#25|06|21.

For the majority of the evening, Saint’s gaze is transfixed, razor-sharp focus cutting through the crowds of masked guests and caught onto the Four Horsemen. Uriel, Michaela, Rafael, and Gabrielle, who create an example of truce between their gangs by existing together harmoniously. Gods among men, watching their chess pieces mingle, when in truth they should have been fighting, at each other’s throats and claiming vengeance for the injustice each and every person had claimed upon another. ‘Tenez-vous bien ce soir, Sainty. Je sais que tu es bouleversée, mais c'est plus grand que nos émotions.’ Behave tonight, Sainty. I know that you’re upset, but this is bigger than our emotions. His maman had purred, spoken soft but indefinite. An order given, and expected to be followed by her Seraphim. And as freshly manicured nails reach towards him, grabbing Saint’s chin to angle his gaze forcefully down towards her, Saint had no choice but to agree. He rewards his Horseman with a nod, and his loyalty, undying and forgiving to those that hurt him time and time again, with the will that nothing can truly damage him, not if he brands himself a fortress, as all Warden’s are. 

So he behaves, standing quietly as music plays and guests intertwine in conversation. Behaves, when familiar identities, such as that of Death’s Seraphim, and Gwen, and Sacha, cross his path. Behaves, when all he’d wanted was to seek revenge for Juno by making them all bleed the same way his sister had to. Saint looks down at his champagne glass then, bubbles rising to the top in rapid succession, with a slice of strawberry he’d certainly not asked for floating towards the brim of the glass. With a sigh, he fishes the piece of fruit out with his hand, carelessly discarding the berry to the floor as he tips to contents of the champagne flute into his mouth in one fell swoop. But the buzz of alcohol isn’t enough, it rarely is, as Saint tears through the crowds towards the exit, lusting for fresh air and a moment to himself, before he’s met with the frame of a woman who refuses to move out of his way. “Excuse me,” Saint asks, waiting, and scowling the moment she doesn’t step aside. Reaching for his mask, he pulls his disguise from his face to hang around his neck, before pointing to his features in the hope that his identity would allow them to reconsider without having to use brute force. “Can you please move? I’m trying to leave.”