#* writing.

in  no  time,  eliza  finds  herself  ushered  into  the  lineup  of  universal  records’  finest  stars  -  to  the  chagrin  of  veteran  crafters  that  she  is  escorted  beyond,  eliza  is  pushed  damn  near  the  very  helm,  smiling  as  courteously  as  possible  to  those  who  would  happily  witness  her  downfall.

there’s  a  monotonous,  overwhelming  buzz  of  fans  and  paparazzi  past  the  barriers  of  security  along  the  carpet.  eliza  is  quickly  poised  by  a  handler  beside  the  beloved  johnny  silverhand  -  in  passing,  this  isn’t  their  first  shared  occasion.  lights  flash  as  she  dips  in  beside  him,  hands  folded  in  front  of  her  abdomen.  though,  given  the  close  proximity,  she  takes  the  opportunity  to  lean  into  his  ear  and  say,    “y’know,  i’ve  damn  near  wore  out  your  underground  vinyls.”    an  honest  smile  finds  her  lips  as  she  meets  his  eyes,  speaking  loudly  enough  for  him  to  hear  above  all  the  noise,    “red  dirt,  rainbow  credenza  …  ‘s  good  shit.”

She does not recognize the woman, per se, but her attire is familiar, a style that she has seen before in the noble court of Rigel. Celica takes a moment to study her face.

"Pardon, where are my manners. My name is Celica, of Zofia. I don't believe we've met. Are you from Valentia as well?"

Even if Celica wouldn’t have any reason to be able to identify her, recognition flashes across Rinea’s expression like a harsh streak of light. Of course she knows the Queen of Valentina’s face—it would be impossible not to, even with the brief amount of time she was allowed to remain in the newly-formed nation before she was whisked away to Fódlan. She had heard whispers as she quietly pushed her way through the busied streets in the port town, excited murmurs of the new queen, once a lost princess of Zofia. She’s beautiful and kind, she and King Alm will be our saviors from the chaos Emperor Rudolf left behind in his death. And before she had departed, she had bore witness to the beginnings of a mural painted in the newly-anointed Saint King and Saint Queen’s honor—and Rinea couldn’t help but think to herself that the vermilion-haired woman was indeed lovely. It was only a painting, but it evoked the same feeling that Rinea always had when she looked at portraits or statues of Mother Mila—like she was bathed in the warm glow of her benevolence just by looking at her.

Absently, as she turned away and was pushed aboard the ship setting sail to Fódlan, Rinea felt a silly thought creep up on her. If she had become empress as Berkut had once intended, would just the sight of her image give people the same feeling of comfort and safety? 

( ...Of course not. What a ridiculous idea to even entertain. )

Now, gazing at the woman before her, Rinea sees that the painting still did her justice in her radiance. How could she ever hope to compare?

Curtsying, Rinea starts with, “Yes—” but her throat suddenly feels dry, and the words catch on the tip of her tongue. She clears her throat and tries again, eyes lowered to her shoes. “Yes, my lady. It was my mother’s... I was allowed to bring a few things from home, so—” Again, she coughs into the bank of her hand, suddenly feeling very small and very unsightly. Argh, why did she have to notice her?! The mention of her mother only reminds her that her parents would be appalled by how disastrously she’s handling this.

he's  a  charmer,  alright.  there's  something  almost  blinding  about  the  light  color  of  his  hair,  of  the  shiny  overcoat  he  damn  near  dirties  on  the  bar  table  he's  leant  up  against  -  eliza  blinks  once,  taking  in  the  sight  for  all  that  it  is.  vaguely,  she  recalls  reading  something  about  a  grandiose  outlaw  gracing  the  area  -  a  dying  breed.  (eliza  neglects  the  thought  for  the  time  being.)  she  wonders  if  he  ever  manages  to  get  his  hands  dirty  in  such  a  getup.

"hiya,"    she  replies,  a  friendly  smile  and  nod  shared  his  way  as  she  keeps  her  posture  turned  straight  ahead;  regardless  and  if  need  be,  he'll  make  a  fine  target  for  her  sticky  fingers.    "can  i  help  you?"

they’re  tangled  into  one  another  beneath  a  ratty  old  blanket.  the  air  is  quiet  -  even  eliza’s  breathing  slows  before  she  speaks.

“...  what  do  you  believe?”  she  asks  the  question  as  calmly  as  any  other  -  like  the  amount  of  ammunition  behind  it  isn’t  tenfold  what  they’ve  got  hidden  in  droves.  eliza’s  eyes  are  tired,  limbs  weary  -  silently  pleading  for  some  resignation  to  what  she’s  fighting  for.  (him,  she’s  fighting  for  jacob.  does  he  realize  that?)  “tell  me  …  tell  me  what  you  believe.”  prove  to  her  that  she  hasn’t  lost  herself  for  an  unworthy  cause.

in  this  shared  space  -  within  these  four  walls,  held  against  his  bare  skin  only  does  eliza’s  mind  slip.  she  allows  herself  a  breath  of  reprieve;  if  there  is  a  god,  jacob  will  witness  her  devotion.  she  willingly  gives  him  her  bloody  &  marred,  beating  &  bleeding  heart  -  places  it  in  his  hands  and  asks  him  to  offer  an  inkling  of  his  in  return  for  her  undying  loyalty.  her  fingers  brush  over  his  sternum  as  she  swallows  unspoken  doubt,  lifting  to  feel  for  his  heartbeat  and  remaining  there.  “...  -  please.”

There's no memory of a first time to compare it to. There's no telling if remembering the first time would make this any less frightening.

The warlord's fingers dance on his skin, and Elya (Elya!) has lost track whether the claws trace true arcane patterns or simply entertain themselves as they draw figures coming in and out of the blood on his skin. The world has slowed down to a crawl, every beat of his heart thunder in his ears, jolting him awake to remind him that he still lives even as every closing of his eyelids to blink feels as if it could be his last.

It has been an hour. It has been forty seconds. It has been neither, but the kind of sense that is required to know that has been drowned out by the way arcana that always was so exhilarating now settles into his veins like the cold of a grave.

But he could swear there are lives starting and ending in the time it takes for one heartbeat to finish and the next begin.

Lord von Zarovich's words sound impossible.

"Mortal weakness," a lighthearted response, gift of telepathy delivering the words when his hands stay paralysed. "I was not awake the last time. This is..." The words 'frightening' and 'exciting' fill the gap at once. (A hundred times more fear than excitement, but his soon to be patron need not know that.)

In two separate movements, one of the eyes and the other of the head, he lifts his gaze to the vampire to catch his eyes when they're not looking at him—instead, he finds crimson eyes staring back at him, locking on to his gaze the second their eyes meet, and there's no telling where on the spectrum of curious amusement and mockery the expression falls.

The same blood covers both of their fangs. Liquid life to seal the pact of undying.

There's a clawed thumb on the open wound on his neck, and he submits to the touch like a deer knowing he's trapped. The gentleness of the movement startles him more than violence would, and he shivers—from bloodloss, from fright, from a memory of pleasure all at once. His response is a hand raised to Strahd's cheekbone—a hand too cold to discern the touch of grave on the vampire's skin. Strahd's hand pushes him down fully, as secrets of immortality tie him in the Weave.

He knows the ritual is over and his tether changed hands before Strahd needs to tell him so.

Nothing's changed, and everything has.

Van Richten is safe. Ready to run the second he hears of this, no doubt, but safe.

As life begins returning to his limbs and new magic makes itself home in him, five words emerge through the haze:

You better be worth this.

there’s  a  sardonic,  bitter  laugh  that  escapes  her,  then  -  so  unlike  her  true  self.  eliza  is  hardened  to  the  bone,  worn  thin  with  grief,  loss  &  drive  -  people  are  dying.  hosea,  lenny  -  the  list  goes  on  &  on  and  no  one  seems  to  care.  if  money  is  what  they  need  to  get  far  away  from  a  society  that  doesn’t  want  them  any  more,  she’ll  do  whatever  she  can  to  get  it  -  including  appeasing  the  marbled  man  before  her.