𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶.

he  is  the  beating  heart  buried  ‘neath  the  chamber   .   the  subtle  echo  of  regurgitation   :  the  thump  ,  thump  ,   thump  .  demoniacal  teeth  of  which  holds  natural  instinct  to  create  ruins  .   to  sink  into  flesh  and  pierce  the  opaque  skin  ,  and  to  kill   .  he  is  the  funeral  dirge   ,    the  note  of  melodious  saccharine  tune  to  grieve  for  his  old  self   .    he  remembers  his  old  self  ,   far  too  vividly   ,   remembers  and  wishes  for  humanity  far  too  deeply   .    a  killer  by  nature    /     a   lover  by  heart   .  he  ,  too  ,   has  built  his  own  tombs   .   child  of  the  dark   .  he’s  been  all  teeth  and  slash  and  retribution   .   (    was  he  not  playing  god   ?    was  he  not  tearing  down  his  holy  fist  from  the  sky  ,   picking  who  is  to  live  and  who  to  die   ?   )    oh  ,   that  sort  of  pride  and  power  never  leaves   .    no   ,   it  sits  buried  ‘pon  marble  fingertips  and  in  the  cask  of  his  own  heart   .  from  death  do  men  depart  ,   but  death  is  what  unites  the  monsters  of  stone   .   

who  is  persecutor  ,   judge   ,   and  who  is  guilty   ?  these  two  empyrean  beings  in  total  divergence   .  walking  epitaph  !  how  strong  is  the  power  of  his  mind  ,   but  he  still  sways  from  it  as  best  he  can  .   he  does  not  wish  to  see  the  horrors  inside  a  killer’s  mind  ,   does  not  wish  to  bathe  himself  in  that  poisoned  black  ichor  of  tar   .       ❛       it’s  a  natural  instinct  to  your  presence   .        ❜      

here is the lair of the lemures, ‘twixt teeth  &  thyme ; here, the first yeanling, heavy with grime. what caused the wound, you ask ?   who wields the blade ?   abraham, professing ‘fore the fane : for you, my lord, my son was slain.   ------   base-born, this man, the avetrol of avarice  &  athymia ; thyestean his crime  &  thyestan his spine.  by what right doth the bastard break his brother’s neck ?   every right, whispers he : obsidional i may be, but nike favours me. ‘round his neck, victory’s token, a noose unbroken   ---   orisons have no place here, kindly creature, for now is the hour of the beast. now, the dririmancy of diremption.     ------     he finds that anadipsia yet dogs his heels, adumbral, the stretch of macrobian madness looming from his marrows o’er his morals. half a world falls ‘neath his deifying shadow. half a world cries ‘neath the slant of his sickle.  &  o’ but even now, phagomania stirs beyond dentition darned by arterial thread. do you know, my dear ?   HE HAS FORGOTTEN THE SAPOR OF DISHONOURABLE DREAD.   ------   splay thy fingers ‘cross the spine of his mind, boy ; observe in him the discerped pages, the running ink. o’, my fool   ---   do you look at me  &  weep ?   do you recall what it is to reap ?     (  FOR YOU SEE I HAVE NEVER FORGOTTEN. IN MY BELLY, ALL IS ROTTEN.  )     

SEND ME QUESTIONS ABOUT STEFAN / ACCEPTING.

stefan’s hunger is a beast that he is by turns feeding  &  poisoning, though it takes different forms depending on his emotional state. or, perhaps that’s not quite the correct wording ; his hunger is constant, but his expression of it changes.    ——    the most obvious manner in which his hunger hinders his day-to-day life is with regard to his physical interactions with humans. though he would argue that his control is much improved  —  &  it is, considering his past  —  it still isn’t the indomitable will that vampires older, wiser, more sated than he may boast. i’ve always seen it as comparable to a starveling stood in a room piled high with poisoned food ; he knows that even a bite would be his downfall,  &  yet he longs for it in spite of that. perhaps, at least in some small manner doubtlessly influenced by masochism  &  catholic guilt, because of that. however, it sinks his hooks into far more broad a range of weakness than mere interaction. 

arguably, the naissance of his catastrophic  &  destructive relationship with his brother lies in his hunger. his hunger for katherine pierce was certainly a monumental part of this, but also there is his hunger for love, for companionship. though he believes that it would be just if he were, one of the things stefan fears most is being alone,  &  his hunger for company was what drove him to convince his brother to turn. though illogical, he therefore takes the blame for everything damon has done since ; every death, every atrocity, every drop of blood spilled. in light of how many horrors have been committed by his own hand, this is… certainly a heavy weight. it wouldn’t be incorrect to assert that it is a weight taken on with the hunger for penance, for forgiveness, for a place in this world.  ——  damon’s survival is a balm  &  a bruise, one foisted on him by his own famished desires  &  one that has dogged his days for decades. with regard to his other relationships, it is always the shadow looming over his shoulder ; his covetous nature can lead to asking too much of a person  ( E.G. LEXI )  &  in doing so risks a great deal of damage to friendships, romantic relationships, interactions of all kinds. the inevitable eruption of his brutal, baser self only exacerbates these issues, because the ripper will take indiscriminately,  &  if he is not taking from those his moral counterpart cares for, he is pushing them away.

to the ripper, hunger is both the blade by which his throat his cut  &  the poultice by which it is soothed. it inconveniences him with its presence even as it allows him access to glory, to pleasure,  &  though he would never begrudge it its offerings, it has landed him in troublesome situations in the past. it is a pain the ripper finds unbearable, one that he experiences every day,  &  one that he relieves just as often. he remains blessedly untouched by his ethical self’s  ‘ HIGHER HUNGERS ’  ( for love, for closeness, for forgiveness )  &  is therefore arguably more at peace with himself  &  his desires.

obviously, the most blatant manifestation of his hunger is his bloodlust  &  the existence of his ripper alter-ego, neither of which would exist if he were capable of managing his hungers. however, these are not the only such manifestations,  &  he possesses within him a greed that he scarcely knows what to do with. it was greed that he felt when first he met katherine pierce’s gaze ; it was greed that he felt when first he looked out onto the dawn as an immortal ; it was greed that he felt when he returned to the town of his birth with a desire for humanity in his heart, knowing as he did that he was twisting a blade in his nephew’s belly. HE WANTS TO HAVE IT ALL. he wants mortality  &  morality ; he wants knowledge, truth ; he wants elena gilbert,  &  the life that he could have with her.

SEND ME QUESTIONS ABOUT STEFAN / ACCEPTING.

stefan’s birth  &  early life were deeply rooted in christian beliefs ; more specifically, those pertaining to roman catholicism. the family salvatore emigrated from italy in  1809  — almost forty years before stefan himself would be born —   &  they clung to their traditional beliefs on the long journey across the atlantic, as well as the years after first stepping foot on american soil. giuseppe, stefan’s father, was raised as his own father was raised ; with a heavy emphasis on the importance of the church in everyday life, the community of god,  &  the love of a virtuous catholic community.   ——   this latter aspect was one that oft fell by the wayside, so to speak, in giuseppe’s gaze, but it is one that stefan is aware of almost constantly. stefan was raised in such a community, with both of his parents making it clear to him the importance of living a good  &  god-fearing life, of following the teachings dictated by the parish priest  &  devoting his days to the betterment of his virtues. stefan was named for saint stephen, the first christian martyr,  &  it is a legacy that has sat on his shoulders since his infancy.

in spite of such a namesake, he is not precisely a godly man. not in the typical sense, at any rate. he does not visit churches, he does not go to confession  ( though his use of his journals is partly birthed from such an urge, but i digress )  or any such traditional form of worship. but he does, at least most of the time, believe in god. he certainly does not wish to out of fear for what that means for him  —  eternal damnation ?   hellfire ?   it leads him down paths of questioning his own being, whether he has a soul, whether he will be punished for what he’s done  —  but he believes, all the same. when he’s feeling moral, he hopes to be forgiven ; when he’s under the influence of the ripper, it’s an entirely different story. the ripper spits in the eye of divinity, his mouth full of blood  &  blasphemy,  &  though he does not take any particular pleasure in doing so, there is certainly a sort of thrill, there, in telling something bigger than himself to fuck off.

his prayers are infrequent and have grown rarer with every passing year, with every body he has tapped dry, but they are still made. most often for those he loves, though the occasional one has found its way to his lips for his own safety. most of the time  ( i.e., when he isn’t feeling suitably broody ),  he prefers not to think on god, though, so aside from the occasional scrawled  ‘ GOD HELP ME ’  &  VARIOUS LINES OF SCRIPTURE  in his journal  —  usually scribbled out, or else written in very small penmanship  —  he doesn’t talk about religion much.

TELL ME WHAT U THINK OF MY PORTRAYAL / ACCEPTING.

TRY  AND  TELL  A  CHILD,    how  men  are  able,   to  both,   begin  and  end  wars.   how  they  can  draw  a  sword,   and  drive  it  through  a  man’s  chest,   blood  pouring  out  of  his  flesh,     willingly  leaving  him  there  to  die:    tell  him  how  the  death  of  men  is  able  to  bring  them  peace  and  restful  sleep  at  night.   kings  and  queens  were  proud  of  that:   to  be  able  to  tell  how  they  were  the  fathers  of  their  people,   acting  like  gods  when  droughts  would  plague  the  kingdom.

IN  THE  ROOM,   THERE  ARE  PLENTY   of  people,   masked,   unmasked,   overly and  poorly  dressed:   luckily,   katherine  isn’t  any  of  them.   a  silky,   pearled  dress  accentuates  some  of  the  features  of  her  body,  loose  onto  her  hips  and  beyond  it.   it  is  made  of  simple  material,  really,  the  heaviness  of  her  mask  compensating  for  the  rest  of  her  outfit,  made  of  golden  marbles  and  the  smallest  pearls.  her  hair,  dark,  almost  black,  is  picked  up  into  a  lower  bun,  pearls  adorning  thy  tamed  locks,  though  a  few  of  them  are  able  to  slip  through,  befalling  onto  her  face.  

                                                       THEY  COME  IN,   ONE  BY  ONE:

CHASTITY,  TEMPERANCE,  DILIGENCE,  PATIENCE,  KINDNESS,  AND  HUMILITY:   one  after  the  other,  they  enter  the  room,  she,  for  last:   CHARITY,   uncanny,   for  a  petty - little  girl  like  her.   benevolent,  selfless,  a  sacrifice.  there  couldn’t  be  anyone  more  fitting.   she’s  the  first  to  reach  the  highest  tower:   a  spot  specifically  asked  for  her.   all  eyes  were  to  be  on  her:   and  her  eyes  on  them.   

see,  she  was  a  woman  whose  fate  was    already  set  in  stone,   the  man  to  be  by  her  side  surely  witnessing  her  own  performance,  in  that  moment.   and  though  she’d  had  to  look  for  him,  it’d  deem  natural  for  her  to  stare  elsewhere,  her  attention,  for  a  mere  second,  completely  withdrawn  from  the  scene,    focused  onto  a  single  man:   one,  alone,  now  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.   his  hair  lighter  than  her  own,  pushed  back,  perfectly  still.   he  was  quite  tall,  she  could  tell,  tough  he  wasn’t  the  tallest,  for  a  few  shadows  seemed  to  still,  cover  his  silhouette:   it’d  be  well - too  hard  for  her  to  miss  his  eyes;   bright,  mysterious.   it  was  something  she  could  not  define:    an  unfamiliar  feeling  onto  her  chest,  something  she  hadn’t  felt  before.     A  FEW  SECONDS  PASS,  AND  IT  ALMOST  FEELS  LIKE  AN  ETERNITY:      was  he,  but  a  vision   ?     why  had  she  not  seen  him  before   ?

  she  had  to  know  him:    she  had  to.   he’d  be  hers,  and  hers  alone.

@monsterey

CHASTITY, TEMPERANCE, DILIGENCE, PATIENCE, KINDNESS, HUMILITY —— CHARITY.  this, the vow of vastation ; the vincture of violets, of violence, gallowing  &  hallowing in equal measure. boy as basilica, as an amoret of brontides, with his mouth dripping canticles as cruor  &  his fingertips slipping on rosary beads, teeth clamped ‘round a lure. dost thou recollect the absterging of thy irradicating, how the pollicitation had first sung of paresis ‘fore repose snatched thy limbs from the brumal bruising of devilish disquiet ?   dost thou recall how peccancy had lingered as saltwater ‘twixt thy teeth long after the settling of mantelletta o’er thy mortal marrows ?    (  yes, in the distant way that dawn recalls being dusk. in the scaevola, still sobbing over the scissure.  )      ------      stefan was named for a saint, understand. kismet’s kiss was the ecchymosis on his crown even in his infancy ; a cardinal’s cantillating breeds in his blood,  &  he is emarcid with its sapor, he is eutectic. sarcinarious he may be, but what hagiocracy was ever birthed without bruising ?     ------     in the end, mayhap there is no truth to this world but this: he is hymnal. he is holy. he is human, human, human. 

BY THIS HE MEANS:   HE IS FALLIBLE.       /       BY THIS HE MEANS:    HE IS FLAYED.

second-born, second-bound.  it is a fraternal sort of fright, in truth, even now. an abodement for the alamort, for the arhizzal child he had been  &  the knosp-knowing man he is now.    (  damon stands an hundred-thousand leagues from him, papà’s dolose digits hooked to the quoin of his shoulder, eldest  &  heir  &  elided, always elided.   ------   ONE BROTHER, BOUND BY BLOOD. THE OTHER, BY ENTHEATE FLOOD.  )    he is an ill-fitting vestment, here, a prince picked clean. name him carrion cardinal, mayhap ; patron saint of peccancy, a cadaver redivivus  &  rotting, rotting, rotting.      ------      do you see it, yet ?   youngest son, favoured son, holy son. yet still an heir through god  &  god alone.  do you see it, yet ?   this is not the first mask he has worn. it will not be the last. he should not be here. he should not be here. GOD ABOVE, HE SHOULD NOT BE HERE.

---------------     she appears to him as if in fragments. as a boy, his mother was a matriarch most margaric, the fall of eoan effulgence caught in nacre’s nimble grasp,  &  it is this he sees first, sovenance seared subtrist ‘cross the eigengrau endlessness beyond his eyelids.   ( A SHADE, HE THINKS. A MAGNALITY THAT MUST ALWAYS FADE. )   but nay --- mamma’s curls did not fall as the break of spindrift ‘cross a refluent rivage, nor did her crown tilt so tall. in her final years, mamma was a vulnerose visage, welking  &  wroxed, a study in atrophy limned alamort  &  overcome in a manner most obsidional. this woman, THIS GIRL-ADONIS, looks as though she does not know what it is to welter. she does not perish for want of shelter.       ------       his fingers are an eagre eruption, kymatology unlimned ‘twixt the lines of his palms, a selenolatry service locked in the adumbral hollows that stretch between metacarpals  &  marrows. god, but she is a work of art. ‘round her skull, gloriole. in his heart, a sudden hole.