#koschyei

*⁑. 𝒯𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒯𝒂𝒍𝒌. 🪞｡˚ * 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ➷ ❪  @koschyei ❫

all men hate the wretched,   but one must hate himself to seek pity from a fool   —   yet,   steadfast servant that he is,   this fool moves through the motions of grief with determined might.   his performance begins with three simple words:   ❛❛   oh,   poor soul   —   ❜❜    from there it transforms to sniffles and sighs and shoulder - shaking anguish. he fawns,   tugging a line of bright, unbroken cloth from one well concealed pocket and making a show of dabbing at bone - dry eyes ... and all the while, the words flow from him, whispers and woes that rise on the wings of a breath, an ever - growing fervor: ❛❛   what a world! what a life! what a life without life! do not grieve the war torn, the maimed, the widows and orphans ... grieve only this bringer of war, by his own admission wretched!   ❜❜

throat parched and head too numb to make use of magic, solya finds himself in a dire predicament.  a disastrous venture into the woods has left him bereft of men (a torn-limbed, half munched over mess) and, worst of all, stranded past rosyan territory. the foul stretch of forest laying on one side, enemy borders endangering his path back home on the other.

if he were at full strength, he could march up to a border post and dare anyone to stop him.  either the sight of the white blaze of his whip, or the threat of retaliation from polnya would have them think twice. the falcon is, after all, rather infamous around these parts;  how many rosyan soldier has he killed on the battlefield? he ought to have lost count.

it's just his rotten luck that he is found before his energy has replenished more than a useless sliver.  his white hair and peculiar attire must give him away at first sight to the soldiers patrolling this side of the river. solya refrains from fighting, or trying to loose them in less than familiar terrain, only sighs dramatically as his arms are pushed behind his back for good measure.

'' ah, it's you then, ''   he addresses rosya's first wizard — the red sorcerer, as they call him — with the usual sharp smile, severely lacking warmth.   '' i must say your hospitality leaves much to be desired. what a shame. ''

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑱𝑨𝑾 𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑫 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀 the slightest discomfort, yet the presence of a crack in her armored composure at all spoke volumes. Instincts demanded she smile, simpering and seductive, but her new-found dignity refused to give in. A part of her gnashed and howls at the bars of her perfectly stoic cage, having found herself entering into the service of yet another beautiful man with gold in his pockets and more power than she could imagine. But what other choice did she have? To die in the woods alone, and hope the wolves took her before hunger. That, or face the noose that waited for her in Orlais.

A single damnable note of desperation crept into her words. "I can offer anything within my power to give, Majesty." Was it the correct title? She couldn't say. "Secrets, names, the wars brewing silently, threatening to boil over." Useless, all of it. Ruby knew it the second the words left her lips. What use did the tsar of Buyan have for politicking, when the world shied away from his land?

Alas, the burn of conjured fire had rendered him wolf.

He glares. Gone is the wool, one'd think now. Gone are those eyes like lemon jam and the bleating of boyhood. At twenty-three, Henry's both hardened and angry, the smell of smithies in his hair from the heave of great bellows. He had buried his parents and would go wandering so often to the ashes of home, and still, the grasses underfoot would shy from breaking surface. Too wrought. Too charred by magic and its devilish fire.

He rocks on his knees. Past the linden tree where his folks rest, he catches the crunch of footfall.

"Who goes there?" His eyes light up. There lies a forge in them. He is yet unquenched steel, fragile, roaring with heat and ready for a hammering, a steadying, a hiding like it'd render him man, and still, he burns. He grabs the sword by his hip, and turning, sees a shadow as mighty as a mountain.

Strange. How? How had he not heard their coming till now? Down his back, Henry's skin shivers and jumps. "Come out, demon. Or does it comfort you to stay in the dark, gutless like a coward?" Oooh, wolfling!

he had dozed off without meaning to, but cheating sleep only worked so long. he had deprived the smaller things of life around him of sunlight to fuel his own wakeful-ness and avoid slumber, which meant he could carry on for the past three nights to tear through one tome after the next. in the dimness of the room he had not minded the quiet and the absence of one's particular intrusion as morning-tide went on and on endlessly. when at last he does pay the cost of this, it is when buyan's keeper finally makes himself known once more after their last confrontation. when he is woken from sleep, his reflex works before he even leaves his dream : a hand, sparking with light, violently shoots out to attack seconds before his eyes wake.

card of dust.     koschei finds him asleep over a book and wakes him.

the tsar of life electing him had implied additional time. his hijacking had signified more time for eddie in the physical world, more time in the realm that he's infallibly served, more time with his son, and buck, and every mortal untouched by the breaches of the liminal state. they still possess the privilege to live, and suffer, and slip into an eventual afterlife of serenity and eternal rest devoid of infinite torment. he is branded, soul tainted and claimed by the smiting hand of his maker in rebirth, branding like a burning hand on his soul — searing and blistering with every rescue and act of compassion to those at the clutches of danger or imminent death. eddie has dealt with his fair share of catholic guilt, in fact, who knew that being greeted by death and reawakened as a soldier for an army he'd never choose to fight in, would excavate a reservoir of this guilt. so he prays the rosary for penance, perhaps it'll keep him from burning up with good deeds. perhaps it'll keep him with his son. he can only hope.

A breeze passes, more a whisper. The candles shudder like a thousand wet eyes. 

This is not the Spirit. Nicholas rises up from his prie-dieu. He feels it against the back of his neck, the oppressive white noise that comes with being watched. It hasps the well between his shoulders. It yokes its limbs around him, this feeling like a face in the window, a ghost at the end of the hall, the bed dipping beside him, silent and mouth-to-neck. He lives alone.

He knows it’s not the Spirit because he can feel this.

“‘We’?”

Nicholas turns. This man cuts through the negative space. He’s tall, soap-water eyes, cumin hair. He may be capable of murder. 

“I would say none, only that would be one already.” Nicholas’ voice crawls through the chancel, almost sardonic. The floors glisten like a wet tongue. “But what better place to be purified, I wonder, if not here.”