#kryetar

       »   𝐅𝐎𝐑   I͏D͏I͏O͏T͏J͏ÄV͏E͏L͏   𝐈𝐑𝐀   (  @kryetar​  )  , 

                      𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐔𝐌 ,     and he was spending it completely alone.  which wasn’t as sad as it sounds.   he had nothing but his cabin on st. matthew island  ,  alaska  ——  his home was marooned in the bering sea halfway to siberia and it took twenty four hours by ship to get to the nearest bar.   it’d take over five days to get to a decent bar  ,  and nobody would have the energy to find him.   it was finally the year 2000 and ilias  ,  a man who was once a viking and a pirate  —— was knocking down the last of his bottled beers while cozied up to the fire.  he held a book in one hand and he had his hand around an alaskan malamute named   miska  ,  little bear.  

                      so , needless to say that when he heard a loud knock on his door  ,  ilias was surprised.  miska’s bark echoed against his wooden walls and she quickly moved away from him ,  welcoming the cold to the empty space that she left behind.  

                      ilias passed his shotgun on the way to the front door without bothering to have it handy and peeked out of the window by the front door.    “  hah  ,  look at that.  ”  a familiar face that he would have preferred to never see again  ,  for that face only reminded him of everything he preferred to live immortally without.   a man that represented everlasting willpower and content  ,  ilias couldn’t even pair ira’s name with  ‘ luck ’   or  ‘ good fortune ’.  and yet  ,  he opened the door and let in the whirring winds of an unforgiving alaskan autumn.  without acknowledging the other immortal  ,  ilias shushed miska.    “  sessizlik ,   git ve uyu.  ”

                      he turned his back and kept a finger in between the pages of his book  ,  keeping his spot as he returned to his cozy spot on the floor in front of the fire — his back against a trunk and miska by his side.   “  hot coffee’s on the stove.  ”  ilias spoke as though ira were a regular and not the immortal that he hadn’t seen since exactly 1604.  the man who had once spat his name in vile disgust was this same man who had somehow found ilias and trekked through the harshness of the cold.  ilias resumed to reading and quietly thought to himself. 

ira would know. he has that spark in his eyes, too —— the last gleam of a flame refusing to give out, the canary that won’t stop singing. she looks for him in moments of quiet stillness and tells herself as long as he’s around she can hook her fingers to what good remains in her and tell herself she’s not gone yet. the rest of her is rotting, it falls off of her like chunks of decomposing skin —— there is her spirit, lying next to her sympathy, in a pool of her love. the blood red part of it, at least. the rest is left in her to fester like a wound, the rest has turned to fear, the rest has turned to rage: she clings to ira because she thinks he understands that, too. how a beautiful thing can turn venomous. ripe fruit festering into mold.

“ you got another one of those ? ”, smoking is a good excuse out of the make-believe factory where victor cullen’s leading most of his operations. the air outside doesn’t feel any lighter, and the smell of things rotting persists, but at least she can sit by his side, on the step of a back door, and pretend the rat-infested alley is a shelter of their choosing and not a jail. freddie lets out a sigh —— her voice is coarse, it’s tired of speaking, and existing in general has become a burdensome endeavor. she slouches as she sits, arms crossed over her knees. “ i’ve been trying to quit… ”. yeah, but what’s the point ? it’s just a quicker death at best, and either way, this is already hades.

     "     𝐨𝐡 𝐧𝐨 , 𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 . i just don’t give a shit is the thing .     “ 

@kryetar​ asked: ​ ' i believe they call this interrogating. '

“Do they?” That doesn’t help. He shrugs, as if something like that had never crossed his mind and never would. Nothing to see her, despite his default setting being intimidating. Which he also hasn’t taken any steps to fix. “Ever seen one?” He grins, a little unsettling. That still doesn’t dispell any illusions about the interrogation-ness of this encounter. “Believe me, if this was an interrogation, you’d be uncomfortably aware.” For all that Sebastian doesn’t go around telling his strangers his occupation, it’s moments like these that easily could be mistaken for a confession. That said, Ira’s not really a stranger. He’s Severin’s friend after all. They’ve met before. That’s something. 

so  --  her anger.  she isn’t wearing it well.  she’s self - aware enough to admit it.  it droops hideously at the corners of her mouth,  a contorted sneer sharpened by years of festering venom,   &   it casts a dark storm over her eyes,  precarious   &   unforgiving.   her voice  remains untouched by her hostility,  though frigidity has always provided its own brand of cruelty.        

❝     IN MY LINE OF WORK,   you eventually get used to it.    ❞      she doesn’t look up from her task,   but one would be able to see a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her lips.     even though she usually has people she pays to do this for her,   it’s still a useful skill,   one she hasn’t unlearned even after years.     a toothbrush scrubs over the blood on ira’s jacket,   and it doesn’t take too long until the stains start to fade away.

❝    i used to get into a lot of fights as a teenager.     third time i showed up at home with one of my  good shirts  full of bloodstains,   my mom freaked out.    ❞      perhaps she’s rambling a little,   if only to get ira’s mind off what just happened.     not everyone is as used to these kinds of displays of  violence  as pat is,   but it’s not easy to avoid them with the kind of work they do.      ❝    she was used to the fighting,   but ruining a silk shirt?     that’s where she drew the line.    ❞

her knuckles are bruised and aching,   but it’s an ache she’s used to.     pat finally raises her gaze to meet his,   trying to read his expression.      ❝    are you okay?    ❞

there’s that twitch at the left corner of his lips,   though it doesn’t spread into a grin;     whatever’s brewing there,   is bitter.     he takes a few steps towards his aggressor,   they’re slow but erratic,   his mercurial temper is soothed by newborn interest alone.     James tilts his head like a reptile,   the amusement in dark eyes is an anomaly.     maybe you can reconsider that statement.     a snappy fuck off is on the tip of his tongue,   it takes all the willpower he has not to spit it out,   and it feels wrong. 

patience,   he’s been told,   usually rewards. 

Ira’s taller,   not by much now that he walks an intimate circle,   broad shouldered —— he could guess there’s a good punch beneath the nervous energy,   if he only reached for it.     James’ path ends just past his left shoulder,   fingers behind his back tormenting a fidget-ring so much it’s heating up. 

patience,   he’s been told,   is easier once you push through the first impulse.