⛧ 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔪 ⛧

Continued from here.

@divinehr​

The  crowd  seems  to  swell,  the  sound  of  feigned  laughter  and  low  murmured  chatter  shifting  into  something  more  familiar  as  the  hour  grows  late.  Something  sinister,  something  playful.  Couples  hang  off  of  each  other  and  singles  disappear,  whisked  off  into  the  night  to  be  stripped  of  their  gowns,  their  pitiful  attempts  at  status....all  that  remains  is  flesh,  in  the  end.  

Secundo  prefers  this.  Prefers  the  truth  to  the  lie.  

Pushed  by  the  influx  of  partygoers,  he  finds  himself  closer  to  the  woman,  one  hand  in  his  pocket  while  the  other  swirls  his  own  glass  of  wine...his  fifth  of  the  evening.  "Mm."  He  acknowledges  her  apparent  sleuthing  before  draining  his  cup,  allowing  her  that  particular  victory,  neglecting  to  meet  her  as  she  seeks  his  ear,  letting  her  come  to  him  instead.  A  small  almost  mocking  smile  as  she  continues,  his  gaze  flitting  over  the  man  in  question,  is  kept  to  himself  and  erased  before  it  can  be  seen.  

Italian  accent  thick,  he  finally  responds,  "Oh  yes,  monogamy.  It  has  no  place  on  nights  like  these.  Surely,  you  know  this.  Why  else  have  you  come?"  Secundo  makes  his  assumptions  without  fear,  locking  eyes  with  her.  As  she  speaks,  he  doesn't  let  go.  The  most  interesting  person  here?  Not  outwardly,  no...

“You don’t mean that,” Azoth objects, skimming the surface of his son’s mind just to be sure, like a flint stone skipping across the mirrored surface of a lake. “You might be able to fool the rest of them, with your majesty, and your grandeur, but you do not fool me.” The papal regalia, the facepaint, it masked many sins — so to speak. How they cowered. How they coveted him. No one ever stopped to ask ‘why?’, what was the pontiff running from? What inadequacies was he veiling with silk robes and compacted makeup? What insecurities was he attempting to atone for with all the pomp and pageantry? The hatred in his son’s eyes makes him want to flinch, but he refuses to give him the satisfaction. “Wow,” blunt as a bastono, Azoth has to take a beat, shifting his weight onto his backfoot. “Not how I was expecting to have this conversation,” Azoth sighs under his breath, scrubbing at his eyes. Satanas give him strength, the Dark Lord was testing him. “If you want to have this conversation, then fine, let’s have this conversation,” never one to recoil from tricky conversations or ugly truths, the Mercury ghoul trudges back to his armchair, tail tight to his body - defensive.

He never reaches his chair.

It’s the absence of his paternal designation that sends him over the edge, snubbed, a deliberate sleight on his son’s part, an expertly executed verbal manoeuvre, designed to strike him where it hurts, and the venomous barb hits its mark. Flawlessly. “Armando!” Silver eyes turn to slits, and the whites shrink away completely as his mercurial temperament spills over. He looks every bit the preternatural being he is, the beast early civilisations had beatified as a deity, that the cults of Mesopotamia had etched onto stele and scrawled onto cave walls, the kite-tailed fiend that had bedevilled folklore for centuries, and lurked in the cranium of the collective unconscious, and the demon depicted in diabolical codices, sealed deep within the vaults of the Vatican, for fear one glance upon the manuscript would drive the onlooker mad. “No, you might not be a infant anymore, by Satanas, that you were - that you had ever spoken to me like that - you would rue the day you learned to speak at all! I am your—…!” He gabbles ineffectually, grasping at the air, his tirade brought to a screaming halt, and the absence of a fitting adjective only infuriating him further. “You are my—…!” Nothing, you are nothing to them but a freak show, a ghoul playing dress up pretending to be a human, pretending you’re a family. “You will accord me the respect I am due!“ His tail flickers dangerously at his rear. "You only debase yourself with his infantile behaviour. You make me ashamed to be called your Ungodly-father.”

“Don’t  I?”  

His  answer  comes  hot  on  the  heels  of  the  ghoul’s  dismissal,  leaving  no  room  in  the  air  for  DOUBT.  Bull-headed,  stubborn  like  his  father,  whichever  you  choose,  Armando  will  not  allow  his  words  to  be  challenged.  Azoth’s  counter  only  makes  the  second  double  down,  sinking  his  teeth  into  the  idea  of  Terzo  receiving  exactly  what  he’s  asked  for,  just  as  his  own  nails  puncture  the  flesh  of  his  hands  still  clasped  in  his  lap.  

                                                        He  nearly  laughs.  

Majesty!  Grandeur!  Where  is  it  now?  In  the  hands  of  Aurelio?  Why  doesn’t  the  aged  ghoul  ask  him  what  it  is  the  crown  hides?  

Secundo  had  perhaps  hoped  his  Ungodly-father  would  brush  past  the  mention  of  his...relationship  with  Nihil,  leaving  it  in  the  past  tense  where  it  belongs.  The  idea  of  discussing  anything  adjacent  to  whatever  it  is  the  ghoul  and  his  father  do  is  revolting.  His  expression  says  as  much,  eyes  slits,  mouth  drawn  into  a  frown.  Naturally,  he  had  watched  the  two  fool  with  each  other  as  a  child,  playing  the  unhappy  couple.  He  didn’t  have  a  choice.  The  resentment  he  feels  for  them  both--

Physically  as  well  as  mentally,  Papa  bites  his  tongue.  He  will  allow  memory  to  go  no  farther.    

                                                                                                        “There  is  no  talk  to  be  had.”

As  if  pulled,  his  childhood  presents  itself  in  an  entirely  different  manner.  Hearing  his  name  spoken  this  way  causes  the  man’s  gaze  to  shoot  up,  his  body  rigid.  Of  course,  he  has  heard  his  name  presented  in  that  very  tone  from  the  mouth  of  that  very  ghoul  countless  times,  but  not  in  years.  The  humiliation  of  it  causes  his  jaw  to  tighten.  How  dare  he?  Yet,  he  has  gone  silent,  eyes  wide  as  the  hell  beast  releases  a  tirade  upon  him.  

Of  course,  this  is  exactly  what  he  needs.  A  chewing  out  from  the  only  person  he  expects  to  help  him.  The  only  person  he  knows  will  TRY  to  pull  him  from  the  depths.  “Stop...”  His  voice  holds  a  quiet  it  hadn’t  held  all  evening.  A  hushed  tone.  At  the  ghoul’s  pause,  an  unfinished  reprimand,  Secundo  fleetingly  wishes  he  would  finish.  

Ashamed.  

The  word  hits  his  eardrums  like  a  weapon  and  his  eyes  close,  forcing  down  the  bile  threatening  to  rise  in  his  throat.  If  not  Papa,  he  is  a  man.  He  will  not  show  weakness.  Slowly,  eyes  open  to  meet  Azoth’s.  No  emotion  in  sight.  Hollow.  

                                      “Hai  ragione.  I  should  not  have  come  to  you  with  this  news  so  soon.  It  was  improper  to  overstep  the  proper  channels.  --As  for  your  counsel,  Grazie.”  

With  that,  he’s  standing,  straightening  himself  in  preparation  to  take  his  leave.  

The heir and the spare, the two eldest sons had been groomed for succession to the Leviathan Throne since infancy, whilst their delinquent younger brother had been granted a childhood, unfettered by pastoral duties and ecclesiastical education — until The Ministry had caught up with him, and he was downtrodden, henpecked and browbeaten with the rest of them. He strides back across the room, charged with nervous energy he cannot expel. “You know as well as I do that your brother is not ready for the triple tiara,” he hisses, bracing his hands on the nearby mantlepiece. “It will devastate him.” He peers over his shoulder at Nihil’s second son, a hollow replica of his former self, wrought with self-doubt, wrung out with self-hatred, and eyeing his forearm.

“No.” Tracking his eyeline, Azoth wants to tackle him like a ram, to incise him with his horns, to trample some sense into him. «Guardami. E ascoltami,» his tone is firm, fatherly, but not bullish. “We are not powerless. You are not powerless. Satanus snatched free will from the jaws of God that we might be the rulers of our fate.” He pounds his fist on the mantle, and the clock rattles and chimes responsively, a jitter passing through the ornate wooden shelf. “Your father is a flawed man, but he’s not beyond reason.” He has to believe his old friend is still in there, beneath his decrepit and decaying exterior.

“This isn’t the end, figlio mio,” his eyes are hot, and lustrous with tears. “This isn’t where we fall apart.” Il Secondo is right, he feels impotent: clutching at fistfuls of ashes trying to reverse the damage done by the flames. He would be on suicide watch for the foreseeable future, raiding the nightstand of his surrogate son like he was a teenager all over again, rifling through his pockets for any trace of drug paraphernalia. «Promettimi,» he pleads. “You won’t do anything… impulsive,” he isn’t about to subject him to a diatribe, to dredge up old feelings, but he refuses to stay quiet on the matter.”

Seemingly  uninterested  or  refraining,  Secundo  does  not  rise  to  follow  the  anxious  trotting  of  Azoth,  hands  clasping  before  him  as  if  the  action  of  his  elder  brother  could  bring  some  sort  of  clarity...some  stability  to  this  infernal  world.  “Let  him  crumble,  then.”  Apparently  not.  

Despite  the  knot  squeezing  at  his  chest,  he  continues,  “He  is  so  eager  to  know  fame,  to  see  power...let  it  destroy  him.”  Like  it’s  destroyed  him.  

The  thought  of  Aurelio’s  impending  DOOM  does  not  bring  him  any  pleasure.  In  fact,  it  wounds  him  to  his  very  essence.  The  boy  is  not  strong  enough.  They  will  eat  him  alive  and  pick  him  clean  like  the  vultures  they  are...and  what  will  he  do?  Watch?  The  excruciating  pain  of  it  all  presents  easily  as  rage  and  bitterness.  Terzo  is  so  willing  to  fling  himself  into  the  pit  when  the  boy  has  everything  at  his  fingertips.  So  FUCKING  eager  to  fall.  What  the  hell  is  wrong  with  him?  Has  he  learned  nothing  from  his  years  here?  Has  he  listened  at  all?  Watched,  perhaps?!

“I’m  sure  he’s  positively  ELATED.”    He  spits,  finally  looking  up  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  being  who  cares  for  he  and  his  brothers  more  than  anyone  else...and  that  care  comes  from  the  depths  of  hell  no  less.  Secundo  finds  concern  there.  A  worry  he  hasn’t  seen  from  the  ghoul  in  a  long  while.  

                                                                                              For  once,  Armando  does  as  he’s  told.  

“Nihil  è  un  bastardo.  You  are  too  soft  on  him.”  An  overstep,  perhaps?  Now  is  the  time  to  push  boundaries.  In  fact,  boundaries  be  cursed.  

His  tirade  is  cut  short  by  the  plea  of  his  surrogate  father  and  Secundo  sits  up,  chest  heaving.  Armando  notes  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  knows  what  he’s  thinking.  “You  will  keep  your  nose  out  of  my  business,  Azoth.  Do  you  hear  me?  Out....and  I  will  take  care  of  said  business.”  He  will  not  be  watched  like  a  child.  If  he  wants  to  end  it,  he  will  end  it....but  he  does  not.  He  cannot.  “I  am  not  an  infant.  I  have  to  stay  sharp.”  

Continued  from  here. @vileincarnations​

His  words  sound  weak,  a  pathetic  last  attempt  at  sounding  indifferent,  unaffected.  Secundo  regularly  laughs  in  the  faces  of  men  for  less,  watching  them  fumble  and  wallow  in  their  misery,  their  powerlessness.  In  fact,  his  own  predicament  makes  his  skin  crawl,  jaw  visibly  tightening  against  the  sensation  as  yellowed  eyes  follow  the  ghoul’s  incessant  pacing.  What  right  does  Azoth  have  to  rage,  pecking  around  like  the  foolish  mother  hen  he’s  always  been?  He’s  an  absolute  fool  on  a  fool’s  errand,  fussing  over  eggs  long  since  spoiled.  It  makes  him  ill  with  distaste.  

Irritation  is  what  finally  draws  his  scrutiny  away,  gaze  drifting  down  to  his  forearm  as  it  burns  for  his  attention.  As  he  watches,  the  sensation  only  grows  in  intensity,  his  eyes  clouding  over  with  a  familiar  dreadful  haze.  Bruised  veins  and  cracked  skin  paint  a  picture  of  failure,  each  track  mark  a  nail  in  his  predestined  coffin.  He’s  been  SET  UP  FOR  FAILURE.  Nights  of  partying  until  daybreak,  quiet  mornings  in  his  chambers,  bustling  moments  backstage...all  tainted  by  the  fog.  Papa  cringes  at  the  thought,  avoiding  what  memory  he  has  like  thoughts  themselves  could  fling  him  into  the  vastness  of  an  overdose.  Eyes  narrow  at  the  evidence  glaring  back  at  him,  lips  curling  into  a  sneer.  

As  Azoth  fires  back  in  the  darkness,  Secundo  straightens  out  of  his  reverie,  tall  and  yearning  for  a  fight.  The  murmured  apology  does  little  to  calm  his  nerves.  “There  is  no  FIXING  to  be  done.”  Papa  hisses  back,  just  as  snakelike,  meeting  the  ghoul’s  stare.  “He  has  made  his  decision.”  Venom  pours  from  gritted  teeth  at  the  thought  of  the  witless  Nihil,  eyes  flashing  in  the  dim.  He  can  imagine  his  so  called  father  sitting  in  his  office  with  that  whore  around  his  neck  signing  off  on  whatever  is  thrown  in  front  of  him  without  a  care  in  the  circles.  How  fucking  dare  he?  The  bastard.  

As the second son stilled, the air weighed HEAVY in Copia’s throat—- condensed and suffocating. The comment was, of course, made in JEST, a light ( and tense ) chuckle following in the same breath. Perhaps a hint of honesty slithered beneath the surface, a genuine YEARNING to know when in the Hell he’d managed to get under the miserable old man’s skin, but nothing he imagined the Second would care to acknowledge—- if he acknowledged Copia at all. That APATHETIC silence he had come to expect from the most bitter of the Three… in this moment, oh, how he missed it. It was foolish, Copia found in retrospect, now standing there DUMBFOUNDED, hands pressed tightly to his stomach, clenched and fidgeting—- to expect anything less than the Second’s brutal truth, and the LURCH of his insides as he stomached it. 

❝ … It is, yes, thank you. Truly. I am grateful for you, always being so… truthful, with me, Papa. ❞ Like TOXINS on his tongue—- daggers, hellfire. All the terrible things that left the mouth tasting of metal and scarlet. Were there any solace to this ( this CONTEMPT, and Copia’s bitter familiarity of it all ), it was at the mention of… Ah! Yes, the Scary One’s retirement… However, momentary relief died beneath those SCORNFUL eyes, and although the Cardinal’s gaze was forced elsewhere beneath their weight, he did hold them as the Second’s final remark LINGERED. Perhaps it was the sudden epiphany that the man no longer towered over him as a threat, a looming obstacle to surpass, or what felt like a lifetime of BITING his tongue in the Second’s presence—- he wasn’t sure, but with that feigned friendliness returning, came also a BOLDNESS the Cardinal did not fully intend ( in that rambling and passive-aggressive way of his, but a boldness nonetheless ).

❝ And with yourself, it seems. I cannot imagine how difficult it is, this retirement, to pass the gauntlet so soon. Having to admit to yourself that you are no longer… well, in your prime, as they say. It is a very difficult and, ah… honest! An honest thing to do. ❞

                It  is,  in  all  truth,  an  occasional  treat  he  allows  himself...to  make  the  Cardinal  squirm,  especially  on  days  like  today.  His  mood  is  sour,  standing  by  and  watching  as  his  younger  brother  flounces  around  the  abbey,  tapdancing  on  his  nerves  as  he  spends  what  riches  he  himself  had  accrued  during  his  papacy  on  quick  trips  and  the  latest  fashion.  He’s  in  need  of  a  sweet.  Comically,  Terzo  is  perhaps  the  only  area  in  which  he  and  the  jumpy  little  clergyman  can  find  some  sort  of  common  ground....  through  pure  annoyance  alone.  If  there’s  an  ounce  of  respect  for  that  of  Copia,  it  is  in  his  dealing  with  his  brother.  It’s  not  a  job  suited  for  him,  that  he’s  certain  of.  How  he  does  it,  Armando  does  not  know.  His  assumption:  he’s  drawn  the  ‘short  stick’  and  has  no  choice.

This  (he  hesitates  to  call  it  sympathy)  understanding  regarding  the  third  does  not  at  all  dampen  his  silent  amusement  as  the  Cardinal  is  forced  to  answer.  The  way  those  insults  stay  tightly  wound  in  his  throat,  choking  him.  Sometimes  he  wishes  the  man  would  let  them  fly...if  only  to  see  what  would  happen,  but  his  intolerance  for  Copia  outweighs  his  curiosity.

It  seems  circles  are  toying  with  him  as  the  man  continues  to  speak,  lips  only  becoming  more  lose  as  he  stammers  on.  Papa  blinks  once,  eyelids  slowly  creating  a  barrier  between  himself  and  the  sniveling  thing  with  a  bitchy  streak.  The  third  is  a  nasty  influence.