Solare.

𝐖𝐇𝐎 - @lucariche 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 - fourth week of the new moon → the coming of spring  𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 - the globe

Bloodlines have always interested Ephemera, especially since she mothered none of her own while she reigned on Earth as a queen of her own making. It’s why she watches one of the Riche sons intently in an attempt to glean any similarities between the present and past– between Luca and his grandfather with whom Ephemera herself fought alongside in the war against the Heretics. She’s yet to find a mortal to fight alongside that had the heart and mind of the Riche ancestor; in truth, he was one of few to garner a nod of acknowledgement and subtle praise from the General of Angels–mortal or immortal alike–and she’s curious to see if the descendant can live up to her expectations.

Ephemera decides then to see for herself. She abandons her post near the outer edges of the Globe to join the Riche man. “Luca Riche,” the Virtue greets without regard for what the man was doing prior to her arrival; it matters not to Ephemera, who instead prepares herself for small-talk in which she has no true interest. No, Caelum’s strategist wants to know just how strongly the Riche bloodline courses through the mortal in front of her, wants to know just how much of his grandfather’s spirit resides in this golden boy’s frame. 

“How lovely it is to see you. Are you enjoying the Coming of Spring?”

The world was so new to Luca’s eyes. Every person he met, he was meeting for the first time, even when he’d lived a life before this one. Even with those extra years, long ago, the life he’d lived thus far was merely a blink or two of angelic and demonic eyes. So many had traversed this ground before him, and many who did had walked upon it hundreds of years ago, even thousands, and still walked it today. Luca did not know how ancient this world was, but he could see the reflections of it in the eyes of the immortals, folding at the edges like the ancient scrolls he’d witnessed at the Temples. All this was to say that he could not see the things Ephemera saw when she looked upon him. He could not see the history that pulsed through his veins - he couldn’t even see the life yet to be unlocked, gathering dust at the back of his mind.

No one knows what it’s like to meet their soulmate until they are told to go without. Imagine, then, meeting your soulmate and knowing beyond a single doubt that this is the one person that you are never meant to part from - they look into the window of your soul and do not offer judgement, instead they allow you to peer into theirs so that you might understand them in turn. Imagine they make themselves at home within the chasms of your soul - only to be ripped out in the span of a single night, because your father drags you to the dark innards of the forests and forces you to make a home of it. Never again would Romilda allow anything to come between them, neither Death nor whatever gods there may be. Their eyes lifted to Luca, a warm smile painting their features as they rendered their visage in their memory. We will hold each other to see the sunrise, he says, with not a single doubt tainting the cadence of his voice. No, there was only the frightfulness of unerring determination. And it was with this in mind that Romilda turned her gaze towards the onslaught of daemonium, their infernal shrieks causing Baldur to stir and growl in irritation, his paws lifting to cover his ears.

Their eyes watered as the daemonium drew near, their stench preceding them - as did their demonic howls. Even so, they still managed to count the creatures that sprinted ever-nearer, the smell of fresh flesh drawing them closer. Even from here, Romilda could see their varying states of decomposition, could see the singular urge to satiate their hunger reflecting in their empty eyes. From beneath their scarf, their mouth twisted into a grimace as they counted the heads that bobbed and weaved in and out of the shadows. There were five total - each one hoping to sink their sharp, rotten teeth into mortal flesh, to sup on their innards as a king sups upon a decadent feast. Romilda’s lips parted, a war-cry on her lips as she rose to her full height, feet grounded, axes lifted aloft while a daemonium inhabiting the body of a young girl locked eyes with the knight, mouth pulling back to reveal sharpened, bloodied teeth.

Then, in the next instance, she was gone - Baldur’s canines sinking into the creature’s throat. “You could have warned me,” Romilda grits out, annoyance flickering over her features as she watches her companion finish the daemonium off. Under her breath she mutters a quick prayer that the young girl’s soul finds peace, leaping forward before the other daemonium could encroach on them any more. It was a move that would, undoubtedly, concern Luca - but she trusted that he would pluck the other two off with his archery before they could engage her. Tucking her axe into her belt, she lifted the other back, grunting as she threw it forward - the metal sailing through the air. THWACK, before the sound of their axe meeting its mark even reached them, they were already sprinting forward, a prayer on their lips for the corpse they had marred.

“Only 3 to handle now, Lulu. We might still live to see the sun.”

Every moment Luca and Romilda spend together could be their last, and he is ever so aware of this when he is in her presence. It is the nature of their very livelihoods, throwing themselves in the path of danger to spare others from its deadly effects. Any fight they join could be the fatal one, any sacrifice they make could be their life. When they fight together, it is even more clear to Luca, not just for that moment, but because they have already had a last meeting before, when he was too young and ignorant to realize it. There was a day where Romilda and Luca played in the fields for the very last time, and he hadn’t taken the time to cherish it as he should. He knows how it feels to lose Romilda, already. Losing your soulmate is a pain he could not wish upon anyone, the tearing of your heart and the ripping of your soul, the madness of your mind as it brings tears to your eyes with every memory of that person it drags up. He has lost his soulmate once, and he refuses to do it again.

So he fires, again and again, into the woods at any sign of movement and flash of glowing daemonium eyes. He is looking too far out to fully register the image of the young girl attacking Romilda, before Baldur handled her, and for a moment, he is grateful, knowing there would have been hesitation in his limbs where there was none to be found in the bear. But he clenches his teeth as he swallows down the thought, his eyes focused on the darkness he cannot see very well. Three left. Three of them, including Baldur. This may yet be a fight they can win, he thinks optimistically. “We will live to see the sun, my dear,” he replies through gritted teeth, trying not to let the worry of her running ahead show. “And it will rise in envy of your radiance.”

Another flash of movement zips through the trees and Luca fires, but this time, he misses. It begins to almost taunt, now, while Luca unsuccessfully fires at every rustle in the brush until he finds himself out of arrows. He has enough time to sling his bow back onto his shoulder before a figure comes barreling into him and his horse, sending him flying off the animal as Jupiter darted away to safety, leaving Luca prone on the ground with the wind knocked out of him. The daemonium was all too eager to spring upon the knight, who was fortunate to be able to draw his sword in time to keep the creature at bay, but not before it delivered a decently painful blow to Luca’s left shoulder. Shoving as hard as he could, Luca managed to get the daemonium off him enough so he could stand before engaging in combat.

WHEN: the first week of the new moon WHO: @lucariche​

No matter how many times Caphriel has traversed the wilds of Sanctus Terra, the land never fails to captivate her. She could walk its length a thousand times over and still feel as though she’s just stepped upon the earth for the first time, overwhelmed with love and brimming with hope for the people she would soon come to know. This long traverse, shepherding pilgrims to the Holy Land to mourn, feels especially poignant, the crackle of emotions radiating from their caravan settling on her skin like a distant hum. 

The road is quiet and slow, enough for Caphriel to strike up conversation with those around her and note the dearth of engagement she holds with her fellow volunteers - notably, and most discomfiting, the relative lack of Luca’s cheerful voice in her ear. At first she’d attributed his distance to the demon in their midst, but Orias has been holding their own at the back of the caravan for some time and has remained quiet on the fringe as they stop to make camp. It simply seems, she’s concluded, that his mind is elsewhere when he looks at her - gaze shuttered for the brief moments he allows it to linger. A quiet enough rebuke, one that she may have missed had she not bound him so tightly to her heart. One that gnaws at her, since she can find no cause for it - a fact that only serves to heighten her concern, a loop of worry more for his sake than her own.

A pause in their travel - to rest the horses or to refresh the riders, she does not know - and she allows herself to drift to where Luca sits, radiant, astride his horse, magnetic north that she will always turn to, always find. “Luca,” she says softly, arriving at his side before he can busy himself with something else. She longs to reach for him but holds herself back, worried that he may pull away or startle like some anxious animal. “Is everything alright?”

The Hundred Eyed God must be tempting him; of this, Luca was almost certain. He had always given to others, caring not what was left for himself. He had always been the pillar of peace and humility and selflessness. Of course, Luca would not admit to these things himself, far too humble, but he knows his desires were always for others, and never had he had such strong ones tucked away for himself. That was, until he met Caphriel. There was no denying the pull he felt towards her angelic form, the way he wished to sing her praises atop the highest of peaks this land had to climb. The poetry he longed to whisper in her ear and the music he wished to make with his hands upon her body.

It wasn’t until a somewhat recent ritual that he’d heard a sermon that made him wonder if this was too selfish when it came to his feelings for Caphriel. The way he would so eagerly and so lovingly kneel at her altar almost seemed sacrilegious when he thought about it for too long. Did he love so completely that it would blind him to his love for the rest of the world he’d sworn to protect? Would he give himself to her until there was nothing left for others? It was a thought that filled him with dread, that he had become too selfish, that she was a test from the Hundred Eyed God and he was utterly, miserably failing it. And so, he needed clarity.

If Caphriel were a test, Luca could not think so clearly about it, nor could he do the right thing if ever he were to come to a conclusion, with her in his field of view. As much as it had pained him, Luca had been trying as of late to spend as little time with Caphriel as possible. He could not allow himself to be so distracted, as he knew she was the siren that called him out to sea, and he would happily get lost in those waters for her. But the Hundred Eyed God seemed not to be satisfied with the time it has been taking him, and seemed to wish to challenge him further with the assignment he’d been put on today. It was near impossible to keep himself from glancing over at Caphriel’s beautiful radiance as he rode alongside those needing protection, but he grit his teeth and kept his eyes on the road ahead. What a cruel act from the Hundred Eyed God, to so brutally remind him of the dangers that others could be in if he allowed Caphriel to distract him as she so easily could.

Jasper cannot fathom the fondness Luca nurtures, cradling their shared blood in his palms, how his brother protects it from spilling over with every shove he administers. Surely, his mother had never spoken a kind word of Jasper, and if their father had it was before he slipped away, again returning to his rightful heir and abandoning his second. How that tether wrought with gold from one Riche son to the next had not rotted and blackened in Luca’s mind was beyond Jasper, for its purity had never stood a chance in their own. Had there even been a moment he had not, in his bones, dreamt to know of a life where father had not spoken those two damned syllables of Luca’s name aloud? 

“Surely you must remember the days before my father’s death, and think of them fondly, no?” He challenges, a brow rising as if to remind him of what truly brought them together, to remind him it is the only thing that could have.

There is a part of him that alights at Luca’s bewilderment, as if the criticism has staked him to a part of his heart he did not know to exist. Jasper wishes he had the privacy to twist it deeper. It, instead, rests placid between his ribs, taunting them. “There is no part of you that longs to hear your name chanted, your brave legacy touted, Luca?” He is older now; his shoulders are much wider, his chin raised higher, his spine more taut. Jasper wonders if he notices the same in him, a man rather than the young boy hidden in the shadows of his home. “Surely, some semblance of it must be for your own sake. One does not give himself away to others from the break of the dawn till the dark of dusk and remain whole, after all.” He is not smiling. He needs to know —why? Luca had always been a frustratingly shallow pool to dip his fingers into, but perhaps he had deepened in their absence, perhaps he’d forged motives and aspirations from his bleeding heart.

When Luca speaks of greatness, his own weaved among the stars Jasper covets in his greedy palms, he feels a shudder of agitation. The shadow had been cast, once, any who stood in the way of Luca’s brilliance would be bathed in one, after all. Jasper had only just begun to slough its remnants from his boyhood, now, and it returns like an eclipse, bound to snuff the light from radiating upon anyone else. His jaw tightens. “So you come for more, after all,” Jasper muses, a brow raised, a fist balled as he takes a swift step away, “what is to say I have not made one for myself, already? Do you think I have spent all of my days waiting for your return to create one?” 

Imagine the stories, he considers bitterly, and Jasper envisions a crown atop a head of curls, a smile that is shared only with the brother bowed at his feet, swallowed again by what space his successor has allowed him, and that alone. 

He will not imagine, he will make them his own.  

Luca could never understand the thorns that grew from Jasper’s tongue when he spoke, sometimes. Those moments when his brother’s words would reach his ears prickly and barbed, where even the tiniest of pricks still sends a moment’s pain up his nerves. He has long since accepted that he and Jasper view the world through different lenses, but that, Luca believes, is not in itself a bad thing. He enjoys learning from his brother, to see the world through the eyes of the smartest man he’s ever known. Perhaps it’s that intelligence that shapes Jasper’s world view, shows him things Luca had not even thought to consider. Regardless, he admires it. And so he bears the thorns, knowing that all roses have them. He anticipates the bloom of the beautiful red petals his brother will some day speak to him.

“Yes, I do think fondly of those days, but I also see what a fool I was, to not have realized I was living in a world without my brother. I think fondly of many days, and fonder of those that I have spent with you.” Luca knows well the tragedy that brought them together, and though he wished it were different, that their father might have introduced them while he was living to make them the family Luca so greatly longed for, he could not be anything but grateful for the presence of Jasper in his life. He can only hope the other man knows this.

Luca sits for a moment, silence occupying his throat. He has given himself away, piece by piece, hasn’t he? He considers how Jasper is right, there, and yet he cannot imagine ever expecting anything in return for the pieces he so willingly breaks off. “I am whole because, in return, I am filled with the light of those that I help. Perhaps part of it is for myself,” he muses, “because of the harmony and satisfaction I feel knowing that others are safe and the world is at peace. But I do not consider that selfish. I do not think that is so bad to want. I do not just want it for myself, but for others. For you.” Luca wonders what peace looks like to Jasper. In his mind, he pictures a fireplace, lit and inviting, a warm drink and a book on topics he himself doesn’t quite understand. He wonders if he may sit at the foot of the armchair where Jasper is reading and bask in that peace his brother would feel.

WHEN SHE WAS JUST A LITTLE GIRL, Arianne took to following Luca like a stray kitten. Where he went, so too did Arianne — a child, then, whose pink cheeks still blushed under praise by instinct and not command. She didn’t have the words, then, to explain why Luca eased the tension of her shoulders and the crooked slope of her heart. Back then, it seemed a heavy burden to be loved, and smothering to be worshipped without so much an ounce of effort. Luca has never been one to offer the devotion Arianne knows so well; she tastes it every moment of every day, like sugar on her tongue but turning sharp and metallic as she swallowed. Instead, Luca offers a quiet place to rest, a hearth to soothe her terrible soul… He is, in all the ways that matter, the gentle warmth of a home.

So when she sees him slip away from the city, Arianne becomes a child again. Her steps follow the same rhythmic pattern as it did many years ago, sneaking behind Luca and waiting with delight for him to turn and notice her. He doesn’t; the years in the forest have trained her feet too well to make a single sound, even when she wills it to. Even when she wishes for Luca to realize Arianne will not let him be alone in the dark; will not let it devour and destroy him, this one corner of light she wants to stay good. It’s a selfish desire; for Luca is the last piece of her childhood left that still sees her as an innocent and glittering jewel, one without edges and sharp, wicked corners.

Luca calls her name, and pleasure swells inside her chest. Yes, she is a child again: anxious for his affection, eager to hear her name uttered so kindly from his lips. “You expect anything less?” Arianne teases. Her lips chastely touch his cheek before she takes her place beside him. “You, of course.” The glow of the city is reflected in her eyes as she looks up at Luca, her smile uncharacteristically soft. “I wanted to share this moment with you, and you only.” Curiosity quirks her brows to an arch as Arianne asks, “And yourself?”

Luca had loved the Altier sisters from the moment their childhoods converged upon the same path. They were companions and playmates, confidantes and family. Perhaps it was the undeniable connection with Romilda and the love from Arianne that poisoned Luca with the most dilute hints that Jasper did not love his brother as Luca loved him. Arianne was full of love, Luca remembered, always diving into their next adventure with the biggest smile that reminded Luca of the way that flowers turned their petals towards the sun so that they may soak up more of its long summer rays. Where Jasper turned away from the hand Luca extended towards him, Luca could always expect Arianne to grasp tight in his place, and her company was always one that he enjoyed.

In their time apart, Luca knew not the person Arianne had become. Perhaps it was naïve to imagine her still as the child he grew up with, a heart full of love and eyes full of stars, but it was still the image that she had left burned in Luca’s mind. Romilda had recounted to Luca their life after drifting apart, and he listened to every detail, his heart straining for his childhood friends who were forced to a life not of their own choosing. He knows how Romilda suffered. His heart opened to her with understanding and love. And yet, Luca does not think of those stories when he looks upon Arianne, for she has never shown any sign of change before him. Perhaps she means it to be that way, whether or not it is her true self, to project to Luca the person she once was. Perhaps she wants to be that person again. Luca does not think of this. He simply lets her.

WHO: Bastien & Luca WHERE: Outside the Tridium Temples WHEN: Fourth week of the New Moon

Perhaps it was cliché, that Bastien often felt most at ease with a sword in his hands, with the feeling of adrenaline flowing through his veins. He never quite felt like himself when he was sitting still — always itching to move, to do something, anything, other than sit around passively. Perhaps his recklessness and inattentiveness were not marks of a great leader — but this was never something he had intended to be, nor was it something he anticipated transforming into overnight. While most of his fellow members of the Round Table seemed to prefer solving their problems with long, drawn-out discussions, when Bastien found that he had a lot on his mind ( this was becoming increasingly common in a way he was not particularly fond of ) there was often nothing better than getting out and doing something, anything to get his mind off of things.

The distinct sound of metal hitting metal is what captures Bastien’s attention in this moment — a spark or two sent flying as his blade collides with that of Luca Riche. Though he wasn’t one to turn down a challenge from any source, there were few Bastien actively enjoyed sparring with as much as Luca ( he was often of the opinion that a formal sparring session was too rigid and controlled for his liking, his fighting style far messier and dirtier than the average soldier he encountered ) — it was something of a tradition for them at this point, both having known each other long enough to become accustomed to the other’s strategies, the routine of it almost calming.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, Riche!” Bastien calls out teasingly as he blocks another of Luca’s attacks, stepping back as he does so and wiping away the sweat that had begun to collect on his brow. “If I didn’t know better, I might say that you’re losing your touch.”

@lucariche​

Sword fighting is like an art, Luca had long ago decided. He could not envision it as nothing more than an act of violence when he began his training, for he could not allow himself to slip into a skin as brutal as his father’s once was. He knew the necessity of his job, and he knew the complexities to life and the taking thereof. But he would not allow himself to fall into the traps of bloodlust and violent glory that hungrily claimed his father, especially not when Luca found himself disagreeing with so many of the war stories he’d been told. So instead, he saw the beauty in the blade, in the sunlight that bounced off its sharp plains and the slicing song that it sang when it joined another sword in a harmony. The act was like a dance, retreating and advancing with your partner in a fluid game of anticipation and strength. Bodies moved as one, swords moved as extensions of those bodies, and the world stopped to take in the art of humanity in motion.

It was why he liked sparring with Bastien as often as he did. Bastien was a skilled artist with his sword, one that painted a more unconventional picture than many Luca fought. He did not always subscribe to the typical rules of the dance, and it was that nonconformity that made his art all the more compelling to Luca, who enjoyed how he had to keep on his toes and constantly challenge his preconceived notions when fighting Bastien. It made him all the better of a swordsman for it, and it helped release any of the pent-up energy the rays of the day’s sun had transferred into him. Plus, he enjoyed spending time with Bastien in general, always seeming to have a smile in the other man’s presence. Sometimes, it felt as if he’d known Bastien for hundreds of years. Other times, Luca felt as if he was taking Bastien in for the first time.

Mammon couldn’t help but snicker, time was relative in forever - unimaginable for a mere mortal like Luca. Their opinion was also irrelevant, for mankind like him were insufferable in their preaching of moral justice, compassion and all other things they deemed in honor of God. Well, God was dead. And the dead would be forgotten, just like all these wings that Mammon had snatched. They looked into the eyes of the other. “It is beauty at its finest, its striking and unforgettable. You can do the same too, can’t you? You paint with a sword too,” their smile widened. “Cut goes one limb, slice goes another - you merely let the earth claim your trophies, that’s all.” 

They cocked their head, amused. It didn’t take a genius to access the flit of emotions that seemed to flash before his eyes - what an easy fool to read. Mammon certainly entertained the thought of keeping him around. “Already? We haven’t had dinner yet.” They stepped forward, they would not take refusal as an answer. Mammon was a demanding demon that would have things done their way upon their terms should they desire. And thus Luca would have to succumb to their will lest they wished for unhinged wrath of a demon’s crazed mania. “In fact … you look quite unwell.” Feigned consideration as they smiled with twisted glee - how easy, how fragile. Stupid human. 

Luca had imagined morality as this clearly defined thing. He’d always had a good sense of right and wrong, and it was more than obvious to him that everything Mammon had shown him was blatantly and horrifically wrong as the images of flesh-torn wings burned themselves into his memory. But perhaps not everyone has the same images of morality as he, and perhaps some lack it completely. It’s almost impossible for him to imagine, but it becomes more possible every moment he remains among Mammon’s gory collection. “I use my sword out of necessity. I use it to protect,” he answers slowly, seriously. “I do not take pleasure in such things.” But why would he become a knight? Luca has long since come to terms with the things he must do to protect the city and the people of this world, and in a new age of peace, he has rarely had to place himself in situations where he would see the glassy eyes of dead mortals staring up at him, their blood upon his hands. He had already vowed to himself that he would not become his father. He would paint a new legacy. He would not paint it with the same red Mammon seemed to suggest.

The funeral had just ended, but Luca knew that he would not have a moment to rest. Rumors of the Daemonium stirring from the shadows began to swirl about the towns surrounding the Holy Land, before the whispers reached the city itself. This was his primary job, after all, helping the people, protecting them from danger as a good knight should. He took pride in his work and in his tasks, refusing to succumb to fear or doubt when it came to those he was fighting and those he was protecting. So when he was asked to give Abaddon the safe passage she needed, he was happy to accept, assuming she like most faraway travelers required the same passage home they required when they arrived for Cador’s funeral rites.

Luca knew very little about the Black Cells, and part of him wanted to keep it that way. The speculations of what went on down there were nothing short of nightmarish, and Luca knew better than to involve himself in such dark dealings. Part of him wondered if he could even condone such things. But another part of him imagined Abaddon as a protector of her people, as he was of his; did she not keep those most dangerous to their safety at bay? Did he not do the same? Curiosity was a dangerous trait for the cat to possess, but perhaps the feline was given so many lives for a reason.

With her chin upturned, Gadriel peers through her lashes as a fierce glow resides in her eyes and lingers on the cusp of exploding. An abundance of worshippers swarm Isolde, and on impulse, Gadriel’s fingertips sweep across the pommel of her sword as they revel in her presence, and although they seem to be incapable of stringing together a simple sentence, the congregation still manages to declare their unadulterated love and sweet devotion. In Isolde, they see something divine, something worth believing in, and how could she fault them for that? As they sing their praise, sweeter than an orchestra of angels, Gadriel sees herself. Hadn’t she too whispered her steadfast love and tender faithfulness? Hadn’t she too beseeched Him as tears stained her cheeks, her knees tattered and bruised? Gadriel may see herself, but she will never understand.  

Luca’s eyes find hers, and though she wasn’t finished simmering in her own sadness, Gadriel decides to focus on the task at hand. She gifts him a sweet smile and a sharp nod and allows her hand to fall from her sword. “In truth, I have attended so many rituals that they all begin to mesh together as one,” she confesses with a gentle shake of her head. “I am here out of obligation. Nothing more.” Her tone bleeds honesty as she takes one step forward, her eyes drawn to the eye-shaped pendant that sits on Luca’s neck. “I see you’ve enjoyed yourself.” It isn’t a question. “You are quite right about Isolde,” Gadriel gives her a fleeting glance, her words soft and slow. “She is one of a kind.” Verity laces itself through every word — this is such a truth that not even Gadriel can deny.

“I am glad you have finally found the time to properly introduce yourself.” Her glare pierces true as fingers interweave and rest right below her stomach. Gadriel does not know much about Luca, but she does know that she would rather call upon him rather than one of the angels. Dismissal seems to result in less pain when it stems from someone you hardly know. “I hear that you are quite close with Isolde. Is this true?”

Luca does not believe faith is the all-important thing in one’s life. Rather, he sees it as a tool of guidance and of inner peace. He finds solace in the teachings of the Hundred Eyed God, but his personal moral compass is what he follows most of all. He admires the teachings Isolde facilitates, her spirituality clearly a grounding and comforting presence to many who link their arms in the circles that have only minutes ago dispersed. He’s found most of the attendants to be human, despite morals and immortals alike being linked by the Hundred Eyed God and their harmonious power. Luca doesn’t think too deeply into such things, despite the thought crossing his mind once or twice.

“Do the messages not speak to you at all?” Luca asks curiously. Certainly he takes no offense to it, but he cannot begin to understand what must reach some immortals and what is a philosophy they’ve long since written off. After all, he is so mortal, only able to know so much information in his limited life. Are these teachings even new to those who have seen worlds before this one? “I did,” he replies with a smile. “I feel a welcome sensation of peace at these rituals. Plus, it is always a blessing to listen to the High Priestess speak.” He had even hoped to speak with her more, but he would gladly learn more of Gadriel in the interim.

“Yes, I am, as well. I apologize that it has taken so long. I was not quite sure the formalities were necessary, for I knew of you, Gadriel. I am Luca Riche, simple knight and resident of this Holy Land,” he introduces with a smile, unsure how much she truly knew. While simple was not quite the fitting word, humility spilled from his lips as freely as ichor in these angels veins.

His brother, predictably, cinches the fabric tighter across closed eyelids. He’d wondered if that would decay with age — a gaze stained by petals of the same rose that bore Jasper his thorns. He had so hoped it might curdle in his absence, poison that petulant hope Luca had so foolishly interlaced his fingers about. Instead, he holds it over his head proudly, a victory, a won trophy, and Jasper’s lips tighten at the very sight of something quite like excitement plain on the man’s expression; a beast too steely to penetrate with any blade in Jasper’s vast arsenal.

He had tried, after all — though not for years. Not since he had escaped a tumultuous battle with it, hands clutching at all that had ever meant anything to him in the dead of night. It was then, bathed in moonlight, that Jasper had abandoned his greatest adversary, the weight of Luca sliced loose in place of scrolls and scribbles and old family heirlooms that Jasper had resolved not to share. He’d not missed his brother since, nor the dull ache in the same spot he’d always seemed to reside, feverishly digging a place for himself in the hollow of Jasper’s ribcage. With each spoken syllable they feel it deepen, as if he had never been quite tugged free — only delayed. 

You, Luca beams, as if he were something to orbit, flesh and bone he might make a home of. Jasper wonders what it is the sun might see when gazing upon the moon, and if it’s anything like the affliction he feels himself when faced with the width of his little brother’s rays, far wider and brighter than he had once remembered, even. “There is me, after all,” Jasper echoes him, a downturned gaze singing holes into marble floors, “and you need not stumble over my shadow as to remind me.” Dark eyes flicker side to side, alert for curious stragglers as the acid eats at  their tongue. “I exist here without you, Luca, as surely as you have existed far from me. I see no reason for you to follow when we live just as well apart.” 

The blue of his eyes brim with stretches of sadness, an ocean of tears that threaten to spill for Jasper, alone, though, it does little to send ripples through the icy resentment clouding that of dark tides staring back. What troubles him? It’s an affront Luca should spend nearly a decade at their side and still have to ask. But before the daggers beneath Jasper’s tongue prematurely unsheathe, a stretch of silks unravel from Luca’s, flowing and delicate from the space between his teeth. How he longs to reach a hand into the darkness of the man’s throat and sever it at the root, for even Luca’s apology, dripping with honey, saps his knuckles more tightly to the palm. 

“You were meant for more?” Jasper breathes, a brow rising incredulously as they search his expression, grasping at the appearance of gentler words that might propel him back the way he’d crawled, “you trade the safety of your village for such vanity, Luca?” He loathes that it takes such effort to twist the words of his brother, to dull the glow of a beacon so bursting and inflamed with light. “Is your missing me so important to warrant the abandonment of your people who need you?” A tongue clucks, and his gaze falls from that of piercing blue. 

Exhaling, Jasper trains his face into an expression of thought. “We don’t both need to be here, you see. Your talents are most required elsewhere, as mine are of best use here. It does not serve you to train, Luca. The name my father gifted you with already precedes you and without anything to show for it. Why reach for the stars and risk a slip so great?” Jasper can feel the wires inside twisting, the white hot burn marring flesh where they had dared to grasp them more tightly in fear of what might happen were one to snap. Perhaps this was Luca’s greatest tool — so deftly he clipped at their fuse, long after it had grown back from nothing. 

Jasper looks at Luca as if he is a burden, and yet Luca has only ever sought to make Jasper’s life brighter. He wished to help shoulder the weight of grief and illuminate the world that once seemed to bleak. He wanted to share tales of adventure and make some of their own together. He wanted to feel that way he felt the day he learned he had a brother. “I have existed from you, and I have existed with you, and I must say I prefer the latter. Once I knew life with my brother, I would never wish to know life without again.”

It was a wonder Luca had yet to catch on with the way Jasper aimed to twist his words. One could never imagine Luca doing something purely selfish, and even now, Luca could not name one thing he had done solely for himself. Such opportunities would begin to wind around his limbs like tempting serpents the longer he stayed within this land, but until then, he was simply a boy who wished to brighten the world. “Vanity?” Luca repeats with an expression of shock and confusion. “I have not heard such a response before, and I must respectfully disagree with that, brother. I wish to help people, and here I can help more people than I could in such small confines.” He shrugs. As much as it pained him to leave his town, they no longer needed him the way they once did. He itched for more, and he believed here is where he could do that more that he craved. “It is not about me, I assure you, though the joy seeing you again brings me is a welcome addition to this journey.”

            𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐔𝐍𝐀𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒— perhaps even to a foolish degree, though, this was something Raum was yet to determine. Excess propelled through him, but it was not the excess Raum was used to— the excess she’d habitually succumbed to— the excess she found shelter in. He would remain HONORABLE even when faced with it’s antithesis— Raum who aligned with disorder above all else; Raum who would lie, cheat, and steal in order to achieve her desired outcome. He was an irrevocable alter, one not easily tainted by her likes, only strengthening her desire for corruption. How valuable of an asset Luca would be if he channeled such willpower into something more useful. Perhaps the potential existed for him to become even more useful than Jasper.

            The potentialities the future held for them tempted Raum away from reality, but reeled her vision in for the time being— if only to complete the present task at hand. She is delighted by his foolish assertion. Though Luca had no necessarily been wrong to ask Raum of her preferred fighting methods, he’d been foolish to assume that they were to even fight at all— that Raum was even willing to truly play fair. But she would indulge the young Riche, as she’d never witnessed his sword in action— it’s own legacy proceeding itself, to the point where even Raum began to believe. She looks to Luca, as if to dare him to disappoint her— challenging him to make a fool of her by him not living up to her expectations.

            She does not answer his question. Action and results meant more than anything to the demon, and she draws the swords sheathed on her back simultaneously, crossing them in front of her, peering at Jasper mischievously through the chasm formed between the X.  “Surely, my training will speak for itself,” Raum drones almost wearily, as she’d temporarily grown bored with talking. “The question is, will your reputation as a swordsman will hold up in action?”  She draws one of her blades dangerously close to the curve of Luca’s neck, the second positioned an equally menacing distance from the center of his heart. “Are you sure you can handle me, Luca Riche?”

Some parts of the world had grown up afraid of the demons and all they stood for. Some children suffered nightmares from demon-centered stories told by dim candlelight. Some people whispered cautious sentiments when a demon walked about their mortal streets. Such people were not the likes of Luca Riche, though whether his lack of caution was a strength or a folly had yet to be truly seen. On those rare nights when his father had been the one to tuck the small child in, stories of monstrous men and the victories that coated his father’s hands were the subject that reached his ears, not those immortals who lurked south of their home. But even if demons had been the subject of such stories, Luca wasn’t quite sure if he would have listened. For even now, he grew further from his father’s tales of bloodlust-filled victory, and had learned that victory was golden, not red. Demons valued freedom, he had learned, and that in itself was not such a bad thing. 

That wasn’t to say there weren’t certain creatures that made Luca feel wary in their presence. However, he regarded that as a more individual-attributed thing. Those who caused him trouble would be met with rightful caution, though none were regarded with his hatred. Samael was the closest to experiencing such a response, but he still fell short, making it a wonder if such emotions even existed beneath the glowing demeanor of the younger Riche. Raum certainly didn’t court such feelings. If anything, he regarded her pleasantly, accepting the challenge if she were to truly be putting one forth.

The ritual concluded with a peaceful sigh among all those who were blessed to witness its beauty. Luca felt the wave of peace washing over him as his body relaxed, a reminder of all he fought for, the weight he proudly carried upon strong shoulders. But his participation in these rituals allowed him to relax for a moment, for the weight to be dispersed throughout this world, for Luca to project his peace onto the Hundred Eyed God and allow it to be projected through their many lenses. His fingers subconsciously moved to his chest to run along the metal of the eye-shaped pendant at his neck. If Luca was a man of hope and peace, then he was also a man of faith, and believed perhaps the Hundred Eyed God saw through them all in order to visualize a world ideal.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the third week of the new moon 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: training grounds 𝐖𝐇𝐎: @lucariche

               𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 in which Jasper Riche has pissed her off. The particulars behind the situation did not matter— not when he pissing Raum off was as frequent as the moon’s cycles or the rising tides, and she would continue putting up with it for as long as he remained as brilliant as he was infuriating. That did not mean he would be exempt from retaliation, though. Ever so often, Jasper needed an occasional reminder that his actions came with consequences. 

               Luca Riche, unfortunately, would become victim to Raum’s consequences. A demonstration of sorts, as who better to torment than the man’s very own brother? She knew little of the younger Riche, other than that he possessed a far more pleasant demeanor while being just as handsome as Jasper. She fantasized about what exactly she’d leave with during the encounter— nothing life-threatening, as she could not afford such energy exertions at the moment, but something enough to shake him up— something that would be a constant reminder when and if he were to cross paths with the demon at a later date. 

               Locating him was the easy part— as all the mortal soldiers tended to train in the same location, but what Raum did not prepare for was seeing Luca in all his hailed beauty and glory— the way the sun caressed his Icarian cheeks as if it could no longer bare a moment longer without him. For several moments, Raum felt something almost akin to remorse. Her issue never was with Luca Riche himself after all, but she had not traveled all this way for no reason. 

               It was relatively empty on the training grounds that day, and Raum approached Luca as if they’d been old friends, taking a few moments to circle him— appraising his beauty from a closer distance. “Jasper certainly has the smolder,” she comments allowed as if she were noting her observations. “But your bone structure is absolutely to die for.” She halts her pacing, head tilted slightly, lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “Fancy a duel, soldier?” Raum inquires while deciding what exactly it would be that she’d take from him. She reaches out as if to trace the outline of his jaw, but her finger never directly makes contact. It would be something from that pretty little head of his, Raum decided. A memory of some sort.

Jasper’s relationships were none of Luca’s business. This was not because Luca has chosen to keep his head out of his brother’s doings and those he associates himself with, but rather it was because Jasper held Luca at a distance, and the length of which included most relationships the older Riche kept. Luca didn’t quite know who Jasper dealt with, be it positive or negative, with the exception of those relationships so grand he could not help but take notice. He knew Cain and Jasper shared a deep bond of friendship that he admired, that Jasper and Arianne were often seen talking aside to one another, and that the Riche and Atlier friendship in general ran as true as Luca had seen in his childhood. 

But Raum was not one of those whom Jasper held in such public reverence that Luca would have had the chance to take notice. Their relationship kept too much to the shadows to Luca’s viewpoint, or at least the limited view that Jasper had allowed Luca to have into his life (and truly, it wasn’t even entirely allowed and more like the act of Luca wedging himself into the life of his brother at every possible turn). Luca was not so treasured by Jasper to be privy to his shaded dealings; in fact, Luca was not so treasured by Jasper at all. The viscosity of blood did not determine the strength of its bond.

It was impossible to turn a blind eye to the range of expressions that decorated the mortal’s face - the flash falling align to every possible expectation they had ever desired. Their eyes remained glued onto Luca, the pleasure of their smile unmoving as they spoke once more - the hiss of their voice danced delightfully against their throat. 

“Why not?” 

There was never reason nor rationale for a creature like Mammon. They took and took and did as they pleased to whatever whim they had to fulfill that day. Their arms are raised in an almost conductor like fashion - as if they speaking to a large audience rather than just Luca. The dramatic theatrics were never understated with them. 

“It is living art.” Their voice bellowed loudly. They scoffed at Luca like a fool - truly seeing no wrong in the destruction that they so proudly displayed. “Wait until you see the other collections I have …” This was merely the beginning of many, many things that the black hearted demon collected. 

Why not? It is in two simple words in which wickedness makes its nest. It is here that Luca wonders if Mammon has any reasons at all, if they possess any morality with which to weigh such an obvious decision over whether or not to sever a body part from another’s flesh. Luca did not have wings, of course, but he shared with the angels the fascia and the muscle and the flesh that still stained some of the wings, and imagined they had bled. They were an appendage, he knew, as much as his arms and legs were. To remove such a thing is, perhaps, one of the cruelest acts he has now in part witnessed. “I can think of an infinity’s worth of reasons to answer such a question.” 

The wind shifted and upon its currents, the smell of rotting flesh was carried, forcing Romilda to pause in her musings and lift their scarf to cover their nose and mouth. They pulled the hood of their cloak up, their eyes sparkling with intrigue as they took note of the movements of their companions; Heimdal stirred, his footsteps becoming uneven, just as Baldur loosed a growl of warning. Quietly, subtly, they shifted themselves so that they led the path for Jupiter, a means of protection for the other half of their heart - an indisputably more vulnerable half. To put themselves in such a position, would undoubtedly mean reproach from Luca, but they found that they were willing to bear the brunt of it so long as it ensured that his hands would remain far less bloody than theirs. Let the lamb remain the lamb for a little while longer. Let his wool remain as pure as the first rays of the sun. Though she did not care to admit it aloud, could barely look such a truth in the eye, there was little that Romilda wouldn’t do for Luca. There was little they wouldn’t do to let the world hoard his heart for a little while longer.

They took measured steps as they continued towards the horde, voice dropping into a quiet whisper - finger idly trailing along the hilt of their sword.

“You know what I truly want,” she repeats, acknowledging the indisputable truth of his words. “You always know what I want - at times I think that my heart speaks to you more than any other. Including myself.” Her lips ticked upward at that, glancing over her shoulder to look back at him and where he sat atop his horse. Her gait began to slow until she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jupiter, eyes wrinkling at the edges as she grinned beneath her mask. “How Fate must favor me, then, to grant me a translator of my own heart as beautiful as you.” It was flattery, perhaps, but that did not make it any less true. None could look at Luca and not acknowledge the beauty that seemed to pervade him, from the edges of his mouth to the very breath that passes from his lips - all of it, beautiful in its generosity.

They hummed in consideration as they mulled over Luca’s words of warning. “Perhaps I should be worried, but should I die -” an inhuman shriek sounded, shattering the unnatural quiet of the forest. Slowly, Romilda reached behind her, fingers curling around the handle of her axe while Baldur loosed a quiet growl. The daemonium had found their prey for the night - likely a wolf or wildcat of some sort. The possibility of it being anything other was not one that Romilda cared to entertain, but that did not stop the image of those infernal creatures feeding on a corpse from eclipsing all else. They swallowed down the bile that lodged in their throat.

Their eyes found Luca’s, hand already grasping his so they might bring it to their lips. A wish of luck. A blessing of Fate.

Luca’s face twisted at the stench of flesh sweeping the hills. Death, he knew, was a necessary thing for moral beings. It was a constant, for just as life would bring them here, death would carry them away. He had seen it take his father, his colleagues, and now, Cador. But violent, graphic death, the unnatural violation of life brought forth by the daemonium, was not a necessary process. Death was natural. To die like this was not, and it was that which Luca vowed to fight. Romilda had vowed the same, and now she positioned herself between Luca and the potential threat. He could not lose her -- he would become that flesh that made his nostrils flare before he would ever see Romilda’s sparkling eyes glaze over. Unable to change their formation now, Luca removed his bow from where it was slung about his shoulder and removed an arrow from the holder at his back. If Romilda insisted on being their first line of defense, the very least Luca could do was offer her some cover from the brutality, despite his preference for the sword.

“I listen to every wonderful note your heart sings to me,” Luca replies, a fond smile still managing to creep up onto his face as chills crept down his neck. “We speak the language of each other fluently; you know me perhaps better than I could ever think to become familiar with my own heart and mind. And I think I like the language that spills from your lips better than my own. It sounds more melodic.” There was nothing that could ever happen to break Luca from Romilda’s charms, and she need not even intentionally place them upon him. Luca was an Icarus drawn to the shining, golden sun that was Romilda, and he would burn with a smile upon his lips if he knew it would keep her aloft.

“Don’t,” Luca hissed in a whisper, refusing to imagine a world without Romilda in it, but the sound may well have been overtaken by the shriek that sounded from the woods. Luca turned Jupiter to face the source, eyes narrowed into the darkness. “We will survive tonight. We will hold each other to see the sunrise. This I swear.” If the daemonium found their prey, they could not be far, and they certainly were not satiated, not so early. Sweat formed on his brow and his heart drummed behind his breastplate as the forest fell into silence once more. Romilda’s hand in his grounded him, and he nodded, his eyes closing for a brief moment, as if to say and same to you. He set the arrow against his bowstring and pulled back, the tension of the string matching the tension in his rightened spine.