IX. 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝘈𝘗𝘖𝘚𝘛𝘓𝘌

𝖎𝖝.     beloved dead,  hear your handmaiden…    a private & selective blog for harrowhark nonagesimus from the locked tomb series  (   VERY HEADCANON HEAVY  &  LOW ACTIVITY  *  uneathed by corazón  she/they,  21+,  est.

AN EXPLORATION INTO  .  .  .  crisis of faith,  death as religion,  the crumbling of a prodigy,  the byronic heroine,  survivor’s guilt,  the cost of sainthood  &  the double-edged sword 

five shots of liquorice sambuca down,    and the effects of alcohol had numbed the incessant need to check her phone as night crept through the hours.   it wasn’t easy defending jedward in front of a live audience of five very drunk people and a sober camilla,   but gideon had given the house party the best of her brain atp and distinctively short sleeved shirt.    by the ninth count,   someone had egregiously suggested that gideon get a hobby that did not involve emotional starvation.    (   thank you,   ianthe,   in that ‘fuck you also,   ianthe’,   because i did not ask.   in fact,   i did not ask so extremely that my brain would sooner piss out edema than any muscle signal of ever asking you literally anything.   ever.    )     not asking had meant,   however,   that gideon was liable to objectively horrific impulses,    like winding up half coherent at the door of the girl who had excavated her insides.

when?   gideon wasn’t sure.   drunk gideon was double-not sure of when it had happened,   but here she was,   knocking blurry eyed with nonsensical encore lyrics mumbled under her breath,   until the door winked open in an arc and harrowhark’s shrivelled little face looked back at her and into her soul.   then gideon said something,   and harrow’s expression soured close to death.

        ‹    five words.    chill the fuck out—bitch.    ›     she felt herself laugh,   and knew she was in trouble;   a hand closed up over her mouth and she wondered how she’d managed to keep herself from kissing it.   or licking it.   it was soundly good she did neither.      ‹    shit,   shit.   let me inside,   damn,   i’m freezing my tits off.    ›      stumble in she did,   though it wasn’t like harrow could stop her anyway.   towering at six two,   gideon momentarily lost sight of the evil poltergeist toeing after her like an unsettled host.

‹    it was a house party!   and you were  —   literally invited.   you didn’t even show.   unsurprising.   were you playing tea time with your skeletubbies.    ›       not that i care,   not that i look up hoping its you.    blurry eyed and head swaying,   gideon stumbled with brief hiccups of giggles;   harrow at her side somehow,   half stumbling with her to the couches.   it wasn’t until gideon had unceremoniously dumped herself over one that some part of her vision stilled and came back.      ‹    party was fun,   you missed out.   dulcie was there!   and cam.   and corona.   you should have seen corona.   she was like an instagram filter come to life.    ›       she grinned selfishly,   unashamedly,   and turned her head to the black eyes glowering down at her.   she picked up a dazed hand and,   without warning,   pinched harrow’s chin.      ‹    harrow,   harrow—   jesus,   were you studying on a friday?    ›      

      THE FRENZY OF A CROWD HAS NEVER BEEN KIND TO HER.     the quietude of home life had made for an uncomfortable transition into university living    (    why add to bells already tolling? to the hauntings her mind conjured on its own accord without the encouragement of liquor   )     gideon did not share the same reservations as she as the smallness of their devout upbringing was more cage than comfort for the girl.     EVER THE MATCH WAITING TO BE STRUCK,    YOU WERE A PERSON COMPOSED OF READY FLAME AND I HAVE BEEN ASH FROM THE START.    those eyes of absent fire,    the dull sheen of coal bear into the insult of this unannounced visit.    as if she had been woken in the middle of the night rather than shaken from concentration for a moment's notice.    so gideon stumbles into the room without need for invitation and a steadying breath must be taken to calm her rising ire as the door is locked in her wake.     

      there were plenty of comments she could rise to refute or defend herself against yet she allows the barrage of slurred absurdity to continue until...      ❛   forgive me if i feel no remorse over missing out on watching you salivate over coronabeth.    how will i ever recover?   ❜    and there it was,    the one blow that managed to land,    the chink in all that depressed gothic armor.    

         despite the effective bristling she is concealing that stone of resentment as best she can,    hands balling into the sleeves of her massive sweatshirt    ━      the bunched up cloth the only barrier between her nails and those scarred palms.    this is a coping mechanism disturbed as she is reached for suddenly and a set of fingers uncurl to bat away at gideon's assumptive touch.      ❛   i will not be taking academic criticism from someone who is likely failing more than half of their course load!   ❜     

       FIVE CUPS DEEP AND THE EFFECTS  OF CAFFEINE HAS DULLED TO A MIND NUMBING HUM AS THE NIGHT BEGAN ITS CLIMB INTO MORNING.     it is nearly four and harrowhark is knee-deep in organic chemistry sifting her way through compound and covalent bonds balancing equations representative of neutrons,    electrons,    and    ━     a half-hearted rap at the door pulls her out from the realm of synthesis.    another knock,    this time more forceful gathers her full attention     (    what the fuck is it!    )    the noise-canceling headphones are slid down from her ears to loop around her neck.    socked feet make light pads on the wooden floor as she begins her procession through the kitchen to the apartment's entryway.    

      when the lock clicks and the latch swings away she is met with a towering,    torpid grinning @parabathai​.    at first the other girl does not even seem to notice that her pounding has gone answered.       ❛   you have got to be fucking kidding me.      ❜     fingertips alight at her brow and harrow's face scrunches up into a pointed portrait of agony.     NO,     SHE WAS NOT EVEN AFFORDED ONE NIGHT OF PEACE WITHOUT HAVING HER CHILDHOOD HAND DELIVERED TO HER ON AN INEBRIATED PLATER.    to make matters worse her past speaks!    ❛    you are the prettiest flash frozen peach i ever did see.   ❜    she is quite aware that she actually looks like well microwaved shit in a band hoodie five sizes too big for her skinny frame.    she also knows,    by posture alone,    that gideon nav is undeniably soused and only standing due in large part to the generous weight she was placing on the doorframe.   

little sister,   little sister,   where did you go     ———     into the cracks and crevices of the old mithraeum’s walls where you think the shadows will hide you ?    marble eyes and gilded metacarpals are far too perceptive of that,   my darling.    her steps are laden and callous but as precise in their cacophony as a cat’s,   some bleak and unmistakable red dusk begins to set over the mountainside,   casting dark and sharp shadows over the walls  :  walls,   said the emperor     ———     of a thousand years hence,   hail his bones,   hail his tissue and cytosine,   etcetera     ———     that have stood for millennia and would not break.    (  and to that,   mercy said at the banquet table yesterday,   pfaugh !    it got a snicker out of her and a glare from their elder brothers.    worth it.  )

her pale hair shimmers some sick and wan shade that her opalescent cape would decay into as she peeks her head into the small alcove.    @tombkept​   said something once to her about   how anastasia something - or - other   once fashioned this battlement as a miniature chapel for the locked tomb,   and that little osteo - witch has the gall still to tilt her head back to say  :  i’d rather ride alone.

hands clasped in prayer,   her fellow lyctor kneels and says her quip strung along the mutterings of a prayer,   spoken in sacred tones before an effigy of  …  something,   or someone.    who cares,   really ?    such dark and dreary drapes,   plunging the room into only the guidance of hundreds of candles.       ❛❛  come on,   harry.    don’t be like that.    i’m not so bad a riding partner after all.    and i’ll take all the horses if you don’t.  ❜❜       her handiwork of a golden ulna gleams sunlit in that light as she examines the phalanges as nails,   her sigh bored and unassuming,   but in a curious gesture of compliance.       ❛❛  mercymorn and augustine already took most of the mobile troops,   so you’ve got no choice.  ❜❜       as did she,   but it will go unsaid.    as most things in the noble third house   (  palate and incisors of the emperor undying  :  holy,   holy  )  .

agate eyes crawl over that ebony statuette like tiny marble spiders,   her gaze chiseling through every small crevice and featureless face.    (  it really is a wonder,   then  :  why both the lord eternal and little harrowhark often visit this room.    the locked tomb may as well be as fathomless   as his eyes.  )       outside the mithraeum’s stone fortifications,   the roar of a beast rustles the grasslands,   and the candlelights waver.       ❛❛  hm.    you’re not going to hole yourself up here,   are you ?    mercy would talk our ears off if you do.  ❜❜

        AMALGAMATION OF VENERATION,    IDOLATRY IS FOUND IN LIMBS PALE WITH DEATH AND HAIR OF MORNING MIST AND BOG WATER.    lady harrowhark damned to an unrequited admiration    (   an infatuation,    an infuriating romance of unconscious mind   )    all that used up consecration of self...    NO AMOUNT OF LOVE CAN WIPE AWAY WHAT HAS BEEN DONE,    REVEREND DAUGHTER.    her cathedral soul,    cavernous,    shadow-kissed and vaulting without limit.    it is only fitting for the nun the seek out sanctuary to keep ghostly tidings at bay,    that chorus of whispers,    the dead and unreal alike speaking in unison.    a girl inhabited,    imbued with loss and dressed with a lunacy she kept carefully contained    ━     a vessel of apocalypse just as sword strapped across her back.    bowed at the altar but also under the weight of the furious specter.   

        (    am i mad?    she asked the other newly wrought lyctor once    ━      'yes,    terribly so'   she had replied unkindly   )    but ianthe was a frivolous liar and delighted orchestrator of melodrama.    nothing she spoke could be at face value.    here she arrives to disrupt the small respite of prayer with her grating,    indulgent tone.       ❛    tridentarius,    the last time we road together your phalanges seemed to take a special interest in my femur – more specifically the flesh that covers it.      ❜   

        gloved hands clasped tight before her and the veil is pinned at the crown of her dark hair,     the terrible nest of it that grew and grew with no end.     obsidian eyes tearing away from the altar as she rose from her ingratiation.        ❛    i have no intention of staying here,    i am only paying my respects as i am sure a heretic like you knows nothing about.      ❜    she is barred from her paints and her livery in her sainthood but the filmy of gauzy umbra remains as she pulls the shroud down over her features once more.     there had been a minuscule hope that the third house progeny would take her absence as a cause for departure    ━     no such luck.    YOU HAVE COME TO RELY ON THE DUPLICITOUS ONCE-PRINCESS OF IDA.    AN ENTANGLEMENT THAT LEFT YOU TIED FROM MARROW TO TENDON.     the odd fear that you may hemorrhage without the other,    a faulty circulatory system without proper dialysis.    

“worried  about  me,  harry?”   two  gaunt  girl-not-girls  under  the  moonlight  –  ianthe  had  thought  herself  hilarious,  flinging  hands  and  arms  and  feet  ripped  off  corpses  at  harrowhark’s  window,  like  a  character  in  a  romantic  comedy  (  and  surely  there  is  some  comedy  to  be  found  in  their  situation,  just  as  there  is  some  romance  ).  and  now  between  the  two  of  them,  one  would  be  hard-pressed  to  tell  the  vampire  from  the  human,  ianthe  with  her  ash-pale  skin  and  harrowhark  with  her  death-dark  gaze.  the  former  princess  can  do  covert,  can  be  quite  good  at  covert.  (  wasn’t  she  just  perfectly  covert,  slipping  away  from  her  sister  in  the  night,  undead  heart  fluttering  uncomfortably  at  the  thought  of  poor  human  coronabeth  being  exposed  to  the  same  bloodsucking  morons  who  want  ianthe  staked  and  set  aflame  for  the  crime  she’s  committed,  the  threat  she  poses  to  their  vampiric  hierarchy.  )  but  she’s  bored,  and  she  doesn’t  have  nearly  as  much  to  lose  as  harrow  if  their  little  rendez-vous  were  to  be  discovered.

harrow,  her  little  starving  witch-girl  –  she  wants  information  badly  enough  to  meet  with  ianthe,  and  that  really  should  tell  you  all  you  need  to  know  about  her  desperation.  her  eyes  on  ianthe  remind  the  pale  vampiress  that  the  line  between  prey  and  hungry  predator  has  never  been   drawn  as  cleanly  as  it  should  have  been  between  them,  and  perhaps  seeking  reassurance  in  her  own  power,  ianthe  reaches  out  to  grip  her  throat.  (  she  is  rewarded  with  harrow’s  heartbeat  speeding  up  under  her  coldcold  fingers,  she  breathes  the  hidden  fear,  or  excitement,  or  whatever  delightful  weakness  of  feeling  in  like  she’d  once  needed  oxygen.  ) 

“hmm.”  ianthe’s  red  lips  are  the  only  color  left  between  them,  in  the  white-washed  moonlight,  and  she  purses  them  in  a  pretty  pout.  waits  another  moment,  another  flutter  of  heartbeats,  and  then  releases  harrow’s  neck.  “you’re  killing  the  mood,  witchlet.  the  moon’s  out!”  and  she  smiles,  and  maybe  she’ll  never  be  beautiful,  but  she  feels  closer  to  it,  with  her  arms  spread  wide  and  the  non-discerning  night  air  on  her  dead  skin,  and,  most  importantly,  harrow’s  attention  on  her  and  only  her.  “let’s  make  a  new  deal.  come  out  with  me.  we’ll  dance  in  the  cemeteries  and  then  i’ll  answer  all  your  silly  questions.  cross  my  heart.”

       ❛    not even remotely.    ❜    from under her breath the retort is a sibilating hush,    imbued with an unspoken hex.     the manor home is a hollowed out shell of former majesty.    it aches and creaks with her descent like a discontented creature.     a monster whose mouth she crawls out of each midnight to risk her reputation for study     (    for study,    an empty seemingly vapid excuse but this harrow the scholar,    harrow the academic,    harrow the desperate   )    the lengths the daughter of drearburh would go to to reinstate her family's prior respectability was boundless and thus drove her to the most reckless solution of all.     IANTHE IS ALL WARNING,    NOTHING ABOUT THE VAMPIRE SUGGESTED CONSTANCY OR TRUST    (    yet you had thrown your lot in with her regardless;      a cultist and a once-heir from a legacy of hunters    )    the dichotomy is enough to split the earth and set the specters wailing but when she approaches there is no shriek or damning clap of thunder      ━       there is just a dead hand around a live throat. 

     ❛   what use do either of us have for dancing? especially enough to amend the details of our arrangement.       ❜    this belief lends her a bout of bravery and like a child with a used up plaything she is expelled from ianthe's grasp.    she knows it was not for her own benefit as the melodrama persists in the gauzy gesticulation of the blonde girl's limbs.    this gives the impression that she at war with the evening itself before the amethyst of her gaze is trained back on the witch.      ❛    i don't see how this is conducive to either of our situations.      ❜     ever the analyst,    harrowhark is offended rather than flustered at the prospect of an evening meeting being turned into a soiree on a whim.

       A SPECTER WOULD BETTER SUIT HER,     AS FAR AS NECROMANTIC CREATURES WERE CONCERNED.    there is a near translucency to the exiled vampire.   it is a quality only heightened by her choice in gauzy fabric to adorn her briary frame;     all harsh angles and jutting carpal bone.   harrow herself is no more full of a girl;    gaunt and evening-eyed like a starved alley cat left out to the elements.   this is a false portrayal as she is the lifeblood of her home,     the profane thrum that wetted the foundational stones of the drearburh estate.    in a gesture that proved more morbid than romantic    (   although given the nature of their affair perhaps it was equal parts both   )  @trianthe​​ had hefted several appendages in varying degrees of necrosis at her windowpane.