and Ronan together?
Lamprius blinks. Opens his mouth and is quick to say, as he flips the page of the menu: âItâs easier to keep an eye on him when I know where he sleeps.â Itâs supposed to be a joke, mostly, but this is possibly the last thing heâd expected to discuss.
He needs to stall, because he doesnât really know where to begin.Â
Truth is, he and Ronan have been dead in the water for a while now, but like the marsh of a bog, it will not let them go quite yet. Truth is, there was a love once, and if that love still persists itâs a new moon in an pitch sky, eclipsed and shadowed by everything around it. Truth is, a red string connects them, but at some point itâs moved from being wrapped around his ring finger to becoming a noose around his throat. Now, in the face of the question, Lamprius cannot be truthful he wants to be. He wants let Grace know that sometimes it is far easier to let things fall apart than to purposefully break them. That love, pretty as it is, is rarely enough on its own. Itâs a selfish instinct to want to tell her these things, more catharsis for him than comfort for her, and Lamprius recognizes it as such. He has enough experience in such lines of questioning to know that Graceâs question stems less from a need to solve his own failing marriage and is rather seeking to use it as a lens to process whatever it is she is facing. He looks up and pushes his menu aside.Â
âWeâre incredibly forgiving of each otherâs flaws,â Lamprius finally says, as if heâs carefully considering his words - instead of offering up vague advice from a university 101 class heâd taken somewhere along the way to his doctorate. âWe allow each other to live our separate lives and trust the other will come back.â Thereâs a beat as he looks for words that arenât a downright lie. âI have to hope thatâs enough to keep us together as I keep working at it.âÂ
His eyes continue to search her face, dark pools certainly belaying more than his words do. Besides, the ambiguity of what heâs said allows him to cut to the bone of the conversation quicker. Gives her a few ways to approach this and allows him to dress whatever wound sheâs bleeding far more swiftly.Â
âAre you having problems with a partner?â Does Grace have a partner? They donât really share these sorts of things with each other. âWhatâs been going on?âÂ
lavolumniaâ:
âYou still look tired,â he tells her and she flinches despite herself. Vivianne knows exactly what heâs doing by echoing those words back to her; her own words, her momentary vulnerability as she lowered her cards in their last conversation, and let the Witch take a peek at her hand. But his perceptive sympathy (if indeed it can be called that), does not comfort Vivianne now. Instead, it grates against her pride, makes her feel like a wild animal that a hunter tries to cow into submission.Â
âYou still look tiredâ, Lucien tells her, and itâs âweakâ that Vivianne hears instead; âmalleable, vulnerable, overripe and fit for bruisingââŚ
She lifts her chin and gazes at him, hard. âIâve slept quite well, thank you.â She lies, playing dumb, pretending she doesnât know what heâs alluding to. And when he mentions the Cathedral, the Capobastone keeps her expression carefully immutable; remembering all the while the piercing stare heâd given her across that crowded room⌠Judgment or condemnation, keen understanding or unsurprising disappointment. She wasnât sure. She wasnât sure how to label the mystery in his eyes, and yet all the same she felt heâd been able to read the questions in her own. What are we doing here? What am I permitting? How much humanity can one sacrifice before thereâs nothing left to salvage? Is there something left to salvage?âŚ
âHow many do you think exist in the city these days that are unbugged or untapped? I doubt you want our conversations getting out. I certainly donât.â
âMi stai minacciando?â She demands, his words a lit match to a translucent pool of gasoline; are you threatening me?⌠Surely he isnât so stupid, so reckless. Itâll put a premature end to this meeting if so, the Capulet Underboss decides, the barrel of her Glock still trained on the Witch.
âAnd how do you know I want a conversation with you at all?â Vivianne scorns him, eyes glinting with contempt. âYou certainly have a funny way of engaging a person, LampriusâŚâ That she uses his title now, is not meant to signal respect. Rather, itâs a method of putting distance between them; of desperately looking to reclaim her defenses, the ones sheâd briefly, mistakenly, let him through, two weeks ago. âUnfortunately for you, I find I donât like your brand of humor.â
âIf I was threatening you Vivianne, I assure you, you wouldnât have to question it, you would know. Vague threats arenât really my cup of tea.â Neither were bad jokes, he thinks in response to her comment about his humor. Lamprius likes to think that if he were actually joking, she would be laughing. But this is neither the time nor place to grow defensive about his humor especially when there is a gun pointed at his chest. Odysseus still navigates the stormy seas of Poseidon on the pages between his hands.Â
Her contempt is starting to boil, he can tell her pride is taking blows. If she shuts him out, he wonât get anywhere. Lucien the therapist has seen it a million time in clients, and so knows he Lamprius has this small window of time to work with. And if that window closes..... well, he doesnât dig his heels in for anyone. Always forward. Heâll leave the words here for her to examine so that she can reflect on them later.Â
And how do you know I want a conversation with you at all?
âSometimes we donât always know whatâs in our best interest. But Iâm here because I know I want a conversation and I think, truly, you want one too.â Lamprius continues with that steady certainty, fully confident sheâll be able to catch up. He does believe his words, and whether Vivianne knows it or not she will want this conversation, if not today, then in a few months time. He will not cater to her myopia, though heâll feel disappointed to learn that it exists. Lamrpius is focusing on the future and is trying to draft his plans with as much responsibility as possible. He remembers his exchange with Vivianne at the Cathedral with vivid clarity and Lamprius cannot shake the feeling that a Capulet regime under Juliana and Vivienne would be a different beast than it currently was under Cosimo Capulet, more muscle and sinew than scintillating scales that purported a bigger bark than bite. Still, Lamprius wants some sort of confirmation, thinks she deserves the chance to defend it, before he plans his own path forward.Â
âHow much do you believe in the actions the Capulets have taken in these last few months?â
brutuskovrovâ:
Boris is unsure which idea he dislikes more: the one that poses that everythingâs changed, or the one that poses itâs all stayed the same. That theyâve stayed exactly the same, a decade later, frozen in time, forced to look one another in the eye and reckon with it. Itâs not true, of course. Boris is still conniving at best and manipulative at worst, with a dash of cruelty to go along on the side. Lucien is â
Best not to go there, maybe, before he thinks himself into circles. Lucien proposes that they leave â itâs getting loud in here, except the volume hasnât changed at all and the crowd hasnât even begun to push in. Boris is holding a tupperware container of borscht in his hands, all the way from Russia, and the last thing he is thinking about is dinner, or going back to the library and the stack of paperwork sitting on his desk, ordered into neat yellow folders. He is thinking about Would you make it feel better if I texted him to tell him? (a decisive no) and staring at Lucienâs mouth.
ЧŃŃŃ, пОдоŃи.
Against his better judgment â against any judgment, he looks over his shoulders, sees that no one is coming to bring him his takeout, and makes a decision that he will probably come to regret later down the line. When he is held up against his tapestry of numberless mistakes to see how he sizes up, he hopes whatever God is up there doesnât pick this one. Heâs done worse things. Several, in fact. âAlright,â Boris acquiesces. âA walk doesnât sound so bad.â He moves away from the bar, between the gathering throngs of people getting down with their days and gathering for an evening together. He doesnât want for Lucien to tag along because this is the way it always was: Boris led, and Lucien followed. All the way through Moscow, St. Petersburg, Volgograd, and the countless train stations and airports in-between destinations. Boris first, every time, and Lucien afterward, eyes wide as saucers.Â
Heâll never say it out loud, but he misses it, sometimes. Better days. Simpler ones, maybe, when he thought the world was on his side and all it took to knock a man from his throne was power of will. You need more than that. You need hunger, too, the kind that wonât let you feel guilt when you pluck the bread that might let them live another day from their grasping fingers. Bread, being gold, being the motherland, being the hard work of the masses, being victory. Bringing something home. Heâd been a fool then. Heâs still a fool, just a different one.
They break out into the chillier evening air and Boris is glad for the relief of it. He hadnât realized how close heâd been to strangling, in there, weighed down for reasons he has no want or particular need to explain to anyone, much less himself. Here, he can rationalize with himself. Lucien had accepted his substitution: someone else. Anyone else.
Except there is no one else with the sort of contacts he has, the resources, the downright idiotic ability to get to them. Well, no one except Calina, maybe, but Boris would rather think of anyone else right now. Lucien knows it. Boris knows it. They are move-for-move, match-for-match, and Boris has chosen to continue this tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞte with no rhyme or reason why. He could leave now, call Lucien later, make this as short and to the point as humanly possible.Â
Thereâd been â the phone call â a long time ago, and as much as Boris would like to think itâs tissue thatâs scarred over by now, it isnât. Sometimes, if heâs bored, and he wants to torture himself mindlessly over something that isnât his wanton and moreover blatant betrayal of the people heâs supposed to protect, and then feeling guilty about not feeling guilty, heâll think of it. T In the evening, a phone cradled to his ear, listening, cotton-mouthed, as Lucien had broken the silence with something like I want you to be there, and Boris had said no.
He wishes heâd ended it there. No, and hung up the phone. But he likes to talk. Itâs his profession. So he kept going.
Boris watches as Lucien exits the restaurant, puts his free hand in his coat pocket, the other holding the borscht, and then picks a direction and starts walking. Maybe theyâll cut through an alleyway, or work their way back around, but heâs already made it up in his mind that heâs not going to be returning to work this evening, so heâs trying to map the route back to his car out in his head. He clears his throat. âWe havenât spoken in a while. Howâs Apollonia?â
âDead.â The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it. Lamprius couldnât stop the truth if he tried. Heâs thankful for the sudden burst of cold night air that hits him as he steps into the alleyway; Verona will always be his distraction of choice. Especially when Boris goes around picking at old wounds. Whatâs Boris doing, going about asking him about that? Lamprius shouldnât have expected any less. Heâs so very tempted to add on âSo about as well as Sasha,â and put a little bite in his words -- though in the end he doesnât. The Witch doesnât make a habit of showing what he knows in a conversation, only plays his cards when he needs then, no matter how good Boris is at draws a specific kind of pettiness out of him.Â
He swallows and finds his heart in his throat. Like itâs trying to jump out of him, make its way back to the other.Â
âHappened a few years ago. I was going to move to Sicily to take care of her but - âÂ
He shrugs. That same âI donât knowâ Boris so often commits to. He can see why. Itâs convenient. Imagine a life where you just didnât provide answers when you didnât want to. Lamprius really doesnât believe in that sort of lack of accountability even though Boris clearly does. The heart thatâs stuck in his throat yearns to speak of a life that no longer feels like it belongs to him. Of long evenings in hospital rooms, of sickness and health, and that bone-tired wake that he had been late to because he had gotten into the habit of willing every sleep into being a sort of personal death. Thatâs a box Lamprius wonât open, heâs not even sure if he has the right key for it anymore.Â
He keeps walking, through this silence, in this dark. He wraps it around himself. Â
Feels like old times, cutting through a city in the night, when there are fewer eyes to watch them make their way. Lamprius is the one leading here, at least his feet are picking the well-known paths. Russia belongs to Boris, Verona belongs to Lamprius. He leads and Boris follows. He turns his collar up against the night sky of Verona, hands dive into pockets. His feet will know where to take him, Lamprius trusts muscle memory to kick in quickly enough.Â
âI think there are more pertinent issues at hand.â He ties a knot at he the loose end of that conversation. âIâd rather not talk about my mother.â A clear: Donât mention her again. Lamprius looks forward, always. They exit the alley, round the corner and Verona opens up in front of them. He doesnât know how to tell Boris he really isnât the kind of person to play catch up and talk about family members or turn the spotlight on himself. Heâs terrifyingly focused on business. Not to mention, timeâs ticking, not for him but for the city, and each fallen grain of sand in an hourglass might as well be keeping count of the bodies of innocents caught in the crossfire.Â
âThose men you introduced me to, in 2010, I need to see them again.âÂ
There. The request. Â
âBut as you correctly pointed out, I doubt I could get a meeting with them without you.â Thereâs too much at stake here to be risking crawling through windows. Besides, he doesnât know the windows of St. Petersburg the way he knows the windows of Verona.Â
They walk next to a line of windows now, and Lamprius tugs Borisâ jacket to move him two centimeters to the left so that he narrowly avoids the leaky air conditioner he knows is there, before returning his hand to his pocket. He has a very vivid, very brief after-image of their last trip to Russia, of bare skin that had finally shifted from cold to hot to the touch after time spent under the steady work of warm fingertips. All he gets is the fabric of the jacket on fingertips right now, though he wonât think about the chasm of difference between these two tactile senses until later.Â
âMy other three points of contact are suddenly dead - a fate that I was curiously spared. Your friends canât help but see this as suspicious.â He gets it. The smirk that tugs at the corner of lips says this. How strange that they were dead and he was not. âThe only other person they know in relation to me is you. They need someone to vouch for my character, say I am who I still say I am. And much as I would love to do this without them, itâs becoming incredibly apparent that I cannot.â
There. His hand. He grows quiet, allowing Boris to reflect. This is how Lampriusâ has always conducted business: with a quiet firmness. Heâll show the steel of his spine if needed, but he doesnât see that need now. The ask is pretty clear, he thinks, including the unsaid: âFly to Russia for me, put a pause on your alliance, put your neck on the line for me.â Lamprius is entirely aware of what heâs asking for.Â
Hands still in pockets, he looks at the cracks in the pavement, not sure what heâs expecting to find, because reading them like theyâre the lines on the palm of this city is kind of passĂŠ this time this year, and (to the surprise of many, all things considered, despite the fact that he literally calls himself a Witch), Lamprius is not that superstitious.Â
After a moment of silence, he decides to add one more thing, because he knows that time has passed between him and Boris. âI also feel the need to say: if you canât speak to the person I am now, speak to the person I was a few years ago. I assure you when you get down to it, not much has changed.âÂ
His feet have suddenly stopped moving. Lamprius comes to a halt, like he wonât move Boris provides his answer. The man is not at all superstitious, but doesnât discredit the fact that if he turns 90 degrees exactly, he will be facing his fatherâs boarded up trattoria.Â

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Soon we will be strangers. No, we can never be that. Hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy. We will be dangerous acquaintances with a history.
â Hanif Kureishi, Intimacy and Midnight All Day: A Novel and Stories
In fair Verona, our tale begins with LUCIEN, who is THIRTY-SEVENÂ years old. He is often called LAMPRIUSÂ and is NEUTRAL. He uses HE/HIMÂ pronouns.
Lucienâs beginning would be a familiar one, were he willing to share it with the masses. He grew up with little to his name and took what he could when it was given. Those with the gilded crests sitting at their throats feasted on sweetmeats and REVELED in their predetermined fates. Lucien, meanwhile, carved out his own path with nothing to use beyond his own two hands and words of assurance that things would work themselves out. If he dedicated himself, heâd find a decent job and live a meager life, like them. He kept his head down, said little beyond what was needed, let his actions do the talking. Still, the SHADOWS of the mobs nipped at his heels day after day, as they did every other Veronan, until their relentlessness reached a peak. He can remember it clearly, even now: his mother had collapsed in their small kitchen and wept at the news of her husbandâs passing. A casualty of crossfire between two notorious families. Sheâd looked so⌠FRAGILE. When he settled down beside her and shared her tears, heâd felt just as small. Heâd been seventeen, no more than a boy, but when he stood, he rose as a man, head held high. Verona would change - for his family, and all the others like his.
There were a few problems, in spite of his grand designs: he had no clue where to begin. He had the will, but not the way, and Verona itself had other plans. Three, to be exact. THE WITCHES were bound to find him one day, looking back, and find him they did. Heâd always been unsure as to how they did it. Was it an unwitting conversation with Circe? Had he wronged Medea, somehow, who took pity? Maybe heâd shouldered into Hecate and spilled their groceries across the cobblestone. Whichever way they discovered him, they saw an opportunity in him, his shoulders sloped from the weight of REVENGE. Lucien, at first, didnât see them at all. Everyone knew about the Capulets and Montagues. The Witches were MYTH to him, up until they werenât. When they offered, not insignificantly, to take him under their wing, their anonymity is what bound him to them. That, and the fact they never shied away from those who could not bear the burden of living in a city torn apart by war. They didnât turn their faces from those who waged it, either. They dealt in absolutes, and it was those dealings that kept Veronaâs innocents from their demise.Â
Heâd soon learn that the work of the Witches was often UGLY, comprised of hushed meetings and ears pressed to the ground, but their secrecy garnered them their reputation and power. At the same time, they taught Lucien how to hold himself, how to mask his resentment for the very men and women they negotiated with behind a neutral expression. They taught him to bury Lucien and compartmentalize his own humanity until nothing but a hollow shell remained - it was the only way to work with BEASTS, after all. They gave him the title of Lamprius, and the reassured him that he, too, would one day become a full-fledged Witch, should he prove worthy. He threw himself into the tasks they gave him fully, carried himself the way they did, imitated the pinch of their brows and flat lines of their mouths when something displeased them. Things settled, and for the first time in years, Lucien was loose from his self-imposed sorrows. He got married, moved into a house grander than one he could ever dream of. He ate a full meal every night, and paid off his motherâs medical debt up until her passing. He traveled outside of Italy, attended galas, saw the ocean, perfected his smile in the mirror. He helped broker peace from the shadows, and when the Witches felt unstoppable in the face of their Gods, so did he. Maybe thatâs what caused their ruination. ARROGANCE. They considered themselves above humanity, the same as Ozymandias. It still aches to think of them, an open wound at the center of his chest, but perhaps their deaths were inevitable. Maybe theyâd known - each of them had been disconcertingly cryptic in those final days, as they pushed all of their responsibilities onto Lucien - no, Lamprius - with the promise that it would all be settled, soon.
How wrong they were. While the Witches had done their utmost to turn him away from walking the single-minded path of retribution, their deaths were the nail in the coffin. Their bodies swinging from the beams served as a final message: Lucienâs initial goal, all those years ago, was not out of reach. But he couldnât do it alone. Circe, Hecate, and Medea had themselves to turn to in times of much-needed counsel. They leaned on one another in moments of weakness and stirred each other on when the task at hand felt insurmountable. They loved each other, as all siblings should have, up until their final day. And Lucien⌠had no one. In a city of more than two hundred and fifty thousand, he was truly ALONE - and that wouldnât do. But if he played his cards right, this could go exactly the way he wanted it to. He needed allies, like-minded individuals, soldiers on either side of the war who were willing to listen if he greased their palms. Equipped with every resource and asset the Witches had come to collect over the years, heâd become unstoppable. They wouldnât have to learn to fear Lucien, because the Montagues and Capulets would never know he was there until it was too late. Theyâd learn to beware Lamprius the Soothsayer, and heâd soon knot the rope around their necks the same way they had done to his beloved Witches. Not for himself, but for them.
RONAN IVARSSON: Husband. Lucien isnât stupid. Heâs aware heâs married to an empty vessel, carrying around a meaningless ring he never removes. There might have been love, in those early days, but Ronan has no heart in him â only pride and hubris. He is a miserable coward to Lucienâs face and thinks himself the clever fox when he turns away, landing blow after punitive blow to Lucienâs reputation and pride. Lucienâs tolerated it for years, because he knows at his core that his husband will never change, no matter how many times Ronan convinces himself he will. Heâs taken every rumor and slight in stride, laughed off casual insults at the outskirts of gatherings while Ronan garnered all the attention he could get at the center of the room. Their dynamic had shifted after his motherâs passing, a death that damn near broke Lucien, but things are slowly reverting to the way they were before â and itâs strange, to miss the humanity in Ronan when heâs only really gotten a glimpse of it firsthand, a peek behind the curtain. In spite of that, if his husband has one true redeeming quality, he has come when Lucien called for him, every time, like a loyal dog. They are tied to each other, and Lucien isnât going to be the one to cut the rope.
LORETTA DELLUCI: Kindred spirit. In Loretta, he sees a mirror image â someone whoâs danced the same steps as him, caught at her collar by the long-fingered hands of death. Saving her life was no mere coincidence; it was an orchestrated part of a thousand-step plan on his part, one that went better than he ever could have asked it to. Even better: heâs almost entirely sure that she has no idea it was him who hired the burglar in the first place. Heâs inching towards outright asking for aid, but sheâs just as enigmatic as he is, perhaps even more difficult to pin down. In moments where their conversations over tea lapse into silence, itâs difficult to tell if her goals align with his. Her words say as much, but the brimstone burning behind her eyes says otherwise. Either way, he considers himself lucky to have her as a friend. Theyâre hard to come by, in Verona, and Lady Anne doesnât shy away from what she wants until she gets it â thatâs exactly the sort of partner he needs.
ARMAND GIORDANO: Opening. Ajax defines blind loyalty. He stands with a straight spine and rigid shoulders and goes by a name that is not his own just because itâs the one thing keeping him safe in a city of monsters that walk freely during the day. But heâs not loyal to the Montagues; itâs only Roman who has his attention, and that sort of single-minded dedication can be used, if Lucien sets the pieces up on the board correctly. Heâs already made the effort to have a conversation or two at parties and balls, when his gaze is not wholly on Roman, and in spite of his stony expression and down-set brow, Ajax has listened. Lucienâs determined that itâs only a matter of time before he breaks through to him, or until Ajax reaches his breaking point and tires of being treated like a statue rather than a man.
HARLEY BRENTON: Opportunity. Harley thinks sheâs grown from the child she used to be, but Lucien knows better than that. He can see the craving in her for something more, sees the way she looks at Hazel Accardi â because he knows everything there is to know about these soldiers who run themselves ragged for men that just donât care. He can see in Harley the naive want for love, for peace. He might have felt the same way, a long time ago, when he thought the world was true and honest and his dedication to his own husband was not just a facsimile of emotion. Heâs taken the first few crucial steps to roping her in to the plan, because while sheâs loyal to the Capulets, she has loyalties on the other side of the river and hasnât done her utmost to hide it. He canât tell if itâs because she doesnât fear the consequences or if she hasnât yet realized the full weight of her actions, but when the time comes, heâll protect her and pick up another pawn from the board.
Lucien is portrayed by SUNG HOONÂ and was written by JULIE. He is currently TAKEN by REY.
Fyodor Tyutchev, from Tribute to Pushkin; January 29, 1837
Text ID:Â Like first love, / The heart of Russia will not forget you.
âWe all grew up and did the things we said weâd never do.â
â UnknownÂ

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santodomingosâ:
Dead child haunts house and begs for an explanation, forces their parents to look deep into their soul that is no more â it is how his return aches like. Bellamy half-lives, half-wanes, and it feels earned. He has discovered too much in under five days; it is both a corpse he has chosen to ignore and numerous lies he has been fed. He is not sure if his core shakes in horror, or in absolution. There might be something to be done, but all might as well be irreparable â and the more he observes Lucien, the more he finds himself unsure of what to think. He has discovered his own body once more, resuscitated the creature that has been born under the shadows, and he now finds his own heart is beating for two â for the human and the monster.Â
His stare is one that bears the weight of the world. Bellamy has always been Atlas, more mythological retelling than human, and it shows on the simplest of movements, as the tips of his fingers graze Lucienâs lips and leave a path of glittering, vanishing stars. There is tenderness in this smothering of ashes for, although his hands are scarred from blunt-edged blades, there is still warmth seeping through them, as if the sun was inside of Bellamyâs rib cage, as if it shone hard enough to power this entire city with renewed hope. For a split second, there is a drowning in wishful thinking, as he finds Lucienâs emptied eyes once more â Bellamy desires to burst at the seams, a vicious enough action that can form new life, all in the name of the angel that stands in front of him, lost in grief & in terror. It is perhaps self-serving, to hold him closer, to kiss the soft flesh of his cheeks, to be so young and dare to think he understands this destruction, this silent cataclysm in which there are no tears to be shed and no violent cries to be dislodged from oneâs throat. The mutilation of Lucienâs wings is one story Bellamy knows by heart, for it is ingrained in the grounds of Verona, the city in which all of Vaticanâs holy creatures come to die. There is a deep breath they share, and the Santo Domingo is still enraptured by the dull shine that still lives under the surface of the Ivarssonâs eyes. He swears another promise to the God he serves (and he has made plenty upon his return, the skin of his knees suffering from the penitence of endless prayer) â there must be a corner of Lucienâs heart he can still protect, and he will do so, even if his only strength to push forward his the distant idea of a radiating smile gracing his lips.
ââ There isnât. ââ he confirms, melancholy delineated on his words with subtlety. He does not argue back, for he knows standing up against the other at a time like this would be quite a low blow. Bellamy is determined not to leave, but Lucien doesnât need to be privy to such information just yet â first, there must be a softening of his edges, a relaxation to the stern aloofness sedimented into the older manâs features. It is one precious skill Bellamy possesses, and he isnât ashamed to admit he shall use it to its full capacity, if only it means Lucien will find some sliver of sleep. He follows the doctor into the kitchen, guiding him to sit down before he can even rationalize the preparations of a cup of tea. ââ Where do you keep your herbs, carissimo? ââ he murmurs, tone as soothing as the smile he makes sure to keep alive on his lips. ââ I shall prepare the best drink of your life, and then you must rethink kicking me out. ââ Bellamy keeps his teasing light, feather brushes against the skin of Lucienâs mind, as he settles a full kettle over the stove. Before the water boils, he makes sure to hold onto Lucienâs hands, another kiss pressed to his forehead. ââ You have always cared for me. I beg of you to allow me this one repayment, my darling.Â
Before he can really protest, Lamprius is being guided to sit in his own home. Whoever says there isnât a sort of violence to kindness doesnât know true kindness. The sort of kindness that erodes mountains requires its own kind of force, something that slips between the cracks and cripples it from within. Bellamy is determined to slip between the cracks of Lamrpiusâ stone exterior now, donât think he misses it. Bellamyâs words are far too compliant; it's clear they donât give any power to the law Lamprius has laid down. Bellamy better come to terms with the fact that Lamprius will hold him to it. ButâŚ.Lamprius allows this all to happen to him - being guided to the chair, having tea made for him - because he misses him. Itâs a sun peeking out from behind a cloud cover, Itâs strange for him to be a cold one, usually cold hands sought out Lamprius for warmth, and he wants nothing more to bask in that sun, regain that warmth. For twelve days he thought it impossible - and now there is a kiss to his forehead.Â
âLeft cupboard above the stove.â He finally says, canât help but frown a little at the comment about caring for him. There were plenty of people for Bellamy to care for in this city, Lamprius shouldnât have to be one of them. âYour father needs your attention more than I do.â While he is not pleased for the young manâs return to the city, his own motherâs sickness haunts him. He would never wish such ghosts on Bellamy. âIâm going to move to Sicily for a few months, to be with my motherâ Lamprius tells his husband â doesnât know how to say âsheâs dying, I know it.â He doesnât have to in the end. His mother passes before he can make it to the south of Italy and it damn near breaks Lucien. Lamprius wants justice, he just doesnât want to pull it from Bellamyâs father in this manner. âIs there anything I can do for him? â
Secure Bellamyâs fatherâs health and get Bellamy far away from all of this as quickly as possible. Perhaps that is the best course of action. Itâs been twelve days without the Witches, Verona stands to descend into madness without its usual system of checks and balances before long if it hasnât already. And Lamprius really doesnât know if it has already. He hasnât looked out the window in the last hour, he half expects to pull back the curtain and see a plume of smoke, spiraling from the center of the city. Â
From the window, thereâs soft meow, peeping out from the corner of the room that makes Lamprius turn. A silvery grey cat slips into the house, leaping from windowsill to table to bookshelf with ease, as if heâs lived here his entire life. Of course even Free Cat returns for Bellamy. Lamprius gives the cat a look as it slinks up to him across the table top and rubs a face against his shoulder. Free Cat gets a reluctant pet and a scratch behind the ears.Â
âYou have an admirer.â Lamprius says, looking down at the plucky cat. Animals had always loved Bellamy, even his horses had grown more restless in his absence. Lamprius wonders if theyâve settled now that the young man has returned. A few more pets and he finds he can sit no more. Lamprius stands up, ignores the slight sway to the room his heavy head brings on, and moves to grab the cups from the cupboards. âIf your father were to get better, would your business in this city be finished?â He knows the answer and yet it is the Witches task, now his task, to ask.Â
WHEN: APRIL 24TH 2019 WHERE: THE ROMAN BATHS WHO: @lamprius
Genevieve worried the skin at the side of her thumb between her teeth, tugging the flesh this way and that until a red patch remained as a reminder of what she did. How fitting. The thought enters her mind, a cruel, mocking, voice, she might have laughed had she not been so on edge. The Zhang woman knew what she had to do, yet, still, harboured a reluctance to set it into motion - like standing in quicksand, she knew her demise was inevitable but struggling would do nothing but draw her quicker toward it.
The Witchesâ proclivity toward the Roman Baths had not been a secret, said that their magic swirled within the waters themselves, lending them their healing properties. The memory drew her to them, like a moth to a flame, desperate to know more, scouting them as a territory that could be claimed by Montagues. Greeted with the soothing sound of running water, it was soon overshadowed by the way that her own footsteps echoed back at her as she walked through the corridors - acutely aware that she seemed to be alone.Â
Until suddenly she wasnât, turning a corner and almost colliding with a figure that she might have overlooked otherwise, hand moving to her chest in a futile attempt to quell the thumb of her heart against her rib cage. âDio mio, Iâm sorry signor, youâve caught me off guard.â Genevieve attempts to smile, knowing that the expression doesnât quite reach her eyes, settling for a contented expression of partial, polite, apology. No one caught Genevieve Zhang off guard, the musing alone was enough to put a dampener on an already dour mood.
The story of his own bildungsroman is laid into the stones here. The Roman Baths have always been special to the Witches and thus theyâve always been special to Lamprius. Secrets in the walls, secrets underneath. These secrets persist because even though three of the Witches are dead, Lamprius believes that what is dead can never truly die when thereâs still more to be gained in their legacy and name. Those secrets will persevere as long as heâs still standing, and even after.
His attention snaps to Ms. Zhang when he catches sight of her, dark hair stark against the alabaster stone. He doubts she of all people just stumbles into places: Ms. Zhang has always struck him as quiet and calculated type, a kind of temperament that can only be born of this city. Lamprius attention is snared by the knowledge that the chances of there being anything accidental about this are slim.
She jumps a little, gives him a half-hearted smile when he approaches.
âBelieve me, Ms. Zhang, that wasnât my intention.â Lamprius says as he steps forward, and he does mean it. He had no intention of startling her. Lamprius lives on the two ends of that spectrum - he hides himself when he doesnât want to be found and makes himself known when he wants to be seen. And right now? He wants to be seen. He wants Gertrude Zhang to be aware that the Witches will still know when a Montague enters the baths. He watches her carefully and his lips form a thin line thatâs more or less the impression of a cold and passive smile.Â
âWhat a Verona we live in where people no longer think twice before setting foot into the Roman Baths.â Itâs not meant to be a threat. Though look at it under the right light and it could easily be mistaken as one. Really, this is him being civil. Everything has been taken from him and so he protects whatâs still his sistersâ fiercely. âWhat brings you here today?â
reginadalysâ:
Regina does not concern herself with Verona as much as the rest. She does not allow this city or its political conflicts to become her identity. While she is not part of it, it is not so much a part of her as it is the gateway towards the only thing she allowed to become part of her, and that was the gun that felt as if it were an extension of her hand. Perhaps this conflict shaped her in ways she did not recognize, but she also didnât do enough digging to discover this. Who cared if the conflict shaped her? Of course it impacted her life â she had been wading in the deep waters of corruption and blood and war for the past few years. Of course itâs shaped her â while a certain sense of darkness had always made a home of Regina and while Regina had found shelter in it, as well, it was not until she joined the Capulets where she found the darkness tinted with the dark, deep red of blood, and found that she thoroughly enjoyed it, more than she had ever come to enjoy anything else. She had always been void, but this war made that void deadly. She had always been a serpent, but this war showed her she was the venomous kind.
Lucien is a man who sits at the edge of this war and toys with the loose ends. Regina might be inclined to curiously pull at any strings she saw loose upon the bloody tapestry, as well, but unlike the Witches, she knew not how to weave those strands back together, to craft something new with the fragments of whatâs been frayed. Perhaps she, herself, is a thread, her question drawing his attention as his fingers curiously reach out to test how strongly she is weaved into this war.
âIs something rattling to get out or hoping to invite us in, instead?â Regina mused, entertained by the thought of something hoping to escape through the moon to their kingdom below. âDo you think this side of the door is that much better than the other side?â After all, Regina is not one to resist temptation. While Lucienâs idea does not invoke fear in her, the opposite can be just as provoking, but in a more tempting sense: does the moon spike the waters with this sort of violence to tempt mankind through its door? Does it beckon, come, child, see the blessings the other side brings? Or perhaps itâs a trap. The moon was too mysterious to reveal its true intentions. Regina liked that about her.
She removes herself from her seat in one fluid motion, standing and expectantly looking at Lucien. âAll buildings have roofs. We simply have to find the access point.â Itâs not a question of if they were allowed to access the roof or if they should access the roof, itâs if they could, and Regina believed so, for she could do just about anything she wanted with little resistance most of the time. The greedy expectancy began to move her feet towards the back, where she assumed rooftop access was, and she looked over her shoulder to see if Lucien had decided to follow.
He follows.Â
Lamprius follows the woman who is a slave to her impulses, because Lamprius would be a fool to fight them. The Witch truly believes that, at the end of it all, most people will do what they want to do, no matter what the world tells them. He understands that just because you build a dam, a river will not stop existing. He sees the Montagues and the Capulets as two truths that will struggle to exist, and the concept of eradicating them completely from the city is a foolâs errand. People will always want more for themselves, will seek to build a greater legacy for their children and their names, will pursue love, seek fame, want power. They will continue existing, continue to be the river that flows, and all Lamprius can do is build a dam. Thereâs a memory that lingers in his mind, of a time he, Hecate, Medea, stand in a mansion on the outskirts of the city - a decrepit building thatâs been dying more years than itâs been living - a moment in time where a motion is proposed and Lamprius raises his hand to cast a vote in favor of La Purga. He believes in his vote then, like he still believes in it now. This woman is going to do what she wants to do and find that roof. He might as well follow her and observe because casting true judgement.Â
Besides... he knows this place has a roof. Ever since the night at the theater, lamprius doesnât walk into any building in this city without knowing every way to get out. The stranger walks towards the back and he follows her - only to turn before he reaches the back of the room. Thereâs a hallway that sprouts off to the left, and he slips into it, making a sharp turn off course. Lamprius clears his throat so she knows heâs veering away, before stepping out of view. Thereâs a few unassuming doors in this thin strip of room, and the third one on the left opens up to a space no bigger than a closet. Inside, it has a ladder to the roof that goes up and up and up. Itâs not quite the stairway Led Zeppelin sung about, but will do. Lamprius waits next to it patiently, till his new friend appears and then, ever the gentleman, he allows the other to go first.
Like mariners surfacing from a submarine they push onto the roof. Now in the cold night air, Lamprius takes a second to look up at the moon. He gestures, as if to say âthereâs the object of your affections.â Heâs spent an evening speaking a language that is not his mother tongue, making war-time plans for a war that should have ended long ago. But now he he breathes in the night air and it sweeps him clean.
âIf itâs inviting us in, Iâm going to have to decline. Donât mistake this for cowardice but... I love this city too much to leave it behind.â
Or even, watch it from above. Itâs always been the way of the Witches, to look down on the chessboard, but Lamprius believes in setting himself at the center of the city. He looks to the other, gaze looking past the dark hair that falls into his eyes. He offers up a small smile. His hands, tempted to be the devilâs play things, go to his pockets.Â
âBut if you step through, write a letter back to me wonât you?â
Not unlike the letters he shared with Bellamy... and further back, the one she shared with Everett. Like a strange habit Lamprius begins to walk the perimeter of the roof, to get a good understanding of it and measure it with his footsteps. Just because he knew existed, doesnât mean heâs ever stepped foot up here before. There isnât a piece of the city that Hecate, Medea and Circe didnât know by heart. Lamprius tries to get a little bit closer to that understanding every day.
âDo you dream of leaving Verona?â He asks, curiously.

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âNight flight to San Francisco; chase the moon across America. God, itâs been years since I was on a plane. When we hit 35,000 feet weâll have reached the tropopause, the great belt of calm air, as close as Iâll ever get to the ozone. I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired. Nothingâs lost forever. In this world, thereâs a kind of painful progress. Longing for what weâve left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think thatâs so.â
â Angels in America, Part Two: Perestroika - Tony Kushner