#self01

The evening was red.

The sun had hit the palace of Babylon like fire to a hill, erupting the walls in a flame color as it bounced along the different shades of paint that hued each marble. Felix could hear them. Deep within the walls of a palace that used to belong to King Nebuchadnezzar II, they begged Alexander not to give in to Hades.

Eight months before, Felix had said goodbye to his King, his best friend, the love of his life. The faerie had been wounded – a small iron knife shoved through his side like it had been nothing but paper. Death was easiest to fake. Healing would’ve been nothing short of a miracle from the gods, and he’d been “buried” in a tomb that Alexander had created himself. A tomb fit for a king – a king named Hephaestion. Felix had never been worthy of that – not even when Alexander had proclaimed him a divine hero. However, he’d seen Alexander’s grief. The king wouldn’t have had it any other way. He’d proclaimed once, to a queen who’d mistakenly bowed to Felix, thinking he was the Alexander the Great, “You were not mistaken...this man too is Alexander.”

The memory felt more like a burden than anything else to Felix. He felt like a ghost, staring ahead as he made his way through the palace, invisible to those around him. It’d taken him a while to actually master this, and at age one hundred and twenty six, it was finally manageable. The sight that greeted him would haunt him for the centuries to come. His Alexander, poisoned and bed ridden, surrounded by nobles who were pleading him to tell them what he wished to do with the greatest empire ever created. Felix had waited, whispering words to the servants who had finally cleared the room. All that remained was the fey and the golden haired king.

Appearing before Alexander, Felix felt his heartbeat quicken. He’d watched eyes land on him, one blue and one brown, and recognition slowly appear on the other’s face. 

“Xanthos.”

The name felt like a victory, and Felix had no control as he’d hit his knees beside the bed, his fingers intertwining with Alexander’s as he tried to stop his shaking. 

“Are you to lead me to the gates of Olympus, Hephaestion?”

Felix found words far too difficult, tears stinging his hazel eyes as he fought for some kind of affirmation. “The world never deserved you, love. Elysium would never be enough. The land of the gods will be yours,” he promised softly, the fey’s voice easily cracking as he found most of his strength gone. 

For eight months he’d been searching for something. Every faerie he’d found that was old and wise had told him he was a fool. A young fool who believed that he could have a mortal cheat death. There was nothing to save him. Xanthos would be destined to live eternity without the man he loved, nothing but a thought and a story archaeologists and historians would remember. Nothing they would ever fully appreciate because they did not live it. He’d heard whispers of witchcraft, a magic that was similar to those of the faeries, but nothing that had the power to bring back life. Not even his own healing magic could stop the poison that ran through Alexander’s body. The men that did this would pay.

“My world was with you.” Those were the last words Felix heard from the other, the grip going slack in his and those mismatching eyes closing. 

Felix had felt his heart shatter that day. He was young enough to carry on, but old enough to be no stranger to the effects of grief. He’d held the ring Alexander had given him in his other hand, sliding it on his finger despite the fact that his body was wracked with sobs, the shaking never ending. The faerie would never forgive or forget. The ring hadn’t left his fingers since, protected by magic that was as ancient as the gold ring itself. 

“Just go, you big lug. It’s what you want to do. That thing, in your hands. It makes you anonymous. You could make the biggest fool of yourself and as long as you wear that mask, it wouldn’t matter. Your moping is seriously depressing me.” 

Dave scoffed, trust Robin to tell him straight. She was right, he knew she was but that didn’t change the tightness of his chest and his brain playing back everything that could embarrass him on loop. Deep down, Dave realised he was just torturing himself. He’d been so confident so far or at least, so he thought. He’d gotten himself on the Aethernet, met fellow students online and been doing his best to meet and befriend as many people as he could. There was something about the Bal Masqué though that has him running scared. It was probably just how big the event was, maybe a little too big. Sure, he’d be anonymous the entire time but that fact didn’t seem to help how overwhelming it felt.

Dave had been going back and forth all week about whether to even go which was why his tuxedo was less than an ideal fit and that fact too added to Dave’s potential embarrassment. Even with a mask, he’d still look a fool or at least that’s how he rationalised it. Robin was the only one he was willing to let see him like this and knowing his bravado could potentially crack at this thing and everyone would see how afraid and out-of-his-depth he’d be was the final nail in the coffin.

He quickly bolted up, mask falling to the floor as he hastily started undoing his bowtie and suffocating shirt. “You’re not going, are you?” Dave could practically feel the exasperation coming from his Familiar’s words and turned, snapping. “Shut up. I’ll do the next big thing for sure, will that get you off my case?” Robin turned away, not bothering to reply and Dave sighed as his fingers fiddled with the belt of his slacks, putting it all away neatly ready to take back tomorrow.

Tristan had left Antony’s side at a point that was only a mile or so from McKinley’s campus grounds. He was reluctant to leave, but he needed to get back and get studying on the ways to try and force Antony’s humanity to come back to the surface. He found a way to restore a soul back into a demon, there had to be a way to restore humanity back into a werewolf. And if anything, it shouldn’t have been nearly as difficult or life-taxing as it was to bring Gage back. And he could forgo classes for a bit longer and really concentrate on researching. If he had to change in order to get Antony to trust him, he would. He would make that sacrifice. But he would never stop searching for a way to get Antony’s humanity back.

Arms folded across his chest, he continued his trek toward McKinley’s grounds, passing under a few branches and sighing quietly to himself. Light was just barely breaking across the forest and poking through the trees, and he knew this route so well now that the school wasn’t too much further ahead. He was going to have to face up to a lot of questions, frustrations from his twin, all of which were more than well deserved. He was readily prepared to take his earful from the twin he’d lectured constantly about not doing reckless things. The only difference was that Tristan went in with a plan. Blaine went in to try and protect someone he cares about.

Just as he ducked under another branch, Tristan was suddenly very, very acutely aware that there was someone following him. He paused, reaching for his belt to try and grip his knife, only to remember that he hadn’t brought any weapons with him this time when he’d stayed with Antony. He’d trusted the werewolf not to change him or hurt him. But now there was a very real danger lurking nearby, and he had nothing to defend himself with.

“Aw…did somebody forget their weapons?” From around a corner appeared a man, though he was still hidden in the shadows of the tree branches that Tristan could barely make out his appearance. “Guess that means you won’t be getting the jump on me like you did with Sue’s old pet.”

Tristan knew running was a fruitless effort, and yet he immediately attempted to make a mad dash for the school. Campus was only a short half mile away and all he had to do was launch himself onto the grounds and he would be safe. But the moment he got three steps forward, the demon appeared in front of him and grabbed him around his throat. Tristan was slammed into the ground and wrestled onto his back, a hand clamping over his mouth. Antony had to still be within ear shot. He couldn’t scream for the werewolf without everyone inside the Hyperion knowing that they were together, but if he made enough noise, surely Antony would come running. “GET OFF ME! NO! NO! SOMEBODY! HELP ME!”

Kicking the demon’s knees, Tristan managed to wiggle free from his grasp and bolt back deeper into the woods, sprinting in the direction that he and Antony had parted ways, only to have a violent, ripping pain suddenly slash across his back as though a sword had been brought down on his flesh. He screamed and collapsed on his knees as the demon dug his claws further into his flesh, tearing skin away from his back and launching his hand backwards, sending an array and splatter of the Watcher’s blood across the grass and onto the trees.

“Son of a bitch!” The demon snarled as he flipped Tristan over onto his back as though the Watcher were weightless. Tristan fought back viciously, kicking, clawing doing anything he could to violently thrash his body to prevent anything from happening. This was it. His soul was going to be ripped out and he’d become another victim just like Gage had. His hand lunged up and he clawed at the demon’s face, tearing some of the flesh apart with his nails while the demon howled in pain.

“Fucker!” He delivered a harsh punch across Tristan’s face that nearly broke his jaw. Tris jammed his knee upwards and clawed across the grass to try and get away. “You’re lucky we need your brain or I’d fucking snap your neck!”

Before Tris could even register what that meant, the demon was once again upon him. “I can smell that fucking pup on you. Don’t you worry, I’ll be reporting this back to them im-”

Tristan violently snapped his neck backwards and clocked the demon in the face with his nose. The creature howled in pain and Tris scrambled to his feet yet again, making it another ten steps before the demon had finally had enough. The demon could apparently smell Antony on his clothes, and so Tristan gave up trying to hide it from him. “ANTONY! TONY! TO–” Pouncing on his back, the demon quickly flipped him over, but before Tristan could try and escape, the demon’s right hand wound around his neck. Tristan dug his nails into the demon’s wrist and thrashed, but the demon as cutting off his oxygen flow and his head was starting to feel like it’d explode.

“You better be fucking worth it you little shit.” The demon snarled as it reached into it’s pocket with it’s free hand and brought out a damp cloth that was forcibly shoved over his mouth and nose. “I need you thinking clearly so I can’t risk bashing your fucking brains in until you go unconscious. You’re a very, very lucky boy for now. But these next few days, I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.”

The demon’s hand released around Tristan’s neck and on reflex alone, he started to gasp, sucking in deep breaths of the odorless liquid on the cloth firmly pressed against his mouth and nose. Within seconds his vision was cloudy and his eyes rolled up into his head, internally screaming for someone to come and help him and knowing that none would come. Not this time. Blaine needed him. Antony needed him. His friends needed him. He couldn’t give up. He continued to thrash, scream, struggle against the demon with every ounce of fight he could muster, but the toxin on the cloth was overpowering, even against the Watcher’s best efforts, and Tristan soon lost consciousness, lingering thoughts of Blaine being left behind swallowing him up in a dark blanket of guilt.

Click, clack. Click, clack. 

The heels of Wendy’s black school shoes resounded against the empty Hogwarts hallways, announcing the arrival of a furious Gryffindor. She was fresh off the Hogwarts Express and the annual Sorting was yet to begin... which meant headmistress McGonagall was still probably in her office. 

Rounding the Gargoyle Corridor, Wendy scaled the moving staircase two steps at a time to reach the third floor of the Headmaster’s Tower. “Elphinstone Urquart!” Wendy snapped to the gargoyle, who gave a low grumble of what sounded like ‘feisty’ before swinging open, revealing the headmistresses’ office. The headmistress’ office had never failed to amaze Wendy. Paintings of the past headmasters and mistresses hung around the room, the persons within it chattering aimlessly. The Sorting Hat was no longer present at it’s perch; it was probably already down at the Great Hall. Other than that, touches of the headmistresses’ interests- pictures of her late husband, animated cats, an incredible collection of books- scattered the room, making it truly McGonagall’s. 

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk, the age evident in her eyes but not in her posture. She was preparing for the Sorting, adjusting her pointed hat, tucking stray silver hairs in to her bun. McGonagall had always exuded magnanimity and sternness, and Wendy had always held the woman to an extent of great respect, but at that moment she was in a state of rage. 

“I refuse!” Wendy cried passionately, making all the headmasters and headmistresses of past glance at her. McGonagall, on the other hand, merely raised an eyebrow from her looking glass. The younger Gryffindor girl barreled on, gesturing wildly. “I refuse to work alongside that- that- that- Ravenclaw! With all due respect, Madame McGonagall, I am deeply honored to be granted position of Head Girl, but to have him as my Head Boy, I don’t think--” 

“And who would you rather have, Ms. Cappelo?” McGonagall interjected primly, glaring at Wendy over her spectacles. “Alistair Ainsley is the smartest boy of your batch; you two are neck in neck in academics, both contenders for the Rowena Ravenclaw award. Might I remind you he’s also in the running for the Salazar Slytherin award at the end of the year with all of the extra-curricular activities he’s balancing, not to mention the fact he’s active and of high membership in most of them.”

A few of the paintings snickered, and Wendy turned red at the subtle reminder of the numerous clubs she had dropped and lost activity in. McGonagall raised a hand before Wendy could defend herself. “All I’m wondering,” McGonagall drawled, locking her looking glass in to a compartment in her desk. She then looked Wendy in the eye, dead serious. “-is why do you hate Alistair so much? He is a rather pleasant boy, you know. You shouldn’t pass up the chance of a lifetime just because you dislike your partner, Ms. Cappelo. I take you as much more reasonable than that.” 

Flustered, the girl looked down at her feet. She had an answer to that, but she couldn’t possibly explain it to the headmistress of Hogwarts. “I won’t.” Wendy mumbled. “I won’t pass it up just because of that Ainsley kid.” she clarified, looking up at McGonagall through her eyelashes. 

McGonagall’s lips pursed in to a thin smile, and she waved her hand in dismissal. “Run off to the Great Hall, then. I’d hate to have to take off some points on Gryffindor even if the year hasn’t started yet,” the woman threatened, half-joking. Wendy knew this was her cue and gave a small curtsy before fluttering out of the room, her robe flying out behind her. 

Once the young Gryffindor was out, McGonagall’s smile widened and she shook her head to herself. “Did Lily do the same?” the headmistress asked, turning to look at the last headmaster. The painting of Albus Dumbledore chuckled warmly. 

“The very same when she found out it was her and James Potter,” he replied warmly. 

“Unbelievable! It had to be him!” Wendy grumbled to herself as she made her way back to the Great Hall. “Je souhaite qu'il ne était pas si belle putain," the Gryffindor ranted, slipping in to her native tounge. "Parce que peut-être il serait plus facile de le haïr si je ne ai pas lik--" She rounded the corner, and... 

!!!

“Merlin, I’m so sorr--” Wendy trailed off, her face flushing of all color. Because standing in front of her was none other than Alistair Ainsley, with his crooked glasses and crooked Ravenclaw tie and awkward crooked smile. 

“Ainsley.” Wendy said curtly. “Uh... Cappelo.” Alistair replied, with a nod. They stood in silence for a while until Alistair reached up, scratching the back of his neck. “Were you talking to a ghost or--?” 

Wendy turned as crimson as her house color. “No, I was talking to myself.” she mumbled dejectedly. “Oh.” Alistair said silently. They stood that way for another heartbeat until Alistair spoke again. “I’ll let you on your way then.” he answered, moving aside. Wendy nodded to recognize the act and began to stride past him, beyond embarrassed to have (literally) ran in to the boy. 

“Hey, Wendy?”

She stopped cold in her tracks, holding her breath.