k r u s n i k

So mean! So cruel!! His brother has become so terrible! 

“That isn’t nice to say, Abel! I’m your brother!”

          “No you’re not. My brother is dead.”

She looks back at him and slows her pace to walk beside him. It is only polite to look at someone when you are speaking to them. Poor Abel, sounded like he had been through so much! Well, nothing food and tea can’t fix!

“Oh, you know me, working.” A small sigh. “The Inquisition seems to have eyes and ears everywhere… Cardinal Francesco wants to speak with me this afternoon.” And of course, it was stressing the little nun out quite a bit. Entering the kitchen, she spotted Peter, sitting at the counter. He had been asleep just a bit ago… he must have felt Abel’s presence and came up from the basement. “I think they know about Peter…” Speaking of him, he pet the nun’s head to calm her and she thanked him, before putting the kettle on and getting food.

“But the good news is everyone is healthy and the orphans are happy.”

          “The Cardinal...? That’s rough, he’s so scary!”

But nowhere near as scary as his sister, at least -- and so he plucks up the courage to offer himself up in support of his friends. Abel knows just how unkindly the Inquisition would treat the news that vampires are living under the roof of the church. God forbid they act as if they run the place... But as much as the man wishes he could be, di Medici isn’t the Pope. There’s got to be a way out of it.

He shoves his fist into an open palm, determined to help somehow. 

Wait, she knows that sound, all too well. Getting up off the floor herself, where she had been doing some praying for a few people, Abel always being one of them, she went to see who had fallen. Samson was there on the scene first, helping Abel stand up by literally picking him up and placing him on his feet.

Gwyn watched when Samson placed the smaller priest on his feet and approached with crossed arms and a small smile. “You certainly know how to make an entrance, Abel.” She was happy to see him. “What took you away for so long this time?” The nun had been worried about him. Especially his health. “Come come, lets get you some food and tea first.”

          “Oh, you don’t want to know... It was so boring, I thought I’d never leave!”

Abel whines as he’s set upright again by a pair of strong arms -- wondering what great misfortune he must have to get trapped on duty with Father Tres for so long. He’s so distraught that he almost forgets that he’d ever landed on his face to begin with... Until the resulting ache reminds him to rub his cheek until it feels better again, but his physical woes are quickly soothed once the offer of food and tea is made.

          “Okay, okay -- I’m coming!” He knows far better than to refuse at this point, not that he ever would.

niightroad replied to your post: He’s backbackback again~!

ew gross

“Why are you so mean to meeee?!” When did his baby brother become such a mean adult!?

          “Burn in Hell, trash scum.” 

          “Do you ever see an upturned trash can spilling out into the street and            just think ‘wow, I can SO relate’!?”

@niightroad is missed greatly

“I pray you are doing well wherever you are, my dear friend…”

Somewhere in the distance, shrieking can be heard as a certain someone falls through a doorway and face-first into the ground.

Asher made a small hissing sound at the stinging pain, but focused on his mother who applied a bandage to his cheek. “Don’t worry Asher, Abel wouldn’t-” She stopped for a moment.

  Abel wouldn’t hurt you on purpose… 

Not able to say that with 100% certainty, the nun changed her sentence. “-wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t know how to help.” The boy, once bandaged, sat up and was taken in Gwyn’s arms, where he happily stayed. He looked so much like Abel, even when he was angry, which sometimes happened.

 Speaking of anger, some of the agents had returned back from their outing. Some shopping for groceries, others working with the poor. It had been a good day for them, that is, until Peter caught a slightly familiar scent. Following the smell he came to block the medical room doorway, immediately glaring at the AX priest. Slowly he started walking forward, and Gwyn knew his intentions.

“Peter!” Diffusing the ticking time bomb of the Methuselah, she handed him Asher, almost like applying ice to a burn. Unable to fight now, he listened to his leader. “Why don’t you two go play and I’ll be there shortly.” The little boy nodded and smiled. Peter would take great care of him.

Pretty soon, it was only Gwyn and Abel in the room, and Gwyn didn’t know what to do.

It EATS at him -- that moment of hesitation as the nun addresses her child, and he cannot help but wonder what should have been in its place. Guilt weighs upon his shoulders, heavy and oppressive, if only for a moment -- for when Peter enters, he is bolt upright, stiff and attentive.

As if he’s already prepared himself for what may come.

Now, the Priest did not come for a confrontation ( if anything, he came to prevent such dreadful violence ) so even if Peter HAD been given the chance to round upon him, he’d have allowed it. It is all that he deserves and more, after all, and he has no real want to fight. He just wants these people to be okay.

Luckily for Abel ( or not, perhaps ) he is easily distracted as the child is transferred over into the Agent’s care, and the Priest breathes a sigh of relief as the situation is temporarily brought to an end... But not because he has avoided injury, no--

If anything, he is happy to have the boy out of his sight at last. To look upon him is as though looking upon a reflection of the distant past, and it dredges up every TERRIBLE thought that he’s kept buried for centuries now.

He remembers... Hell, he ALWAYS remembers -- how it was to be so mistrustful, so furious and ready to bite back at the world before it could latch onto him and cause him any further suffering. Yet, deep beneath that abrasive personality lay a PETRIFIED child who only wished so deeply to be loved. The world had dealt him such a CRUEL hand, one which he fought against with every ounce of his being... And look at where that got him.

The fear of repeating those same mistakes is ever-present as he fumbles at the thought of what to do with the family so suddenly thrust upon him. Abel has no wish to hurt anyone; yet it seems as though he always shall, no matter what path he takes.

At least the boy seems happier than he ever did, even without him in the picture. That’s something of an achievement, isn’t it?

        “I’m not going to ask for your forgiveness.”

He wouldn’t dare. It would only be a slap in the face if he came back begging. He did what he believes was right -- whether she may understand it or not -- though he does pay some penitence in HOW he did it, with no real warning or explanation. He’d hoped to just drift away and be forgotten about, but that was only his own SELFISH, wishful thinking at play.

That’s just not how it works, and he should have known better.

        “Just know that I’m sorry for what I did. I’m...          Not good--”

Not good at this? Not good for them? Not good enough? There are so many ways he could finish that sentence, but he lacks the courage to end it on his own, instead allowing her to think of it what she will.

He feels sickened, and he wipes his palms upon his vestments in an attempt to rid them of their clamminess, staring off at some far spot on the wall.

Taking him to the medical room, she lay him on the examination table and kissed his head before watching closely for any signs that he was coming around. It was in an instant, his crystal blue orbs opening quickly and as soon as that happened he started to kick and fight, the nun holding him still and trying to comfort him. “Asher, you’re safe, mommy is here.” 

He soon calmed down and winced a bit. “My head hurts.” The young mother nodded her head and told him he’d be okay. Turning to look up at the priest, he made a slow inhale and smiled. “Hi Father Nightroad…” He really didn’t know what to call this man, but that seemed appropriate enough.

He wanted to get up, to play with this man that seemed so very nice, but Gwyn held him still. No playing until his wound was taken care of. 

Looking to Abel, she asked him what he was going to do. It was so strange, seeing him again after all this time was playing games with her emotions. Sure, he had just saved them but… that didn’t excuse everything that had happened between them. She wasn’t sure if she should hug him or hit him. 

It seems that both Gwyn and her son were confused on what to do, whether it was call him a certain name or how to interact.

          “...Hi. You remember my name, hmn?            Ah, hold still a sec-- This might sting.”

The greeting is met with just as much awkwardness on his part, and he manages a smile -- however embarrassed and strained it may be. Quickly, he dabs at the worst of the bleeding, trying to assess whether there’s anything trapped in the wound before he presses the gauze against it, hoping to stem the flow.

The boy seems in good spirits, despite the headache, and he seems well enough to recall important names. It satisfies Abel that there’s no immediate, serious risk to his health... For the time being, at least.

          “You bumped your head pretty hard, pal.”

He looks to Gwyn, then, but his gaze quickly wavers, and he focuses instead on the task at hand, teeth digging into his lip.  No -- Not too deep. The most of the bleeding should hopefully stop soon enough.

          “I'll patch him up. He’ll be fine, I think -- but            someone should keep an eye on him for the            next day or so. Head injuries can be... Tricky.”

The Methuselah couldn’t believe what was happening. Making sounds of pain he writhed a bit, only to set himself free and leave that place. Yet, this man, no. He couldn’t possibly be a normal man, led him to the door. Getting out of there fast, he never wanted to set foot near that building again. No fun there.

 Gwyn watched, not entirely able to see what was going on but she wasn’t even truly watching. Where in the world had Abel come from and, never mind that. Ignoring the pain in her own neck, she felt warmth upon her arm and looked down to see that Asher’s head was bleeding. He must have hit the ground harder than she had thought! 

“Asher… sugar… wake up…” She was calm, or at least trying to stay that way. Yet, the little boy didn’t stir, his eyes remaining closed, breathing shallow. “Asher please.” Placing her hand on the wound to try and get it to stop bleeding, Gwyn held him tighter and kissed his forehead and temple a few times.

Looking over him, she noticed a scratch on his cheek as well that was bleeding. “Please, wake up. Please God let him wake up.” He had gotten injured trying to protect his mommy, for they were each other’s world. Tears welled up in the nun’s eyes as she tried her hardest to stay calm, standing up to take the little boy to the medical room. 

          “...Gwyn?”

As soon as he’s satisfied that their unwanted guest isn’t about to return, Abel turns and spies the tiny boy in the Nun’s arms, unresponsive and -- bleeding.

Oh.

He’s frozen in place for a good few moments, watching as she begs her boy to wake up. In the back of his mind, he recognises this situation: the sheer worry for someone dear to them, though he himself does not react in the same way. If anything, Abel's mind wanders to a time long gone -- and cannot help but put himself back in that same spot, standing just as distantly now as he did back then. 

Watching. Helpless. Hopeless.

The Father moves when they do, following in an almost ghost-like fashion, unable to tear his gaze from that small frame and yet... Seeming hardly present.

He feels nothing, though he knows that he shouldn’t -- and he hates himself for it. The thought bothers him, of course, but even if he did feel something he has no right to care now, not when so much time has passed in his own absence. And yet...

He should do something.

Perhaps the detachment is a good thing, Abel tells himself -- for he is calm in the face of injury, and he moves at last to fetch a clean cloth for the worst wound as he strips off his own filthy gloves, moving with purpose and determination.

He’s seen wars. This is nothing. The boy will live.

          “Lay him down -- and try to keep him still if he            comes around, until I say so.”

          “You like killing things, vampire? Does it bring you            joy to frighten women and children?”

Fearless, is he, as he rounds upon the Methuselah and looms over them, an imposing and impassable barrier between it and the pair behind him -- his... 

Family. The word does not come easily to him, and he dare not speak it aloud for fear of making them a target in his place.

It is with an UNHOLY strength that he single-handedly lifts the creature from its feet in an entirely inhuman display of power. Gone are the theatrics -- the usual, clumsy act meant to disarm and conceal the true, terrifying nature of his strength. 

He means to squeeze the life out of this filth, the tips of his fingers piercing through flesh. Blood seeps into the white cloth of his gloves, and he smiles -- a warning from one PREDATOR to another.

The temptation to drain this creature of every last drop of their life’s essence is ever-present, a constant thrum in the back of his mind... --But not here. Not in front of her. Not in front of the child.

         “...Well, that’s not very nice! Leave, now -- and I shall           pray for God’s love and forgiveness on your behalf.”

And so, he puts on the most pleasant face he can muster, physically walking them to the nearest door in order to eject the intruder -- waving them goodbye on the way out.

          “Oh– Does she, now?”

Somehow, he isn’t so surprised by that at all. Asher’s mother was always a woman so hopelessly in love, and he holds no doubt that she thinks of him fondly even in spite of his abandonment.

Too forgiving, too kind – this world shall eat her alive.

It is a pity that her boy has no choice but to bear witness to it, and he can only hope that the world is not so cruel to him as he knows it can be.

          “Perhaps you shouldn’t worry her so. She’ll be looking            for you, no doubt – and not all places are safe, even            within these Holy walls.”

Tiredly does he smile at the little one, removing a smudge upon his glasses with the fingertips of his gloves. Even at his young age, the lad is a better man than he could ever hope to be. He retains that youthful innocence that Abel himself had been robbed of long before he even existed, and some small part of him is pleased that Asher is very much a child in every sense of the word, causing mischief wherever he may go.

There is hope for him, but not here – not at his side. Seeking to keep him as far away as possible, Abel stands up straight to observe the area, pondering just what he should do with this rogue child.

          “Hey, are you friends with Peter? How about we find            him, hm? The first one to give him the biggest spook            wins!”

Nightroad is sure that he’s already caught wind of the missing boy, and he’d much sooner deal with any single one of the others than risk facing Gwyn right now.

He can scarcely believe it. For a moment, Father Nightroad fully believes he’s witnessing some kind of cruel figment from the past -- a vivid recollection of days that have long since been and gone. 

It’s as though he’s watching himself, in a way -- and he’s startled when the boy takes notice of his presence, hardly realising that he’d begun to follow after him.

Those freckles, though -- they are the biggest giveaway of all, and he fondly reminisces about a long-lost friend, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. Of course. The child would be roughly his age, wouldn’t they?

        “Well hello, Asher! I’m Father Nightroad; I work here."

He’s somewhat awkward as he pipes up and puts on his friendliest smile, a gloved hand moving to rub at the base of his neck.