to be the sun.

date: red rain moon, second week location: the black palace open to all

He feels little distinction from the Black Palace’s servants these days, with just how many hours in his day are spent cleaning the mess the remainder of the Conclave had allowed to be made in his absence. There has always been a reason, of course, why it is Judas that Infernum’s elite consortium turns their head towards in times of trial, why it’s his vote that tips the scales, why it’s he who’s sent to represent his people’s interests in other realms. God himself had ingrained in him how foolish a notion serendipity happened to be; it is no matter of luck that Infernum is deemed weak enough to attack when he is away, while countless others of the Conclave remain present and strong.

If not such a grave annoyance, it’d be a compliment.

Seated alone at a grand table in one of the Palace’s many gathering rooms, Judas breathes a brief reprieve in the silence — rare silence, as on this day, just like the countless before it, he leaves the door to the hall unlocked and makes himself available for anyone, resident or visitor, demon or angel, who seeks guidance or answers during such turbulence. How could you let this happen? How are we to know we’re safe? What’s being done to catch them? For days, he echoes the same rehearsed answers to the same predictable, frenzied questions. Those same answers dance on the tip of his tongue as yet another knock reverberates against the heavy set of iron doors, followed by creak of the hinge open and close as his newest audience approaches. It’s a sound he’s heard countless times this week; exasperated and utterly bored, he doesn’t bother to look up from the stack of notes he pores over. “I don’t suppose you’ve come to discuss the weather, have you?”

It was their duty, they believed, to ensure that their allies felt properly supported in times of need. Perhaps the endeavor was selfish, but still, Romilda only ever served with the best intentions. They knew that their disdain for demons was something ill-fostered and ill-kept, the ghost of their father still haunting them -- so, to compensate, they determinedly traveled to the Realm of Infernum, volunteering as an ambassador on behalf of the mortals to aid them in whatever means she could. As soon as they arrived at the Black Palace, they had Baldur accompany them to the throne room, only to find that Judas was missing from it. The King of Hell, vacating his throne? Was this to be his final act of betrayal? It was unfair of them to discredit him so, but still, they blamed the ghost of their father for whispering such discourtesies in her ear. 

The doors grind open, Baldur growling deep in his chest at the sound while Romilda finds themselves far too engrossed with the architecture of the palace to be bothered much by the noise. They had forsaken their usual armor for something a little more simple, leather strapped to their chest and legs, bedecking themselves in golden accessories to mark the great privilege she holds by being a guest in the palace. 

At his voice, they stir to attention, head inclining at the less-than-hospital welcome. “No, I have not,” they answer, fingers curling into Baldur’s fur as they hold him by their side, his unease around Judas apparent in the way that he bears his teeth. “I am here to represent the mortals and their alliance with the Realm of Infernum.” Then, less formally, they add, “Whatever help you desire, Judas, I am here for.”

prompt for @bastienavalos

They remember when they had first recognized the taste of bitterness on their tongue. Their mother had been holding them in her arms while they clung to her, eyes wide, cheeks aching from the smile upon their face as mother gently set them on their feet so that she might use her hands to garden. The herbs flourished, the vegetables gleamed - an abundance of food that was solely unique to the Holy Land Romilda was fortunate enough to be born in. A leaf was placed into their small hand, lush and green as an emerald, and into their mouth it went. The bitterness of its flavor coated their tongue and with it striking clarity on their palate. A mint leaf,their mother had said, laughing at the expression on their child’s face.

Romilda had thought that the same bitterness would arise when their mother held Arianne in her arms, eyes shifting away from her eldest in much the same manner one’s gaze shifts over a well-read and well-worn book. It never did, though. There was only the sweetness of adoration that seemed to coat their tongue whenever they whispered Arianne’s name, gently brushing her hair back as they rocked her to sleep. How many stories had they been told of siblings swallowing their bitterness down until it twisted their stomach in knots and was forcibly purged in acts of violence? Too many, Romilda thought, too many. And yet here they were, looking at their sister who could pluck the harken venus from the heavens if she so wished, and the only thing they could taste was the sweetness of adoration, of love.

The only time they had ever known bitterness was from the herbs that had touched their tongue, from that which she had made with her own two hands. It was honey that seemed ever-present, sweetness perpetually on their lips. When their eyes met Bastien’s, it seemed to increase ten-fold - if one were to reach into the cavern of her chest, tug her heart from its nest, and have their teeth sink into it, she was certain that they would find it sweeter still. That was the effect that Bastien had - he coaxed from them a sweetness within their heart that they had never known.

Then his eyes tore away from hers. Her lips twisted, her heart twinged, and Romilda remembered the way she had blinked away her tears.

Was Romilda really that dense? It required a lot of planning and effort to attempt to set the whole world on fire. Too much thought that Mammon could not be bothered with it. Though they had once entertained the idea - but in the scheme of things they knew there would always be some righteous fucker out there ready to stop their antics and it just sounded like a whole lot of work to go around the whole thing. 

“I’m lazy but you can try setting the world on fire though, I’ll be there to see it if you successfully pull it off,” they said curtly with their ever gracious smile. They would cackle at the sight of Romilda herself at the center of chaos. Though it all sounded too wistful of a dream to be reality. 

“Maybe.” They started picking their ear, their mind drifting off elsewhere. If this was an attempt to call them a bitch well, it wasn’t the first. They weren’t bothered, merely accustomed and bored. “I do like leashes though, leather ones are the best, maybe I’ll let you borrow one sometime,” Mammon said sadistically. 

Her reaction was satisfactory, enough to amuse Mammon for now. How quick she was to wear her emotions on her sleeve - it made it all the more fun to eventually sink their claws beneath her flesh and see her torn to shreds. Holy things were fated for damnation - it was only natural. They watch her features flicker - every little curve of their face betrayed weakness. She looked like a little rabbit, how adorable. 

“So you’re going to keep looking?” The tone both mischievous and cheeky. 

They grinned, pleased more than ever. Mammon stretched, the choice of wearing clothes had only ever become a decision made by the garments that intrigued them ( most of their wardrobe were full of stolen goods after all ) They held no shame in their own flesh - content with the words and designs that were etched through their skin. It was like a canvas that never ended. Most were nonsensical choices with little thought but perhaps if one paid attention enough, they could catch a glimpse of a fragment of story here and there. 

“To have thought you’d utter your thanks to a demon, how frightfully delicious. I’d like to hear it again sometime,” Mammon said, words low - only for her ears as they leaned in and snickered. 

...you can try setting the world on fire though…

For a moment, Romilda considers it - setting the world alight. But it is not at all in the way that Mammon could ever envision for her. There was no brimstone in the image that was conjured within Romilda’s gaze, there was warmth, levity, and light. There were people impassioned by grand acts of heroism, driven by their fury to create wondrous things and works of art. Mammon could never hope to feel such things, could he? Genuine passion fostered by warmth? They were far too cold for that, too devoid of anything other than the sustenance of their own self-interest. Even though they seek to watch her bleed, to see their nails dig into her skin, Romilda can’t help but smile, prior irritation dissipating as easily as the grin that lit her features.

”Maybe one day you will have that honor, Mammon,” she acknowledges, chin inclining as they examine the demon openly. The smile that alights on their face is lecherous, but Romilda pays it no mind, continuing to ogle the designs that painted Mammon’s skin with vivid interest. Begrudging as she was to admit it, they were beautiful. Works of art upon something as decrepit as this demon seemed blasphemous - then again, most of the things associated with this Vice seemed unholy.

They leaned ever-closer, like a snake dangling from a tree - if their tongue were to flicker out and taste the air, Romilda wouldn’t have batted an eye. Though, she might have grabbed the snake by the neck and wrung the life out of it, as her father had taught her to do so many times over. “I have eyes, do I not?” Romilda retorts, brow cocking ever-higher, as though she couldn’t believe that Mammon might be so dense as to ask a glaringly obvious question. Beside her, Baldur lifted his gaze, the bear snorting in warning as the elder Altier stepped closer. If she had the edge that her sisters did, perhaps she would have bared her teeth at this demon as well - but alas, she settled for a scorching grin, sharp and pointed at its edges.

”I offer thanks to many,” Romilda hums, gently taking the loathed chin of the demon between her thumb and forefinger. “Know, Mammon, that every single gracious word I utter to you is out of necessity, not sincerity.” She lifts their chin, turning their face this way and that so she might examine the ink upon their chest without the shadow of their profile falling across it. When they release the infernal creature, it is with a light shove, the smile upon her lips sweeter still.

Viktoria stood inside the Temple, their gaze casting over the strong marble pillars and tall carved statues of the Gifted. If it were possible for them to willingly admire the craft that mortals had developed and honed over time, she would. It wasn’t the patience and devotion that appealed to them, but the hard-work, the imagery, the creation that she appreciated. If Viktoria was a more inquisitive person than she was at present, she would have mused upon their fleeting lives and the way that they chose to spend the mere moments they had on carving out a place for their kind in history. But she was not. In fact, there was no history, none where even Famine’s own architecture lay buried and useless among the forgotten souls trapped in what was Purgatory. Viktoria looked away from the stone, bored. It was only a matter of time where this piece of art would lie in ruins as well.

Waiting never bothered Viktoria. For the Horsemen, centuries passed within a blink of an eye, yet in this New Order, she felt time on a linear scale, quicker almost as if anything could occur within a moment’s notice. Which is why Viktoria stood in wait for the rabbit-hearted mortal to show herself to them. She could feel the trepidation coursing down the length of their spine, but knew as untrained and volatile the gifted were that Viktoria’s own human frame would not survive under such power.

That is, unless she could control it, twist it to suit her and her purpose.

So she watched, her face settled with a cold indifference as the girl’s hand extended to Viktoria to proffer her with a baked gift as she knew devotees had once placed offerings at her Maker’s alter. Viktoria didn’t care much for devotion and so she started to turn away taking with her as little expectation as she had brought to this brief encounter. But she paused, Viktoria’s eyes passing over the gifted’s form at their next words: and at least with this, you might satiate yourself. The corners of Viktoria’s mouth lifted slightly at their crafted words and she took the bread in acceptance. “If it were so that all the gifts that I was offered allowed me with even a shred of satisfaction, then there would be altar in my name and I would not be here before you.”

Romilda can’t help but liken the Horseman’s face to that of a blank canvas. There was not a single color painting her visage, not even a pale hue that might indicate to Romilda what emotion Viktoria might be feeling other than the customary disdain that she seemed to dole out to all indiscriminately. They supposed that they could not fault her for it, nor complain about the lack of kindness that they received - just as she judged others with rigid indifference, they had others bask in their gilded warmth. Simply because they were different in their interactions with others, didn’t necessarily mean that Viktoria was undeserving of the kindness that Romilda showed her, though she wished it might be reciprocated to some extent. Ever the optimist, she continued to foster the small flame of hope that, perhaps one day, she would receive a gift from Viktoria in turn. The corners of Viktoria’s mouth lifted into something akin to a smile - and those flames of hope rose ever-higher as the knight relinquished their grip on the baked good.

“Immortals remaking themselves into gods is not something that I think would sit well with my mortal brethren,” Romilda mused aloud, their gaze slanting as they tried to determine whether or not the words were made in jest. Truly, they couldn’t tell - perhaps it was Arthur’s deep-rooted tutelage that made them perpetually suspect of all immortal agendas, or perhaps it was their intuition. But something about Viktoria made Romilda think that the Horseman wouldn’t object in the slightest to being venerated. “Whenever I visit someone I try to bring a gift, in case their day has them in need of a little silver lining. But I have never heard of a Horseman having a bad day befall them…”

HOW many breaths between his aggression and apathy? The slight frame of the woman arouses little emotion in Ryuk; not defenseless enough to inspire pity, not nearly commanding enough for them to erect a defense. Not many, as the friction set in between his shoulder blades crumbles away in an instant, leaving their limbs slackened by their side. Mortals did not interest them, least of all one as blindingly golden-hearted as Romilda Altier — though he supposes the sentiment went either way. Darkness was the absence of light, existence of each hinging on the absence of the other, but like oil and water, they could not mix. One would prevail, and Ryuk had every conviction it would always be him.

But unlike many of the darker beings in the New World, Ryuk is selective with his kill. What could they profit from slaughtering a champion, when the very act poisoned the intention? Martyrdom was a subversion of death, and humans could be kept alive in legends and idols, as permanent as their demise itself. His fingers itch towards the blade at his hip, blinded by the animalistic desire to see her blood. But he only grips the reins tighter, tugging his steed back a step to accommodate Romilda and her companion.

After all, she trembles. Unease is customary ( the murder is never as satisfying when they tremble ), and they brush the hesitance off like an errant fly. However, the flicker of curiosity is not, and Ryuk pauses, marinating in her words. She dares to know his motive. In his unwavering gaze, something sparks — passion, or perhaps, a renewed interest in the sweet-faced darling before them.

“Some may say the very thought is blasphemy,” he starts. “A very day dedicated to what I stand for! — but I must say, it is not so much a day of death rather than the glorification of life.” His voice is full-bodied, even bordering on kind, diverging from the empty, desolate monotone he’d ordinarily use. “Silence is a gift,” he adds, “and one can only prize it until they understand the true price of noise.” They gesture to their head, a reference to their mystical faculty. She must know of it. The most terrifying things were never humble creatures.

“You must know that I do not generally seek the company of others.” He deliberately inserts the pause, wondering if she would quiver again, delighting in the thought of her doing so. “But it would be insolent of me to reject the offer of somebody so… radiant.” They tilt their head to the side a degree, a self-aware taunt for his use of a tawdry word. “My only stipulation is conversation. Do you accept?” The corner of his lips curls into a rather impish smile.

Quiet, they had called him. But perhaps a more fitting word would be still - as still as the corpse of Cador, as bare bones within the ground. It was as though the world moved about them, but they remained there, untouched and hushed, not quite tranquil nor at peace, but still nonetheless. There was something beautiful to be found in it - to be found in them - in much the same way one finds beautiful the cruel and wretched cycle of life. In the same way that she found the destiny of a glorious and righteous death beguiling. They look upon her and she looks back at them, head canting as she awaits their final word - whether it be to beckon her closer or smite her, she was ready for the judgement that would befall her. There would be a singular regret, though, should she meet her end in this moment.

She would very much like to profess how beautiful Ryuk was, if only just this once. Even if they were to stutter, even if their voice were to waver in fear - Death deserved to hear that they were thought of as beautiful.

In the span of a half-breath they watch something glint within his gaze, his lips parting to pass judgement. Some say the very thought is blasphemy, he says - and her fingers grasp her reins tighter, white=knuckled despite the pleasant timbre of his voice. A shudder runs along her spine, but, determined as she was, Romilda urged Heimdal closer, still. He huffed and snorted, ears flattening against his skull in warning, and it was all she could do to not mirror her steed - why, then, did she look at Ryuk still, in such unfettered fascination? Perhaps she had a hardier appetite for self-destruction than she gave herself credit for, perhaps she was resolved on being the cause of her own ruin rather than being felled by the hand of any other. But, as she drew closer, it was difficult to be sorry for it - who else could say that they looked Death in the eye and still found reason to smile, even if it was nothing more than a shadow upon her lips?

”I accept,” she answers quietly, chin tilting down thoughtfully as she pulled Heimdal alongside him. Radiant, he had said, his tongue curling around the word in a manner that felt as though he had grasped Romilda’s heart and turned it over to see if it was to his liking. The way he bit off the final syllable made her think he found amusement in her heart’s delectability. Alas, though, any notion of caution was eclipsed by her curiosity. “Perhaps a little too eagerly,” she confesses, warmth flooding her cheeks. “In part because your presence is relieving, and also because I -” the words catch in her throat, her gaze flickering away from the Horseman briefly. No, if they are to tell him this then they will look him in the eye while doing so. The breeze lifts, curling its fingers into her hair, tugging at the ends. The heel of her hand thoughtlessly lifts to her chest, rubbing at it. “I think you’re rather beautiful. Which makes your company all the more coveted.”

Before Ryuk can reply, she urges Heimdal to follow the path that it seemed the Horseman had been traveling, a desperate attempt to give herself something to do rather than ruminate on her words. All deserved to hear that they were treasured in some manner, that they were regarded as something beautiful rather than wretched. Even so, to tell a creature that had lived more ages than Romilda could comprehend was - daunting, to say the least. But she could not help but wonder if God had ever thought to give the Horsemen the tender regard that all creatures deserved. She glanced at him, her eyes lingering on the sharp edges of his features. Why would God ever be kind to Death when He had touted them about, as though they were nothing more than a knife or a spear?

LOCATION: temple of the saints

STATUS: for @wantingviktoria​

There is a certain trepidation that always seems to sharpen her focus whenever she finds herself simmering in the presence of the Horsemen. Whether it be Death, War, or Famine - there seems to be a fear of the divinity that is brought to the forefront of her mind. It is made all the more palpable by the ruthless thundering of their heart as they stand before the door of the Temple, their freshly baked bread in hand - carefully tucked into a towel so that Viktoria might be able to savor its warmth and freshness of flavor. She wondered if this fear is what those of the Old Testament felt when they brought their offerings before their gods. Were they as cold and cruel as the ones that walked among them? 

The wind picked up, as though it were impatient with her dawdling, and so Romilda stepped forth into the Temple, her feet guiding her to the Horsemen that she had bent her knee to. What had possessed her to do so, she wasn’t entirely sure. Was she not already offering her guardianship to Azazel? Her heart to Cassiel? And now she offers her abilities to the most infamous Horseman of all - Viktoria themself. Though she wanted to blame her mother for filling her head with such wretchedly wondrous stories of heroes offering their services, giving their fealty to those who were in need. But gods never needed, did they? They had no need save for worship. Their only want was for the ruin of lessers. 

That is, until they find themselves choking on humanity. 

Until they are suffocated by mortal rage. 

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.

Then the blazing eyes of the daemonium shone from between the trees, and he fired. The shriek sounded closer, followed by another, and another, revealing two truths: it was not alone, and they were, perhaps, outnumbered.

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.

when they buried romilda’s father, revna felt she was burying herself. as if she was shoving her pretty, pearly life into the grave with his mangled limbs. it served as a reminder of what she could never return to. a vow that the past was dead. that she was too far gone.

it was true then, and it’s true now. 

yet, some things remain living even after they’ve been buried, and her past is a hand breaching the soil, clawing towards the ground like a flower reborn. it rises, survived, helmed with a new purpose. her past looks her straight in her blackened eyes and grins, mouthing: do you hunger, girl?

there’s a fire in her yawning against her lungs. she feels it, the simple answer: yes. 

“you can speak freely,” revna glances at romilda, then returns her focus to the man a short distance ahead. normally this task would finish with ease, a mere pull of her fingers or a draw of her brows; a simple thought to string up a fresh reality. now it requires more care. it requires caution. it requires exorcising her past that latches onto her in every moment she projects her strength. as if to remind her that her power is not without faults. 

now, it requires acknowledging the fear of some man turning around in the skin of her father, arms outstretched, beckoning. always fucking beckoning.

when there’s no response, revna relents, probing further, “you’re thinking. it’s distracting me, so please, say what is on your mind.” it hardly sounds like a request.

romilda feels stiff, lost in thought. none, revna knows, directed towards the heretic they follow a few steps behind. he’s a month’s work of careful deliberation and detailed schemes, of rigid planning and rehearsal. the last thing they need is an additional distraction, yet it seems romilda has found one.

ft. ROMILDA ALTIER

They festered like a wound that has not been properly cauterized. They ate at the flesh, though time and time again Romilda, Revna, and their comrades sought to exorcise their presence from the Holy Land - a blight against an otherwise pristine canvas of fruitfulness and vitality. The heel of her hand rubbed against her chest absentmindedly, eyes remaining steadfast on the man that sat before them though her eyes saw him not.

All they could see were the bones. 

Would they be pearly right, ancient, divinity-made-mortal flesh nothing more than ash and memory? Or would they look aged, yellowed and weary - as mundane as the many other bones that no doubt littered the land? And if they were to stumble upon the Devil of the Old Testament’s remains, would they look any different - could the divine be differentiated from that of the infernal? Her hand lifted away from her chest, instead cupping her cheek to hide the scars that marked her as other. 

As a mutation. 

Divine, and yet not. 

...say what is on your mind. Romilda’s attention caught onto that, cheeks flushing in shame as she realizes that her sister has been the one itching at the thought of what information the Heretic might be able to offer. But they neither acknowledged it or apologized, choosing instead to rise to their full height, lips twisting into a frown. 

It was easy to be disgusted by a creature that sought the absolute decimation of those they considered other. It’s why it had been so easy to watch her father’s life slip from his eyes, to watch blood spew from his mouth as his chest rose and fell no longer. That is, until it hadn’t been. 

Caphriel’s frown relaxes into a smile at Romilda’s own, the warmth radiating from them a welcome balm to the sorrowful undertones of the past week. She blushes, too, at the surprise in Romilda’s voice, a small flush borne of embarrassment that she has somehow not made her affections clear to her. The thought that she perhaps has acted as though Romilda’s presence warranted anything else than her deepest joy and love is unbearable. “Yes, well,” she says, still flustered, “I had seen Baldur and assumed you were not far - though you had moved from when I saw him last, and so I wasn’t paying much mind to where I was going, and look where we’ve ended up.”

The spilled wine is still spreading at their feet, an unfortunate reminder that she sidesteps slightly, moving closer to Romilda as she avoids trailing her hem into the rich liquid - or into the path of Baldur’s tongue. 

“It’s not often that so many people come to celebrate the life of an individual,” she muses, gesturing back out to the crowds they stood parted from. “It is beautiful, in its own way, though the magnitude… I can see how you could be easily overwhelmed.” It has become almost too much for her, familiar as she is with the mix of heartbreak and levity that permeated the rites. Caphriel lightly catches Romilda’s hand, bringing it down from their cheek to cup it, gently, between her own. “I am here for you, should you need someone to share your grief. I do not  wish to presume,” she says, gaze steady and true, “that you are not capable on your own. But if there is ever a time, know I will always be here, if you wanted.”

She is glad for the levity Romilda reinserts into the conversation, as she fears for a brief moment that she has brought their conversation back to the matter they both seemed to be running from - death, despair, grief. She flushes again, eyes flickering demurely downwards at the compliment. “It is a special occasion,” she concedes, and she takes a firmer grasp on Romilda’s hand. “But why should I alone be brought out like a jewel? Spilled wine or not, Romilda, you deserve as much praise as me.” She starts back towards the crowd, gently tugging her companion along, casting a brief glance at Baldur to ensure he too was following. “Another drink - and I swear this one will not be as abused as your previous. Then some time among the people, because you cannot keep hiding! It may not be the perfect space, but we will make the best of it.”

Bemusedly, Romilda can’t help but wonder how many statues from the Old Testament had been rendered in the likeness of Caphriel. The delicate smile, the warmth that seemed to bleed from her words, the affectionate lilt that seemed to tint every word that ushered forth from her lips. It was a wonder how all didn’t fall to their feet before her, how she managed to wield weapons and have them raised against her. Surely the infernal beings had eyes, did they not? Who could look upon Caphriel and not be rendered completely and utterly powerless in the face of her beauty? All the more, it seemed as though Romilda had flustered the angelic being, their eyes widening as their smile grew ever wider upon their lips. Their head canted as Caphriel sought to explain herself, brow cocking upwards in amusement as they absentmindedly wrung their blouse out. 

No matter what had been instilled in her by her poisonously prejudiced father, Caphriel was the exception to all. Any other truth was unthinkable. 

They nod thoughtfully as Caphriel speaks, lips pressing together - only to pause, lashes fluttering, as the angel’s warm hands envelop their own rough ones. What a wondrous thing it was, to be touched so deliberately by divinity itself. Romilda wrestled with their instinct to snatch their hand back, embarrassed as they were to have such a silken touch hold onto their rough, calloused hands. Their gaze dipped away, briefly, before meeting Caphriel’s once more, the once amused smile now painted into something far more sheepish. I am here for you, she says -- sincerely, devotedly. It is so often Romilda who says these words to others, eyes wide, hands clasping the other’s just as Caphriel clasps hers. What an odd thing it was, to be privy to such a gift as this, unfettered affection and unabashed fidelity. “I will hold you to it,” they reassure her, “and should I weep in the ungodly hours of the morning, I fully expect you to be at my side, Caphriel.” And with that, Romilda presses a kiss to the angel’s knuckles before pressing it against her cheek. 

And, just like a reckless wisp of wind, Caphriel turns about, tugging Romilda into the awaiting fray of revelers as Baldur lumbers along. He huffs and grunts as Romilda struggles to get their feet beneath them while sidestepping the scarlet puddle. “A jewel?” 

They open their mouth to protest the comparison, only to feel it snap shut as Baldur nudges the middle of their back with his snout, forcing them along. Their eyes glance forward once more, lifting towards Caphriel’s, and any such protest dies upon their tongue, mouth lifting instead into a rueful smile. One stride, then another brings them shoulder-to-shoulder with the heavenly immortal, arm slipping around the other’s waist to pull her closer, twirling her gracefully. “If I am to indulge and find myself hungover in the morning, I am holding you accountable for every throbbing headache that I have, Caphriel.” A merry laugh spills from their lips as they toss their head back. “We will make Cador proud with how we celebrate his memories - and we will shame all those who think that they might hold a candle to the joy we found in his life.” As the two dance about, feet as light and quick as a nymph’s, Romilda grabs two goblets from a man carrying a tray of goblets. The knight doesn’t even bother to think twice before downing the cup’s contents, eyes widening when they feel the burn of the liquor in their throat, spluttering a bit as they set the emptied cup down. 

LOCATION: the forest

STATUS: for @ofephemera

They stood at the edge of the forest, unable to bring their feet another step forward - were their feet roots, she wouldn’t know the difference. It always happened like this, any reserves of courage that they have at their barest when the month drew to a close. The phantom of her father seemed to flicker in the shadows, his harsh breath against her ear whenever she dared to venture any closer to the line of trees. Killing in the midst of battle was a difficult thing, already, but to feel the heat of unjust blood in her palms while Arianne looked on...to feel the life of the man who she had called father slip from her fingers... 

Bile rose in her throat, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt as Baldur gently nudges her closer, huffing impatiently as he readies himself for the hunt. One step brings her closer, though it feels as though a brick is tied to her feet. Another step, and she swears that roots dig into the earth and tie her to where she stands. Nausea makes it difficult to swallow, the weight upon her chest makes it difficult to remember what it feels to draw in a breath of air. Her hand grasps for a single axe and she pulls it from its straps, the weight of it a small comfort. 

The moment Damien’s hand leaves their chest he feels the absence - the distance between them. Chill feels the air, even with the fire so close. Romilda ought to flee it, seek a warmth he cannot and will not offer. But ever the warrior, she doesn’t falter, she only raises her proud chin and continues her demand. How few mortals would dare? 

The sound of his name, once more upon their lips, cuts through the night air. She is to correct him cruel, and fallible to say it in that tone of voice. What can they hope to gain from this? Why must they tug at this scab? Denying their one request, they accuse him of, yet they defy his. In the Vices, Damien surrounds himself with far too frustrating a group of demons to say he is unaccustomed to disobedience, yet this refusal stings anew. His request is simple - leave me, don’t - and here Romilda remains before him, asking if he’d like to be wicked to them. Damien offers no response, no defence nor attack, and yet she takes it as an affirmative. 

‘Wound me, then,’ Romilda says, and the gap between them shrinks once more. He stands his ground - he must - there is no room for further falter here, even as his throat goes dry at the words. ‘I am deserving of it, am I not?’ It is a deal he has every reason to accept, to leave them with a fresh scar as a parting gift, a permanent reason not to return, to finalize the end of whatever it was between them. Their scar runs across her face - all the reminder she should need of what happens when a mortal comes to close to divinity - but does not back away. Yet his daggers hang useless at his sides. His touch remains benign beneath his gloves. He’s no idea how many battlefields full of mortals have fallen to his touch - or how many more have fled rather than face it. Yet here he finds a knight who he can’t - no, won’t - strike. This request too, will go denied. They are at a draw on the battlefield, both their hands balled into still fists at their sides, neither willing to throw a punch.

And then, he remembers that flash of red. Wound me. 

“Romilda,” Damien says, their name burning slow and rough across his tongue. He reaches again for her wrist, and unyielding but gentle, brings her hand between them, and turns her palm up towards the night sky. Even through the soft leather of his gloves, he can feel blood pulsing in their wrist, the echo of the beat he’d felt in their chest. Warmth radiates through, despite the chill Damien carries with him wherever he may go. With his other hand, he gently pulls their fingers back, exposes the angry red marks on their palm, the red beads of blood where their nails had dug into the skin. 

For a too long a moment, Damien simply stares at the marks. This is what he is, what always has been, whether Romilda chooses to understand it or not. He is ruination. He does not need a blade, or even the dark divinity of his gift of destruction. He thinks of the blood plague, of the Ouroboros on his neck, the ever turning cycles of bloody death he brought upon the Earth when hell was raised and heaven fell. In a sense, he’d scarred them long before they ever crossed his path. He learned young, that there are moments in which he need not raise a hand to wound. 

Damien’s gaze flicks up to meet Romilda’s. “It seems your one request has already been fulfilled.” He tastes the venom on his tongue, one corner of his cruel mouth curls slightly upward in the suggestion of a smirk. It is odd, that in this technical acquiescence he has finally gained the upper hand. Gently, he folds their fingers closed against their palm once more, and lets their hand drop from his. Still, Damien doesn’t back away, will not give up any more ground.

He lets their hand fall from his, lets the warmth and that steady heartbeat fall away. 

“Now are we done here?” He asks, icy. “Or do you have any further requests?”

The firelight flickers and flares, shadows dancing across his face - soft edges becoming wickedly sharp, the dark depths of his pupils nearly indistinguishable from that of his irises. Yet, still, all she could see is the immortal man she had grown so fond of, who pulled laughter from her like a bard pulls tales from the air, like how they pluck notes from frayed strings. Still, she can taste the sun that had shined upon her face, the sweetness of the air with its gentle sting as they rode through the forest together, chasing one another as Baldur chases his wolves, and his wolves chase Baldur in turn - reveling in the freedom and giddiness that they were so sparingly allowed. And within those moments, kinship had been forged, a matchless understanding that only ever exists between two souls that Fate itself determines as destined. Weren’t they, though? Was it not the only explanation for why she clung to him as she did? Or, perhaps it was merely that she had yet to find any other whose loneliness harkened to her own so clearly. 

She knew, in the very marrow of her bones, what the answer was - to deny it would be to turn her face from the sun.

He says their name - and even if he had spat it like it was a rot upon his tongue, they would have considered such an utterance a gift. Then he reaches between them, fingers encircling her wrist carefully; had there ever been a touch so sweet as this? The leather of his gloves presses into her skin and though she is deprived of the press of his fingers, still she finds herself warming as surely as if flames themselves were biting at her rough skin. So enraptured is she with studying the planes of his face - determined to read him as faithfully as one reads holy tomes - that she forgets the sting of her palms until her nails relinquish their bite, the blood glinting from the light of the flames. They ought to pull their hand away, to be ashamed of such emotion on display, but any such remorse would have been a farce.  Had they not made a vow to themselves to give him nothing less than the unfettered truth? Romilda had broken this oath once, but never again. Never again. 

The silence sits between them, growing heavier with each moment, each breath that passes between them. Though immortal he may be, did his heart not beat within his chest? Did he not need to breathe as she did? Then, it is shattered - cruelly so - by his claim. It seems your own request has already been fulfilled, he says, as hurtful as a knife sliding against her skin, its point digging into the delicate nerves. “How entitled you are,” Romilda marvels, eyes searching his. “To think that you can claim my self-inflicted wounds  as your own.” A disbelieving scoff ushers past her lips, studiously ignoring how the loss of his touch caused far more of an ache than the words that were meant to scorn. 

As though possessed, their hand lifts to hold his face, to keep his eyes trained on her still, only to pause and carefully tuck it against her chest. To be denied by him once more was masochism that she did not care to indulge in, yet. 

The gentleness of his touch devastated her enough.

It would be far easier to bear the weight of her failures if he raised his hand against her - the only reparation that seemed comparable to the wounds that she had left him with. Slowly, she shook her head, lips pressing together determinedly. “No,” she says, her voice hard. “We are not done here because I -”  And, just like that, any explanation dies upon her tongue.

There was no other reason that she could offer, save for the fact that she refused to let him go - to relinquish him again. Their mouth opens and closes as they struggle to utter the words that sit within their mouth. Begging was never something that they had difficulty with - time and time again they had prostrated themselves before the feet of their father to beseech forgiveness for any shortcomings. But Damien deserved far more than even that. Nervously, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, readying herself for his rejection, for the lashing against her heart. She would have to endure a thousand more, would she not? If she were to truly make reparations. 

WHERE SHALL ONE HIDE IF NOT IN PLAIN SIGHT? He had long understood his power in being among the Horsemen, but Dmitri never once played with the stupidity of mortals as he had attempted with Romilda. It lasted mere seconds before he realized the genuine bond this mortal so easily laid into his lap to be had. Stupidity merely a presence in his own self-righteousness. She was the source of light which fed his existence, and he would lap it up from wherever she shall place it — be it between soft hands or tired thighs. He would devour it all up to be considered among her prized possessions. His words melted into honey when he allowed his golden, sun-consumed eyes to look her on directly, hesitating only to allow himself time to convince himself he was worthy to see her for what she was: his source of light.

( “ it is - I - who shall be slitting throats, if one ever were to threaten your place by my side. ” )

A mere stunted phrase of admittance before soiling himself at the base of her feet to be cared for until the proper time came to bloom under her gaze. Petals becoming layers of their personality for Romilda to pluck away at until she saw the core of what God had created. 

( “ my sweet Romilda — I could live not without knowing I have avenged you. ” ) THE HORSEMEN OF CONQUEST PURRED OUT THESE WORDS OF INFLUENCE 

FINALLY — Dmitri allowed his tongue to lay in rest of what little ability he had in controlling others by tone alone because even he knew Romilda deserved more respect. “Perhaps, when all is said and done, I shall throw a celebration in your honor… after all, I am—” the Horsemen of Conquest. These words never left their lips because in this moment of realization Dmitri wanted to remain unknown to her, rest in the idea she wanted his company for nothing more than what they’d created together. 

Dmitri had long danced in the shadows of his own title long enough to grow near her. Their friendship based on a notion he was simply eternal without ‘the Horsemen of Conquest’ beckoning the blow of what position he possessed in this world. Yet, something had been pulling at him for weeks to give it the briefest mention as even Romilda would hate to be made a fool if placed in a position to discover who he truly was in his existence outside of her friend.

( “ after all, I am still in in debt of your kindness. ” )

What a wonder it was, to have such a barbarous thing rendered into a gift, a declaration of devotion - to have slit throats and spilled blood be a far more breathtaking display of one’s worship than frankincense or silks. It was so easy, though, so terribly easy to forget the horror of what such fidelity could entail when one was ensnared in the golden corner of his mouth, or the devouring glance of his eyes. Just as it was a terribly easy thing to slide one’s knife across a person’s throat and watch how their life slipped away from them in a torrent of red. His sunlit gaze rested upon her, coaxing a demure smile from her lips as her cheeks flushed with color - for, what was she to do when confronted with such unfettered devotion? Who else had shown her that, but her sisters? Such reckless allegiance was constantly laid at her sister’s feet, but as it was laid before Romilda, she couldn’t help but feel divested - caught within the sun’s gaze.

“You jest,” they murmur, tearing their gaze from Dmitri’s so that he might not see the flicker of hope that painted across their features. “Never sully your hands for me, Dmitri.” I am not worth it. The words sit heavy upon her tongue, the truth of it tainting her palate with its bitter, metallic taste. “If you are to grant me one wish, let that be it,” they say, the words ushered out in a rueful sigh. “Your hands are too good, too precious to be bloodied on my account.”

I could live not without knowing I have avenged you.

Their eyes widened, head snapping to look at the man that uttered such damning words. Their heart tripped and stumbled over itself, beating in equal parts apprehension and disbelief, tumbling over itself as they struggled to make sense of what Dmitri said so unabashedly. It was an onslaught of affection he besieged her with - and she had been rendered utterly helpless in the face of it. When words failed her, however, the actions of her hands hardly ever did. They knew when to smite, when to caress, and when to treat something as though it were holy. This, however - this was undeniably something holy.

“Perhaps,” she says, gently tugging his hand into her grasp. “When all is said and done, you will aid me in finding peace by doing for others what I never could.” Slowly, she laced her fingers between his, turning his hand over as her thumb gently brushed against his skin. A miracle. A marvel. To think, that the light of the sun could be caught within his veins - were she not so breathless, she might have been envious that he had within him all that she coveted. His debt had been repaid three times over and yet, she was loath to relinquish the ties that bound them together. But was she not allowed these small indulgences?