𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃.

Mason Buchanan had the build of a Greek statue with all the perks of being a warm body, readily available at her beck and call. He’d seemed as cold and unapproachable as stone in the beginning. It had intrigued and surprised Aurora to slowly begin to peer at a side of him that was warm and even inviting. It hinted at a softness that lay beneath layers of hard armor and scarred skin. She wanted to know more. What birthed that desire, besides a carnal want and mere curiousity, was very unclear to her. 

Perhaps she kept him around, if only to remind herself that even the darkest individuals carried within them a light that she could find - however hidden and neglected it might be. Maybe it proved she had to embrace her natural inclination to seek out the worst people that the world could offer. No matter the reason, Mason would always hold a place in her life as a friend and someone she would care for. The rest and reasons were secondary to that unspoken promise - one the girl held for so many people.

“Is it really?” Aurora laughed lightly, raising dark brows at Mason as she balled up the shirt of his that she found. “You may be able to mentally snap any bone in the body that you want, but I’m sure you can’t name five of them with all that your laziness has helped,” she joked and threw the shirt at him with keen and playful precision, getting it to land on his face. It took some willpower not to chuckle. Aurora had gazed around the room for her own shirt but between the shoving, kissing and clumsy journey bed-ward half an hour ago, it seemed to have gotten lost.  

Aurora smirked and plopped down at the side of the bed to reach over and look beside him. “You don’t bother me, Mason. Unless you’re hiding my shirt… in which case you’re gonna start to…” She sighed and sat back down, nudging his arm with playful impatience. “Mason.” Whether or not he took her favorite black crop top, he definitely wasn’t being very helpful looking for it. 

He was human, beneath it all -- this reminder was her healing power. 

Mason had seen her heal physical wounds, and had even felt his own skin mend beneath her hand. He had heard the snap of bones falling back into place, felt the rush of blood cleaned and pumped into dead organs; and yet this was the sort of healing he wondered at. For so long, he had prided himself on his coldness, his unapproachability. Weapons were not meant to bend; they were meant to be cold, to cut without question. But here, he was malleable. Here, he was human. 

A human who laughed. One escaped him now, and he rolled it over and over in his mouth, savoring the unfamiliar taste. He stood upon a great precipice at all times, ever peering down into the dark; but here, for a moment, he turned his face upward, and allowed himself to behold the sun. All at once, he was a young boy in an overlarge uniform, a boy before manhood, before power, before decay. All at once, he was headstrong and boisterous, the heir to a legacy, and not a doom. He had shrugged on this new darkness like finery, but Mason could not ignore how nice it felt -- at her hand -- to look upward. 

“Laziness?” he feigned indignation before his voice muffled, face covered by his shirt. Snatching it away, he could not temper the rumbling laugh that continued in his chest. “Were you present for the last hour? I wouldn’t call that ‘lazy’ at all.” A sheen of sweat still sat upon his brow; he wiped it away with his shirt and tossed it aside, far too kept in his own ego to be modest. Instead, he turned his attention to the last article of clothing that she yet missed, which tangled in the sheets beneath his thigh. Mason took it up, the swath of black fabric small enough to fit in his fist, and dangled it just beyond her reach. 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” he mused, “You’re so eager to leave, Aurora. Are you so quick to be rid of me?” He leaned back on the bed, resting upon his forearms, her shirt still dangling between his fingers. The moment she put it on, the moment she left, he knew that pretense would return, and the laughter, the ease, would lock away once more, hidden until their next meeting. Medicinal. He was addicted. 

They lives were intertwined in unspeakable ways, ways she’d read about in revelation and had previously seen as a relationship of four people, demonic beings, ready to take down everyone and everything. Her obvious love for the man in front of her, however, brought her much more happiness than anything else ever will. No throne, no money, no glory – her weakness had a name. 

“You are,” she agreed with a shaky voice, nodding simultaneously. Her eyes lit up in happiness and excitement. Maybe, after all the pain, Mason would return to them, happier and better than ever. Her thumb softly caressed his cheek, dragged along his skin and let her feel the warmth of him, just so she knew he was alive, not just a soul lost within purgatory. “It’s not your end, it’s hers,” Morrigan tried to, somehow, lift his spirits, though talking about Sofia would probably get her nowhere in the end, After placing a soft kiss against his forehead, Morrigan stood up completely and tried to drag him out of his chair. 

“I’ve forced the queen and king to shut up – they keep following me, screaming the names of their murderers, not anymore.” Morrigan stopped abruptly. “Famine,” she could’ve revealed everything to him just now, but decided against it. The truth might destroy him – no, such fragile information had to be revealed at a time where he might be stronger. “the first seal is opened, six more to go. The next won’t be yours, however. Gather you strength before we open the third one.” A hint of worry could be seen on her face, brows knitted together and eyes squint together slightly. “Do you want to break free, mh? From your mortal coil? Be with me, forever?”

His life had always been burdened with glorious purpose; it had merely taken him this long to understand what that purpose truly was. Raised to be a weapon, he had been sharpened and pointed in all the wrong directions, honed into a soldier, a number for file and rank, where all along he had been meant to fall into the pattern of solitudinem, and revelation. Alone, but never apart; he was his own weapon, a being of great destruction and purpose, but a part of a set of four. It was family, it was independence, it was purpose. And though he was fully sufficient, fully capable of tearing the world down by the sinew on his own, the twin to his own blade, the antidote to his poison, stood before him now. 

He oft thought he might lose himself; Mason was more monster than man, more weapon than soldier. But she was an anchor in this life and the next, and perhaps the one before. Family. The loss of his sister -- so dead, and yet so very painfully, glaringly, alive; a mockery of the concept of family -- would surely have tipped him over the knife’s edge, mutilating all humanity within him beyond recognition. His own form of self-destruction, at his own hands and at the behest of his power, at away at his self like disease; soon enough he would be all power, all rage, and no man. 

Or he would be, were Morrigan not here. This was what love was meant to feel like; it echoed what he had read of in books, and sat in a less hollow place than the love he felt -- feels, would always feel -- for his sister. She was family, she was humanity; he would stay human, keep a beating heart on call, for Morrigan. Who else would she herald the new world with?

Unabashedly, he let his head sag against her hand, a cat purring against its master’s touch. “Her end --” he echoed; Mason made a concerted point to ignore the discomfort the sentiment elicited, “-- our beginning." He stood at her command, for in truth, she was the only living soul who could command him. “You deserve the silence,” he echoed, glancing over her shoulder as if a mere gaze might scare away the specters, who he could not see, who plagued her so, “And they deserve to be silenced.” He thought for another moment of the new king, the new queen; Mason’s eyes met Morrigan’s once more as he sought to chase the thoughts away, to anchor himself here, now. 

Cut the dead limb away and allow the new blood to flourish. 

He stepped forth, close enough now that no light could come between them. He could feel her breath upon his face, could see the hesitance etched upon her features. “Cor meum,” so close to her now, it was easy to find strength. Mason took her face between his palms, clinging to her as if she would hold him up with the world on his shoulders. He kissed her without thinking, without asking, without hesitation, pressing his lips roughly to her, hungrily, breathing in death and life in one heartbeat. And then he spoke, lips still brushing hungrily against hers, for he would be weak to pull away. “Death --” and life, “-- breaker of chains; I know that this is no time for weakness. To be with you, forever; never has there been a more pressing call for strength. What would you ask of me?”

DATE: July 16th, 2019 LOCATION: Aurora’s apartment AVAILABILITY: @pestilcnts

Drinking at the bar and talking was fun when the two of them were relaxed… But sometimes there was a lot of stress that needed to be relieved, especially with the lives they both led. When that happened, the two liked to managed it by skin-to-skin. Whether it was outside with their fists and a dull weapon or inside and between the sheets, it was vastly entertaining and made for an enormously effective distractor and stress reliever. Aurora never felt weird about it, and fortunately neither did her friend. 

It was a relief to be able to scoot off the bed and starting bantering immediately, just like it was when they reached for their waters after a casual spar.  It was fortunate therefore that Aurora had off the morning off after the king’s coronation and Mason had stopped by. All the drama of fire, Gaspard and Ophelia’s deaths, cryptic threats and the royal marriage preparation had her on edge and she’d been looking for an outlet. “Are you just going to start showing up on a whim?” She began to tease, grinning slightly as she reached for her pants. “Get a job, Mason.”

There lay a great weight upon his shoulders that never seemed to shift. An omnipresent shadow under which he ducked and bowed, one that quite resembled family and smelled greatly of home. There existed another shadow inside his own chest, too; this one had been born of his own disquietude. He was too far gone from it to look back, no matter how headily it stepped on the coattails of his own shadow, and yet it couldn’t help but nag; despite all his determination and practice at removing himself from it all, at inhabiting the cold calculation that accompanied his position and his ability, it was all too necessary to come here, to feel heat, to feel release. She was both safe harbor and heady dare; Mason wouldn’t give up her company for anything, and that was unspoken fact. 

It would be far too dangerous to admit that he cared for her. Perhaps he’d not even realized it himself. If anything, he was merely grateful that she was a necessity that kept his mind sharp -- that would be enough for now. 

Mason propped himself upon the pillows, sweat dampening his brow just as readily as the sheet below him. He took no pains to cover himself, and instead stretched out upon the canvas of today’s particular outlet for relief. “What --” he raised a brow, stretching once more, “-- are you insinuating that you dislike my visits, darling? I was unaware that I had to make an appointment with the doctor. My job, at present, is to bother you; what sort of man would I be if I neglected my duty?” He was unabashed as he watched her, gaze traveling as she did. “Besides -- I do what I want. You should try it sometime. It’s liberating.”

Date: July 24th location: Four Horsemen hideout @pestilcnts

Their manor served as a way to meet in secret, as a way for Morrigan to live freely and without her family calling her the devil’s whore. There’d been worse results in the past, but, frankly, who can blame them? Mass had turned into a display of death and decay back then, the church a vessel of darkness and hell on earth. She’d tainted her family history, but, luckily, Morrigan was part of a new, much better one. She loved her best friends more than words could ever really convey. Seeing them in pain or distress caused Morrigan to feel similarly, sympathize with them, a trait she once put off as weakness. 

“Pestilence,” Morrigan walked towards the sitting Mason, slowly, almost as if she was unsure how to make him happy just then. Kneeling in front of him as one devout nun would’ve to pray, she absentmindedly reached towards his cheek, laid her hand against it just to create a physical contact with him. Smiling softly, Morrigan remained in her position while feeling his heartbeat, the life pumping through his veins, the chaos resting in his bones for now, ready to be let out any second. “You are still loved, never alone. Sofia might’ve chosen her path, but you’ve always belonged with us, in here.” Both her hands traced over his shirt. “The dead predict a change in pace and we’ll be its orchestrators.”

A phantom limb exists only to cause unnecessary pain. A lesser man might carry it about with him, allowing it to burden him and weigh him down; but Mason, though he had never been heavier, had cause and means to cut it off. Like a saw to the shoulder blade, a swift downward cut, Morrigan appeared just as she was bidden, just as she was needed. Found family was thicker than blood -- this had always been true. Found family had always been a safe-harbor into which he could drop anchor, far from the shore of a life he’d been so willing to leave behind. 

To leave it behind -- and yet he’d found himself looking for the shore at the bottom of a bottle, pissing on the walls of the palace, wrenching his own anatomy into a configuration that might forget his phantom limb. It took Morrigan -- she who could see the unwilled despair and disquietude behind his prickly mask -- and her timely appearance at the Horsemen’s sanctuary to pull him from his slouch. Minutely, absently, he straightened, though his spine still curved tiredly over the bottle he held loosely between his calloused fingers. 

And then his cheek dipped against her palm. Sanctuary. She understood. She always seemed to understand. “Death,” he breathed, their common greeting a welcome anchor in a tumultuous sea, “I am where I belong.” His agreement was stalwart, unwavering. No matter his feelings about Sofia’s choice, he was home. With family. As she spoke of their plight, of the dead’s omnipresence and change, he awoke further still, shifting in his seat and straightening beneath her touch. She was his equal; she could commune with death as well as she could spark life in dead men walking. 

“The conductors of the mightiest symphony we’ve ever beholden,” he agreed, trepidatious in his answer. Oh, how he longed to see what she saw; to understand what she understood. “Are there new developments of which to speak? New strings to pull? You know that I am at your right hand.” And she at his -- it was a comfortable communion. 

It didn’t matter that she was alone there, the whispers of the few people in the place’s thoughts were enough to keep her occupied as she ate her food. Sat nestled in a corner, Mina watched the few people out and about passing on the streets. The restaurant wasn’t busy, but that wasn’t a surprise considering the time of night. Most people, if they were out this late tended to visit bars instead. But, that wasn’t exactly her scene. Not unless Royce was there, that is.

It wasn’t hard to miss Mason’s arrival. If he hadn’t of kicked in the door, Mina would have known he was there just by his thoughts. All of the horsemen had distinctive thoughts, and it didn’t hurt that she wasn’t often away from Royce, and the four of them could be found together more time then not. Setting her fork down, Mina watched him swagger to the bar exuding the victory he’d won.

Grimace on her face, she slid her plate away, no longer hungry. Standing from her seat, she briefly considered leaving without him noticing her, but her feet carried her closer to the bar.

“That looks gruesome,” Mina said once she was closer. Nose wrinkling a bit, her eyes refused to move from his hand. His power truly disgusted her, at least the way he was using it currently. “Perhaps you should carry a full on first aid kit.”

Gruesome. To most, it would be something to shy away from, but to Mason the descriptor was a badge of honor. He was a creationist, a peddler of the gruesome and nasty, and it was at the sight of her wrinkled nose and grotesquely curious expression that made his smile grow wider. He knew this one’s face, though they’d had little cause to speak; she was oft attached to Royce, and a friend of Royce’s was a friend of Mason’s. And so he flexed his fingers, watching her face as, out of the corner of his gaze, the newly repaired tendons moved gruesomely below the skin. 

“I know that we are technically disallowed to indulge in our abilities in public, but --” his grin grew a fraction more, “There’s no fun in a ‘first aid kit’. Something about the sting of the liquor in the wound; feels alive.” A strange thing to say to a pretty girl in a bar, to be sure, but Mason had never cared much for pretense. He paused; a part of him wished to drink alone, to relish in his victory with the reward of silence, but her attention was rapt, and far too invaluable. 

“Besides,” he continued, “I was never much for working a needle and thread. Stitches are for those who can’t --” he flexed his fingers again, relishing the theatricality, “-- fix it themselves.” He cast a glance over his shoulder; she seemed to be the only one watching his powers unfold. And then he looked to her again, small and yet so very dangerous in what he had heard of her ability. 

“Care for a drink?” 

He kicked the door open with bloodied hand held before his face. Fingers all splayed, bone visible in some, blood drenching others, it was clear to even the wandering eye that his hand was crushed, pulverized; but his expression belied a victory, and not a loss. Anyone else whose hand was so immobile, so grotesque in how it appeared to have suffered a great loss, surely would not have smiled as they kicked in the swinging door to the bar, striding inside as if decorated with a mantle of clear victories. And perhaps this was a clear victory - there was no telling who had earned the privilege of making his hand like this.

You should have seen the other guy. Mason smirked. There was a sick pleasure in parading his bloody victory, no matter how small ( though there is no such thing as a small victory, to a Horseman ) throughout the stomping ground of the plebeians who know better than tomake him break bone upon bone in such a way. It wasn’t a chore - the act of physically putting down resistance, and keeping it down, was catharsis. And resistance came in even the smallest tics. His work was never done, it seemed.

He slid into a chair at the bar, languid and drunk on the high of the fight, away from which he’d walked with an enviable break with which he could play. He’d been berated for using his powers in a place where food was consumed - and meant to be kept down - but it was late, and he was in no mood to cater to the more delicate sensibilities of those around him. And so he flattened his hand upon the bar, ignoring the squelch of blood against the clean surface, and set to work at straightening, lengthening, transforming his weapon-hand into something that showed not each bone in each finger. Sensibilities, after all - once the crackling, squelching, hissing of his power’s effect upon his hand had begun, he was never inclined to stop it.

“Could sure use a drink over here -” he barked, eyes never leaving his hand as it moved under the duress of his Saintly ability. Without asking, Mason reached for the glass to his left, a clear liquid - vodka, he supposed - and tipped it upon his broken fingers, ignoring the protests of its drinker. It stung, but he did not flinch.

HE COUNTS HIS LIMBS once, twice, thrice; from the arms to the legs, circular in pattern and incessant in nature. First he tucks his fingers into his palms, digging sharp nails into palms that are too pliant to be human. He wiggles his toes, then, in childlike fashion. Two legs, two arms. All accounted for, and yet Mason feels as if that something has been removed from him in the night. Perhaps something below the shoulder - though his arms move in the reflection of the window. Perhaps something in the spine - through when he stooped to lace his boots this morning, he felt no loose hinges. 

A thought occurs to him. He lifts one hand, still wet with palm-blood, and presses it hard against his ribs. Twelve on one side, twelve on the other; but why does it feel as if there should be an empty space betwixt the third and fourth? He feels muscle, from without and from within; his body is a mess of rotting mismatch, and yet he prides himself in knowing where it all is meant to be, and when it is missing. 

You have no heart, Buchanan.      But of course I do. I rearrange it when it betrays me.