𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱.

✠ ⸻  Saint Matthieu Warden. He/Him. Cis Man. Gemini. War Seraphim.

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Archangel

Timeline ➴

— Ashley Mares, from “Psalm of Scattered Ashes,” published in Luna Luna 

TW: death, violence, blood, guns, pregnancy

A pain surges long before the sharp execution of a bullet through his chest. An agonising ache in which Saint had known as if it were old friend, and it’s one of loss, of mourning, a dull and harrowing sting he’d thought he’d gotten used to by now— but no. No, not this time, the void in his heart rips through tissue and muscle until he’s left gasping for air. Starved of oxygen in a world where his reason for living is suddenly ripped from his grasp, and it’s all his fault. Carelessly impulsive, from the moment panic makes itself known in the manor, Saint had climbed from his bed and professed himself an instrument for battle. This is what he was made for, after all, born into an existence painted red by nature, where he should learn to act as the weapons his parents created in steel-toned factories. He’s just that, deadly, or so he’d thought, a soldier made to embrace the front lines of the war in the knowing that it was his family that founded such a concept.

The second Horsemen carried a sword, whilst riding a red horse and was the creator of War.

Blood and glory stain his vision, the will to protect his family, his legacy, engraved into him like any other hopeless mantra in which Gabrielle cooed to him in French. And it brings him here, with his grip clasped solid around his gun, an extension of his being, as he empties rounds targeted towards men shielded in the cowardice of bullet-proof vests. Stubbornly, Saint doesn’t move, jaw clenched even as red lights adorn his own body, snipers aimed towards him with the warning from an electronic voice that they’d shoot. Only as they do, he feels nothing, not at first anyway, not until it’s too late and the dull thump of a body pulls his rage and bloodlust away from conflict and towards her; Kitty. With brunette tendrils of hair falling to mask her face, he moves to catch her, only to be met by a similar fate.

“Kitty,” he exhales, the taste of iron thick on the back of his tongue and he uses his last ounce of energy to move closer to her. His hand presses to her collarbone, a mirrored injury as Kitty had mindlessly utalised herself as a shield in the attempt for him to survive. And Saint can’t help but see the irony in it, in what loving him had done, coming at the price of her bloodied heart that struggles to beat under the pressure of professing itself to a Saint. Because what good had worship ever done? He wonders, pressing his forehead to hers, her skin still warm against his own, gunpowder lacing the last weakened breaths he manages to take into failing lungs.

Saint had always intended to die for War and his family, but now that’s not true, he dies for Kitty instead. He lets go because there is no life worth living without her in it. And as he lies there, he experiences it all over again. Saint falls in love, hard, like a fallen angel whose banishment from the heavens lands him into the arms of something much sweeter than that of what God could ever have offered to him. And it's peculiar, what the mind does to soothe the punctuation of life for its mortal body. Because as Saint closes his eyes, he experiences it all over again. He sees her sat at a table, at the first truce anniversary. Then again, on a dancefloor, her affections always paid towards another as he's met with nothing short of disdain. Soon though, she graces him with her attention, and when she does it's a domino effect. Countless secrets forming, drawn to the other like a magnet until eventually, it's only her he'd ever wanted. Then they’re married, and she doesn’t take his last name, but he could hardly care when the evidence of their unity lays clear on her ring finger. And it doesn't stop there, as her stomach swells and they welcome a daughter into the world, and then a son, their names both as ridiculous as their parents. Tiger-Lily and Zephyr, resembling their mother with darkened features and perfectly poised devilish grins. Most importantly, they're happy. He's happy, in the knowing that he'd had a family of his own, and a purpose outside of the gunmetal and ammunition that would tear the future from them and give him this instead. Kitty gave him meaning outside of what he were meant for, and she still does now, even in their death.

His gaze flickers open again, meeting her brown eyes as he captures the last face he'd see. And they both smile, lips parting, and breaths slowing. "I'm yours, I'll love you, forever," the blood warms his hands, wet and viscous as it continues to pour. "Forever," the other agrees, professions that would turn into vows in the absence of their alter. The reaper beckons on the horizon, a dull calling that should punctuate the end. But there’s comfort in it still, in the knowing that he could rest with her forever without the indignation of their forbidden union. No one could take them away from each other now, not really, as souls intertwine in perfect harmony, spirits evaporating in a synced agreement. The last thing he does is kiss her, her lips far more seraphic than any afterlife that would come after, and it's there he would stay, in her embrace forever. Holding onto the adoration they held for each other so it would be bright enough to engulf them both. The vail pulls over him, and it's heavy, as his surroundings slip from his senses and are replaced with the eternal stretch of nothingness. Much like before birth, an emptiness that was neither terrifying nor joyous. It simply was, vacant apart from a spark, starlight in the shape of them destined to shine in the sky.

Gabrielle is gone and her sons fall into line, as is expected — as they’ve trained their whole lives for. Maintain their empire in her stead, it’s all she’s ever wanted from them, and this nightmare easily becomes the ultimate test for her two surviving children. Would she be proud to see her sons come together, to stand tall in the face of enemies, laying down their inherited weapons in favour of working in an equal partnership? Despite the whispers that this power vacuum may ruin the new bond between them, given a chance to revert back to their ancient and competitive ways, Remus and Saint enter the billiard room together, calm and composed. 

 Approaching their ranks as they crowd together between pool tables, the room falls silent, and Remus speaks. “Evening,” he greets, voice solemn yet stern as it booms. “I’m sure that there are lot of lingering questions after the events of the last week, but allow me to make one thing crystal fucking clear: In the absence of our Horseman, Saint and I have chosen to lead War together, as equals.” He pauses, catching the reactions of those in their ranks, certain that there are mixed feelings about two historically warring brothers sharing such a coveted prize. “My advice to you? Keep your head down, don’t get too comfortable here. We aren’t here to relax or make fucking friends, truce in place or not. We’re here to get answers, to find out who has compromised our gang. So, remember where your loyalties lie or prepare to be questioned; you’ve joined our ranks, now play your part.” With a look towards his brother, Remus steps aside, clearing the floor for his equal. “Enough of me. Saint has prepared a real speech for you all, so listen up.”

“We’re certain there’s those of you who would have a preference between us. We’re sure there are members of War who look down upon us for our mistakes, who think lesser of us for our rivalries, or the way in which we conduct our businesses. However, this isn’t a matter of preference. Or the questioning between the two of us, we stand together in this, we believe the same for our gang and our people, and we see each other as an equal. Because that’s what we are, we’re not competitors. We’re brothers, and we are allies, one and the same. So whatever you say to one of us, you have said it to other in turn and contrariwise.

If we find out that there is a snake in these ranks, myself and my brother will have it seen to that those who are disloyal or opportunistic towards the vacancy or our Horseman, and consider biting the hand that has been feeding you, will promptly find themselves in a situation that’s permanence will follow an early grave. 

So when it comes to War-- when it comes to our Maman. We will not permit our family’s legacy to crumble beneath the pressure of another vanished Warden, and the domino effect ends here. It stops today. She used to tell us, when we were younger, ‘les animaux qui n'utilisent pas leurs dents les perdront’, animals that don't use their teeth will lose them . It’s how we plan to lead now, temporarily, until Gabrielle’s return back to her rightful place at the helm. You may think of her as a stern ruler, or question her methods of leadership in comparison to other gangs. You may hear whispers of a boss you would favour better, be it for a less strict way of life, perhaps because they’re less brutal, or for a lack of your own ambitions in an environment created to make you stronger and thrive. But there is a reason War has the reputation that it does, as the methodical, the cunning, and the wise. It is due to our Horseman’s vision that we are what we are, and to disregard that is not only shameful, but it is treacherous. In her absence we will work to make it feel as if she hasn’t gone, and assure that this gang stays as strong as it was when she was taken. To rule in her vision is no small task, but it’s one we believe in, and it’s one we will fulfil to ensure the safety and progress of all our people.

There’s more warm laughter, spilling out. If there is anything these past weeks and months have taught her ( it’s a reinforced lesson, really, as she has always kind of known this ), it’s that it’s crucial to hold onto what is warm, what is good, what is there. Grief leaves a hole within War, and she may not feel it as intensely as the brother that sits next to her, but it offers perspective all the same. Strange, how love blossoms in the face of death and loss. But at the same time, not strange at all. “For the record, if we were to ever get married, he’d have to take my surname,” she quips, extending her legs, toes upward, a muscle or bone realigning. Stress shows itself in the tenseness of her body, most of all. She looks at Saint, for a moment, appreciating what she does truly think is sincerity. “Thank you.” 

Saint, for the most part, had remained quiet. An allusive soul, craving for peace to balance the chaos and destruction that clings to his life. And although it’s foolish to think he may not deserve this, the bad things that are born from a life lead in criminality, he also can’t deny the unshakeable narrative that his maman’s departure etches into his chest. More so, in the comparison of what he’d felt when it was his sister who was taken, snatched in the night and stolen along with his meticulously guarded warehouse, its noticeably less painful. Shockingly, in someways, and in truths he’d dared to speak, not even to himself, Gabrielle’s sudden vacancy doesn’t choke him, but almost, it allowed him to breath. As if the heel digging on his throat had at long last removed it’s pressure, and there were no longer this need to perform, or be perfect, in the hope that the hoops he jumps through would reward him with the praise of an uninterested god. 

Although, it’s not to say he’d wished her gone. He doesn’t, not really, and if his Horseman’s survival depended on his bated breath, then Saint would adapt to survive at the lower frequency. Permit deities to feast on his passions in order to keep War alive, in order to keep War strong. She’d linger on his mind then, cling to his conscience and the reflection he see’s in the mirror. It’s odd, really, how he’d never noticed the similarities in his features to Gabrielle’s until she’s gone. The same shaped lips, the same sharp and narrow gaze that even in it’s resting state had seemingly been searching for suspicions. She’s with him still, even now, embedded into him, buried like a rose thorn that skin traps and encases by healing over then singing in pain. But now, as the sky fades from blue to black, night crawling in and capturing the British countryside in a star-filled night that the city in all it’s light pollution could never quite offer, Saint only wishes to sleep. 

He’s yet to go to his allocated room, carrying a gym bag full of his clothes in one hand, he turns the door handle with the other, and enters. Still empty, he thinks, green gaze looking at a vacant bed as he sets his belongings onto his preferred mattress, (the one located closest to the exit). With the hood of his hoodie pulled up, he sits down, his back pressed against the wall and focus now centred on a book that splays open in his palm. Only for his attention to draw upward as the door swings open, and his room mate to finally announce themselves, with long dark hair, and a pair of shoes that Saint can’t help but find hauntingly familiar. A frown sits on his face, puzzled, and waiting patiently for the other to turn around and offer any greater hints of their identity. 

It’s a fast turn around, how ARCHANGEL spreads its wings and fledges from the nest. From idea, to creation, a new chapter in Saint’s life that he’d welcomed with open arms in the magnitude his latest project had in its ability to distract. And although he’s been warned that his games of hiding and masking only ensure further upset and frustration in the future, he can’t help but give into the steady rush this gives him. Like nicotine without the tobacco, he inhales it, embodies it, lets it take over every thought that traipses into his brain when so much of what he professes his identity to vanishes or falls apart. This was structure, and power. Much needed now, as his Maman and Horseman is the latest to go missing without a trace. So these cameras, his plans, they serve Saint as a new weapon he can finally depend on, when their very DNA is the make up of his own mind. Which, as of late, is one of the few things he knew he could trust with every fibre of his being. 

The Manor reminds him a lot of home, his parents permanent residence that shines in the excellence of its history. Grand staircases and oil paintings so hideously outdated that it feels as though you’d stepped back in time and landed in another era all together. Stories of his childhood seem to latch onto his perception, even as he stands at the top of a step ladder and fits and ARCHANGEL branded camera to temporarily reside in the corner of the hallway, it’s lense angled to monitor the doors of rooms 1 to 10. Only, as the door from room 7 swings open, does Saint let his attention wander from the task at hand and to the person now standing in his vision. “Monica, hey,” Saint tilts his head, waving a hand equipped with a screwdriver in his friends direction. “I’m just fitting cameras. Better safe than sorry in a Manor full of literal criminals that all hate each other, right?” sarcasm drips from his tone, pessimism and doubt evident on Saint’s features and he puts in the last screw and turns the camera on. A red light flashes, turning blue as he climbs back down from the ladder and meets the other with his full attention. 

"So, I told Remus I’d be able to sort these cameras out myself. And whilst I probably can, it’s going to take me hours, and I’m going to get bored. Want to help?... There’s a cigarette in it for you after and not to mention my absolutely amazing company.” Before she can answer, Saint grabs a bag full of equipment into her hands with a wide toothed grin, not allowing the opportunity for her to say ‘no’.

ARCHANGEL LTD | Founded. 2021 

OVERVIEW

In the belief that stronger communities are the key to safer neighbourhoods, ARCHANGEL was created. The name itself derives from a guardian, an Archangel, having individually inhabit immortal bodies that operate in the physical world to protect, guide, and inspire humanity. ARCHANGEL LTD., is a British company that provides residential, small and large business electronic security, fire protection, and other related alarm monitoring services throughout the United Kingdom. The corporate head office is located in London, UK. 

“Security is what we do. Combining unrivalled expertise with cutting-edge technology, this is where safer meets smarter.”

PRODUCTS 

CCTV - Different to your standard surveillance camera, ARCHANGEL revolutionises security technology, and offers safety with a difference. The sleek, stylish design means that they camouflage seamlessly into their given environment, which can be tailored to suit your home security needs. Record true colour daytime images and crisp monochrome night-time images, capturing all the detail you need. 

+ FEATURES:

built-in sensors / ARCHANGEL cameras are installed with groundbreaking data, along with the ability to read and recognise established faces. In the event of an intruder, or an unrecognised face, the camera will alert its user with a warning message. The warning message can either be forwarded to the police, or approved as a non-threat. The camera will keep a log of all faces, with the ability to block, and highlight certain individuals as ‘high' threat. 

accessible / easily accessible, ARCHANGEL cameras can be controlled via their control system or by the app installed onto a mobile phone. Access to such technology can be granted to multiple users of the household or business.

response customisation / customise your system to react in your desired preference. This modern wireless intruder alarm offers outstanding wireless functionality combined with optimum reliability and performance. With four modes to choose from, integrated siren, bank level encryption, energy saving and adjustable sensitivity, the system becomes versatile for all locations. 

CONTROL SYSTEM -  The ARCHANGEL Smart hub is the next generation of intruder alarm panels. This easy to use smart panel, featuring a high-definition 7” touchscreen, provides even more control and protection for your home and business. Security made simple, the Smart hub grants instant control to authorised personnel. Perfect for homes or organisations of all sizes, it makes it easy for you to create a brand-new system to suit your premises, or make incremental upgrades to an existing system with help from ARCHANGEL’s experts.

+ FEATURES: 

built-in camera / the built in 5MP camera takes a picture every time your alarm’s unset by an authorised user, then sends it straight to your chosen smart devices. Instant notifications mean you’ll always know if family, colleagues or visitors have arrived safely, after successfully unsetting the alarm to enter.

zone group management / separate and secure key areas of your home or business such as bedrooms, offices, staff-only areas and more, easily with zone group management. With the Smart hub’s zone group management features, you can easily isolate security breaches and receive alerts in real time.

switch easy / It's even easier to switch to ARCHANGEL with the Smart hub - even if you have an existing security system in place. We'll simply swap out your current intruder alarm panel, without the need to replace other wired security devices, like door contacts and sensors. Save the expense and disruption of a complete installation, while still benefiting from ARCHANGEL's expert security services.

APP - ARCHANGEL’s app is groundbreaking, it’s invention one to marvel the masses from its free download, to its built-in features that permit software to be downloaded onto any working camera, even outside of the company. The app is simple, allowing the user to view and control their camera’s at the swipe of a finger. The app includes many features, including: recording, voice play-through, and emergency contact. ARCHANGEL app users can add each other and interact, keeping in touch with loved ones and ensuring their safety with GPS updates on their location upon their approval. This app is the most intelligent, convenient security solution yet. Enable, disable, change and monitor your security system at any time, through your phone, tablet or computer.

+ FEATURES:

ease of mind / the app allows you to activate or deactivate your system, turn on lights, stream and record security footage, troubleshoot issues and more. As long as you have your smart device with you, you’ll have total control of your ARCHANGEL system. No more forgetting to set your alarm when you leave the house, or turning on your security lights when it starts to get dark. We can do it all automatically, just set your preferences with the app and you’re protected.

avoid false alarms / make sure the kids or forgetful adults don’t set off the alarm when they get back home. Have ARCHANGEL disable your alarm before home time each day, to avoid those annoying false alarms. For busier households, have your system engage the alarm only when everyone’s left the house.

always home / keep your home secure, even while you’re away. Create a Scene that’ll turn on the lights when you’re not home in the evening, and turn them off again later at night. This will give the impression there’s someone at home, even when you’re not.

watch every move / with motion sensors, you’ll be able to set clips every time a visitor turns up. Your system can record and send you footage when someone comes to your door, so you’ll see everything from your post arriving, to your partner getting home from work.

WAR

Beneath a well polished business, built on ethics of security and safety of the nation, is a hidden truth. A Warden’s business has never been anything more than an opportunistic tool of power. A weapon, forged in their family name, and loaded with ammunition in the benefit of War. Such is the same with ARCHANGEL. A picture of brilliance, that masks a hidden agenda. 

The aim is simple, the more cameras they had access to, the more phones with apps installed and homes with devices fitted, the more eyes War had on a world that they lust to declare their own. And in terms of criminality, with access to thousands of cameras stretching across the city, in public areas, offices, and hidden alleyways, comes to will to control a narrative of London that they seek to create. There is a control room located within ARCHANGEL’s offices, one that is out of bounds from staff and only known by specified members of War. Those members are permitted access, where inside they can watch, they can edit, and delete incriminating evidence that would have usually meant trouble for a gang whose wrongdoings only seem to pile higher and higher as time passes by. 

More importantly, they hold the opportunity to catch of film, footage that could be used against the other gangs. With the technology of facial recognition, software installed into an ARCHANGEL associated device now has the ability to keep track of specified individuals. Like a GPS system, only with a lense rather than a satellite. 

She chuckles at his words, does not say that she has considered it, that kind of commitment to Solomon, though she wonders if they need such archaic agreements when they are already as united as they are. “Oh, no, no. It’s just interesting to hear someone use that word, for us.” A change, to be sure, from the previous partnered Dominion or simply Solomon. “And it does sound a bit … youthful and girlish, hm? As if I write his name with hearts around it.” This was different than such puppy-love: as strong as the heart itself, that bloody, beating organ. No frilly anatomically incorrect hearts, here, but the simplest and purest of desire, devotion and commitment. But boyfriend, too, is a simple term, and maybe this is just that: love has always been simple for her, anyway. “Sainty, know this: if it ever comes to that, I’ll let you know quite soon after.” And she means that.

She listens, eyes on Saint and then on the phone screen, tapping through the application with genuine interest, business cogs in her mind moving. “How long have you been sitting on this brilliance, Saint?” Kashvi hands the phone back over. “So, what’s your proposal? Or do you want to hear my thoughts, first?” She’ll give them, regardless of the answer. “It exists apart from the campaign too, right? If we’re thinking long term, sustainability … assurance. Remus might not win.” And this idea was broader than politics and policies, though if the two could be combined she supposes it would be stronger. “I don’t say that because I don’t doubt him, you know that. I doubt the general public.” That’s met with a smirk, turned grimace. She does not wish loss upon her friend. Nor her ally. “But it’s good, Saint, truly. If you make people feel like they’re in control of their security, rather than have them feel as observed as they most likely do now … give them the power. And more importantly give ourselves some, too.” 

Kashvi’s laughter warms him, in its genuine joy that sparks from her through like a swarm of butterflies; their wings gilded in molten gold, dripping pearls of precious metal to cling to the fibers of his own soul and bring light to caverns that previous lay baron and cold. It was often that way in Kashvi’s presence, a woman who basks herself in pride, and tangible ego wears a crown crafted from her own surety rather than one that is to be earned from a cold and wary Horseman. "Yeah, whatever, I’ve seen that big love heart in the back of your notebook with ‘Mrs. Kashvi Romero’ written in the middle,” Saint continues to taunt, teasing in his tone as light and playful as the conversation continued to exchange. The jaunt of love blossoming, in both of them, even if the truth was only permitted to be spoken by one. “Good. It’s nice, I’m happy for you both,” he responds, earnestly considerate. In many ways, he’s certain Gabrielle would too, behind the serious expression of his Maman, lives a woman softened by love, the right kind, at least. Love that strengthens her gang, and builds stronger connections between her members. 

Then as Kashvi’s curiosity displays itself in the form of questions, he smiles again, validated and grateful for an idea he can call his own to be met willingly and without skepticism. “A couple of months, since Nadia Salem gave me that concussion, it knocked some inspiration into me,” Saint's hand idly wanders to comb through his hair, a nod in reciprocation paid in reassurance. “Entirely separate. It won’t depend on Remus’s election to sell, but it would benefit from it, as all things concerning my family and our businesses would,” he continues, head tilting in observation of their location as the driver takes a turn closer to Solomon’s place. “I’ve got all the numbers worked out, Rem is writing up a pitch for me to perform for investors-- and well, you don’t get the official pitch, but as a friend, and a friend who is like a sister to me, your involvement in my company would mean a lot to me,” Saint turns, green eyes meeting her brown, “whatever that would mean for you, if it’s investing, or just advice. I want you to be part of this,” he pauses, unsure if the wine that accompanied dinner had caused too much heartfelt rambling that he’d usually feel secure with sharing. “Our parents have their own relationships, I think it’s time the next generation started walking in their footsteps and building something even better. Will you think about it?” 

perhaps in another life, he could have come to like saint. but not only is his family gripped by a darkness that leaves marcus uncomfortable, (where would he be if he’d grown up one of them? could he have watched kitty take her last breath?) saint has committed one too many sins against his blood. tricking kitty into giving him her love, discarding her like a cigarette butt. marcus nods with agreement. “mm, and i’m betting she didn’t sell her soul too long ago.” may has nothing on either of them, marcus and saint were born into this life, destined for it. another point added to the very short list of things they have in common.

shock ignites under his skin, but it doesn’t make its way to the surface. marcus thinks of gwen again, of her explosiveness and her loyalty, of all the traits they share. gwen couldn’t take that laying down, of that marcus is certain. “and no one tried to take your head off for it?” he questions with lackluster curiousity as his mind wanders to the satisfying thought if gwen making a mess of saint’s face. i’m sure death is just itching to get their hands on the rest of you.

he pauses for a moment, considering saint’s audacity with an amused smile before he tilts his glass in reciprocated cheers and swallows the contents. kitty is his sister, just as much as jessica, but marcus’ treatment of them differs drastically, even if he’s trying to close that gap in recent months. kitty has never needed defence, only an extra pair of fists at her side. kitty doesn’t need marcus to grab saint by the back of his neck and watch the shot glass smash under the force of his cheekbone, but it would be satisfying. “mm, and hypothetically, of course, i would laugh. maybe i would remind you my family doesn’t work like yours. my mum, my uncle, they love me regardless of what i do. lucky me, right?”

marcus turns to see where saints eyes divert to, and he catches the sight of kitty and fletch. another laugh escapes him, but with noticeably less humour than before. “she looks pretty happy right now,” a slight grin tugs at the corners of his lips, “an improvement, don’t you think? not by much, but an improvement all the same.”

It’s not long before the tequila begins to take effect, the warm burn of alcohol that radiates from Saint’s stomach to his fingertips. Left with the buzz of intoxication, and the bitter pill of an unwanted truce that little bit easier to swallow, as its flavour is drowned with something else that was a little more potent. Momentarily distracted, Saint’s attention only snaps back to Marcus upon the form of a question, dripping with a certain sarcasm that would have sat better amongst those in War than he’d pictured in Famine. But then he’d supposed there were a reason he already fancies Marcus as a more esteemed choice of Seraphim than Rafael. Sharp edges, and darkness that mirrors the black viscous oil they’d harvest from the sea; the eldest Reyes was a competitor, a force to be reckoned with, a strength that he’d come to think would be more effective in keeping Kitty safe. “I dunno, let me check,” he chirps and then checks that his head is still attached with hands cupping a sharp jawline and tugging from side to side, “nope, it’s still attached.” 

Saint laughs then, a rare and genuine laughter in the presence of an enemy, with his meticulously crafted facade briefly dropped and a slither of the man who lives his life behind masks showcasing in the form of a wide set grin. A grin that only grows as he watches Kitty, a moment too long caught on the curvature of her waist and the way fabric clings to hips, until eventually, Saint turns away. Naturally, there are things he’d wanted to say to Marcus that would perpetually go unspoken, things he longed to declare to the entirety of her family, things that live forbiddingly in the pit of his stomach. Where words would unravel and digest, along with his mourning, and fears. But Saint loved Kitty more than he’d loved anything in his life, more than the power of War, and more than himself. ‘I can make her happy,’ instead, remains a silent promise to himself. “Yeah, she does,” Saint replies easily, thoughts lingering on his fiancé for a brief moment, before he turns his back and attention latches back onto his drink. “If Fletcher Gray is an improvement, then I must have left quite the fucking impression, huh?” With the bottle of tequila in hand, Saint refills the two shoot glasses, one for himself and the other for his fellow Seraphim.

Annoyed by the waitresses’ timing, he listens to his brother chirp away in polite thanks to the waitress for the wine. Remus himself is quiet as she lingers, mulling over his thoughts and the freshly poured merlot. This is Saint’s first real chance to carve out his a piece of carnal London for himself, a chance to grab hold of something tangible and more steadfast than a simple act of violence — something other than what can be easily shoved away under the guise of ‘horrid gang violence’ in the news. These lofty goals of Saint’s will be accomplished as a pair, no doubt, like they’d agreed; With the two Warden brothers at the helm and all of War at their command, it truly seems anything is possible. Mind moving a hundred miles a minute, he swishes wine in mouth absentmindedly before swallowing, glad that the waitress is finally fucking gone. “No, silly,” Remus says, setting his glass on the table. “That’s Zach. They’d fucking dance for us if only we asked them to.” Sad, but perhaps true, their eager little cousin always looking to impress.

As much as Remus loves to see his brother’s sudden enthusiasm, he can’t help his own nature, launching into logistics and planning even before the first pitch is over. “Yeah, manufacturing is a fucking undertaking, what’s your plan?” Eyebrows furrow together. Remus doesn’t doubt his brother has ideas of his own, but from his own experience navigating their relationship with a manufacturer… “You’ll want to work out your own startup, I assume, so you’ll need plenty of consultants on your side. You’d better start the search for your dream team now, especially if you want to find someone you can actually fucking trust for anything.” Someone they could potentially pull into War, make them an Angel by sudden decree, thus sworn to silence. Sullen French from out little brother’s mouth pulls Remus from his whirlwind of logistics and planning, the reminder of their sister fucking stolen, fucking murdered, paraded around like a fucking trinket to be broken, all caught on tape — he nods in approval of Saint’s point. “I don’t want those rats moving a fucking muscle without us knowing.” He always thought their whole moving headquarters thing was annoying, anyway. But little brother has a point; applications go further than War alone, easily extending the Wardens’ power as far as fucking imaginable. 

“Hire hackers, too, to test your cybersecurity shit. Who better than to tell you it’s un-fucking-hackable than the best hackers themselves?” Remus chimes in over rim of his wine glass. “Someone who can actually give Death a run for their fucking money.” Voice lowers as footsteps approach, brothers interrupted again, though the wafting scent of their food softens Remus’ slowly waning patience. Unfolding his linen napkin from around silverware, he glanced across table to Saint’s soup and bread. “No vegetables?” Guessing what little brother might quip back, Remus adds, “a tomato is a fucking fruit. I don’t see any green on your plate.” Ever the overachiever, an interest in nutrition is just one of the many hobbies the eldest Warden tries on for size, infatuation for the latest thing seeping into every corner of his life. Perhaps Saint gets the worst end of this stick, so often at the receiving end of his brother’s constant stress over vitamins and minerals, perhaps just another projection of his own anxieties onto Saint. It’s their natural state, isn’t it — Remus has always cared for Saint this way, prodding and poking at him, even if it’s with a hand that’s extended in love. Remus pushes a few of his oven roasted brussel sprouts onto a small plate before passing it over to his little brother.

Once tapped into a web of security cameras, able to access a slew of home alarm systems and wonderland of CCTV footage…the world is the Warden brothers’ oyster, a prime time feed into their gang and eventually the Prime Minister himself. With Kai’s familiar handiwork lit up on Saint’s phone screen, Remus scrolls through the blueprints, the typical flawless schematics looking almost scarily ready for production; these plans are proof positive of effort poured in, his brother’s careful planning and great accomplishment not going unnoticed. “Very nice,” he says as he scrolls, high praise from a Warden.  “Cela fonctionnera bien avec mes plans.” That’ll work well with my plans. He hands phone back over, trading it for his wine glass, a slight nodding his approval accompanying quietly spoken French. “Mais la légalisation des armes à feu ne se limite pas à l'appel aux civils. Bien sûr, nous leur mentirons sur le fait de veiller à leur sécurité pour faire passer une loi, augmenter nos profits – mais les armes légales signifient ne plus être accusées de possession d'arme à feu. nous ne sommes plus suspects simplement parce que nous possédons une arme à feu.” But legalizing guns is about more than just the appeal to civilians. Of course, we’ll lie to them about caring for their safety to pass a law, increase our profits – but legal guns means no longer being charged with possession of a firearm. We’ll no longer be suspects simply for having a weapon. It’s an explanation of his own thought process, an act he’ll have to perform a hundred times over as Prime Minister, something Maman has never once been forced into as Horseman; only recently does Remus truly realize how different gang leadership is from potentially running a country. “Eyes in every home, while we blend in that much better amongst London at large.” Taking a play out of Death’s own book, as much as he hates to admit it.

In response to the news on Simon Wright, Remus bursts into laughter, interrupting a bite of slow-roasted spatchcock chicken. “You’re serious!” he says, clearly pleased with his brother’s handiwork. “Okay, you’ve sold me. But you’re right — you need a pitch, you can’t just go and blackmail all the investor’s enemies.” A brief pause as he passes the butter. “I mean, it might work for one or two of them. You’ll need data for the rest. I don’t know how I’ll have the time, but I’ll make the fucking time, you’re my brother,” Remus points at Saint across the table with his fork, making a point with him that he should’ve made more often with Juno. “and I love you, so. You’ve got a deal.”

It’s not often that Saint had considered his future. Not really, when he was the sort to pride himself on his reckless ambition, the idiocy of the acts he performs piling sins so high that he’d surely been doomed from the moment his finger twitched on a trigger and claimed the first of many lives to be taken at the hands of the Warden’s youngest son. Because victory and War must come before everything, and it’s the notion that keeps him breathing, keeps him hungry enough to become a ravenously dangerous man with the will to carry out dreadful deeds in his Maman’s name. And yet it’s not the blood that coats his hands that scared him, its the prospect of loss, of losing, of that dreadful feeling when victory slips through his fingers and he’s left instead to face the daunting void in his chest that becomes more and more hollow over time. As if with each passing year, he carves out a piece of himself to ensure he could survive, so that Gabrielle could look at him and deem him worthy of a crown someday.

But mentality and impulse control are a fragile thing, when only twenty-four hours ago, he’d been holding a loaded gun to his head, and tempting fate to take his life in the name of proving a point. Saint hadn’t been thinking of the future then, either, not enough to regard himself worthy of such a luxury. Old age feeling just as ridiculous of a concept as the Easter Bunny or Father Christmas as he watches those around him die, experiences Juno’s murder on the flicker of an old TV screen, where her only legacy is gasped from tired lungs in the delicate wish that she’d be avenged. So life is a precious thing, evidently, worth more value than the millions his family is worth, or the silver armour they wear, decorated in the blood spill of sparkling faceted rubies. So he'd glanced up at his brother, quietly observant as always, as green eyes focus in on the other's features. Neat facial hair, clear skin, and a healthy spark returned solidly Remus's blue gaze, and he's grateful. Thankful for his older brother, who even in their conflicts, had perpetually, and would undoubtedly always, be his sibling and protector.

"I'll launch the app first. Get enough people downloading that they trust the company and the product. When people like something they'll buy the add-ons, it's human nature. With the app off the ground, I'll have the money to start manufacturing the cameras first," Saint's attention returns to his notebook, flicking to a page filled with the estimation of costs, and materials. "And in terms of trust, it's a fair point. I'm working with Kai, but once we're looking at mass production and building a worthy relationship with a manufacturer, well..." he pauses with a shrug, criminal ways leaking through in all plans and concepts. After all, if you had a weapon, they'd always been taught to use it. "We know the game well. We find the right fuckers, lure them in with a shiny career and a plaque on their fucking door. Then we put a gun in their hands and have them pledge themselves to War in the name of their new lifestyle. Easy," Saint grins, a charismatic air to his tone, as there always had been when the topic turns to the corrupt inner mechanisms of all their business venture's DNA.

In an uncommon display of consideration and respect, rather than roll his eye’s at Remus’s advice, Saint is prompt to note it down. 'HACKERS', a pen scrawls the quotation upon a blank page of his notebook, as his head nods encouragingly in agreement, and a double underline punctuates the importance of the suggestion. "Manufacturers and hack- oh fuck off," the pen returns to the table, as Saint scowls down at his soup and back to his brother. The remark of an unbalanced diet is no new thing to be accused of by Remus, among his lack of a skincare routine, and dangerous driving, of course his sibling finds an opportunity to prod at something when the opportunity arose. "It's tomato soup and bread, there's definitely fucking nutrients in a bloody tomato," thus returns the roll of his eyes, his spoon dunking into red liquid and shoveled into his mouth almost out of spite. Then as a small plate of roasted brussel sprouts is pushed his way, Saint holds back a grimace, and fights the urge to grab one of the small green spheres and launch it at his brother's forehead.

"Je sais. Vous avez juste besoin d'être prudent. Là où les restrictions nous restaient, elles seraient levées pour tous, et c'est une arme qui a tué Juno entre les mains d'un ennemi," I know. You just need to be cautious. Where restrictions lift for us, they would lift for all, and it's a gun that killed Juno in the hands of an enemy. Saint is careful as he speaks, tentative and cautious. As if handling a bomb, his finger laced through the safety pin, in the danger of a topic that had the potential to explode. "Ce que j'essaie de dire, c'est qu'il y a du pour et du contre. Les pros nous profitent énormément. Nous gagnerions une tonne d'argent, notre popularité monterait probablement en flèche et comme vous le dites, nous ne pourrions pas être arrêtés simplement pour la possession d'une arme à feu." What I'm trying to say is there are pros and cons. The pros benefit us tremendously. We'd make a shit tonne of money, our popularity would likely skyrocket and as you say, we couldn't get arrested merely for the possession of a firearm. "Mais il y a des inconvénients, qui doivent être aplanis. Cela pourrait potentiellement avantager les autres gangs... Je veux dire, nous ne voulons pas les armer légalement avec nos propres munitions." But there are cons, that need ironing out. It could potentially put other gangs at an advantage... I mean we don't want to legally arm them with our own ammunition. Saint feels lighter for saying it, in the hope that his concerns should be seen as care and not the petty jab that they might have been months prior. But now he'd only wanted to see Remus succeed, so he hums, taking the butter and spreading it onto torn open bread.

With Remus's laughter, a smile cracks through onto Saint's lips, grinning and exchanging the other's joy with a chuckle of his own. One that is only silenced by a mouthful of bread and a shrug of his shoulders. "The fucker had it coming. He was talking shit and being a hypocrite, he was practically begging for me to go and piss on his parade." With an exhale, his posture straightens, praise earned in the solid agreement that spills from his brother's lips, faith, and enthusiasm for an idea that he'd created himself, becoming more and more real with every person within War he'd approached and been greeted with an open hand. "Thank you, Rem," gratitude shows in the loss of words, the subtle shock that still resounds from the pair working together. And so in a display of his appreciation, Saint grabs his own fork and willingly eats one of the brussel sprouts hurdled his way. Washing big brother's concern away with the willing consumption of something leafy and green. “Yeah, I love you too. Just don't make me sound like a prick in this proposal, ok?” With that, Saint holds his hand out to Remus, signet ring with family crest gleaming in the lowlit bar to be shaken on, “Deal.” 

She feels her breathing slow to match that of Saint’s, his body warm and steady to lean into, twin hearts beating as adrenaline clears from their veins and is replaced with a hushed peace. The space behind her eyes aches from tearshed, soothed by his hand carding through her hair. Kitty nods delicately, his reassurance meaning more than she has the words to say — because for a long while, burning through a break-up that had turned her vicious, her every action against him cruel, it had seemed like the opposite. He didn’t want to be there for her. And perhaps his distance over the past couple of weeks had felt a little too much like that, a dark echo of time spent hating herself whenever she missed him. Leaning back to look at him properly, she catches the hint of a grin that stretches across his lips, welcoming its presence with a delicate caress of his cheek. No more worrying about her. She’d be more careful; would keep Famine and its hunger tucked behind her teeth, wiping the blood of the hunt from her before stepping over the threshold like a housecat that was never meant to taste live prey.

“I know it’s difficult,” she whispers, Saint not alone in his struggle to verbalise feelings. But where his emotions are buried, forced deeper and deeper inside himself in the hope that he can forget about them, Kitty’s own loom too large and too consuming to even begin to properly articulate them. A single fingertip is tapped against the centre of his forehead. It was impossible to figure out what was going on in there sometimes. “Even if it’s just one word to let me know that you’re upset, that will do.” She traces the shape of a loveheart over his skin, its point ending between his eyebrows. Her hand drops away at the amusement that then rises through his voice, however, disagreement prickling at the idea that waving a gun around will always get him the result he desires. “No, there’s a big fucking difference between wanting to listen to someone and having to listen to someone because you’re too fucking scared to do anything else.” Her gaze is fixed on his own, firm and unwavering, refusing to let him fall into his own trap of believing he needs to be armed to achieve anything. “People who listen to you out of love will do more for you than the people who listen out of fear.” She’s learning that much with Wren.

His careful touch to her throat receives a wide-eyed look, gratitude towards his thoughtfulness shown in the tilt of her head, offering space for where his lips soon press. His gentleness is enough to blur her vision once again, a tear escaping over the curve of her cheek. She knows she is safe in his hands, even if he might not be safe in his own. “I love you,” she utters, quiet yet bursting with affection. There’s a soft hitch in her breath as he pulls at the chain around her neck, the serpentine slither of metal links sending a pleasurable shiver down the length of her spine. Kitty watches him studying the ring, a reflection of how she falls asleep alone — having stared at it long enough now to hold a perfect image of it in her head when she closes her eyes. “Well in that case fuck everyone else, I’ll take every last drop of love you have.” She grins greedily, his fingers grazing against her sternum reigniting a hunger for him, left starving by his distance. Fickle attention drifts, distracted by thoughts of his touch elsewhere, momentarily struck by desire but forced back into focus by his admission. “What?” Blinked into existence, surprise sweeps across Kitty’s features. It takes a moment for her to collect her thoughts and not blurt out the wrong thing. “You held a gun to your head just now. I’m not saying that I don’t want to marry you because of it, I just— I need us to be in a place where you don’t feel you have to do that to be heard. And that’s not on you, that’s on me.” Fierce belief is woven into the statement, not wanting Saint to think for even a second that it was him who she doubts. The issue lies with her, she’s certain. “I want to be good for you.”

His open arms are met in an instant, quick to fill the space and enter his embrace. Gone is the cold, aloof distance he’d forced between them in the hope of avoiding his own fear, his heart thawed as she’s permitted back in to warm him and prevent it from freezing over again. Allowed to love Saint on her own terms rather than his. Kitty climbs onto his lap, pressing her face into the curve of his neck. His pulse flutters beneath his skin and she’s grateful for the aliveness of it, a tender kiss planted through t-shirt material in the hollow of his collarbone. “I’ve missed you,” she whispers, soft enough that she hopes he doesn’t find blame in the syllables. Only relief. Lifting her head, dark eyes search the green-flecked depths of his own. His voice rumbles up from his chest as she does, strained and heavy. She presses a palm to the centre of his ribs, wanting to soothe whatever sharp and vicious ache lies underneath. “You don’t have to thank me.” Shame tastes bitter on her tongue. 

“I don’t know why I got so—” Kitty pauses, because she does know why she’d stubbornly defended her desire to take part in a deathmatch. It was a matter of pride. It was a matter of insecurity. She had wanted to prove herself in a way that mattered. Because, sure, she can come up with games — she can take money from victory-hungry gamblers, can turn violence into entertainment — but what use was that when the threat of their world crept closer? War had their guns and ammunition. Pestilence had their narcotics and poisons. Even Death had spyware and explosives. But Famine? Famine only had the hungry. Those with teeth sharpened on bone. But enamel would wear blunt without practice and it was that risk of stasis that scares her. “You have enough going on, enough on your mind. It was fucking stupid of me to add to that. I want to be the opposite, I want to be the person that makes you feel like you don’t have to worry.” She would have to find a different way to remain deadly.

The corners of her mouth twitch ever so briefly upwards in a sympathetic smile, Saint’s gaze cast downwards. Gently, Kitty reaches to trace her knuckles along the strong angle of his jaw, convinced that his penchant for bottling his feelings away out of preservation, to avoid being interpreted in a way that wouldn’t benefit him, might make it easier for him to open up to a stranger than to someone close. “It’s not, uh— it’s not because I don’t like you when you’re sad, though. You know that, right?” She lifts his chin with her hand, demanding the full focus of his attention. “I love you all the fucking time, even when you’re trying to prove a point with a loaded gun. I just really think it’ll help you because I know you’re tired. And I know you feel like you have to deal with it all alone, but you don’t.” 

There is little she can say about Juno. It feels disrespectful to pretend to know that she’d understand what his sister would think, especially when she struggles to guess the inner-machinations of his own mind at times. Instead, the room is quiet in the wake of his confession — the distant sound of early evening traffic drifting in through an open window. Kitty snakes her arms around him, pulling him into a hug, keeping the knowledge that there were sides to his sister that not even Saint knew under her tongue. She would take Rafael’s secret love affair with the Warden heiress to her grave. With a faint furrow of her brow, she considers what she would want — a way to fill in the ghost-shaped hole of guilt in her kin. “Maybe it’s enough to instead love the people she loved? To take what you wish you’d shown her and instead pour it into them.”

She’s back in his arms, the weight of her comforting as Kitty moves into his lap and permits the entirety of herself back to him. And for a moment Saint is reminded of the good that still remains faithfully in his life, the soft and vulnerable moments that are permitted to exist occasionally, and all the more sacred in their scarcity. Their relationship may have been a secret, a silenced confession barely murmured into existence between the bloodshed of War and gluttony of Famine, but it burns in him regardless. With the subtly of an ember that flickers with a spark, flames engulf him in their warm embrace each and every time he opens up a bit more. “I’ll always be here when you want me,” Saint replies softly, his hand stretching to comb through her hair, tenderness paid in wishful currency, that he could unravel the terrible things he does with the purity of his intent. Keeping Kitty safe, no matter the cost, seemingly comes at a higher priority than his own life.

A pause stops her, the sentence hanging unfinished in the gap between them. But he knows why, as Kitty likely understood the reason he’d felt the need to grab for a gun to get her to listen. She devotes herself to her family, to her gang, and in doing so there is worth to prove. Much like the cruel games his own Maman conspires in her children, it would be pitiful to deny such morals didn’t exist within Famine, or Pestilence and even Death. Their world is one that is fuelled by competition, and the praise of a Horseman is a prize like no other. Worth more than their weight in gold. He’d be lying if he didn’t comprehend it, if he hadn’t already devoted the entirety of his existence when she’s not in it to painting himself red to bask in Gabrielle Warden’s gleaming approval. “That sounds nice,” the reply punctuates with a small grin, a genuine one, not forced nor conspired for distraction. “I’d like that, very much.”

Listening and agreeing, Saint gradually moves forward, his forehead resting against hers as his eyes flicker shut and all that is left is the warmth of her embrace and the silk toned sound of her voice. Advice that melts, tentative and considerate, and for once, Saint permits it to sink. Not to the depths, dark and foreboding caverns in which he swiftly disregards in the favour of branding himself indestructible. But instead, it would reside in his chest, carefully folded and tucked away, hidden between his ribs like a love letter that would flutter back to life with the racing beat of his heart. “Yeah, I know. And I know that I’m bad at putting words or even acknowledgement to my feelings, and I’ll try better to communicate them to you,” he pauses then too, teeth biting upon his bottom lip, followed by a low hum, “I seem to only be able to make a point when there’s a gun in my hand. As soon as I have a revolver, people suddenly want to listen.” Saint shrugs, moderately amused, and wondering then if what people feared in him were truly ever himself or if it had simply been the cold metal armoury his family had designed; after all what was a Warden without their weapons? What was a God without their worship?