#warnsyou

...  @warnsyou  !

the  frigidity  of  the  evening  has  touched  everything  beneath  the  sky;      the  heaps  of  snow  lining  the  london  streets,       the  slick  ice  making  perilous  the  roads  and  corners  of  alleys  and  spaces  beneath  gutters  and  curbs,         roofs  and  sills  lined  with  icicles  sharp  as  blades.       as  if  to  combat  the  pureness  of  winter,       grit  and  smoke  cling  to  the  snow,       peppering  slush  and  churning  in  dark  mud,       blotting  out  the  clouds  with  tendrils  of  ash  in  places  where  the  streets  are  narrowest.       the  pair  of  them  have  traversed  beyond  the  thin  roads  and  dingy  buildings  to  hyde  park,       leaving  thomas  waiting  with  the  carriage  not  far  off,       with  coin  enough  for  some  of  the  mulled  wine  sold  steaming  and  fresh  in  festive  stalls,         cinnamon  and  clove  rife  in  the  air.       here  the  winter  is  shimmering  and  aglow,       bright  enough  to  thwart  the  bitter  cold,       joined  with  the  candles  and  lanterns  of  its  enjoyers,       as  children  and  sweethearts  skate  the  pond,       and  mundanes  bundled  in  layers  mill  about.  

will  pulls  up  his  collar,       giving  jem  a  wondering  glance  as  the  other  boy  keeps  pace  at  his  side,         the  both  of  them  forgoing  glamours,       their  boots  crunching  against  the  snow  and  scuffing  in  places  where  it  lies  thickest.       his  heart  leaps  at  the  sight  when  it  hadn’t  known  it  yet  could,       surprising  him  with  warmth  spreading  in  his  chest  so  that  he  does  not  heed  the  chilled  points  of  his  ears  and  nose,       and  the  frostbite  that  might  grip  him  by  the  chin.       familiarity  was  no  stranger  between  william  herondale  and  james  carstairs;       it  had  not  been  for  some  time,       though  shorter  the  interval  since  which  they  had  began  to  cautiously  explore  the  development  of  their  greater  feelings,       yet  unnoticed  by  their  acquaintance       (  nor  has  it  been  of  late  considered  extraordinary,       that  will  ceases  to  go  as  often  as  he  comes  to  the  institute,       the  darkness  beneath  his  eyes  and  general  haggardness  diminishing  for  the  first  time  in  years.  )     a  temporary  change  of  heart,      they  might  say:     a  brief  respite  from  wretchedness  still  tainting  his  meandering  soul.       maybe  an  interlude  outside  of  certain  damnation,       as  angels  all  once  spent  precious  hours  in  heaven,       though  they  were  few.       such  alterations  in  himself  and  their  consequence  are  far  from  his  mind  now,       as  the  sight  of  it  is  filled  with  one  so  dear.

                    kazheir for freya.

                          trespassing. that's what he was doing. in another court, in her court. did he not know? was this some act of war from the night court? whatever it was, she had a duty to her court, to her father. duty bound. honour bound. the bow in her hand grounded her, the familiar feel of the wood, of the quiver on her back giving her a sense of PURPOSE. this is what she was here for. to protect rosehall, to protect the spring court. this was her home, she was it's HEIR and the person in the distance was a threat. her feet found the softest place to step, not a sound made as she pulled a singular arrow and nocked it to her bow. taking a breath, she stepped forward and let it loose toward the figure, knowing it would hit its mark. standing, she stepped into the clearing, her chin lifting, eyes scanning the area to find - - - - SHADOW? where was he? twisting on the spot, her heartbeat sped up, pounding in her chest as she pulled another arrow to her bow. " you are trespassing and stealing from the spring court without permission. come out now and your punishment will not be as s e v e r e as i could make it. "

     HE IS SHADOW AND DARKNESS.    all he sees, all he knows is night.    surroundings have melted to ash; once green shrubbery now dirt beneath him.    dust spills from trembling fingertips, exploding from him in frenzied shooting stars, encapsulating all in its path.    blue eyes, often alight with mischief, are near black in their newfound wrath.    but beneath the widened, vengeful gaze of the prince lies another truth: FEAR.    nyx is terrified.    his power, bleeding off him in waves, sends dozens of illyrians scattering for shelter.    none brave enough to stand in his path. not even the one who had sent him ablaze with rage. 

       one conversation. a few sentences. a single remark. 

     some off-handed comment about his family.    so vile in its hatred of the night court.    not that he isn’t already accustomed to such hostility; the illyrians make their distrust in him very clear.    but one male had taken it too far.    one moment, they were arguing, nyx fuming while his opponent smirked in amusment.    the next, the other’s arm was bent behind his elbow and the entire outdoor training area was exploding in darkness. 

      he can’t stop himself.    every steadying breath releases more shadow, sends him further into the spiral of power he cannot outrun.    how many had he hurt?    how many buildings collapsed, how many soldiers cowered in horror?    he cannot see through the haze, fingers ripping through inky locks as raging tears coats his cheek.    he’s been screaming, is about to again, when the sound of someone calling his name catches his attention.    faintly, as if far, far away, KAZHEIR’S familiar tone hits him.    it STUNS the prince for a moment.    not long enough to halt any magic, but just for a brief second, nyx hears him.    and that guilt and terror ripping at his gut only tears him apart that much further. 

✱  worried  texts  sent  to  .  .  .  JEAN  MOREAU  (  @warnsyou​  )  from  RENEE  WALKER

        THE  SURROUNDING  BLACKNESS  OF  THE  DEEP  WOOD  GIVES  MORE  WEIGHT  TO  THE  NIGHT  WITHIN  HER  ROOM  .  when  the  phone  buzzes  to  life  it  jolts  the  goalkeeper  awake  .  typically  the  device  would  remain  silent  into  the  morning  yet  she  had  taken  to  leaving  it  on  in  the  urgency  of  the  coming  weeks  …  and   there  was  one  particular  number  that  graced  her  screen  often  after  the  hour  of  midnight   .  neil  had  given  her  this  one  ━  in  an  odd  turn  of  shifting  responsibility  .  she  and  andrew  going  back  and  forth  on  who  would  be  the  striker's  keeper  all  while  the  boy  in  question  had  gone  and  began  to  gather  a  flock  of  his  own  .  THIS  ONE  IS  MINE  /  MINE  TO  SET  FREE  ,  NOT  TO  KEEP  .   she  swipes  at  the  call  button  connecting  the  line  .  on  the  other  end  she  is  met  with  ragged  breaths   and  then  the  catastrophe  of  three  final  words  ;  “  kengo  is  dead  ”  .  the  static  drops  off  taking  with  it  the  vital  reassurance  of  those  haggard  exhales  .   the  countless  redials  blur  into  one  long  stream  of  ringing  ,  in  an  endless  loop  of  dread  before  the  automated  voicemail  begins  again  …  and  again .  eventually  she  starts  the  process  of  tapping  out  a  message  ,  steadying  her  hand  just  enough  to  get  words  right  .

2:12 AM   [  TEXT  TO:  JUANITO  MOREAU  🖤  ]   are  you  hurt  ?  did  he  hurt  you  ?   

      the  impatience  eats  at  her  ,  springing  up  from  the  unfamiliar  bed  she  tosses  the  sheets  aside  .  it  is  a  brief  respite  ,  a  beat  between  the  panic  and  her  irrepressible  instinct  for  violent  reaction  .   glancing  down  she  realizes  only  two  minutes  have  gone  by  in  the  ensuing  internal  terror  .  sending  signals  to  the  air  rather  than  anything  solid  but  she  cannot  push  down  the  immensity  of  his  warning  .  IT  WAS  A  DEATH  SENTENCE  .    

2:14 AM   [  TEXT  TO:  JUANITO  MOREAU  🖤  ]   jean  answer  me  what's  going  on  ?   pick  up  the  phone  please 

        this  time  she  does  not  wait  .  she  is  pulling  off  her  nightgown  and  slipping  into  day  clothes  .  she  has  one  arm  through  the  sleeve  of  her  sweater  as  she  picks  up  the  conversation  once  more  before  descending  down  into  the  depths  of  the  cabin  .  THE  MOMENTARY  CLUMSINESS  GOES  OUT  OF  HER   ━  A  BLOOD  SNIFFING  HOUND  IN  ITS  PLACE   .  the  cross  around  her  neck  seems  to  catch  and  burn  in  the  scarce  moonbeams  piercing  through  the  passing  windows  .

2:36 AM   [  TEXT  TO:  JUANITO  MOREAU  🖤  ]   i'm  done  playing  their  game   i'm  coming  to  get  you  keep  your  phone  on  i'm  going  to  call  you  when  i'm  close 

       by  the  grace  of  god  she  manages  to  make  it  to  west  virginia  while  speeding  the  entire  way  .  somehow  avoiding  the  crying  of  sirens   in  her  wake  .  this  early  ,  the  edgar  allen  parking  lot  is  a  misted  over  ghost  town  .  when  stephanie  pulls  into  the  space  next  to  her  she  finally  checks  her  notifications  and  finds  the  home  screen  absent  of  any  new  calls  or  texts  .  when  her  ear  presses  to  the  receiver  she  knows  by  the  fifth  chime  that  there  will  be  no  answer  .  so  ,  she  begins  her  ultimatum  ━  the  parting  communication  before  she  began  playing  offense  with  her  non-dominant  hand   (  the  fox  coming  out  from  her  cave  of  netting  at  long  last  )

judging by the look on her face, hylla most certainly does not get that. she looks like she hasn't even considered that, because she hasn't, not when every day since they had gone separate ways she had told herself the same thing: reyna is better off without me. she had to convince herself of that to be able to leave, even if reyna hadn't agreed. one day she would see that hylla had been right, and that it was for the better of them both.

now hylla doesn't know if that's true. reyna still doesn't see that, though she's long from a child, if she had ever really been one. she had found success, a place to call home, somewhere with too much structure to ever fall apart. like the homes they had had before. and hylla had found her own success, not necessarily a home but a throne, somewhere that she could sit above it all and finally feel untouchable. shouldn't that be enough for them both?

"no, you don't." hylla says, but she doesn't sound certain of it. reyna didn't need her. reyna had never needed her, except for maybe when she had been a little baby. she still remembers holding her when she was tiny, wanting to protect her more than she had ever wanted to protect herself. and she'd done a pretty shit job at doing that, in the end, hadn't she? it's a thought that haunts her, even after the years that have passed.

"don't be foolish. you don't need me. you're doing perfectly well without me, the same as you ever have." her voice sounds almost pleading, like she doesn't want to let go of the idea. she didn't want to have left her sister who needed her. she wants to have left her sister who was old enough to stand on her own two feet, and put enough distance between them so that they could each finally grow on their own.

"why do you think you need me?" hylla finally asks, beginning to twist one of her several rings anxiously around her finger. she finds somewhere else to look, a nice piece of wall over reyna's shoulder, looking at her but not. "why would you think that when you have so much now?"

       HER JOURNEY TO LAND OF THE LIVING LEADS HER TO THE ROMAN ENCAMPMENT MORE OFTEN THAN NOT.   doolin was ridden with nether-folk at sundown as the veil was thinnest there but the small seaside town offered her no true respite.   instead,   she is more at home nestled into the couch in ken's loft surrounded by thousands of crumpled drafts of poetry.   the deep near-emerald tendrils of her hair are pulled up into a pinned braid.   it kept stray strands out of her eye-line as she continued her almost crazed pursuit toward perfect syntax.   with ink-stained fingertips and the tail-end of her pen tapping against the pad she barely notices when the other boy slips into the space.  the smoothing out of paper is what causes the princes to perk up,   pale eyes wide as he reads the contents of the discarded sheet.

how long have i let the shadow of you nurture me?  i have become the night flower blooming in your wake  growing out of the cold absence of stars  .  .  .

kazheir  ( @warnsyou​ ) not one for flattery but certainly one for blunt honesty which is perhaps more striking than the former.  when he finishes he is not overly complimentary,   just  enough.   ❛   you’re not as bad as everyone says you are.    ❜

        quick to fluster   ━   and fluster she does in the wake of his praise.  hands suddenly itching for activity begin to wrap the cream-colored cardigan tighter around her midsection as she rises from her nest of scrapped prose.   ❛   that's very kind of you to say,   kazheir.   ❜    suddenly,  overly formal though he was sure not to notice given his own proclivity towards cordiality.   ❛   but i believe i am…   words aren't my strong suit.  writing music always came easier to me   ━   you know,   when i was alive.   ❜  she does not wish for it to sound like an aside of self-pity,   little would stop her from expressing herself through verse,   not even her own doubts could discourage her need to make art.  THIS IS WHAT PROVES I AM STILL ALIVE. I CREATE AND I LEAVE A MARK THAT IS UNDOUBTEDLY HUMAN.  

“look how far we’ve come, we can’t give in.” from reyna!

The Musical! -- @warnsyou

Nico managed a tired smile, notable if only because it was a smile--which, a distant part of him realized, just made it clear how tired he was. “I don’t know if it’s giving in,” he said. He didn’t mean to whine, and he couldn’t really tell what his voice was doing anymore. His weak hands tried to regrip the ropes over his shoulders, making an effort to appear determined if he had been whining. “The Athena Parthenos is heavy.”