#defyfates

The radio gargles to life: vintage notes swirl upon the rasp of old-time melody, warm and distant, familiar yet strange. The drawl of a muted clarinet careens against the wallpaper flowers while silence strums at the curtain fringe. The cushions beneath him feel lavish though uncomfortable, rigid with rampant disuse. He silently wonders what the use is in having a grand ol' couch that is seldom sat in or a tired radio that croons to an audience of none.

He looks ahead; he watches the diamond necklace sparkle atop its linen bust from within its solemn cage of crystal. The lamplight, barely enough to be considered dim, strokes the many facets of its abundant diamond-drippings.

A siren wails somewhere distant. The woeful saxophone whines. He resists the urge to put a bullet through the crackling Victrola when the curtains flutter as if to breathe.

PURPOSE GUIDES EACH STEP, : FATE EVER AT HER NEVER - ENDING TRAIL! &. now, it has guided the warrior of light here ; even the darkest of depths fail to keep her at bay. ... she does not embrace the shadows, does not hide behind any disguise. she appears as she is, ready to face the feat ahead. ( foolish, but something done with dignity of an ethereal champion. ) ... did he know of her coming? THE GOD OF THE SEA, seemingly serene, care - free ; whilst lethally focused. what a familiar expression, is it not, hero? it appeared obvious that he had given a chance, if not awaited for arrival of a challenger, yet seemed to have done little next to no preparations. but did gods ever need to? the strength within encroaching the realm of the gods, but never, was she foolish enough to underestimate foes as such. an aura radiated from him, flames scorching blue &. purple with their intense heat. ... golden lance already summoned upon her grip, this weapon chosen this time instead of radiant sword &. shield. ❝ god of the sea, ❞ her voice demands focus, whilst it carries respect. GOLDEN HEART STILL BEATS WITHIN, there is always a desire to leave fighting as a last result. but the rumors of this god tempering those who hear his song could not be ignored. there was no mistaken of what might unravel, &. perhaps it is why the statement comes spoken so easily by him.

@defyfates + rafayel : " you know you can't actually stop me, right? "

it had taken days, or perhaps it had been months, or years now, to let go of his sister's funeral. a funeral that was a paracosm, and by the time he had pried his own hands off of her, they had come away bloody not from her farewell, but the dawn. who said acceptance and closure were ever pretty, blood-less, or even desired? it happens to him like the inside of the cheek caught against teeth in accident. it comes with a pulse settling like dust, if relief could be distasteful, and the quiet after that a pyrrhic victory.

so he climbs a way out of there, backtracking through the stomach of a warmth hearth where he had cared for her her, and the heart of hatred, down the throat of frozen corpses that had snatched at him once in a dream forest, and out through the mouth, which had become, and was always, eimile's bedroom door.

in the time that had followed, there was endless dust and silence. the blood drying at his temple from his murder of the serpent-faced liar had gone dull orange. his own face was a faltering lie: the black hair had partly seeped away, and his eyes had come back to them-selves in the right colour. half asleep on the floor with his back to a capsized bookshelf, he recognises the grave he's created with his own hands : this deathless cave. she had warned him to control them, but he had learned it almost too late. the broken noose was proof of that, at least. when a noise disrupts this eternal, undying eden that god had discarded, his hand wakes before his head does, wrapping around the handle of a pistol.

up on his feet in a flash, he raises the gun as the broken door of the cavern's shed swings open with a broken hinge. reality cracked and there stood ronan, raven on his shoulder. unlike himself and yet as he remembered him. another hallucination, or did he have to admit his own broken heartedness now? had he strength, he might have been annoyed, but instead, his gun slowly lowered, and he thought of the only other time ronan had crossed paths with this rat-catcher, unknowing, down the hotel lobby of a crossfire. they looked like strangers to one another then, and now, bruised and rotten.

she was saying his name like she was savouring it, a delectable sweet on her tongue. but he recognised the tone for something else too, something more playful and teasing and challenging. it was the way one would say, you're being silly. but was he? he blinked innocuously just to humour her, let her hand press against his scarred heart above his shirt. when he said her name back, he said it with an exhale, as if he was welcoming it back into his mouth.

❛❛ kaede. ❜❜  behind her back, he knew her hands were locked together, holding a unique sword. this would be cortana, his first weapon and the carstairs heirloom. though he bore it no longer, it was an intrinsic part of him, the blade that had pierced yanluo's throat. it was the beating heart of what remained of jem's soul, his dignity, his honour— most of all, it was the golden sword that had returned to him a reminder of a value he could hold. but more importantly, it was, he hoped, an engagement gift she could accept.

IT WOULD TASTE A LIE TO SAY TRISTAN HADN'T SUSPECTED IT WAS COMING EVENTUALLY. there's too much an energy between them, charged and hanging by a mere thread which they somehow both ignore and entirely acknowledge, in their own way. neither of them are strangers to the perils of desire, nor its delights. although he has always suspect that she is far more genuine in her heart than he, tristan knows perfectly well how she can wield her charm and appeal to suit her ends, when she so wishes. lucy gray is certainly not all as sweet innocence as she appears to be – a fact which drew him to her in the first place. there's an understanding only survivors share, those who are somehow raised wild and caged all at once. they are in many ways the same, but for her kindness.

it's that sameness between them which gives him pause. his hand hesitates with a glass of whiskey halfway to his lips, which he manages to sip after a moment as if nothing had happened. almost immediately, his fingers itch for a cigarette. she's a little too close and he feels her fingers ghost along his collar. in equal measure, he wants to shrug her away and pull her in to devour her, and somehow, the war inside him keeps him still. liquor could have emboldened her to break their little dance, to lean against that boundary entirely rather than simply prodding at it.

he drains his glass and sets it aside before turning in his seat to look at her more fully, all long skirts and dark hair and sultry eyes and full mouth. not one man walks through that door, he knows, that she doesn't have wrapped around her little finger by the night's conclusion. even simply watching her perform without a single personal acknowledgement leaves so many of them spinning. not patel. rather, he'd seen into the depths of her, not fooled for a moment by that veneer of charm and sweetness, but rather sharp enough to see the mirror of himself in her eyes – more forgiving, certainly, but a mirror all the same. if he's as swept away by her as any other patron of this filthy place, then at least it isn't for the same reasons. they picture her innocent, corruptible ; he yearns to feast on the most wicked, deceptive parts of her that he knows already exist within the layers of a complexly fascinating woman.

one hand finds her waist while the other lifts to slowly turn a lock of soft hair around one finger, his eyes following it a few agonizing moments before flickering to her face, knowing most others in his position would not hesitate. the instinctive part of him doesn't want to, wants to seize the opportunity as he does everything else – but he quiets that beast swiftly. is she testing him? is she lonely? does she want him? is it all of those things? does it matter? his knuckle grazes her cheekbone as he releases that lock of hair, then settles on the side of her neck as he draws her in until they breathe the same air. there, he lingers, his nose brushing her cheek, the heat of her breath ghosting against the corner of his mouth.

subtlety was working out better than he had anticipated. he supposed news of his tryst with heavenly fire was slow going, and many would outright reject the notion that it was even possible, whether by fear of hope or by fear of sacrilege. it had come handy at times like this, when his world narrowed to the shape of a goal, a sense of purpose that came with his penchant for entanglement with the down-world. not only that, but recently, those horizons have broadened with more than just one's usual cup of tea of magic and supernatural. without his parchment grey hood, and the ear-muffling effect of his presence hovering into the room, jem carstairs does not know draw attention by the wayside of a quiet bar. the fae is a younger face, and doesn't recognise him; but somebody else in this bar did.

he idles by a glass of whiskey, though in fairness it's not quite to his taste. there's better things to drink, like the sharpness of a thrill; and her eyes where they have been caressing the side of his face.

THE SMELL OF SMOKE FROM HIS CIGARETTE DROWNS THE METALLIC TANG OF BLOOD STILL CLINGING TO THE INSIDE OF TRISTAN'S NOSTRILS. not that the scent's particularly bothered him since he was little more than a small child, since he became as accustomed to it as that of earth or grass or his own sheets. still, at times, it becomes overwhelming, and he feels the need, in some strange way, to air out the inside of his own mind. he has occasionally wondered if he's alone in that need, if the minds of others often seek to suffocate them the way his does, during moments when he feels the world a sea in which he nearly drowns. at times, he invites the sensation himself. after all, he's never pretended to value self-preservation outside the feral instinct to simply remain alive. beyond that, he cuts into himself half regularly, as if to make sure he still bleeds.

and of course he does. he will always bleed, and he will always bleed for others, no matter what he tells himself.

everything about her is recognizable by now, such that he sensed her even with his eyes closed lingering in the doorway for a moment before joining him where he sits on the roof. at least his hands have stopped trembling, he thinks absently as he chews on the end of his smoke, eyes slitting open to look over the quiet street as the first glow of dawn peeks over the horizon beyond. he hears her – couldn't miss her if he tried – but he doesn't look. he can't look, and he hasn't the first idea why. the fact rubs against his consciousness rough as sandpaper, almost as though it's mocking him. when's the last time your hands shook when you killed, rattlesnake? when you were fifteen? and why? because of what some girl might think? but despite the taunting of the wicked voice within, he remains outwardly stoic, calm, gaze fixed beyond as though in a trance, the smoldering cigarette hanging from his lip in desperate need of ashing.

no, he decides, it's not what she thinks that bothers him. it's what he is.

" I didn't, " he answers flatly as he finally removes the cigarette, tapping it between his fingers over the roof's edge. " and ain't that the fuckin' problem. " even now, a flare of frustration burns hot in his chest, if even for just a moment, at the way that accent he's concealed so long can't help but slip out around her. as if he could ever be that tennessee boy with bloodless hands again. as if he even wants to. he didn't. he doesn't. at least, not usually.

why, he wonders, should he feel shame for what he is with her eyes upon him in his rawest form? why should he concern himself with what she thinks, to witness him covered in the blood of a man who never stood a chance against him, a man who posed no real threat – except that tristan had been hired to dispatch him. he knows she isn't afraid. he knows she's forged of a rare kind of iron. and so, why? why should his mind choose to revert to a person he never was? and why should he feel choked by the thought that he is too soiled to be near whatever it is for which she makes him wistful?

@defyfates + yūko : " it's your life. you're entitled to make your own mistakes. "

A WARNING COMES, : MADE IN A CASUAL, SMOOTH TUNE, nonchalance mixing with something that lingers near severe. it means she is being genuine with the words offered. ... but when have such warnings ever had an effect upon the champion? or rather, they can't have. she does not ignore them because she is ignorant, but because often, facing the impossible is the very last result. ... eyes narrow ever so slightly when brows furrow, but it is not an expression made out of anger ; it is that stubborn radiance of her soul, determined to forge ahead. ❝ you may believe it is a mistake, ❞ she begins, stance unwavering, RESOLVE EMANATES FROM HER VERY BEING. perhaps an act of boldness, to act so in a territory not her own, but let it be further proof of the steadfastness of the warrior of light. ❝ ... and perhaps it is. but the cost of this mistake, i am willing to pay, if it guarantees the safety of this world. ❞ &. those within it. ( she hopes she can reach somewhere within her, hope that she can understand where she comes from. ) ever the hero, truly ; so ready to lay down her life for the sake of all. or perhaps, she does not want to chance to survive alone.