#sacramort

❛ yeah, i can imagine that’d be frustrating. all that shadow and you keep being caught up in a flock of crows. ❜ in his chest, jesper’s heart is beating as loud as thunder. it’s halfway between terror and thrill ; nothing quite as exciting as facing down what’s almost definitely certain death.

the thing about jesper, of course, is that he’s always had a fool’s hope. less foolish where inej is involved. she’d made the darkling bleed before. and kaz is fiercely protective, even if he pretends not to be. jesper doesn’t think he’ll die.

 “   are you kidding me?   ”        annoyance colours her,   clouding her judgement like a stormfold.     if the canary does not sing,   who do you blame?     her hands are cold,   burdened with knives  &  something a tad off.     irritation sets in,   by her brothers side forever;   the host  &  parasite bound together until the end of time.     but she is on a trail of fear and becoming blind with both weakness and strength.     i am not the one that devours,   i am the being devoured.     the mystics and churchmen talk of nightingales and blackbirds,   running across rooftops and leaving nothing behind.     she becomes folklore.

the mockingbird does not bleed,   leaves nought but the memory of her terror.     a rook in the night,   sharp-tongued  &  she skips across it,   him at her tail,        “   perhaps,   if they were more..   forthcoming  about information on certain activities,   the outcome might not be so fatal.   ” 

for @sacramort​ / MEME / accepting

Elfriede never wanted the Danes to come in the first place. They’re too loud, too different, there’s too many of them. But Goderic decided that the enemy of his enemy is his friend, and so invited a hoard of Danes to the hall of Wihtwara, if only to irritate Alfred. Alfred’s dreams of a united England would not reach Wihtwara - she has heard that the Wessex king is sickly, some ailment of the guts that drains him of all strength. Alfred is no threat. But the Danes they have welcomed to the hearth, they could be a threat. There is no common bond between their people, no alliance to fall back to. If Goderic had been a different kind of man, she might have praised the boldness of his plan. But she knows her brother, and she knows this is not boldness. The entire thing stinks of ignorance.

She escapes the hall to stand in the cool night air. All evening, she has played her part. Their leader has been invited to dine at the High Table, to share food and drink with the King and his sister. She has watched the Dane soldiers, and seen them watching her. Underneath the perfect mask, the princess has burnt with anger. With a foreign army under their roof, they are weak to attack. But Goderic makes no moves to secure a formal alliance. He is too busy drinking and listening to their war stories. You would not laugh so loudly, if your eyes were pecked out by crows, brother, she thinks furiously.

Goderic can behave poorly. It will not reflect on him. But as Princess, she is excruciatingly aware of her every movement. Even this stolen reprieve from the feast is a guarded secret. She cannot leave early, she cannot abruptly disappear. She must stay, and smile, and laugh. She draws the line at dancing with a Dane, though. If they even know the correct steps. They’ve been here weeks now, and she has hidden her curiosity beneath a marble facade. It’s so much easier to be the princess than to be the person. Their leader worries her. Beneath their strange tattoos and their bloodthirsty stories, she senses something restless. Something she should be wary of.

When she returns to the great hall, she spies them bent over the strange little game they play. She should return to her chambers, make her excuses and free herself from duty for the night. But maybe the moonlight has got into her veins, because she drifts closer, curious about this strange warrior and their strange games. There is a cry, and their opponent stands from the table. As she closes the gab between herself and the Danes, she dares to run her fingertips on the wooden table, close to the board of their game.

Their leader catches her eye, and she meets his gaze. She is moon drunk, surely, to be so bold. 

“Never finish a war without starting another.”

Elfriede inclines her head at the Dane’s words, unsure if this is an invitation intended for her. She trails a finger over the pieces, then withdraws, her hand curling into a fist. Standing in front of the Dane with his strange little board game, she should make her excuses and stay away. But something keeps her there, locking eyes and full of something dangerous.

               SECOND CENTURY RUINS PILE  towards a vaulted ceiling, flanked by funerary ornaments displaying epigraphs of the ancient dead. Like many cities in Europe, Rome is full of ghosts. Both haunted and a haunting, history's greatest empire reduced first to a tourist destination, and then to a fascist war zone. The city is still in recovery, wearing the scars dealt to them by Mussolini's regime and trying desperately to rebuild the economy shattered by his vainglorious attempts to restore Rome to its former power. Museums like this provide a stable source of income when the people are willing to travel, but Cold War paranoia has grounded much of the world's wanderlust. Soviet influence only continues to grow, sending out agents like Emet and their handlers to incite communists sympathies in those still searchig for radical change. Only they don't know that sometimes the cure is worse than the disease. 

               He's been permitted a day to himself with frequent check-ins, the first sign of freedom in four years. His handler's business throughout Europe has given him the opportunity to travel, though he's usually restricted to high-security hotel rooms for the duration of their stay. Feliks called it a 'gift' for his good behavior — banking on a lack of recent attempts to escape his bondage under the Ministry. Following orders is always easier than fighting back, but at what cost? 

               Emet spends his day wandering from one exhibit to the next. His Italian is shoddy, but there are a surprising number of translations offered to accommodate tourists like himself.  By the time he realizes how long he's been there, the sun's already set below the horizon, blanketing windowed halls in twilit sepia. He'll be expected to return to handling within the next two hours. He turns away from the placard that had captured his attention, intent on finding an exit, and accidentally shoulder checks a man who'd been standing closely behind. 

               ❝ Mi scusi... ❞

it’s an odd situation. not so much for andromache, who is now the oldest of four, ( five five but they can’t say, don’t talk about it, not fair ) but it’s different, for yusuf -- joseph, here -- and nicolò -- nico. they were the youngest, had been for a long time. now there is sebastien. 

sebastien, who died bloody like the rest of them, but had a family to come back to. who stays, for his family. it is too much, joseph thinks. too much, to endure as they grow old. but they cannot change his mind, would not force him away. there is only this. 

he isn’t hard to find. not for andromache. not for joseph and nico, who have learned from her. 

joseph goes alone. he thinks it’s easier, to be confronted by only one. the tiny french pub is well populated, and joseph has dressed accordingly. he has a drink for each of them ; something light for himself, wine for sebastien. if he chooses against it, so be it.

@sacramort​ sent :  ❛  tell  me  what  you’re  trying  to  hide .  ❜  for Zisa

PROMPTS & MEMES     /     ALWAYS ACCEPTING