#iryn

transcript:

“And you believe them?” Iryn retorts. “You’ve known me for years and you’ve known the directors for—”

“For five times as long.” His face is stony, hiding everything he doesn’t want Iryn to see.

Iryn takes a deep breath. “Fair enough. If you want to think,” he trails off, gesturing vaguely in the air, unsure of what to even say.

“I’m saying,” Elias punctuates, “that I don’t know what to think.”

Their heart drops. As much as they wish they wouldn’t, they falter. “You—you don’t know what to think about me? Your partner?” His eyes search for some signal that the old Elias, the playful Elias, the trusting Elias, is still inside there somewhere.

No such signal comes.

“Okay.” Iryn knows better than to plead. He almost laughs at the thought of a centuries-old immortal pleading for someone to stay; they always leave, and he should have known better. So, why does his soul yearn for confirmation? Why would he willingly plead for Elias’s love? “What’s going to happen then?”

/end transcript

general taglist: @opes-magnas

transcript:

The names on the poster are all unfamiliar. Of course they are. Iryn hasn’t been here in almost a century. Still, he looks up at the images of the performers. They’re all dressed in sleek black, smiling with their instruments. One holds his oboe across his chest, and another cradles her violin in her arms.

“Are you lost? The door is that way.”

They turn around. “Right, my apologies.” Flustered, they start to back away but stop, comparing the man in front of him to the oboist on the wall. They nod. “Wonderful performance tonight.”

Iryn leaves, wishing only that they could linger a moment more. For him. It’s a foolish desire, he knows; he’s immortal, and he would outlive any lover.

As soon as he steps outside, the crisp night air whips through his hair, and he crosses his arms over his coat, thinking, always thinking. If he ever stopped, he might as well be dead.

/end transcript

se taglist: @writeblrfantasy @ashen-crest @a-completely-normal-writer @wannabeauthorzofija @writing-is-a-martial-art @sleepy-night-child @opes-magnas

transcript:

Iryn sets his ingredients down and makes a show of muttering to himself and taking a deep breath—as if he forgot something. Hoping that Araetos buys it, he walks back into the antechamber, grimacing every time his footsteps make the wooden floor creak.

He reaches the door to Araetos’s office; it’s the only place he hasn’t been in this whole building. He’s careful to not to make any sudden movements but flinches at the sound of the turning doorknob.

When he gets inside, his time is limited. Where would they put the recipe? It’s in their personal quarters, so it probably isn’t somewhere too hidden, but they would have to at least conceal it enough if he were to ask someone to step into his office.

As Iryn shuffles through the papers on their desk, he vows to himself that he won’t keep it—it’s too risky. Frustration builds as he realizes that it might not even be on this desk. He looks up out of the door, afraid that he’ll see Araetos standing at the doorway, heart thumping and breaths shallow.

Then, a familiar corner of the recipe reveals itself, and Iryn pulls it out, amazed.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to take it with him to inspect for anything Araetos may be hiding. He spots the difference between this copy and his immediately as a result of pouring all his spare time into reading and rereading it.

At the top of the recipe, next to the words “Immortality Elixir” is a hurried note in their slanted scrawl: “May fail upon admission of immortality. Consequences?”

He has to read it several times before the meaning sinks in, not just the words themselves. He’s immortal, but he can’t tell anyone. Or else… who knows what would happen?

/end transcript

general taglist: @writing-is-a-martial-art @opes-magnas