THE EMPRESARIO
he doesn’t want to talk about him. to kane, it feels like it’s been both a long and a short time since his death and while there was never a wound to heal (a metaphorical one, there was an actual wound, so severe it put kane out of commission for weeks and almost cost him his voice), it’s still something that brings an itch whenever the issue comes up. for abel was exactly that—an issue. one that kane thought he’s dealt with. but in the last two months, the thought of his brother has been plaguing him more than it ever had before.
he doesn’t want to talk about him and yet he laughs—then before he can think twice about it, he speaks up. “so you’re about to stroke your cock to the thought of my dead brother? charming.” he drops his cards in between them; wins the round but doesn’t really care for it. there’s a smirk on his lips to conceal the fact that he’s disappointed with himself—with his loose mouth.
kane scratches a spot at the base of his throat, covered by his shirt at all times, other hand hovers over the cards, finger tracing the shapes. “didn’t look like me, though. you’ll have to use your imagination.” he chuckles, but it’s dry and humourless; the act has left him. goddamn abel.
“you owe me now.” kane clears his throat, nods at the cards. “can you even pay up?”
⁎⁎⁎
Brother, then, is it? The word is neither flesh, nor blood on him; the word is just the kind of wispy, whishy-washy notion these visions thrive on. ( he had called ephraim brother, once, or at least lived it out. a word ain’t only the husk and the hollow; it’s what you do when you’re inside it, when the sound closes overhead. even if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t matter, not here at the end. he was. they were. it was sibling blood-bind, scratched knees, nights spent in jail. it was battlefield vows, for all that there was no massacre around them, only ahead. lan had called ephraim brother, and one morning, he left. that’s the way it goes, in this world; or so men said. of men and their advice, lan knew about by now. they’re neither flesh, nor blood on them. )
The sailor breathes, slow and measured. He tries not to dwell on the rasp of it, in the coarse aftermath of the sight, the there-and-gone-again mockery of it. The presence of whatever was between Kane and his ghost wrung his windpipe like an oil-cloth. Black bile and curdled anger. An anger that had never really stilled, merely settled on all fours, tormented and waiting. He can run the game, by now. The beats and baits of it. What haunting is sorrowful, and which one is merely lonely. Kane’s branded grave was neither. Kane’s grave was open and calling his name.
It showed in how late it was to appear—how it waited for them to leave the Arctic circle, before it could even muster power, or soul, or whatever the fuck these skinless hands needed to squeeze through. It showed in how it pulled out the small bones in his neck, yanked halfway to fucking hell, because, of course. Of course there’s a brother.
That’s how these things work. He had thought the ring may be drawing them to him. Had told Iles Xu as much, somewhere in the confidences of bedroom and barter. Iles had doubted it. Well, the white-winged bastard might have some fucking point of it. Maybe the ring is just... facilitation. Maybe whatever’s dark enough in him to let him hear had been seeded there long ago.
He looks to the cards without seeing them. The deuce blurs, blends into the knight. Knaves and knives pulling at the joints. Lonan snorts up bitterness like it’s a bone lodged sideways. Iles, as always, is enthroned and enshrined on his thoughts; an entity not like a ghost, but like a hound-master. And the king of the hunt says: do not gabble it away. Do not tell him. The game, Lan, think of the long game. And the four-legged beast recoils. No, nothing so gentle. Nothing so statuary. It just says: fuck you. It’s about bloody time I told a soul.
❝I’ve gone through my share of mortal sins, Kane, and on any other day I’d even take you up on a tally. Can’t tell which one of us would draw it longer. But now? Christ. A dead brother, a traitor and a closed fist. Sounds like the oldest story they ever told. Steel through his head, then, was it? Or was it rock? Was it wood?❞















