breathe

She wasn’t sure where the girl who enjoyed life had went. Perhaps she went sailing over the last cliff that she scaled in the desperate search for answers. 

              ( she couldn’t help that she liked nature more than people )

Now, she was here, trapped amongst people, and there began the itch. The itch, the itch, the itch, right beneath her skin, as though it was a squirming insect searching for an orifice from which to emerge. The craving, the urgency. It was maddening.

So, then, she was going to leave, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. The rest of them were taking too long. Too. Damn. Long.

All of them took too long. To make decisions, to realise that they never should have come here in the first place, to make a friendship with her. The last one had fallen through several times. It never clicked with the instigator. 

                                                 WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT.                                                  WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT.                                                  WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT.

She knew that there was a witch’s nest somewhere around here. There always was one. And she had a nose for it, a bloodhound’s curse, where the itch wouldn’t subside until she sniffed it out. And wasn’t sniffing it out better than waiting for — just waiting?

She had been dressed since three-quarters of an hour ago. The murmurs of conversation did not pull her into wanting to join them. They acted as background noise. A soundtrack to which to prepare. A slamming-in of a magazine to punctuate the end of a sentence. The tightening of a backpack strap when someone raised their voice. Sounds and noise, sounds and noise, and they blended together in order to create the perfect focus. When the rest of the world rattled on like a skeleton in the closet, Lucia focused the best. It took the chaos for her mind to finally, finally, grow quiet. Perhaps that was why she itched. Perhaps that was why she continuously followed it down, down, down — straight into hell you both shall go!

Both. She froze a moment at her door. Her pack on her back, her knives tucked in her boots, her leggings making her calfs break out in a sweat. Both. Because there was Axel. And as much as sometimes she resented it, Axel made things matter. She figured he would still be asleep. Or maybe downstairs, talking with his trainer. 

         Their trainer. But she had long since detached from that relationship.

It wasn’t fair to keep pulling him down into fights he didn’t seek, and so she did her best not to alert him. Yet he always magically appeared. ( It wasn’t fair that he had figured it out. He was supposed to stay in the dark about it. For god’s sake, what did it matter? There wasn’t a point to him coming. He could stay where he wanted to be. )

It didn’t occur to her that he could want to be by her side, fighting witches and whatever other crawlies come out of the woodwork. 

                         No, it was just that she was a burden. As she always had been.

She glanced behind her. Tap, tap, tap. Tiptoe steps down the hall. The window at the end of it opened out onto the slatted roof; it was a simple drop-down —

                                          Thud. Right into Axel’s body.

She scowled up at him. “— Nowhere. At this rate, there’s nowhere to go.” But she paused, as she looked at him, and she sucked in a breath. 

“Did it happen again?” She put her fingers to the place beneath his cheekbone, which she had done ever since they were children. The place where she put her hand, even when there was a panel of glass separating them. I’ll get you out. Whispered, desperate, frightened. Axel, I’m going to get you out, don’t worry. Fingers there, the oven door starting to glow orange. 

         “Is that why you’re awake?” Sharpened words like her knives. “You shouldn’t come. To nowhere, that is. You should try and get some actual rest. During the day.” 

When it’s safer, remained unsaid. When I can be there to make sure it is.

At some point, the two of them parted in more ways than walking separate paths. Two children tied together by the same horrors, but left with different scars. Different manifestations of how to fight the demon witch that haunted them each. One bared her teeth, a grit to her demeanor as she launched forward, and he, oh, he had retreated. For strategy’s sake, he had said, over and over, but it was to halt the shaking in his hands and the way his heart seemed to stop beating as they conducted their hunts.

And when opportunity rose to bear his teeth just the same, there he stood, hand hovering over his blades, staring ahead and seeing nothing except the flames that always, always threatened to consume him.

It was years ago, the danger of inaction posed on himself and others. And in those years, he built himself into a better fighter; until those hands shook from strain, he tried to charge forward, to silence the witch’s voice that trailed his every step.

Those years were unkind, but they reshaped and reformed. And they led him to another crossroads --- the one Lucia found as well. They led him back to her, and they took a step in the same direction. They led him to this moment, where Lucia stared and scowled and refused to share her secret journey.

And that was better than being seized by the fear of unknowing whether her heart finally stopped beating.

A snort barely sounded, dying in the back of his throat.  “That’s quite the stock for going nowhere.”

They nearly mirrored one another, with packs slung over their shoulders, with how the weight of these preparations rested heavy on their backs. The true difference was in their choice of weapons; neither of them were drawn to the same one at any given point. That was essential for their survival; it was a lesson seared to their memories.

Lips parted once more, another question prepared to remind Lucia that they were a team once more. But she reached for him, gentle fingers pressing against his cheek, and he was sucked back into nightmares and memories. Screams and stinging pain, eyes refusing to close to the flames blazing higher and higher. What were the nightmares, and what were the memories? Some days, it was difficult to separate each from reality.

But he blinked once, twice, oven glass disappearing and Lucia’s face returning into focus. When she spoke, her words continued to slice through those memories until he felt his mind align with his body once more. Fully present, grounded. Drifting no longer.

“It did.” There was little point in denying the truth. “But I would be awake anyways. You’re not as quiet as you believe you are.” Ah, there was the lie. He wouldn’t deny any truth spoken to and about him, but he could mask lies as truth. But Lucia would notice this one; whether she would call him out was her decision.

Still, this remained his turn to speak, and so he tilted his head, brow cocking. “I’ve received enough rest. I won’t be toppling over my feet as we head to nowhere.”

He understood Lucia’s worry. He understood so much his heart ached at the thought of how much she carried; of her past self, of his past self, of their past. But their time apart forced growth and improvement, and though the fire continuously haunted, he had long stopped becoming frozen mid-battle. He wouldn’t be the cause of his own death.

He met her gaze and held the stare. “It’s you and me, isn’t it? After so long? Tell me where nowhere is, Lucia, so where you go, I can follow.”

She pressed her shoulders against the shadows near the door and peered inside. It was of her nature to be cautious, but then once the caution was unneeded, she tossed it to the wind. Tools to be used at a whim, and then disposed of, like assistants, like friends.

From here, she saw the whole club. Suite-hearts, it was called, and that aroused a feral grin. It showed none of her teeth, which was fortunate. Then the customers would be scared off. It was not every day that you saw a woman with four distinct, golden canines, like wolf’s teeth about to bite right out of you. ( Like a cat, prowling the sands of the desert, long tail twitching, eyes as gilded as the teeth, prepared for slicing and taking territory. ) This was a different territory than a desert or a dune, however. This involved a person, who was marked. 

Marked not by Tahia herself, but by the gods. The pantheon which she had stumbled upon, and it sort of confounded her, in the loosest sense, that it was so simple.

               For all the legends about them, which she had read in-depth during her forays at the archives in Athens, she expected them to be — a little more difficult to find. She expected their reception of her to be chillier, the intense seduction of their kind to be more of a challenge. Not that she had bedded ( or wedded ) them, but for gods’ sake, where was the fun?

It was as though Hades had taken one look at her and thought her to be Cerberus. Well, if he as a small girl wanted a pet dog, then so be it. ( Though she seemed to have obtained that through the means of Koschei, a dark and riotous thing on his own. ) Tahia could act like one. Although it might not have escaped his knowledge entirely; Felicity, so ardently called Lissy, had almost squealed with happiness when she saw Tahia had an Oriental Shorthair. 

Perhaps Hades, in this life, was more of a cat person. All the better for him.

Nonetheless, Tahia’s mission this night had nothing to do with Felicity; that was what Thanatos, hilariously appropriate in name to the point that he didn’t bother to change it, was for. He had all baby-sitting duties for the little mob princess tonight. 

                          Tahia was overseeing a she-cat of her own. A feisty, perilous thing who could set herself on fire just as easily as she could the rest of the world.

And there she was. Smiling because she danced, but not dancing to smile; more so returning the gesture in order to get tips. Tahia might not have worked as one, but she understood it; it was a business just like any other. Sometimes more dangerous. The men weren’t permitted to get too up-close and personal; this club was owned by one of them, after all. ( One of us, came the feline hiss. One of us. We must think of it as an us. ) But that didn’t mean there weren’t the kind who came in, not knowing of the rules, or uncaring of them. 

Her young ( and oh, even Aphrodite was young, and beautiful, and seeking ) charge seemed to be in the throes of dealing with such a villain. Tahia lurked around the edge of the club, lights flashing blue and gold and red, half-clothed women barely enticing a glance. She knew all their names by heart, and their hearts even more so, but she had no interest in them. Underneath the wrappings of her black hooded armour were the copper ceremonial daggers, and a quiver of thin arrows, dripping in poison, resting on her back. Something out of the medieval ages, and it might be in this world of exploding guns and reeking gunpowder. 

But those were too slow. Someone could be shooting and too busy with it, and the next moment their entrails spilling all over the place. That was how Tahia liked it.

Her hand rested on the hilt of the copper dagger as she came up behind the man, leaning her shoulder against the metal pole, having floated right onto the stage behind Vera. She saw the slopes of her back underneath her dress, and although she was not schedule to undress this night, Tahia could do it perfectly well with just her eyes. Those cat-eyes flashed feral green at the unfortunate pair of club-goers. Suite-hearts, indeed. 

“Oh, no. Cat got your tongue?” She lifted one side of her mouth, curling her lip to reveal the point of the golden canine. “Vera, who are these people? Do you want to know them?”

One step, two steps, and she lifted herself, spinning around the pole in controlled grace. Careful, smooth adjustments of her grip slower her speed, allowing her to catch individual stares. The tail of her dress flowed behind her, translucent silk glittering under the lights.

She was the night sky, shining and bright; the galaxy of colors melding together as she spun and spun. 

Legs hitched around the pole, fingers unclasping as she arched backward, hanging with only herself keep her from toppling. The stage floor faded, and she was hanging from a cliff’s edge.

do not fall into the abyss do not fall into the abyss do not fall into the abyss

How often did she balance this harrowing choice? Between dropping out of existence and pulling herself away to move forward another day? How often did she choose the latter and it left an ever-growing, hollow space in her chest? There was nothing except this balance; over and over and over, she closed her eyes to the abyss, and sucked the world in her lungs.

Lids fluttering open, she grasped the pole, and her legs swung downwards and she twirled back onto her feet. The jeers echoed, louder than the music drumming through the space. And she smiled because she should, and she smiled because it was demanded of her, and she smiled to lure others in a trap intricately set.

If not tonight, then it would be the next. And if not the next, it would be soon; the trap would close on each, information drawn out between warm kisses and harsh hands. Her role was easiest of all, as each creature bowed at her feet for the chance to taste her.

An unfailing lure. There, two men already clambering onstage, hands outstretched, mouths open ready to bite into her. Vera meet their hungry gazes, held each in turn, that smile transforming to something smaller, something dangerous.

She turned on her heel, her back to the men. They stepped forward; they always would. And when she grasped the pole again, slowly spinning once more, she didn’t have to wait long for the gasp of surprise.

Always sudden. Vera had yet to sense Tahia before the other arrived; every time, that chill of surprise ran down her spine when her bodyguard decided to make her presence known. It was a testament to the woman’s skill; Vera had quickly understood why Tahia hired.

However, Tahia being her bodyguard did appear as a cover. Those eyes easily displayed the soul sharing her body. Tahia and Wadjet, Vera and Aphrodite. Different, but still the same.

“They’re fine,” she told Tahia as she faced them all again, and her gaze drew back to the guests. “Merely those who need to review the rules of this lovely establishment. It’s been too long, I think.”

She smiled then stretching her arm ever so slowly. A finger wrapped around the tip of the blade, pulling it a fraction of a space away. “I would want to know them in due time,” she cooed, because she must play this game as if it’s a second skin. She watched one of the man’s throat move, that bobble of nerves, and she smiled, smiled, smiled. “Enjoy the rest of your night, boys.”

In the next moment, she was striding down the stage and past the other girls twirling on their poles. She slipped past limbs, steps fluid, smooth, as if her past life involved this type of messy dancing. A quiet exit, despite the flashing lights and throbbing music.

“I’m taking a break,” she said as she reached backstage, a delicate balance between being heard and outright shouting. She didn’t spare the backstage helper a look.

Darkness encased her, but muscle memory remained her guide as her eyes adjusted. She reached, hand immediately gripping the door handle. But she didn’t open into the hallway just yet; no, she tipped her head to the side and sighed.

“Have you heard from Ilsa yet?” She couldn’t pinpoint Tahia’s location, but it was undeniable that her guard was nearby. “Or from Felicity? The mission should have ended by now.”

“Does it?” Less of an extension of seeking compliments, and more so an absentminded nod, a period at the end of her sentence. “— I can see that it does, I think. Better than the other print I attempted to work on at three o’clock yesterday morning.” That was the most he would allow himself about complimenting his own work: agreeing with whatever she said, and adding some small thing to the end of it. Like a tagline. An afterthought.

And it was not that he doubted his own abilities. Sometimes, his self-confidence sent itself through the roof. Sometimes. Other times — well, perhaps there was doubt. A lack of belief in the self was more potent than threads of creativity or loads of productive time spent at the easel or sketchbook. It was debilitating. Despite whatever progress was made, it detracted from it. He may have a talent, but what good is talent when he can barely execute his ideas?

Although Adriana did not understand, on the ‘creative’ level, the struggles which he endured, it was more important that she tried. She offered words here and there, never too many, for then, it would become meaningless and something to fill the spaces.

No, she was never something to simply fill the spaces. Even if she did do that, even if her sole presence was enough to rouse him from that strange trance into which he entered. There was a lot more to her than that. Jason suspected that, despite living with her, he had yet to breach the wide end of that spectrum. And there was a desire to see it: whatever kaleidoscope might erupt from her pores, what colours might spill from her mouth.

He blamed the artist within him. But — that wasn’t the only reason, was it.

“Well — let’s take our trying days into the kitchen and fetch us something to eat. Yes? Even if it’s ludicrously unhealthy and all the more delicious because of it.”

Jason’s face softened as he smiled down at her. He didn’t miss the scowl, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t make him chortle a little. She was so hellbent on her first impressions. But they had crossed those bridges long ago with one another. He remembered a time, with an unparalleled fondness, when she would shriek at him for seeing her with her hair unbraided. Or with her clothes not ironed. Or in the middle of cooking, a place where a mess can barely ever be avoided. Her moods still plummeted as they always did, but — it was still better.

There was still progress to speak of.

“Talking about this whilst we eat will make it more interesting, and dubious.” He widened his eyes in that sort of mocking gesture of one of their shared professors. He always liked using the phrase: dubious. Even if it was inappropriate. “The last thing we need is a migraine, hmm? Your cheeks are splotchy from the bitter cold. Unless it’s cold in here and I didn’t notice.” 

But when she sighed, she deflated. And he figured it was just — self-induced stress, more than anything. His hand moved beneath the swiping motion of her thumb, and he slid his own along the side of her forefinger. ( Indeed — it was much more than just the mind of an artist that drew him into these types of motions. ) “I think we have Chinese leftovers … Italian leftovers …” He rolled his eyes. “Last weekend’s leftovers. How about we heat up everything in the fridge and — have at it? Becoming the heathens that we deserve to me.”

Their kitchen was modest, prim and clean, decorated by Adriana with Jason’s blessing. She always picked the best dishtowels — soft and supple, and he picked one up as he entered, continuing to wipe the residue of paint from his hands. She would throw a fit if a fleck of it got into the food — even with reheating. “And you can tell me all about this mysterious topic. The more we put it off, the more I’m intrigued.”

He always did enjoy a good mystery. ( She was the least maddening one of all. )

“Then I hope you manage a better amount of sleep tonight, with the success of this work.” Perhaps they would trade; this time, she would be the one tinkering away at three o’clock and he would succumb to dreams.

Jason then stood, tucking a strand of wayward hair behind her ear. And she responded with pursed lips, for it was confirmation that her dishevelment was indeed noticeable. But she swallowed her dissatisfaction and redirected her focus.

“The cold won’t prompt a migraine. And the temperature is fine in here. I felt the blanket of warmth as soon as I entered. The flush is most likely from the stairs. There’s no need to worry about a migraine.”

It was strange to be worried over. Not as if her parents never worried for her; they had done so too much until they had nearly given up. Everything they attempted to do, all to help ease the weight of her ambitions and peculiarities, was suddenly brought to a stop near the close of her senior year in high school. As if they decided that she wouldn’t change.

She would have been fine with that. She had been alright for long enough.

With this worry --- his worry --- she never felt completely settled with; not uncomfortable, but still strange. But Jason spoke of progress, and she saw it in the way he chuckled and the way he stroked along her finger. Before, she would’ve uttered a warning, would’ve stepped back and elongated the distance between them. And now, he touches her as if it’s always been natural.

Strange. All of it, strange.

“I wouldn’t label us as heathens,” she murmured as he turned to the kitchen and she followed. Slipping past, she went to the refrigerator, extracting the leftovers in question. “We’re being sensible. Especially for last week’s food. This is the last day to eat it all; otherwise, into the trash it’ll go.”

Complete matter-of-fact, no compromise. She barely relinquished control. There existed improvement and growth, for she wouldn’t be living with Jason if she remained rigid. But he knew better than to confront her rules about the food longevity. One week for leftovers, and not a day over.

So she placed the container with last week’s steak on the island, along with the Italian and Chinese. Going to the pantry to withdraw large plates, she shook her head at Jason’s comment.

“There’s no mystery topic,” she replied. “You make it sound like there’s something new that’s occurred in my life, and I assure you, nothing’s changed.” Bitterness seeped into the last two words; yes, nothing’s changed. And usually, that would deliver joy. Every day, perfectly the same. But recently, ever day included the criticism that her work evoked nothing. Too technical and too rigid, her work continued to lack ‘an emotional response.’ No matter how hard she tried, all comments remained the same.

Adriana lacked emotion in her work, and it sparked such irritation in her heart.

“I seem not to have an artistic touch such as yours.” Matter-of-fact, not meant as a slight to Jason. But her grip still tightened on the plates, and her lips still pursed. “My professors aren’t thrilled with what I show them. Nothing seems to be perfect, and I have to re-work my projects once more.”

She cracked open the containers, scooping small portions and distributing them equally on one of the plates before sliding it to Jason. “Tell me of your trying day. And then, we shall feast.”

It was almost traumatic, at this point. But trauma had become routine, and routine had become the summons, and so, when she had been summoned, she appeared. 

If this is what needs to be done, then I shall do it. // You know that we require your abilities over all others, Yggdrasil-Brynhildr. There is no one else we trust to carry this through.

Those words were meant to be comforting. But she did not receive them as such. They did not transmit through the organism of her cerebrum in that manner.

                   (( she heard the underlying threat in them, that’s what she heard ))

She had no choice but to accept.

It was how she found herself wandering through the train station of the in-between. There were no other witches awaiting the train, no other bodies to walk around. She wandered alone, and all of her belongings were placed into a rucksack the size of a small purse, carried in one hand like one might carry a briefcase. She was dressed in a sheath dress, and looked more like some lost Roman princess than she did a witch on a mission.

Being torn from Yggdrasil, asked to take-on the form of the human, and asked therefore to use her human abilities, which she granted herself, to better the coven. She could not remember the moment that this relationship turned parasitic, instead of symbiotic. She could not remember the time that she had agreed to help them, out of the kindness of her heart, thinking that she may make a different in the lives of those she heard crying out to her. And then it had turned into a relationship of malevolence. Of being — enslaved.

And she had never imagined herself becoming enslaved to humans. But that was the way of the gods, she supposed, although she was not so much a god as she was the fount of life itself. It was demonstrative that she become enslaved to those she birthed and gave life to. Although she was not responsible for the appearance of the witches and the covens and the strange — fjandskapur that constantly plagued them — she was responsible for taking care of it.

Although she adored the race, she could not bring herself to care about their squabbles. Not until they reached the roots of her tree, and carried upward. But it no longer mattered. She was here, not tucked into the trunk, not obscured from view.

She was here. Subject to derision. To grief. To encounters. Subject to the idea that others were hateful of her and wanted nothing to do with her.

And all because she associated with the Nordic coven. All because they so happened to fall in her line of jurisdiction. 

That was twisted to make it seem like they were the ones in charge.

                             But without ‘Brynhildr,’ the land upon which they walked                              would be black space and blank pages. Nothing at all.

Her transmutation was not so elegant nor primal in carnal need as the witch before her. She felt the vibration of the strings as it pulled through the air, as it affected the lands she had been in. If Brynhildr had not become attuned to this particular witch through all of their encounters, then she might not have noticed the changes. She would have acknowledged them as she does to all changes in the air, and continued forward. Instead, she paused, and raised her head, and the wind of the station, as a train passed through, tumbled her long, flowing hair. 

She stepped forward after a moment of thought. She appeared behind Lanaya, several paces back. The portal behind her closed, sealing up with a vine and brambles folding inward. Like the brambles in front of a princess’s castle. ( Although Aurora was not Nordic. Just as Brynhildr was not Roman. But the imagery continued to befit them both. )

She approached the witch, who breathed hard, who approached her as well. Brynhildr was not looking for a standoff. But this was one of the encounters she had been referring to. 

                ( a warm, and petulant, mouth: do you think me a fool? do you think i will worship you? you are not one of my gods.                           an earth’s understanding: you are no fool. i do not ask for worship. i have never claimed to be a god. the world has made me one. but i am life. without me, there would be none to grow and none to pass away. do not worship me. but think of me. )

The memory faded out into the current moment. ( Moments were so fleeting. ) She sighed, and the smile on her mouth was one of weariness — and of sarcasm.

“Then let it be known we both are not willing to squabble.” English was not natural for her, and she did not pretend like it was. Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, Finnish, Icelandic, old Norse, all of those would come from her tongue, pouring like rain. But English? Hard-pressed like dried-out flowers, like wood crackling in the fire. “Tell me what you plan to retrieve and I will tell you mine. We will see if we must walk together, or in separate ways.”

Sometimes, when she blinked, centuries of life splayed before her. It was her own, and then not. As if thousands of different creatures lived in her body, and yet, also not her body. The eyes she viewed this was hers, and yet —- and yet.

She didn’t understand herself. And despite the dimensions unfolding in memories both hers and not, she understood how limited she was.

The power she held was to be feared. She saw it in the eyes of her clan, of her mentor. Sometimes, it flickered across the face of her Matriarch. But no one spoke of what she could accomplish, only of what she could do. That was fine with her. If they feared her, there was a reason for it; perhaps she should fear herself for it.

But the reason alluded her, just as the past lives did. Their whispers, the images of their lives, all crashed through her, only to disappear in the next moment. Frustration harbored in her bones long ago, she believed. But that had faded too, exchanged for acceptance. The lust for power lingered, yes, and she bared the teeth of ambition. Yet that lust was to better herself, to become stronger. Corruption never traveled far behind power. She could taste that bitter lesson; she could see herself suffocating from the consequences of believing herself immune. Such was the cost.

And so, she breathed. Sucked those centuries into her mouth and swallowed them whole. When she blinked, she was her complete self. That was all she would ever need.

And she smiled, baring her teeth at Brynhildr.

Here stood her greatest challenge from the collection of decades. Different factions scrambled for the same resources, desperate for an advantage. Lanaya understood her role on this battlefield. While pointed questions would fall from her lips, her loyalty didn’t waver at the silence that followed; she would do what was asked and demanded of the magical prowess she possessed.

But she despised having to interact, and possibly combat, those from the other factions. And none more than Brynhildr, who committed herself to humans’ whims. Whether it was her choice or not was a debate long faded from Lanaya’s curiosity. All that mattered was that Brynhildr still remained as her constant obstacle for her every goal.

“I do hope it is us going our separate ways.” She didn’t bother to mask her annoyance. Niceties were abandoned from these occasions long ago.

Stepping to the side, she exposed her goal. To the mundane eye, it was nothing more than a stalk in the middle of an alleyway, a sapling struggling to break through brick and gravel. But that quality was what drove it’s magic; suitable ground for such a living creature was miles and miles beneath the surface. Even further though, was this little one’s source: the center of the mortal Earth. There would only be a small window from pulling it from the depths of its power into a new home, where its roots could spread further than ever before, where it could grow, taller and taller until it nearly touched the sky, and where it could feed its power to those ravenous enough.

It was beautiful — and it should be hers.

Her gaze remained steady upon the other being. No limb of hers twitched, but her magic stirred once more, invisible sparks upon her flesh waiting to see what price she would pay. “Are we to walk together, Brynhildr? Or shall we begin pooling our magic into the well of battle?”

He was not sure what had led him here. 

Fate. Curiosity. Getting lost. Lack of direction. Madness? More certainly.

But he found himself having returned to Seoul, and it was none the better. Industrialised as the rest of the world had become and then more. Intense with the crowds, with the matching outfits of couples ( or, at the very least, gloves, scarves, small things insinuating the togetherness ) and the smells of street food. There was still culture, oh, everywhere.

                  It had stopped being home the year he had died. 

Funny thing, death. It tended to chase you, around and around, like a dog chasing its tail, and it came up upon you, hands grasping your shoulders, turning you around to take your soul out of your mouth. That was how it was, right? The kiss of death. Here, Sangchul smiled to himself, half hidden behind a row of records, and the flash of his near-black eyes darted over the shelf to the pair of girls chattering about the newest release of their favourite band.

Kiss of death. Hilarious. Then Death found that there were fangs bared at it, and that someone had somehow cheated the system. Like refusing to pay your taxes in America. 

It was all part of the game. But Sangchul was not here because he was avoiding death. Truth be told, he had no explanation as to why he returned to Seoul. Rumours of a vampiric underworld, of other creatures roaming about, and his historian’s need-to-know-everything overwhelmed all sense of reason. 

Thus far, he had only seen human beings. The girls across from him were as such. But a tingling in the back of his throat indicated a stronger scent besides his own slow thirst. ( His thirsts were slow. Cultured, and tempered, and hidden. He had met another vampire once, who wondered how he managed to sustain himself whilst barely feeding. Sangchul did not tell her. )

A vampiric scent. And it was a familiar one, and that troubled him. 

It was impossible. Sure, he had met a few immortals over the years, but the majority of them had realised that immortality could not, ultimately, beat the final bell’s toll. Something always got them in the end. A silver ax or bullet, a rope made of a unicorn’s mane, salt over the shoulder; some of them died by silly superstitions of unsuspecting means, and others died of darker things, magic that Sangchul did not touch himself and wouldn’t ever. Someone having lasted as long as he had, perhaps even longer? 

( No, it wasn’t an everlasting scent. An ancient one, sort of matching his own, and it reminded him of a dark forest and the light in the trees of it. )

He had to see for himself. If it was someone he knew. Chances were, someone had recreated a cologne that merely reawakened a memory and he could move on with this unending life. Leave Seoul and go back to England, for God’s sake. Like he once did.

The scent grew stronger. He moved sideways along the record aisle, following it, and the dark in his eyes flared a near-imperceptible burgundy. Just enough to be one of those tricks in the light or a pair of those circle-lenses, so dilated and cracked-open were his irises anyways. Part of the things he had seen; his experiences mapped themselves across his eyes, little markers and ruins and relics for those who dared to get that close. 

Sangchul did not need vampirism to be — intimidating, despite his politeness. He was reserved, and aloof, and those who had pursued a friendship ( or something stronger ) had often been met with disappointment instead of success. There were exceptions of course. Always were. But for the most part, Sangchul denied access to trespassers. 

                    This, however — this —

The scent led him to a head of dark hair across the music store. He cocked his head to one side and peered at the shoulders, the back, the hips. Then the man turned a little, revealing a profile that was somehow aquiline and delicate — despite the hardening of centuries.

“Oh, no.” Uttered, barely audible. Sangchul’s mouth grew slack, parted lips, and if he could have gotten hot, then he would have, needing to unbutton his shirt, chest clenching. Suspenders tight on his shoulders, trousers suddenly heavy, boots unable to be picked up from the floor. The scent of him, it was cloying, and oh, it was familiar. It was —

                                 “You.” Sangchul reared back a little. His British accent brought about a few strange stares in his direction, but it was too soft to hear what he was saying. ( Oh, but you’ll hear me, won’t you. ) “It cannot be.”

The years weighed heavy on their shoulders. But those years were a testament to their growth. If they were to paint the path of their extended life, the beginning would be dark, littered with red. Even with a touch of light, it would merely emphasize their terrible fate. But at some point throughout the centuries, they found their footing among two unkind worlds.

When they were thrown over the waterfall, never did they dream they would find themselves among a street of SUPERNATURAL.

They hadn’t realized, all those years before, how many species still walked this earth. Their sire barely spoke of the second world hidden in plain sight. Where the sire wished for silence, Jihoon would nag with questions, trying to sate their frustration, trying to extinguish their anger. The sire never deserved their silence; the only few who did were among the royalty Jihoon served. Only for the family did they bite their tongue, softly murmur sweet-nothings, and offer their heart with shaking hands.

Perhaps their love and admiration created the facade that they were demure, meek. Perhaps they bowed their head one too many times. Perhaps they should have dared to suffer the potential consequences of pushing back.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered at all, what they did or didn’t do.

They couldn’t change anything now They were stolen in the night, to suffer the burning of their blood. And they remained —- alive at each turn of the century. Though they despised how thirst would burn their throat, they couldn’t deny how useful compulsion, endurance, and immortality were to them. They all allowed Jihoon to survive; they all gave Jihoon a comfortable life they wouldn’t have if they remained human.

And now, they could meld into the modern community with ease. The speed of technological advancement happened in a snap of their fingers, and they had stumbled through the changes. But the new knowledge at their fingertips fed a greed to learn, and it drove them to this street building, this shop, this life.

How that shaped the space around them. The slow movements around the shop, those gentle smiles exchanged between themself and customers, the soft explanations of the instruments the modern eye never witnessed before, how it quelled the longing in their heart. The time and effort to gather and restore the instruments from centuries before couldn’t ever exhaust them. And playing each, extracting long lost songs from memory to produce new recordings granted them a cause to continue this life.

It had been so long since regret last visited them; they were so content.

Today held no difference from the days before it. Questions were asked, exchanges of cash and records were made, and they considered what they should play later that night. Humans milled around them, all of their scents filling the air, crowding their nose and mouth, almost as if they could taste those beating hearts.

And it should have continued just like that. Fate long halted paying attention to them; there was no reason to believe today was different.

But they can’t change that river of Fate, could they?

The scent arrived suddenly; for them, it wasn’t wrapped along with anything else. For a moment, they thought it was an instrument collector wishing for them to sell to their renowned shop. And yet — and yet ——

                                       “You.”

Oh, how their heart plummeted. The assault of memories pressed against the back of their eyes, tears pooling at the corners. This was no collector, and this — this was not the prince they adored, the one whose hand they dared touch. As their body froze, that one word repeating over and over, their past rushed to confront them.

Their heart ached; their mind broke.

Jihoon didn’t bother looking over their shoulder. To the human who drew near them, question spilling from their lips, they gently touched her wrist and said, “I’m sorry, but I hear the phone ringing in my office. I’ll return soon. Excuse me.”

One step, another, and they were winding through the rows. Their office remained at the other side of the store. They kept their head low, blinking back a wetness that should not remain in a body meant for the dead. Reaching for the nearest door, they slipped inside, the clink of chimes softly playing at the disturbance.

They leaned against the door, staring in darkness at their instruments cluttered in such a tight space. They could still smell him; the taste overwhelmed beating hearts so much that their throat ached. Or maybe it was their own, dead heart still longing, still hurting.

In a softened moment of hindsight, she wouldn’t have minded if he had seen it as an invitation. She might have been reticent at first, but she could have grown warm beneath him if he tried. It was all a matter of give and take. If he was willing, then she would do her best to meet him in the middle. Yet it seemed as though Luke was unwilling to step over certain boundaries, and he could not fathom the concept of taking a chance.

Unless it was related to Michael. Or Axel, who he was planning on calling. To be fair, she hadn’t realised that she was serious about the potential of him joining her.

Nonetheless, it had been foolish of her, and the sheer embarrassment at her own stupidity was a red wash of shame down her body. It was not possible for him to have such desires. Although she had given up on conjuring them out of him, there was that maternal yearning for closeness. For that intimacy that led to a child’s creation. 

She didn’t want a child. But she could not erase the core of her being.

Despite that, she was impressed at him letting his guard down. He might never want her in that sense, and she truly could handle such a thing, but he wanted her to listen to the volatile ideas, which in their outer or even inner circle, could get him killed or worse.

And despite how sometimes, she felt more scorned than woman or man, she would not betray him to the likes of Michael and the other angels who stood beside him. Even if their concept of love remained this infantile idea of loathing, and never developed, there was enough respect. It would have to be enough. 

Not to mention, he was rather fortunate that he had been placed with an angel who was sworn to protect. Their binding meant that he was hers to protect.

Secretly, she too was glad that there was a break in their arguments. She tensed when his throat cleared, and she kept herself angled away from him, just in case there was another display of vulnerable emotion. She didn’t know he had seen the other one. But she wasn’t about to let him consciously see it. He hadn’t deserved that yet. But he deserved other things. Like her opinions, which he did ask for, and that was more than most ever did.

And he deserved to know someone was in his corner. Hers was a hollow corner in and of itself, and the matrimonial vows had been forced beneath the same weighed hand that ruled them. She knew what it was like, to realise no one was on your side. No one bothered to seek to know the quick-to-anger angels, of which there were few, and of the few, nearly all were tyrannical, or viewed as such. Luke, despite the lack of biblical affection, did not see her as a tyrant, nor as a completely lost cause, in relation to merely existing. For that, she was grateful. She could not, however, bring herself to express that gratefulness to him. Not yet.

“I think it is wise to not bring everyone into the fold. That’s what Michael has attempted to do, and he has ended up losing more than he gained. Even on the surface level. And I would like to think you don’t need anybody to set your tables or attend your meetings just to hear your voice as much as you like hearing it.” Layla sniffed, clearly in derision, and she combed through the Venus-painting-length of her hair and swooped it up towards the crown of her head. “Otherwise we have more problems than we had before.”

It was in jest. Perhaps she even smiled a little.

Then she turned towards him, and she was for a moment unashamed. Unashamed of standing in front of him, clothed in nothing but her nakedness, and the remaining beads of sweat that had not yet dried. From years of dance she had gained the lithe muscle in her back and legs, her stomach flat, a diamond barbell shining there at her navel. 

She was expressionless, but unafraid. And unashamed. And it could only be a feeling of safety that she felt before him. She could stand before him as such, revealed and as close to surrender as she could be right now, and not fear his retaliation. Some chose to fight anger with anger, fire with fire, and her track record with those sorts of matches were infamous. Her entire reputation was. And when she had been male, she had never indulged in such fantasies.

Some of those bruises still felt like they were there. She wondered, briefly, if Luke looked long enough, that he might see their lasting impressions, and ask about them.

Too hopeful. Even as his words turned halting.

“I admit, I can’t wait to prove him wrong yet again. He won’t be pleased. This is not the first time in our cycles that he has had to face something like this.” It would have been too arrogant to say face me, because it had happened twice, and she did not want to boast about those times. She preferred to not remember them. “Grandiose can only get you so far.”

She paused. “— Yours and Axel’s pursuit of true goodness will show itself to be the better option. Others will catch on. It is a matter of patience, a topic upon which I am no expert. But I do believe in it. I believe in you. And that you can do better than Michael.”

Axel had been near Luke in each cycle indeed; Layla had witnessed it in all of her own. That kind of loyalty wasn’t a blind one, and it was difficult to come by. Her face remained fixed, and she walked, graceful and small, across the bedroom towards the bathroom. She kept her steps as slow as possible, resisting the urge to run from the room.

Her chest — was so tight. She didn’t realise how she wanted him to look until he didn’t.

“However long I need? In that case, if we’re late to this engagement, I’ll blame you.” Do you enjoy what you see? Why won’t you tell me? Tell me. “Give Axel my regards.”

When she closed the door behind her, she pressed her bare back to it, and her hands, splayed out, and she breathed. The whole of her world was wobbling, and she hated it.

At the start of their union, at the moment Michael had called the two of them to him and declared they were to wed, he had believed she would betray him. That Michael was not only planning to cause distraction, for the reputations of their personality predicted constant strain, but deliberately sending Luke a message. If he were to expose any of his plans to Layla, speak a hint of traitorous words, then his life in this cycle would end. And then ---- eradication of his soul.

Some would call it caution, others paranoia, but he had hidden such large parts of himself from Layla out of necessity. And he wouldn’t be foolish enough to deny that was one reason for their relationship to continuously falter, with no end to screaming in sight.

But here he was now, speaking of Michael’s downfall, because destiny produced faith, and it tugged him to her. Their destinies would be long intertwined, and there was a choice he had to continuously make: was she with him, or was she against him.

Tonight ---- tonight he chose the latter. His faith was with her, and the faint warmth of destiny filled his chest. This was the right path; only time would tell if it would lead to his ruin.

The moments unfolded, and here ---- another hint of a smile. Only the curl at the corner of her lip was in view as he quickly snatched a glance, bit it was enough. There existed humor between them, and he didn’t realize how hungry he was for it until he finally received it. The trepidation about this conversation unraveling into another argument still lingered, a blaring red sign not to fool himself into believing this moment healed their tension. But hope still flared, an ever-growing warmth in his chest. There existed a chance that their problems --- not the Blue Blood’s, not Michael’s. but between only them --- would fade into something genuine.

This hope --- it was so beautiful.

“Quite frankly, stuffed meetings won’t be an issue. I grow tired of my own voice,” he huffed, though his own smile blossomed. A jest for a jest. An exchange to a developing relationship. Their domestic life was far from normal, a marriage neither of them ever wanted, but they could work together. They could be partners.

Another jest was on his lips --- something regarding just how he would avoid more problem --- but when he drew his eyes back to her, meaning for it to be a quick moment, she was already facing him. Bare, no hint of hesitance. A challenge wrapped around openness and vulnerability.

Once more, he looked away. 

The well of shame expanded, seeping deep into his blue blood. He wouldn’t dare guess as to what Layla desired in the moment; being wrong would fracture what progress they’ve made tonight. But this choice was also wrong, wrong wrong. The impact would ripple between them, this denial to fully acknowledge what she bared. He should be looking at her; he should be seeing her.

                                   (( but all that ran through his mind, over and over, was a love long gone. raven-bak hair brushing his face and fingers dancing on his lips; a creation of her own halo in the afternoon glow; a tattoo spotlighted among the mass of bodies. and the pain overflows and overwhelms, an onslaught on his heart. he guides each angel to their destiny, whether intentionally or not, but this one cannot and will not release him. ))

Her voice carried across the space, strong and certain. A critique on Michael stirred him from memories, but it was her confidence of goodness that pulled him away.

                                                               I believe in you.

He sucked a breath, forcefully keeping the motion slow. How fragile was his belief in himself that, as those simple four words, a swell of relief and happiness consumed his soul? The shame lingered, and he still didn’t loot to her. But she believed in the work he was cultivating; she believed that he could lead the angels from ruin; she believed in him.

For all their arguments and the strain and the horribleness of their situation, there she stood, assuring him of what his destiny could be.

Her steps were so light, he didn’t notice that she turned away until she once more mentioned Axe. “I will,” he replied, and if his voice was thick, he didn’t register it. “And thank you, Layla.”

He wasn’t sure if she heard him as the door clicked shut. Resting his head against the doorframe, he rubbed his hands over his face, taking another deep breath. With heartbeat pounding in his ears, his chest tightened so, so much. This --- this had been a gift. And he would cherish that the two of them had this chance to --- to build a foundation in how to move forward together.

He couldn’t give her a life she deserved. Not with the plans he had in store. But she believed in him, and he would do whatever was in his power to ensure that he gave her all he could.

He fiddled with his fingers and stood at the edge of the forest. The meeting ended, and tidbits of conversations flowed as the elders exited. Werewolves, once grand and terrible, resembling old men, those who were of the utmost importance. Dark skinned, speaking in the language of their ancestors to one another. He understood each word, and tucked it into his head for later. Into his head, and into his heart as well. Because his heart was far too involved in these matters for its own good, and there was nothing he could do about it.

There had been some prickled-pride exchanges between the wolves and the fae. Those who had decided to meet with the Seelie Courts knew that there were tricks of the trade to recall. It had been, despite that, one of the most difficult meetings he’d had to endure. The idea was to create an alliance, and instead, there had been more strain.

That was the reason he waited. He felt compelled to – apologise. He didn’t know to whom, but he had an idea. His grandfather jabbing ( albeit with eloquence and grace, and expressionless tenderness ) at the royalty of the court hadn’t been a fantastic idea. The alliance to unite against the uprising was tentative at best. And though the ire of the wolves flowed through him, deep and dark anger of generations and generations, he kept it under wraps. He chained it to the back of his head, where it still prowled, despite its chains, rattling and waiting. Waiting for its chance to leap, to set upon rivals with its jaws.

But not now. That time wasn’t now.

                        Randon knew her by name and position in the courts, and he also knew her via several intellectual conversations they had together. Stray moments, gathered in the deep of the woods, away from most other voices so that theirs could rise in volume, become encompassed in the debates. It was always quite stimulating, and she had expressed her own pleasure at their bantering and their investments in similar moral values. So it was to her that he felt he must go and apologise, because it had been her lineage insulted. And he knew, despite his own pride, and even because of it, how it would feel to have it be him.

Someone had, indeed, insulted the wolves, and all those had risen from their chairs, and he had been forced to quiet the situation. He hoped that had been a demonstration of maturity, and that his mother would be pleased he hadn’t succumbed to taking part in it, as he had in many, many other meetings of lesser importance.

His heart beat as he watched them file out. He was some distance away, leaning against one of the trees, one of those that she and he usually met at when this happened. He couldn’t believe the last time he had seen her was five months ago, and that there’d barely been time before she was whisked back to her duties. Of course, that was understandable. He had his own, and they took precedence over almost everything else.

But still. There were some things more important than duties, such as honour. Without honour, then performing them was a listless and useless task.

When he saw her emerge, he straightened and nodded. That was his gesture to beckon her, as he viewed it as disproportionately impudent to ask with hands. He was a man of subtleties, and in subtleties he spoke, and gestured, and he didn’t change that. And he waited until she came closer, until there was as less of a distance as there could be. In this forest, mushrooms could act as chairs and mosses as cushions. He would offer one of those as compensation for what had occurred, one of those mediation things.

“That was rough,” he commented. He had to lead up to the apology. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and settled until his bare arm scraped against the tree. Then, he sighed. Each of these things, he did separately and with as much intensity as everything else. His lips thinned. He wore one of his softer tunics and deerskin breeches and was barefoot, and his hair was long and halfway-to-tied in a knot, although it already was falling out. Unruly.

Like the rest of him.

“Even for my tastes,” he continued. “Which is saying something.”

The whispers from the court swirled around her, a harsh caressing as she walked among them. None wished to be forthcoming in their criticism of the werewolves, for they were not completely out of earshot. There was no further need for stirring fights; the tension still ran through the air, an undercurrent near suffocating. But where their words flowed, even if somewhat stifled, Kassidy remained silent.

The royalty could sniff in derision over how difficult the werewolf pack had been, but Kassidy allowed her eyes to remain open; both sides were unyielding in their wants, and while that could be necessary and admirable, pride never led to true compromise. And now, with war brimming on the horizon, pride would surely lead to their downfall if they didn’t relent.

But she dare not say anything right then. The less eyes on her as she tilted her head to see past the figures in front of her, the easier it would be for her to step aside. Never unnoticed, for the wind whispered all excursions to the fae, but her departure would be tolerated. She had proven her worth over and over; they could trust she wouldn’t betray their secrets.

They emerged into the woods, all collectively breathing the air that granted them relief. Someone’s wings already shone, buzzing in excitement for the chance to leave. And hers would be too, if this was eons ago. Instead, her gaze cast out to the familiar sight of Randon. His golden gaze locked with hers, and when he nodded, she did so as well.

When she stepped aside, only one of the guards slid his gaze to her. She didn’t look back.

The distance was short, but seconds felt like years. How hungry she was for the conversation to come. Most of the time, speaking with Randon was the only highlight to the meetings. Where hours before they had to commit themselves to the roles in their factions, the present allowed them to inch closer and share wit and compassion. And she wasgrateful for it all, especially when nothing like this waited for her at the courts.

Her wings glimmered in the faint sunlight streaming through the leaves. She drew closer, closer, and finally, she could hear each of his words as if they were the only two in the woods. Perhaps romantic in one sense, but it was certainly more relieving; as long as the wind didn’t pick up, their words belonged only to them.

Already, humor dressed her words as she replied, “That does say something, given your penchant for growling under your breath.” And yet, so quickly, the tease dropped, for reality was never too far behind. “This is all — further complicated when it doesn’t to be.” She pursed her lips, and withheld a sigh. “Though I will admit, it —- it wasn’t the worst meeting. The mere fact nobody died makes this a minor success. Even if death is such a low bar to clear.”

She linked her hands behind her and leaned her back against the tree as well. Of course, it had to be today where she struggled to neatly string sentences together. Usually, she possessed the same diplomatic eloquence during their discussions; more-so because she couldn’t willingly turn it off. Years of handling these type of meetings and connections couldn’t be discarded in seconds, not quite yet. But Randon didn’t facilitate a continued diplomacy after meetings, and that — that unraveled this role she adopted. And now, she faltered when something so casual should bring about some inkling of ease.

“You — you handled yourself well. Earlier, with the de-escalating.” Her praise sounded weak to her ears, laced with uncertainty. Not for Randon’s actions, but for how the fae would react moving forward. Their eyes would remain on him forevermore, observing, waiting.

She didn’t yet know if that meant a threat of danger for him was indeed heightened. And a trickle of fear for him rested heavy on her shoulders.

But a teasing smile still shone through because she couldn’t dwell. She hoped it didn’t appear forced, for she wished to appear as genuine as she felt. “It was a surprise not to see you spring in defense. It feels like many moons ago that you wouldn’t have stressed calm, and instead unsheathed your claws.”

Sudden heat crawled up her neck. “Oh that sounded —- it was more meant as an observation that you’ve grown. Yet it sounds incredibly insulting in retrospect.”

When an eerie laugh floated from the centre ring, it awakened a charge who slept on a pile of steaming coals near the fireplace. Having fallen asleep on the job, he shuddered and moved to the hidden quarters on the opposite side of the tent’s compartment, brushing aside the beads hanging in the opening, acting as a makeshift door. Coated from head to toe in dark dust, he made sure to disappear beneath the burlap sack of his covers, burrowing his head in the pillow stuffed with straw, still shivering, still pierced through with cold.

                Lucky hummed in happiness and someone feared it! Perilous, quite perilous. And he stood in the centre ring where little light spilt through, save that of a savouring of threads from the moon cast down through the thin striped canvas of the tent. Nothing to see with. Therefore, he had taken to installing a dull torch in one of the metal basins attached to a wooden beam. It was for the night shows. The travelling, marvellous, scintillating spectacle, seen at night once and never again! Come one, come all, to the place where the devil reveals his teeth!

People were fascinated with the macabre and the terrible. Freak-shows sold out more tickets in a single evening than the whole circus could finance in a week or more. The odd, the insensible, the things-which-do-not-make-sense, the laughter – oh, it all had its place.

He found his place. Through the disowned familial bonds and the dismissal of blood connecting he finagled himself a place amongst the ruckus and the wrecks. He stood there, unsheathing a sword, and the polished blade glimmered even in the dullness of the torch light as it burnt down to a stub, a smoking and smouldering stub. He needed no light to see, no gaze to pierce. There was a benefit to being strange, strange, strange, and that was using those strange things for his own advantages. He stood in his place. He liked it sometimes. He fucking hated it otherwise. It made his shoulders ache, his stomach churn, the whip-marks dried on the small of his back still crusted over from a week and a half hence bleed anew. He liked bleeding, however disgusting it appeared to be to the other circus-goers, however much it lacked sanitation.

                              Crimson meant too much. Illness. Passion. Sex.

And it rimmed the bottom lids of his eyes, as he had forgotten to remove his stage makeup and had little interest in doing so now. In this sunken light, he too appeared sunken. Phantasmal.

But now, others were — dying. He had nothing to do with that, nothing at all, in fact! Although he was belated to the house of madness, that did not mean he was insane. No, no, no, there was no need to slaughter each member of his ‘circus family’ despite their innermost thoughts! It was a point of contention for Lucky. A point of contention. Someone lurked and trespassed and attempted to make this circus their own by killing them all.

         Rumours flew about the mill. Do you think there will be another fire? Well, that would not do, and Lucky had taken it upon himself to seek the bastard out. But the bastard was another kind of strange, strange, strange, and that meant that he was sneaky. Worse than Lucky, worse than the rest of them. They came and they left without a fucking trace. Sometimes he smelled them, and they smelled like the many fires they had started. 

No one knew who was killing them. The circus continued, no matter who died. It was rumoured the stands were haunted by the ghosts of those wronged and damned. Lucky had talked with them. They were real. Ghosts were real, and so was this killer. And it bothered him that this son of a bitch was not adhering to the rules of the fucking game.

He knew someone watched him. He did not practise to be a spectator sport. But he liked the attention. He would lie if he said he didn’t. It didn’t smell like the fire. His nostrils flared; it smelled like tar. Like the pit of despair, like something sticky and molasses-texture. Hard to get down your throat, swallow harder sweetheart.

Move. Move. Move. Step forward, swipe and slide, elongated and curved striking movements. If someone stabbed him in the back, then he would stab them in the neck and watch them spurt out. His mind buzzed with renewed anticipation. He watched out of his peripherals because he could never stop watching out of them. No, that was not the point of this. Curve of the sharp side of the blade pointed to the sky. He vaulted into a lunge, stretched out his foot, rested the palm of his hand against the metal. Cool, cool, cool, to his constant rushing heat. He looped out of the lunge and whirled, and the sword swung through the air in a perfect arch. It brushed against the dirt, it dislodged some grains, it made them dance too. Above his head, encircling it, feet never leaving the sand in more than stepping, fluid movements. 

            Lucky never missed a strike, and then the tar-smell intensified. 

“What’s the use of lurking around like that? If you have something to say, then I suggest you start t a l k i n g!” He drew the word out as though talking meant something to him. “Otherwise, you are burrowing into my side like a leech to someone’s bones, and I don’t like leeches. I don’t like leeches one bit.” 

Soft silk flowed over his hands as he raised it inch by inch. The sensation sparked an orchestra of whispers. Slid a portion here, twirled the fabric there, and his heartbeat slowed as the silks hummed in satisfaction.

Here were things that adored his being near unconditionally, and what a rare thing! How they sang their praises whenever he drew close. A pleasant compromise upon first meeting evolved to some semblance of trust: the silks would prevent his death to the best of their ability as long as he treated them with upmost care. He couldn’t falter, not one day. But he had yet to fail his end of the bargain, for it was the easiest thing in the world. With shared adoration, he continued dazzling audiences with death-defying drops, and the silks cocooned him in a shell of safety.

If the others knew, they would be frightened. Domino, ever alone, drawing luck from such silks? They would laugh, genuine humor fading to nervous giggles. He was too blunt, each word he uttered a bite at their souls; they didn’t trust him, so why would the silks take the risk? What was Domino’s worth outside of entertaining the disgusting masses?

But they didn’t know, and that was fine with him. He didn’t choose this life for any of the circus-dwellers. The reasons were tucked in the back of his mind, rattling against the locks, memories wishing to burst forth and overwhelm him. But it was easy to dismiss them, and ignore the other circus members. All he needed were the silks.

And to remain alive.

It would’ve been delightful to continue as usual, simply spinning in the sky night after night. But, of course, there had to be flames and explosions and smoke.

A night circus being targeted for reasons unknown? Truly groundbreaking. Worthy of a standing ovation for the mastermind behind the crimes!

As irritating as the sparks of flames were, he couldn’t ignore the damage and death. The consequences screamed in his face by the attitudes of the other members. Their tears and frustrations, the spiteful whispers and underlying rage, it all spread in wild direction, and the paths led to him. As if he had any logical reason to decimate the circus that granted him life. He may despise a good portion of the members, but the desire for following through with murders was surprisingly lacking.

But he wouldn’t waste his time defending himself. The years had already taught the harsh lesson that hysteria couldn’t be fought with reason. His focus would be on surviving --- what anyone else thought were mere whispers in the wind.

Yes, yes, yes, survival was essential. He quite enjoyed this life. And we would invest the extra work to ensure his existence wasn’t easily eradicated.

This fact drove his body from the railcar, departing the train. From shadow to shadow he flit across the grounds to the glorious main tent. It became a necessary habit, to check on the silk framework; he doubted fires would be the only tool implemented in killing the rest of the members. But no other hands would touch the rigging except him. And if he were to plummet to his death, it wouldn’t be for a lack of responsibility.

The check should have been quick. If anyone else were in the tent, it would’ve been so easy to ignore their existence. But echoes of laughter swallowed his soul, and wickedness plucked at the corner of his lips.

Striding along the curtain of the tent, steps light, he quietly pulled himself up on the stands once he reached them, settling to watch the show unfolding. For Lucky Strike decided to grace the premises with a rehearsal. What ease the man controlled the blades: each move purposeful, each moment freeing. It could have been a gorgeous sight, if Lucky wasn’t such a BASTARD.

Though, to be absolutely fair, Lucky must think the same of Domino. As much as Domino wished to tighten the silks around Lucky’s throat, he was sure Lucky imagined those blades digging into his throat. At least their feelings were quite mutual.

Resting a chin against a raised knee, Domino parted his lips, a whistle on his tongue ----

                          But Lucky beat him to the punch.

Rolling his eyes at the dramatics, he called out, “Am I not allowed to seek entertainment where I please? And wouldn’t you have snapped if I dared spoke and disrupted your precious rehearsal?”

He stood then, bones creaking as lithe limbs unfolded from his position. Down the steps he went, one by one, slow as a snail. Allowed each foot planting on wood to E C H O.

“Leech. Such a strong insult when I’ve done nothing wrong. Do you despise my presence that much, Lucky? If so, that’s deeply unfortunate. I thought you wouldn’t be so affected by someone you dislike.”

He stopped at the edge of the ring. With weight shifting from one foot to the other and Lucky standing tall, graceful, Domino smiled, smiled, smiled.

“Lucky Strike, be honest: do you hate me enough to believe I’m in cahoots with the mysterious arsonist leaving destruction in their wake? I wish to know, so I may gauge how to approach you moving forward.”

If that box was, indeed, destined to be opened, and his soul released back into the wilderness of the new world, then what might have happened if someone else came into possession of it? Such as that woman who had made that remark about his teeth — or was it his mouth? Things of relative unimportance faded from his thoughts sooner rather than later, and he forgot by now what it was that she said. After all, Lyra was wagging her tongue at him.

In the vein of that thought, how did she come across the box in the first place? James could not remember having asked her — except during the earlier days, during his mood swings, when he demanded to be put back in because the world was too vast and he felt, all of a sudden, small and insignificant. And wasn’t that laughable, considering his power set! Yet he could not erase all of his humanity, so it would seem, even if the witches thought they did.

He supposed that, in the end, he had Lyra to thank for that as well.

“I try not to,” he hissed. As though there was a chance that someone would overhear them in this noise. Indeed, the only reason Lyra was able to hear him at all was due to their connection. It, at least, continued to not frustrate him — for the most part. “But it is as though something else entirely comes over me, and the urges cannot be resisted. When I was much younger, I used to be able to, at least, turn away from things if I wanted to, but now!”

Admitting there was no control was stifling. He swallowed, pursing his lips hard and glancing to the side, away from her entirely. The bond was humming in the back of his head, both a comfort and a taunt at how things had changed. It shouldn’t bother him so much.

“I only make it work with you because there is very little choice in that matter,” he said dryly. “In all honesty, you know that we would have, as you say, parted ways a thousand times over by now with how many terrible conflicts have arisen and how much dissension there has been by my untimely arrival in your home.” He aimed one of those cutthroat, biting-head smiles at a girl as she passed by with her friends. “I do not have to make it work with others.”

Did she know? Had he told her who he had been? He believed to have hinted at it, but his pride oftentimes got in the way. Why would she care to hear about a prince who made a bad deal? It had been enough that he explained where he came from and who had done it. But the details. The details. What would her reaction be? Would she want to cast him aside?

                                    Did she still want to in general? 

He inhaled, smelling her — not just the essence of her, her perfumes and her soaps, which he had come to know quite well, but the mood of her. He could smell the desolate headache, the strain in the back of her neck, the want to have fun and the irritation at herself.

“I am playing nice for your sake, hilariously. You could say it’s because of you that I’m trying at all. Imagine if I had been put into some museum collection instead. And it seems as though I’m not the only one who is trying this night.”

He scratched the back of his neck, and his brow furrowed. “You say you can leave whenever you want, but you halfway forced yourself to come in the first place. And are beginning to force yourself to stay. I don’t — understand.” That was always the most frustrating part. Despite his remaining humanity, there were so many things about this world he did not comprehend. “I can only think in blacks and whites, so it seems. My apologies.”

That was muttered, and they both knew he wasn’t apologising for anything. His nostrils flared as another poor soul passed by them, chaotic and unsure.

“Ooh! I know how to help. I’ll put on a grand show for you. That man is very, very angry.” With one forefinger around his drink, he pointed at the trench coat. “With a flick of my fingers, I could let him engage in the brawl he so desperately desires. And then! You could make that your, what is it, reason to leave, yes? The last thing you need with your deadlines is collateral damage. And then I won’t be so bored. Come on, Lyra, let your world grow bigger this way.”

She despised confrontations.

It wasn’t an issue at her work; she had learned early that avoidance would lead to dismissal. The way she wielded herself in the office, as cramped and as informal as it could be, didn’t display how hesitance grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back, back until she melded with the walls, until what she wanted and what she deserved was discarded to the wayside.

But almost every interaction with James led to the same back-and forth, a gritting of teeth and closed fists. She couldn’t merely step back from him; their connection wouldn’t allow it. She had to push and pull, and he did the same. But it wasn’t yet harmonious, and as much as she wished it could be, the foreseeable future spoke otherwise.

         {{ there were moments, though, where she hoped it would be soon. when she cradled her head, fingers digging into scalp, he pressed a hand to the back of her neck. gentle pressure. murmured words about sleep. and when she would find him in the evenings, after the anger had left his system, she reached for his arm, soft questions on her lips.

                                          and she loved those moments. she wished they would stay. }}        

And his bared teeth soon disappeared. He turned away, and her whole body deflated as the tension swiftly left. However difficult this was for her, James’ obstacles intensified in a world he remained unfamiliar with and social conventions he could barely comprehend. And he wasn’t wrong — they would have parted ways if the option was available after she opened that damn box.

“I don’t wish to portray that I’m unable to recognize your efforts,” she began, tone cautious, careful. Each word must be intentional. “But you absolutely need to work on your impulse control. If you were capable of turning away once before, then you can reach that point again. You may just — need to change your approach.”

Licking her lips, she finally sighed. “Yes, you may not have to place nice with others, but I’m asking you to. That request hasn’t changed from when I asked you at the start of the night. If you’re trying because of me, you can survive another hour at least, can’t you?”

The way the question fell from her lips, it sounded quite like manipulation. It could be taken that she’s using the fact that because she released him from his prison, he owed her cordiality in public spaces. And it wasn’t her intent to portray her desires as such. She just wished for him to remain neutral. to choose calm over violence. And if he played nice for her sake, was it wrong to continue to ask it of him? Or should she resign herself to the fact that he would antagonize and critique and offer empty apologies?

Another sigh built in her chest, but she withheld it. The action wouldn’t help; it would only give James another reason to say she was forcing herself.

And what did it matter? She was exhausted and she did question her decision for the night — especially with James closer, especially with him pressing against a multitude of boundaries. But pushing herself to interact with others — with few she considered friends — bestowed a touch of sanity back into her life. Why should she throw that away?

“This modern world is filled with much more shades of gray, James. And it’s for the sake of my health that I’m here. Keeping myself in the apartment is succumbing to the temptation of remaining just — just stuck. I’m stunting myself if I don’t socialize. It’s not a bad thing I’m here.

“Which is why you are NOT to start a fight.” She wouldn’t deny to herself that, for a moment, she was tempted allow James that freedom. Not just to allow him a lick of freedom, to gorge in the power he did possess. But so she could be witness to it. What a dangerous curiosity, with such a tight grip. She wasn’t like this before. She didn’t wish to wonder.

She didn’t want James to be this type of change in her life.

“My world is big enough for now. When I wish to travel, that’s how it can grow. But I’m not here to entertain your penchant for violence. Again, I am asking you to be a decent person right now, and what that all entails.” This wasn’t begging; she refused to act in such a manner.

But she reached for his arm, a steady grounding. More for herself than for him, yet she still — she still wanted him to know something. What, exactly, she didn’t fucking know. She was too tired to decipher and apply a meaning. So she squeezed ever so slightly. “Thirty minutes more. Can you accept this compromise?”

                         ——  ☾ Red had never been one to surrender easily. Shake off the excess and stand firm against the oncoming winds, as though they were little more than a breeze, as if the shattering winds could not shatter them. Frequently, things did not shatter them. But that was a long time before. Now, it seemed as though everything shattered them; and perhaps it was a side effect, overreacting, and it could be true that Red was overreacting, but they were delicate and they pretended otherwise. And in order to continue the charade, they had to leave.

The door slammed behind them. They were too small to make the studio shudder; besides, it was made of brick. But the intention was there. They drew their leather jacket tight around them and nearly tripped over the boots on their feet, but they pulled their fading-blond hair out of their mouth and continued marching — no, storming — down the street. It was nearing evening, although a much earlier and better hour than in which they had met their infamous producer on the plane to nowhere. Traffic downtown honked and honked, lights flashing.

They headed straight for it. But the noise could not drown out the fact that they heard the door open behind them. “Do not try me. I will not calm down, do not say it!” 

You are overreacting. But Red was not. They were not. They had seen the impatient looks. He might not be guilty of it, but everyone else was, and the judgment had sent them spiralling into another place, a worse place, where the studio was no longer safe and hands were no longer behind glass panels. And worst of all, they wanted vocals on the record.

“I said no vocal, and I meant it. It was in contract I sent you, we agreed!” They whirled around to face him. It was fucking cold out here. “Why does nobody understand no as this word? Do I have to spell it out each of the two lettres?”

                       ——  ✵ They had told him beforehand what they wanted from Red, and he had told them it would not work. Plainly, explicitly, he had uttered, red will say no. trust me, for why else am i here?

All of his higher-ups had nodded as if they understood, dismissed him to continue to the studio with a reminder of the meeting following him. Yichang did not believe they all heeded his warning, but a hope still lingered that somebody would’ve been sensible and at least would ask for a compromise on the matter.

That hope dashed the moment he and Red walked through the door.

And now he trailed behind the wildfire, careful not to step too close. He had warned and he had pushed, but his power was small in comparison to those who wielded the contracts, and all he could do was soothe the anger that presently consumed Red. And the irritation that swirled within him as well. They were the ones who had called him to return, who begged to have Red write and compose and create once more, and so quickly they changed course. What was signed didn’t matter if they didn’t believe it would garner enough money.

So here he was, essentially powerless, with doors slammed into his face and half-formed plans in how to rectify this mess. He took a deep breath, let it fill his lungs, and held it for one beat, two beats. When he opened the door again, he succumbed to the fact he would become burned as he reached them.

“I’ve learned long before I met you that ‘calm down’ never works,” he said simply. As if it was a fact that everyone should know well. Licking his lips, he placed a gloved hand on his neck, a weak attempt to warm chilled skin. “I’m as confused as you as to why they’re pushing it, okay?  But I told you before it will be a battle to convince them of an instrumental album. They will add whatever obstacles they deem necessary to get what they want out of this.”

He kept his gaze steady on Red. A part of him was frustrated for them, and frustrated at them. But he wasn’t about to stress compromise, not now. Not when he wasn’t sure if he wished to compromise with the higher-ups either. “We can’t prove them wrong if you’re always running away from the studio.”

That work ethic he was told shone in the way they folded their hands together and voiced their bitterness. Merely to the point and not lingering on what could not be accomplished. They were satisfied he was briefed, that someone has done their job, and shifted to the next point. And perhaps there would be issues with that style of work down the line, for it was good to try and pinpoint where possible concerns could arise, but for tonight, he would cling to it. This conversation would soon conclude, and he could finally rest.

He listened still, nodding in agreement as they continued. Back to the basics — not the worst starting point. Though it would be difficult to thwart the higher ups with that reason alone for months, since they were pushing for a lyrical song, but it would give them enough time to develop a concept, build a repertoire. The next album could potentially be delayed a year; that would give Red enough chance of exploration. And to determine if their singing voice would ever return.

“I can work with ideas,” he murmured. He built his entire career on ideas, whether they belonged to him or the artists he worked with. And those ideas topped charts and launched others’ careers. It was why he was ordered here, it was why he was assigned to the voiceless singer, it was why he carried the weight of expectations.

There was a long stretch of silence, and truthfully, it began to lull him to sleep. The effort to remain awake was overpowering the need to converse with his future ward. God, he wished to be in his own bed, his own apartment.

And when he opened his eyes to reply, he almost didn’t register the change of their appearance as he spoke. But after one blink, two, he reminded himself that he was still awake. That the silence was them taking the opportunity to change, and not him conking out and having the relentless working dreams that haunted him.

Swallowing, the scratch in his throat roared, and he slowly released a breath. “That’s all I will ever ask of you. And what I’ll try to make sure everyone else does too. Simply try — we’ll figure out the rest from there.”

Secret contract — that phrase itself almost pulled a smile, but it was the statement of sagging trees that pulled short laughter. God, of course it was obvious. And then — they stepped forward. He didn’t startle, but raised a brow at the extension of the blanket, and he could sink into the couch and close his eyes to sleep right then. Meeting their eyes once more, he offered his own smirk.”No, you are certainly not a vulture. Not sure what I would label you yet, but it isn’t a vulture.”

He clasped his hands together to prevent from lifting the blanket over his shoulders. Oh, this was bad. “If I don’t leave now, I’m going to fall asleep right here, and we have an early morning.” Three am calls unearthed offered an honesty that he would take care to filter instead. Licking his lips, he breathed deeply through his nose, and shook his head. “I should call an Uber and leave. Let you get some rest too.”

“Just call me Red for now.”

The nickname suited almost nothing about them. In their wardrobe, they owned perhaps one or two red blouses, a dress or a pair of fishnet stockings, platform heels they hadn’t worn since the eighth grade formal dance. There was no such a colour in their hair; right now, it was silver, platinum-sheen in the dullest lights, sometimes appearing like one of those light metal-blues. It was not a faded colour, and they were made of faded colours.

A lot of friends, acquaintances, and fellow musicians surmised where the nickname came from. Favourite faerie tale? A mother’s gift of a red-edged blanket? Believing in the strings of fate? It was all quite poetic, in their opinion, and they protested to none of it. They liked those kinds of things. They themselves were not a superbly poetic person. Their lyrics were stark, frank, and vulnerable. It was part of what made it so difficult to write them, why being demanded to was a drain on their soul, why they had grown so tired of it.

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason. Their voice was stuck in their throat because of more than that, and they swallowed down the biting words that might have spilt out even thinking of it. If there was one thing they did not need to think about at this time of night —

                      “Pft. You snore? You cannot wake me.” 

It was probably unprofessional to have your recently-hired producer sleeping on your sofa. But Red had never done things by the book. Their thumb rubbed at their lower lip, some colour of light red appearing there from the blood flow. Ah, perhaps that was it.

“You know, I fall asleep anywhere. Anytime. I train myself to do this. It makes all those places a little easier if I fall away into the slumber. Wrapped like a bug.” Instead of fiddling with their lip, they fiddled with the drawstring, and then the hem of their shirt. Their hands always moved somewhere, always needed to be touching and pulling at something.

“We can tackle early morning at same time, no risk of oversleeping. You stay there.” And he did not have to reach for the blanket himself. The last time they had tucked someone in was in some other life that they barely remembered in the rush of needing success.

But they still remembered, at least, how to do it. They reached and were careful not to touch him, because a lot of people were uncertain about that being-touched thing, and Red was one of them. But still they pulled the blanket up, over his clasped hands and across his shoulders. Until he also resembled a bug, like something wrapped up in a leaf. Fallen trees and bugs. Hm, most people would find that suspicious, but Red kind of liked it.

It showed that he was, to some degree, natural.

“Do not worry,” they said easily. “I have loud clocks.” 

                         ——  ☾ He might have been new, fresh blood at this club — but all clubs were the same. They had a dress code, they had a time limit for clients, and they all harboured the same kind of client. There were those who were uncertain about themselves, maybe had tagged along with a friend. There were those who brought their loved one with them and then became oddly jealous ( what did they think this was? ) when flirting happened. There were those who wanted everything for free, and those who paid a little too much ( and some might not think any amount of money was too much, but Jackson had standards, and if he didn’t meet them, don’t pay him as if he did. ) He had learnt how to read them all, and in record time.

After all, the unregistered establishments didn’t give you time to have a learning curve.

In the same vein as there being the same kinds of clients, there were the same kinds of — girls. He would admit, men weren’t talked about in this profession, though there were plenty of them around. Girls who were jealous and sabotaged tips, either by stealing or tattling; girls who were overdressed, or then underdressed; girls who tried too hard, girls who didn’t try at all. Those who got elected as employee of the month ( or was it hostess? no, faerie, in these parts ) were all of the same calibre: hard working, complained about nothing, and never got hurt. Jackson did not have a goal to become faerie of the month. But to be fair, Jackson hadn’t had a goal ever since he had been forced to give up on all the ones before.

However — he had to admit. There were girls that didn’t fit those kinds. And those girls were a kind of their own. Of course, all clubs had their misfits or under-the-radar fliers. He stood at the bar, leaning against it, pink shirt open to the navel, new gold watch glittering on his wrist, and the blond of his hair slicked back, those few strands just falling on his forehead. He stood there and observed all of this as though he was just surveying the crowd.

But then — there she came. And as she walked into the room, Jackson leaned forward and he gripped the edge of the bar so that he wouldn’t fall flat on his face. ( Anybody asked him now, after he had been with her for years, followed her and let himself be followed and loved — he would say he knew he looked like he’d been slapped silly. )

“Holy hot damn,” he said under his breath. “Now who is that?”

                        ——  ✵ A flick of the brush over her eyes sang of finality. A breath, and then she finally opened her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “for how --- abysmal the eyeliner was.”

“Hush, hush, Pippa. This was fixable.” Madame Darling deposited the makeup into the purse on the nearby chair. She reached for Pippa’s chin, gentle fingers moving her face from one side to the other. “Stunning,” she whispered. “Now you truly look like you belong in front of an audience.”

That was how Madame found her: onstage, crooning something she can no longer recall. Her memories were cast in a haze, masked details she couldn’t expose. And even now, she could barely recount the prior week --- though the reason for that lied in the shaking of her hands and dilated pupils.

As Madame Darling stepped around her, Pippa glanced down at her costume. Extravagance wouldn’t be a proper label, but the single-sleeved navy dress, with high slit and glittering band circling her small waist, was quite different from the usual attire. With hair styled into a low, braided bun and a few curled pieces framing her face --- yes, she did appear as if she belonged somewhere else.

Madame Darling rested her hands on Pippa’s shoulders, guiding her to the fairies’ entrance to the venue. “You were wonderful in rehearsal, and I know you’ll be a hit with our regulars.” She squeezed then, something gentle and commanding. “We also have a new set of wings on the floor; be sure to leave him with a splendid impression of his new co-workers, hmm?”

Him. Pippa’s brows furrowed, cherry-red lips parting, but her question died in silence as her high-up opened the door and pushed her through.

Her every step echoed despite the usual din. Gaze darting around, she slowly registered face after face, familiar and old mixing together. But the new maintained that presence of sophistication, desperation, or pride. None blended like the fairies did: soothing yet tantalizing, entertaining and fantastical.

She caught movement of a fairy carrying the vintage mic to the middle of the floor, the others who volunteered as dancers quickly shifting to the same spot. Preparing for fun and jeering and pretending, and ---- oh, THERE, right at the bar. Swept blonde locks, shirt unbuttoned and trailing down, down, down, leaning forward with muscles taught as he held himself. It all clicked.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the fairy with the mic began, and Pippa swallowed, quickly taking her place behind the woman. Shaky breath after shaky breath, she soon closed her eyes. Envisioned herself in a dimly lit room, the glow from the fireplace keeping her awake. Thought of the quiet that came with waiting without worry. Imagined the warmth that came from knowing a love would soon be coming home.

She would never have that again.

“ ----- Sang by our very own, PIPPA LEE!”

Eyes snapping open, she smiled and stepped forward, spotlight shining as the room went dark. A hand curled around the mic, and she cradled it close, her smile transforming to something smaller, something fitting for this role she played.

She told herself that she was stronger than this. Made to be stronger.

But when she had been accosted and escorted out of her own chambers, she could not believe it. She had no lion within her throat to release a roar, nor the snap of a dragon’s jaw. She had no animal’s spirit which guided her, just herself. Unless her mother desired something more, more, more from her, then she was given lessons and expectations and silence.

“I do not know what happened to my cousin,” she insisted. Her voice was quiet, pensive, as all her words tended to be. “I swear it.” 

It was impossible for her to known what happened, although she could surmise. He had grown exhausted of the lack of attention and fled. That was what her mother told her, although none of the details added up; what reason did she have not to trust her? Her mother wanted what was best for her, wanted her to become the queen and to be prepared for such an undertaking. The marriage was soon to be arranged to solidify an outside alliance, and there was a rumour of the pair of jewelled dragon eggs to be gifted to her. 

( Such things were myths, at best, or holders for the ends of books, at worst. Dragons were for those who told stories, and she was meant to have outgrown stories since she was a girl. Even if sometimes, she still much felt like a girl, did not think she could lead a kingdom. I’ll be beside you, Minjeong, her mother cooed in these doubtful times, every step of the way. )

And of course, she never defied her mother in the outright sense. But she could not help except notice that Yeonseok was the rightful heir, and she was not. Not out of jealousy, but purely by a birthright, by blood-right. She was just the cousin. The background-noise.

She did not mind that. She did prefer to observe. She was meek, and simple, after all. ( So they told her. So she allowed herself to be told. ) 

That was not all she noticed. She noticed her mother never told her everything, and she noticed that despite all of her claims of being there beside her, it was Myra who fulfilled that role. It was Myra who stood near her, hand against the hilt of her sword, hair braided back. And oh, she was grateful. How often had she told Myra she was grateful? Perhaps not enough, and perhaps more than was appropriate, depending upon who was being asked. Though Myra was older than her by a few slight years, they still had grown up together. 

The Lieutenant General and the Secretary were still asking her questions. She had thought of Myra and forgotten entirely about their inquiries. The long glances they exchanged with each other was telling and damning enough to almost make her want to scream. Almost. ( Almost make her want to burn them all. Almost. Your father died because he was mad. He was mad. He wanted to burn them all. ) And Minjeong merely sighed away the thoughts.

These thoughts, like cobwebs, like echoing grins on the walls, painted in red. She had not even wanted to attend these questions, but they had practically dragged her out of the room; she’d no time to call for Myra, who wouldn’t have let her leave anyways—

        Precisely why they drug her, wasn’t it. There was no fooling a lion, and they were growing rather desperate for answers. She squared her chin and slid the hardest glare she knew across the both of them. It was not enough to dismay them, but they did grow quiet.

And then it was bettered by Myra’s appearance. The tension shot out of her shoulders at the sound of her voice behind her as she approached, though she did not dare to turn around and look. She had worked so hard to get this grimace just right for them.

“My mother might be in a fury, but I doubt she suspects I had anything to do with it, even if you are not of the same mind.” Meek she might be, but words were stronger battle tactics and it was a slow climb to the top of the diplomatic ladder. Despite the clear, almost peach-ness of her eyeshadow and the blush upon her cheeks, the brightness did not disguise the exhaustion. Already she had not been sleeping. Dreaming of the fires that killed and burned. And now, her cousin was missing, and although she had not seen him, she missed him, in a sense, wondered why he was doing this, what he was thinking, where he was going. 

“I know nothing,” she emphasised. She allowed Myra to speak freely; if anyone were to ever to threaten to cut off her head— “It would be wiser for you both to let me be.”

“This matter is growing more urgent by the moment,” Arlene said. She was controlling the little sneer this time, but Minjeong was far beyond giving credit. “We —”

“Need to be out looking, instead of in here, interrogating. I have not seen Yeonseok for months. That is common knowledge.” 

She tried not to sound too prim, but the dismissal was clear. And just in case it wasn’t: 

“You both are pardoned to — be useful.” It was something her mother said. It didn’t sound nearly as tyrannical coming from her. “And I have things I must do that do not involve babysitting or — wandering about answering the same things over and over again!”

She was speaking too much, so she stepped back towards Myra, and then turned towards her more fully. “— Yes, let us — attend the meeting in the gardens, please. We don’t want to be late. It is very important.” 

There was no meeting in the gardens. Myra knew this. But Minjeong stepped away nonetheless, the filmy lavender silk of her dress drifting around her legs. She hadn’t even been permitted to put on shoes, and now she would not. And she did not speak again until they reached the end of the corridor, the smell of the blooming flowers growing stronger.

“— My word,” she murmured. “I believe this is getting out of hand now. He must truly be gone, if this is what they are doing. If this is what they think of me.”

This twisted sense of politics infuriated her.

Years spent by Minjeong’s side led her to learn the intricacies of the royal court and how to engage with the lords and ladies of the land, And it was all stifling, the way she had to navigate motives so she didn’t misrepresent the princess she protected.

She was a pawn, as much as Minjeong tried not to enforce that role. Myra understood her duty to the throne and what obstacles that entailed. And Arlena and Roth were her greatest obstacles in this moment.

A shift to her right, and she glanced at the assigned guard. The poor fool was swaying, fidgeting as if caught in a trap. Her eyes narrowed. never again shall i request your assistance.

Minjeong stepped forward then, voice clear, and Myra slowly lifted her chin. She bowed her head as Minjeong spoke of the garden.  As she straightened, she fought the urge to flick her gaze to Arlena and Roth. She wouldn’t offer them a sense of satisfaction for the result of the confrontation. They had been admonished by Minjeong, and Myra no longer needed to care for their reactions. And they didn’t need to interpret a faux sense that she feared their power.

They had nothing. The only one who could deliver harm was the Queen. And for now, that harm was focused elsewhere.

She sent a silent prayer to Yeonseok. A foolish thing, to wish for his survival, but he was always kind to her. the whispers of his deceit left her uneasy, distrustful. This environment was a game, and Yeonseok lost.

She could not allow Minjeong to suffer the same fate.

Stepping beside the princess, Myra matched the pace set. Not faster, nor slower --- always, always beside. It wasn’t a move of grandeur, as if a means to establish her importance. She knew her place, and it would never be equal to the status of Minjeong. But Myra would always return to Minjeong’s side, no matter the cost. Her oath led her there, and there was nowhere else she would rather be.

The garden’s entrance was near, a short walk that allowed for a chance at privacy. Flicking her gaze at their surrounding, Myra kept her voice soft as she finally responded, “They desire for information they do not have --- that they are not allowed to have.”

The scent of flowers encased them as they reached the steps that cascaded into the gardens. The grand doors were already pulled open, displaying blue skies and an orchestra of songbirds. And as they drew to the top of the stairs, every color blossomed into view, a scene stolen from the old paintings scattered throughout the palace.

For most, this remained a place of calm serenity, for hushed secrets that amounted to gossip and pettiness. But for the royal court, their whispers could carry through the country; one word, and the entire kingdom would change.

And yet ---- Myra found her shoulders losing tension once more. Despite how their lives were entwined in this game of power, the garden created a space of escape. And for Minjeong, she could she some of the weight that her role forced her to carry.

They descended, and she finally glanced at Minjeong. “I do believe your cousin is truly gone, Your Highness. Not in the same sense as before.

And Minjeong must already know this, and must already be cut by this fact. But Myra remained steadfast as she continued: “What step do you wish to take?”

Keep going, keep going, keep going. Oh, may the gods save me. May they have mercy on me. I have nothing left to give but what is left in myself.

He kept his arms close to his body, rolling down into the brambles as he tumbles over a hillside, hard breath knocked out of him as he made impact with the incline. Dirt and leaves stuck to the goldenrod of his hair, and his clothes were no longer impeccable, smoothed down and over. Not that the Queen allowed him to have a change of clothes; to be frank, the wilderness improved his overall appearance. It erased the smudges, the bruises, the paleness. 

              This was the first time he had seen the sun in weeks.

When he picked himself up from the ground, he turned his face towards it, closing his eyes. The guards might be in pursuit, the others might be after him, the dogs might be unleashed and his grave might be dug, unmarked and rotten and awaiting his corpse — but still he took this tender moment to relish in being alive. He breathed in the air he lost, he let it sit in his lungs until it was burning, and then he released it. A hard swallow, and his eyes opened. 

The landscape turned crimson and blotted-out with black dots from the change. But he liked it. He liked it very much, because it meant he was no longer imprisoned in the tower. He was not a framed man in his own home. ( But he had given up on all of that. There was no point in viewing it as his own home. It had stopped being his the moment she set foot into the palace, when she set her sights on his father and disposed of his mother in the same breath. )

As much as he detested assigning roles and tropes to people, there was no question about the terrible things Jensine was doing. Queen Regent, and yet that was not enough. His father was in ill health, wanting to see his only son, his only link with his dead wife, and Jensine breathed lies into his ear about how Yeonseok wanted nothing to do with him. In a sound mind, the words would be rebuked, but his father’s mind had not been sound for awhile. She had made sure to that. It was astounding, the malice of which she was capable. 

                       She was nothing like her sister. His mother. And his heart ached. 

At least his mother had obtained a proper funeral. No one would permit anything else. So loved she had been in the dynasty, adored and revered to the point of worship. He missed her. If she was still alive, she would help him. Tell him what to do. 

(( if she was still alive then jensine wouldn’t be getting away with this but he has to watch as she does and does and does and kills and — ))

As it were, he had two friends. One was his cousin, or so he thought; but she had not been seen since the news broke that now she was the heir to the throne. The other — was Ming.

And he had not visited with Ming in months. But Ming knew what was happening to him. Knew it was unjust, that it wasn’t right. Yeonseok might be long-suffering, but the huntsman made his distaste of the situation clear. Please don’t say anymore about it, Yeonseok would beg. I want to talk of other things besides the prison I’m in. I want to pretend to be free.

How exactly he had managed this heist, he was unsure. He would become more sure once he found Ming. That was why he was out here, after all. Ming lived in the woods, and the woods loved him as the kingdom loved Yeonseok’s mother. 

Blood poured from shallow cuts, and he pressed onward, stumbling. He had on a pair of worn boots stolen from a guard, and then the torn blouse and sackcloth trousers. He looked as much like a prisoner as an actual prisoner — (( there was no difference, no difference at all. )) The trees pressed in on him at all sides, as though attempting to guide him, and some might find it stifling, but he loved it. He could hear the calling of the birds, the skittering of the rabbits, the jumping of the deer. As though he was a nature spirit and they welcomed his return.

“Hello?” He called out into the dense greenery. He thought he heard stirring, but his voice was hoarse and barely able to echo. “Hello? Ming? Are you out there?” 

             Silence broke over the edge of the dam. Was he still alone? How long had he been running? And so he continued to run, until his knees quaked. Until he came to a stop in the middle of a babbling brook. The distant sound of barking dogs aroused a fear in him, and that fear stabbed him in the stomach. 

Oh, gods. No. Please. Not now.

“Ming?” He called out once more, trying to raise his voice. “It’s — it’s me! Are you out there?”

He feared the worst.

He never quivered under the passage of time. It was a mere marker, a hunt to complete different puzzles. For him, it was like the tracks of an animal or the whetstone sharpening his knife; a tool to aide the hunt. For hours, he would sit unmoving, watching, waiting. Like a stone settled in the river, the current steadily moving around. Time did not harm him.

But it now instilled the seed of fear, and how its branches grew.

He counted seasons, never weeks, but now he was counting each hour that passed. The prince had never before allowed such a stretch of time between visits. Ever since Ming first stumbled upon the heir to the kingdom, their meetings had become a regular occurrence. They never spoke of a designated day; Yeonseok would merely travel into the woods, and Ming would always find him.

But too much time had passed since Yeonseok last ventured into the forest Ming claimed as home. And dread filled Ming’s veins, clogging every thought until there was only the inner clock, counting each agonizing second.

He feared the worst. And he didn’t know what his future would hold if the worst came to pass.

A pang of regret pierced his chest, the pain splintering as he sucked a harsh breath. He should have whisked the prince to his home, or across the country’s border long before this moment. He witnessed Yeonseok whittling away, energy depleting and skin greying after the passing of the Queen. Part of it was mourning; the enture kingdom wept for months after the gracious Queen lost her battle for life. But Ming understood that mourning couldn’t explain blossoming purple on skin so soon after the King remarried.

His lips curled at the thought of that step-mother. Queen Regent she was not. She existed to enact chaos, all for herself. Ming suspected her own daughter would be sacrificed for her cause in the future. But at the present, Yeonseok was the one to suffer.

How often did he spew vitriol without acting? Harsh words produced nothing. Any comfort Yeonseok may have felt because Ming noticed, that Ming disagreed with Yeonseok’s treatment, was ultimately short-lived. Their worth couldn’t shield the prince from harm.

And now, here he was, attempting to search the forest. A better huntsman would have started days before. A better huntsman would have foreseen the need before it was too late.

The forest murmured, sounds hushed as the day waned. The soft glow of the sun’s rays broke through the treetops, spotlights marking a trail that he belatedly followed. The beating of his heart slowly overwhelmed everything else, a rhythm he wished would abandon him.

His steps slowed to a stop. In and out, in and out, until his heart slowed, until all he sensed was the expanse of the forest, elusive in its whispers. They encased him, these pathways through the trees, full of twists and turns. And they guided him, right to a rustling that seemed —- unnatural.

The rustling transformed to a burst of noise. Birds flying overhead, the wind whistling through the leaves.

Dogs barking in the distance.

He didn’t sprint, but almost flew toward the source. Hunting parties rarely traveled this deep into the forest when out of season. A trickle of hope stirred, pushing him forward again and again and again. A chance had blossomed; he couldn’t waste it, he had to grab it and hold tight, because maybe, maybe, MAYBE —–

                                                                                    “Ming!”

                                                                  His heart burst.

                                                                       “It’s – it’s me!”

                                                    He was so, so close.

                                                                                              “Are you out there?”

Ming ran through the brush, the desire for stealth long extinguished. He reached through the branches, surged past the snagging, and he was so, so close.

The branches parted, and the sun shone on Yeonseok.

“Your Highness.” Breathless, Ming strode forward, wading into the creek. His gaze flicked to the blood slowly streaming down the prince’s head, and that pain shot through his chest again. That fury rumbled, a spark lighting an impending wildfire.

The dogs howled, closer than before.

Licking his lips, Ming took Yeonseok’s hand. “Stay in the water; we’ll travel further along. We must lose them. We cannot stop for anything else.”