#kashvis

there are certain social norms when it comes to celebrations. days marked out on the calendar like tokens.  the next gift to purchase.  the next cheery mass produced greetings card to send.  solomon is rarely social, and not exactly what would be considered ‘normal’ - at least in societal terms.  which is probably why, when pink love hearts start to grace shop windows, bulbs in trendy eateries switch out to those with a crimson hue and the music which seeps out of the doors of every other venue is a sappy ballad, solomon definitely does - not - swoop by the nearest florist for a bouquet of overpriced blooms.

he’s seen what they do to the roses anyway. de-thorning something exquisite to make it less dangerous... ...it’s an insult to the rose.  danger is something that simply adds to desirability.  a brutal, beautiful truth.

he is also, however, not so devolved from society that he fails to understand that a - gesture - is expected.  especially from those who share certain intimacies.  

we should, at this point remember that the truce is well and truly broken.  that mere days ago there was a - failed - attempt to steal wars property.  that there were still targets painted on each on every one of their backs for vengeance or revenge, and the opportunity to reduce the opposing ranks by a virtue or dominion would certainly be a prize for any eager power in the making.  which is why, there is no indulgent meal for two at the forth.  there is no decadent stay within the luxurious confines of the ritz.  there is...

..a rooftop. an arrangement with building security and a small envelope of cash secures the use of a service elevator.  the rooftop itself elevated above most surrounding structures.  a clear view of a large chunk of london, lit up with bustling streets and the long distant sounds of celebration.  also - within range of a scope for observations ( the plan for erebus stated and set in stone - and... however many misgivings solomon has about the nature of it, he’ll follow those orders in so far as he is able ).  so this is simply another facet of that.  an opportunity to map a route through city streets to their target destination.  and he presents that opportunity to kashvi, wondering if she’s disappointed with the seemingly banal turn of the evening.  though it’s unlikely she’d have been surprised... romanticism, after all, wasn’t something solomon was well known for.  at least overt expressions of it.

which is why, when the elevator opens and they emerge, he simply gestures off to one side, behind a built up section containing vents and machinery.

“why don’t you set up on the east side... i’ll start over here.”

matter of fact.  straight to the point. they had a job to do, after all.

five seconds.  maybe seven... until the glow would be visible to her.   a string of lights.  a small table with glasses and plates and silverware. a wicker hamper, laden with delicacies...  simple favourites.

he watches.  waits. only briefly breaking the stern facade of his lie.

they scatter. bodies running every which way.  trails of blood in drops or rivers - most clutching some fresh wound.  some who would be - lucky - to see a new scar, if their bodies managed to persevere.  

solomon, for his part, takes leave of the fight with leon - personal dignity in tact ( even if he’d taken more of a beating for it... ) after all, the ambition when he’d come face to face with bella, and then her seemingly avenging angel - hadn’t been to destroy ( a battle more with himself than his opponent, repressing those instincts )... it had been a lesson... for her.

he wouldn’t have attacked her ( because - bella ) but he had wanted her to let loose those chains... to come at him claw and fang, blooded bullets and all.                ( remember... solomon doesn’t hesitate. ) in that moment, he was simply presenting her with the -- opportunity -- to do her worst.  to take her revenge for all of those ‘slights’, to rid herself of the object at who’s feet blame for every mis move was very eagerly placed.

she hadn’t taken it. that was telling enough.

and then leon... ...leon... had simply played into the story.  raging with fists and blows.   so solomon took a fair beating ( not one he isn't used to ) all the while glancing at her.  he fights -- just enough -- to reward leon with a few trophies of his own ( and the skill of the other is undeniable - brawler v’s brawler... it’s not easy to gain solomon’s admiration, nor respect, but in that moment, leon comes -- close enough... ) it’s a conversation in blooded lips, bruised flesh, battered ribs.  a conversation not with leon ( who entered the fray with perfect timing, who took that lesson to a level solomon couldn’t have anticipated, an unexpected boon...  ), but with the watchful eye of his sister.                  you abhor the violence in me but celebrate it in others.                  your knight saviour is no different.                  violence is something you’re drawn to - look at us... your terrible protectors.                  how free are you....?  really?

and now - he’s here.  in the darkness of the gym, solitude merely a sticking plaster over a gaping wound. names and faces flood his mind.  those of his brothers and sisters, his family - of WAR                ( his fist slams into the punching bag, raising dust,                a sickening sound of flesh against leather ) waits, waits - and there’s one that comes to the surface again and again.  not bella.  that story had reached the end of the chapter.  waiting for the eager quill of the author to begin anew - more vitriol and viciousness, surely to come.                 ( another hit, the skin of his knuckes grazed and red but not blooded,                  they’re too hardened now for the skin to split ) those images in is minds eye skim and flick like a magician with a pack of cards... but always settle on the one they want you to choose ( the queen of hearts... is that such a cliche comparison? ).  kashvi... and while he -- trusts her -- to take care of herself ( always capable ) there’s still a knot, deeper than the blossoming bruises on his ribs, settled in the pit of his gut.  a sensation of having his insides wrapped in barbed wire... slowly tightening.  he can’t put a name to it ( or won’t.  worry, concern, apprehension, unease... any would have been suitable ).                 ( a blow that shakes the chains on their moorings this time ) throat thick as he swallows - collar loosened, still in white shirt, having shed his jacket, but having made no further attempt to remove the evidence of the aftermath.  he could leave.  could seek out the others ( her ).  but this - this is a haven for rage.  and better he take the time to expunge whatever violence had been restrained here and now than carry it forward with him.  

               orders or not, if news of the worst kind should reach his ears,                no force on gods green fucking earth would be able to stay his hand.... 

it’s only when there’s a soft scuff on the boards behind him that his attention snaps from the target of his wrath.  he didn’t think that there would be another confrontation so soon, but wouldn’t put it past the capacity for treachery of some.  it’s only then he sees a silhouette in the gloom.  one that he is... intimately - familiar with.  the wire in his gut loosens, only fractionally... until he sees those dark stains upon her skin - distorting features, blossoming bloody, swollen and raw.

he could.   should...  say something. should run to her, wipe away the blood.  make sure there was mo more hurt or harm.  but to solomon, it’d feel ingenuine... ( that was what people did in movies... what they did for show, performative pity... and he would never - pity her ) that was her fight.   she fought.  she stood.   here in the hush, the creak of the bag swinging slowly before him, he can’t think of a moment when she’d ever looked more like the warrior he knew her to be.

for solomon to say nothing and simply - respect - that... said more than any failing words or impotent gestures ever would.

and while he knows he has no right to be angry on her behalf... he is.   he has no authority to seek retribution for her personal harm... but he will. is wholly unjustified in the fresh wave of savagery which floods to his fists..