#moldcursed.

@moldcursed: [ sender spits out a mouthful of blood on reciever ]

ethan's got shitty aim, but lucas is crouched low to check his vitals, low enough that some of the blood manages to make it onto his sneakers and the hem of his jeans. he laughs, shrill and manic. can't help it.

"shee-yit, ethan, ain't they got manners where you come from?" and where does this one come from? he's got this air about him, like a well-bred poodle to contrast with mia's sad little shelter dog. looks like he only eats soft food, while mia isn't afraid to bite. (lucas has the marks to prove it). east coast man, probably. or maybe west -- east coast wouldn't've made it this far, lucas supposes; dumb hippies wouldn't know a gun if you shoved one up their ass and pulled the trigger.

hands trembled under the thin material of her cardigan, fingertips curling through the fabric as if attempting to ground herself. was it really ethan? mother miranda had put her through so much that she didn’t know what to believe. what if it was an elaborate trick set up to torment her even more than before?

❝ ethan? ❞ she mumbled out, eyes averting from his gaze. why couldn’t she look him in the eye? was she that ashamed of the situation? it wasn’t her fault.

donna's hands, clasped behind her back, wring together anxiously at ethan's determination.

she was not daft. miranda's true intentions had become clear. each of them — the ones she'd claimed as her children — were nothing but pawns to her. expendable assets to achieve what none of them had known to be her true goal: her reason for the sudden appearance in a village so inconsequential that no maps harboured its name nor location. the realisation that everything had been fake left an ache in her chest. all of her devotion, swelled over years of wishes granted and anxieties sated, sours.

" mother m — " words are abruptly cut off, the bitter taste of betrayal coating the inside of her mouth and hanging heavy on muttered words. her words. spoken from between pale lips, muffled by the veil obscuring her features, rather than the mouthpiece she so often preferred. angie, a mirror of herself, hides behind her. porcelain fingers clutching mourning garb so tight you can almost see tiny fists quivering.

" she will kill you. " voice barely above a whisper, rasped from years of self inflicted silence, her gaze averts from ethan's battered form. " you won't get your rose back. " it isn't a threat. she was no longer under the spell the prophet had weaved through lies and false promises. it's a warning. one she so strongly believes to be the truth. many times she had witnessed miranda's strength, and pessimism was rooted deeply into her psyche. he could not win with sheer determination alone. not against her.

weak. you're weak. the realisation of what you'd always known makes your bones ache, sluggish heart pulsing in agonisingly slow beats with the weight of your crushing guilt. it was too late, now. your guilt will not absolve your sins. no atonement will take back what you've done: no matter how oblivious you were to her tender manipulation. you carried out her will, did as you were instructed. now, after everything, you were left to die.

and  so  they  meet  again:  this  time  on  a  battlefield  considerably  more  skewed  in  cassandra’s  favor.  just  the  way  she  likes  it.  cass  may  be  an  advocate  of  letting  her  prey  fight  for  its  life,  but  only  when  it  suits  her.  and  she  still  remembers  dying  at  ethan  winters’  hands,  the  feeling  of  the  brutal  cold  icing  over  her  limbs,  the   impossibility  of  her  own  death,  the  worst  pain  she’s  ever  felt  --  or  at  least,  the  worst  pain  she  can  remember.  (  it’s  possible  her  original  death  hurt  more,  or  if  not  that,  then  brutal  rebirth  )  this  time,  cassandra  is  more  than  a  daughter  or  a  sister  or  an  experiment:  she  is  godlike,  an  arm  of  the  unholy  trinity  of  sisters  stalking  through  the  fog  and  gloom.  cassandra  has  been  in  servitude  before,  and  she  likes  this  entity  who  keeps  her  hunting  and  fed  far  more  than  she’d  ever  enjoyed  the  tasteless  whims  of  mother  miranda.  bela  and  daniela  are  elsewhere,  covering  more  ground,  hunting  for  survivors,  and  so  cassandra  encounters  her  murderer  on  her  own,  and  any  long-buried  fear  she  might  have  felt  dissipates  as  she  observes  that  he  is  weaponless,  defenseless.  finally.