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literary-motif · 2 days ago

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Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iv — The Walk

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: character death

The night came down like a quiet blessing, bringing the bleak autumn day to a close. You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets, flexing your fingers to stave off the chill numbing them. It was cold, pleasantly so.

The leaves rustled in the wind, dancing on the ground before you as you walked down the lone road through the secluded area of the park. It was beautiful, the low moonlight illuminating the trees with a faint hue of blue. You wondered what Vic would tell you tonight.

He had stayed long after the funeral ended, doubtlessly making sure Isaac was alright and keeping Rhoades from drinking himself into a stupor. No matter how insistent he was to continue working, you resolved to keep a closer eye on him from now on. Vic would have had the same thought already. Telling him was superfluous, but you made a mental note to bring it up anyway.

Walking cleared your head. The colder it was outside, the better. Not because it was more pleasant — walking in the rain was a different feeling entirely than taking a stroll on the warm summer night — but because it organized your mind, slicing through the thoughts and emotions bouncing in your skull with a sharp knife.

The cold made you feel glad when you walked back home, entering the mansion you had to yourself and curling up in front of the fire Julian would have lit for you, wishing him a good night and promising to eat the dinner he had set out before basking in the warmth and the comfort it brought.

The heat would melt away the chill, turning you warm and cozy in a way that was next to impossible to replicate in any other way inside the endless, hollowness of your home.

It made you feel human in the rawest way, going home to appreciate the warmth that was there. Going home to seek shelter behind the walls that kept out the chill the world shrouded you in.

A bench came into view, leaves cracking under your shoes as you walked towards it. You sat down with a sigh, leaning back against the stiff wood with a wince as it dug into your back. The discomfort was a small price to pay for the view of the city and its bright lights, stretching out in front of you like a beautiful work of art on canvas.

You shivered as a harsh gust of wind whipped past, wrapping your coat tighter around you.

Vic was not late, you were early. A few minutes early — maybe fifteen.

You could no longer stand to stare at the papers on your desk. It felt like the walls of your study were closing in on you, the faint longing for chamomile tea making your heart ache from past mistakes.

I know people are willing to betray for it.

The whirlwind of your thoughts had made you want to pace, tear apart every wretched document, and disappear forever into oblivion to catch a break from it all.

You decided to take a walk instead. So you were early, inhaling the cold night air and allowing it to soothe away some of your restlessness.

The warden was expecting a call. You had put it off all day, again too preoccupied with the Trimedian to turn your attention to Stockton. You wondered faintly if you should attend Tara’s funeral, or if Warden would seize the opportunity to shoot you on the spot. Maybe James would before the widower even had a chance to blink.

You wondered if that was worth the end, just to show your acquaintance — your friend — the last honors. Because that’s what Tara had been, even with all the animosity between you. That’s what you had lost that day, yesterday, when the markets crashed and a vampire was ready to tear out your heart — a friend.

And then Dove followed, and you had lost another.

Bashir had called. You had not picked up, too much occurring between betrayals, and threats, and murders to switch your mind into gear and think about the Collective and world politics. You would call her back. She was a night owl anyway, toiling away behind her bright white desk when Dove had long since gone to bed.

Except Dove was dead.

She never came home that day. Never returned to her study. Never got the chance to light a cigarette in the fading twilight, and lean out of the window to observe the leaves rustling in the breeze, the smoke between her fingers drifting upwards.

No, she was dead. And so was Tara. And both their funerals lay ahead of you and you did not know if you could endure them both without breaking apart completely.

After Warden had left last night, it was Bashir who had told you about Kennedy — Robert Kennedy — successfully filling the market void by buying the ashen remains of Michelle’s real estate business. He had stabilized the branch in a way Quetza was currently unable to.

She had asked about the future of the hotel chain now that Tara was gone, and you had told her it was safe, voice choked and back aching. She had asked about Stockton, and you could not answer her.

The power dynamics of the city were shifting, especially with Kennedy’s new involvement. The gangs would regroup, continuing to wage war with each other perhaps more ruthlessly than before. You supposed it could not get much worse than planting a bomb in a meeting that was supposed to bring about a truce.

Murdering Tara was as bad as it would get.

Warden would make sure of that as well, the wrath in him fueling his work. He would keep the gangs and the city balanced, not wanting to risk losing his son in the turmoil as well. You only hoped he would not freeze over his heart to prepare for what he thought was the inevitable impact of a life in freefall — the death of all he loved.

You should call your family.

The thought was sudden, startling you out of the peaceful reverie that had settled over you as you gazed at the scenery unseeing, grim musings taking up all your attention.

You knew you should. Hearing their voices, talking to them even of the most banal things, and appreciating them while they were here was better than mourning them while they were still alive.

The heartbreak you would feel at losing them — inevitably — would be better than this quiet, gray detachment. It would not hurt less once they were gone, and the guilt burning in your chest at having wasted the years you could have still been part of their lives would turn into acid regret, coursing through you with the grief of lost time.

You would be mourning a husk, a person that had not existed for a very long time because you had lost touch. You did not know them anymore. That would hurt most of all.

You should call them if only to tell them you loved them, and promptly hang up again.

Did they know?

You hoped they did.

It was better to keep this distance between you. It was safer for them. But the funeral had stirred something in you. Rhoades’ words had made you taste ash. You did everything right. No, you could not believe that.

You would keep your distance, not daring to give your enemies any more ammunition against you in these volatile times, but you did not want to keep them guessing.

You would call them, as soon as you got home.

You would bid goodnight to Julian, thanking him profusely for all that he had done for you once again, sink into the cushions of the sofa to soak up the warmth emanating from the fireplace, pick up the telephone, and call them. Two minutes. Five minutes. It would not matter.

You would call, remind them of your love, and hang up. Bashir could wait another few minutes once you got home.

Once you got home.

The leaves next to you rustled.

The corner of your mouth twisted upwards in a smile, but you did not take your eyes off the city lights before you. There was a light sheen of fog rolling in with the night, turning the lights hazy. You thought it made the whole picture all the more beautiful. You opened your mouth, a greeting on your lips.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You froze.

That was not Vic’s voice.

Lazarus sat down beside you, heaving a deep sigh as he breathed in the fresh air. “I can hear the spike in your heart rate, you know,” he said, amusement in his voice. His sharp smile only made your heart beat faster. “Suppose I’m not the one you wanted to see. Is that fear I smell on you?”

“What do you want?” you asked, keeping your voice even.

He adjusted his collar, following the leaves sinking to the ground with a calm pleasure in his eyes that reminded you that he was immortal, and he had all the time the world had to offer.

“I can smell lies, too, you know,” he said, once the leaves reached the ground, lying still. The wind ruffled his hair. It made the leaves skitter. With the brown strands falling into his face, Lazarus looked soft in a way that clashed with the sharp canine teeth he exposed.

His dark eyes settled on you. It felt like a reckoning, the closing of business that had been left unfinished.

“I could smell your bluff from a mile away.”

You clenched your fists, feeling suddenly weightless. “Could you?” you asked, grappling to say something. The light at the end of the tunnel was getting further away. The well had deepened. “It did not seem like it to me.”

How would you get out of this one, you wondered.

“Putting on an act keeps things interesting,” he said, licking his teeth. “You never stood a chance either way. And you, my dear,” he said, hand shooting out to grab your jaw. He turned your head to face him fully.

You did not have time to draw back, flinching when you were in his grasp already. Your hands shot out instinctively, ready to pry his fingers off and claw at his wrist.

“Don’t,” he commanded, his voice floating on a cloud of calmness and control that left no choice in you but to obey.

Your movements stilled, a low groan of annoyance and anger tearing out of your throat. Now you knew what Asirel had talked about. Compulsion. It did not feel pleasant to have your control ripped away from you.

“As I was saying,” Lazarus continued, eyes drifting over your features before settling on your neck. The collar of your coat was in the way, but he licked his lips regardless. “You have begun getting on my nerves, and I’ve decided to do something about that. Can’t have you all up in my business now, can I?”

You gave a humorless chuckle, despite the fear he could taste. You looked him dead in the eye, defiance meeting quiet amusement and anticipation in his dark ones. He tilted his head curiously as he felt you work your jaw, loosening his grip as he realized you were trying to talk.

“Get in line,” you bit out.

The thought that all of this was hopeless hit you full force. You could not get out. It was over. Even if you cheated death here — and the dark eyes burning into you promised that to be impossible — you could not run from the inevitable forever.

“Impatience is my vice,” he said. “It was actually quite interesting to watch your life unravel. I didn’t think you had it in you to shoot Ackroyd, although I should have known you would go to every extent for your fondness of Asirel. And Vic, of course.”

You remembered suddenly that you had forgotten his umbrella. It stood in your foyer, long since dried. You wondered if someone would bother to return it after this. You wondered if he would ask for it back.

“The whole business in Stockton was unfortunate. She was so close to a breakthrough with the gang, from what I hear — I forget which one. The city is terribly confusing. Well, it does not matter. The Trimedian are off limits, you should have known that. You should have stuck to crashing markets and immoral weapon exports instead of chiseling away at Samuel Kennedy. He’s the main act. You were in over your head from the start.”

His concentration dropped, and you found that you could finally swat his hand away, freeing your jaw. He let you, laughing — a deep, ugly sound laced with venom and contempt — while staring at you as if you were a particularly entertaining puzzle.

You wiped the skin his fingers had touched with the back of your hand. “Well, I did not expect vampires when I first set out to investigate,” you said.

You were faintly aware that you were staling, but what were a few more moments when it would all end soon enough? The truth was, you were scared. No matter how much the theory of your death was a familiar musing you had gone over time and time again, the practice of it — truly, irreversibly dying — felt like another thing entirely. And you were scared. So very scared of the end.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” he quoted, trailing off to leave the line unfinished. Then he asked, “What does death look like to you?”

You startled, fingers clamping down on the wood of the bench beneath you. The overwhelming urge to flee, to run, run, run before it was too late took hold of you completely. You felt your knee jerk, a new high of adrenaline crashing over you.

Damn it all, you thought wildly. What did it matter? Making a run for it would be better than sitting here like a sacrificial lamb. Death was next to you.

I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.

What else was there to do but run for your life in a suicide frenzy?

You made to push yourself to stand, ready to dart towards the city lights. It was futile, you knew that as soon as your muscles contracted. It was useless.

Lazarus’ hand shot out, gripping your shoulder and halting your movements. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, before pulling you back onto the bench roughly. Your back hit the wood, and a sharp pain ran down your spine as you gasped breathlessly.

No, the game was over.

“How rude of you,” he said, a smile betraying his amusement as he watched your face contort in pain. If you had remembered to bring Vic’s umbrella, you thought you may have had a good shot at beating him to death with it. “Don’t be surprised now. You knew this was coming. Answer the question, before I make you.”

The cold air had turned freezing. You were sure your being early had morphed into Vic being late. You hoped he was alright.

“I suppose it looks like you,” you said.

There was a bitter acceptance in admitting that this was your last encounter. This was where the threads of fate had spun you to be. This was the end of everything for you, and if you had shared the late Mr. Cain’s enthusiasm for stoicism, you would have recognized the acceptance of your fate to be one of the pillars of a life dedicated to duty — Amor Fati.

His pleased hum filtered through the night, nearly hidden beneath the rustling sound of the leaves fluttering through the air. “I look forward to sinking my teeth into your neck. I’d say I’ve never had blue blood before, but that would be a lie,” he grinned at the memory. “This will only hurt a little.”

“The scenery is beautiful,” you said, keeping your eyes on the skyline. “I should have appreciated it more often.”

The city lights glinted in the night like diamonds or broken glass. The fog had gently thickened, dousing the view in peaceful calmness. The bright dots morphed together and you realized that the lights were as sharp as they had always been — cutting through the darkness with delicate precision, creating the illusion of warmth as you sat miles away from them, listening to the leaves and feeling cold — but they were turned soft by the tears in your eyes.

The moon was a constant, hanging in the sky with the promise of eternity.

“You should have,” Lazarus said, finality creeping into his voice. “It’s too late now.” He did not like to wait.

You looked at the lights, eyes narrowing as if seeing something long forgotten in the distance. Not forgotten, pushed out of mind, buried under all the chaos that had unfolded in the last few days. You blinked away the tears.

“Can you give me another twelve hours?” you breathed, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was.

He frowned. “Borrowed time?” He looked at you, impatience and pity in his expression. “What would you want with that?”

“I’m expected at a wedding,” you said quietly, fiddling with the silver ring on your finger. Your hands were shaking.

The thought of Julian standing in front of the chapel — his dark suit pressed to perfection, a red rose over his heart — as he checked his watch repeatedly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, heart breaking with every passing second because you weren’t showing up and you had promised, lodged itself like a wedge between your ribcage, breaking it open until what remained of your heart seeped out, dripping onto the leaf-covered ground.

Your wordless pleas hung heavy in the air, drifting towards the moon and into the void above. They were met with quiet, chilling silence.

You knew his answer before Lazarus even drew in a breath to speak. “They’ll have to manage without you from now on,” he said.

After all that Julian had done for you — and you could not fulfill the only request he had ever voiced.

You squeezed your eyes shut, battling the helplessness settling over you. Memento mori. It had only been a matter of time. You could not help the heaviness in your chest.

You could have done so much more with twelve hours. You could have done more with only a single one. Tie up the loose ends, leave with no unfinished business. Everything you had failed to do weighed you down, filling you with deep regret.

Death did not wait for you to finish up your plans. It did not wait for you to make the call, or pay the visit, or say goodbye.

How easy that was to forget sometimes, that the future was uncertain. That after the walk might never exist — that youwould never make it home one day.

You wiped your eyes. “What cruel words coming from an immortal raised from the dead,” you said.

“Every life is a tragedy in five acts,” Lazarus said, baring his teeth. “And the curtains are closing on yours.”

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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literary-motif · 3 days ago

Text

Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iii — The Price

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: mourning/grief

You avoided funerals like the plague. It was only out of a sense of deep-seated sympathy — and guilt so crushing it made you bolt upright at night, drenched in sweat and pleading for forgiveness to the empty air around you — that you attended the one in Mr. Rhoades's backyard.

(Tara’s was not for another two days, but you doubted Warden would appreciate you showing up.)

Asirel stood beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of your heads. It kept the downpour from drenching you in a matter of seconds as it looked like the heavens had opened up, intending to flood the earth once more. The sound of the rain plummeting around you accompanied the quiet gasps and sobs. They brushed over the rift in your heart, making it ache.

Mr. Rhoades did not seem to care about the rain. He was dripping, swaying before the empty grave and nearly toppling over if Vic had not put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. The river of his tears mixed with the rain, rolling over his face before falling to the earth.

You saw little Isaac standing only a few paces behind his grandfather. His eyes were wild, darting around the trees, flinching at every noise as he kept his distance from the grave his parents would be buried in. The blue orchids beside it buckled and snapped under the force of the rain.

It was only natural after what the little boy had gone through in this very garden. It was an act of bravery that spoke for Isaac’s character — or the persuasion skills of his grandfather — that the child attended the funeral at all.

This experience — trauma, you corrected — would leave a scar. You were sure of it.

“Poor boy,” Asirel muttered. His hold on the umbrella tightened as the wind picked up, but he kept his voice light. Both of you watched the coffins being lowered into the ground. The rain was nearly loud enough to drown out Mr. Rhoades’ quiet sobs. Nearly.

“Yes,” you said, suppressing a wince at the coldness seeping into the muscles of your back. The chill clinging to your bones reawakened the pain you had kept under wrap for the better part of the day. “I wonder what will become of him one day. If he is anything like his grandfather, it would be best not to let him stray too far.”

Asirled hummed, filing the thought away for a later time. (It would resurface years from now when Mr. Rhoades lay on his deathbed and Asirel needed a new private investigator.) “Memento mori, I suppose,” he said.

You could not help a sad smile. “Right next to Amor Fati,” you replied, glancing at Asirel, who was already looking at you. “Stoicism was your father’s favorite philosophy. We had long discussions about Marcus Aurelius when time permitted.”

Murder. Arsenic poisoning.

“I have found it easier to remember the fact that you yourself must die,” he said, watching Isaac as he carefully took a step closer to the grave. Perhaps he, too, saw white roses covered with black earth. “Than it is to accept the certainty that those around you must.”

Asirel had no problem picturing his own death. He would look at his cards, realize that he had no chance at winning this impossible game, and fold. That would be the last of it. Once his time was up, he knew there was nothing more he could do about the unfinished plans and half-baked ideas in his mind. He would have given all he had to offer, ready to retire and clear the stage for another play.

But when he pictured the death of his mother, or — god forbid — his little sister, his mind broke.

The wind picked up, harshly whipping around you. The chill made you groan softly, your hand reaching up to hold onto Asirel’s arm and keep yourself steady against the tide of burning sharpness that traveled up and down your spine.

He looked at your hand briefly, noting the tight grip you had on him and the firm press of your lips, and decided not to comment.

“It’s all about who dies first, in the end,” you bit out despite the pain, continuing the conversation. “It’s a race to the finish line nobody wants to win. At least the first one there gets spared the pain of loss.”

The pain of loss. He was intimately familiar with it.

It felt like a gray branch of thorns winding itself across his chest, squeezing tightly while it cut him open. It made him bleed, pulling the breath from his lungs until he could only tear open his mouth in a silent scream. Instead of his voice, a broken sob would crawl up his throat, his lungs laden with lead while his mouth felt stuffed with a mass of fog, clouding him, settling in his chest, and chilling him from the inside while the thorns tore at his skin ruthlessly.

Normally, the pain was different. Normally, he was not sure if he could call it pain at all.

It was like a black cloud looming over him, lowering its blinding white tendrils of apathy until they wrapped around his throat. They choked him until there was nothing left in his chest but a deep, hollow well.

It hurt, but the pain was distant. Somehow he thought that was worse.

At least with the cutting sorrow, there was something there. However faint, it was a tangible agony in his chest. But instead — when he felt like this — he was just empty.

Not even the burning despair at this nothingness was enough to break through the haze around his heart. Nothing was enough to stuff the well in his chest, and the effort it took to haul one pebble stone after another into this hole and wait for it to fill and bury his sorrow and pain, offered insufficient revenue.

No, he had been long since caught in the well, the water reaching up to his throat. He listened to his own emotions reverberate on its humid edges, feeling them dulled and tainted, unless there was an unexpected feeling sharp enough to shake him — a pain piercing through him that made him forget about the void and the ache, and the never-ending pebble stones.

“Sometimes that’s all I could ask for,” Asirel said cryptically, staring into the distance.

He watched Mr. Rhoades approach and felt your hand drop from his arm. The man was soaking wet, but Vic’s umbrella was sheltering him now. His friend held it above his head protectively, not minding to get caught in the rain himself as he walked beside him.

Mr. Rhoades came to stand before you, his eyes bloodshot and hazy as they moved over your features, hardly recognizing you. His gaze flickered to Asirel briefly, an afterthought that someone else was there. Rhoades looked wretched.

Isaac sneaked up beside him, hoovering at his grandfather’s side. The little boy was shaking, either from fear or the cold, you did not know.

Asirel thought he was keeping his sobs locked away in his chest, trembling from the force it took to keep his grief bottled up. He felt a pang of sympathy for the orphan — the word alone tearing apart his heart.

Morley had sold his secrets. She was responsible for doing this, but he had provided her with the opportunity. This was as much his fault as it was yours for putting Mr. Rhoades on the Kennedy case. He felt blood on his hands and longed to step into the rain so it might wash him clean again, cleanse him of the guilt and sorrow he felt bubbling in his chest.

“You were right,” Mr. Rhoades said, his voice rough and empty. He looked at you with dead eyes, soulless as they already glimpsed into the future and the rest of his miserable existence.

Alone. Hated. Lost.

He would bear the weight of many sleepless nights, wishing he were dead but refusing to turn the gun on himself, lest she— Allie — won and Isaac would be left with nobody at all.

“You were right to keep them away. You did everything right,” he said.

He was talking about your family. You tensed. The many times he had urged you to reach out to them again, warning you that you would regret it once they were gone flashed through your mind.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said, knowing your words were insufficient to obstruct the drowning tide of sorrow overtaking him. And I’m sorry you believe that. “I am truly sorry, Rhoades.”

Asirel’s eyes were on Vic, watching as the older man held out his hand to little Isaac, waiting patiently as he worked up the courage to take it. Without saying a word, Vic shrugged off his coat, draping it over the child’s shoulders and pulling it over his head slightly to shield him from the rain. “All good?” he asked gently.

Isaac shook his head, his eyes suddenly filling with tears as the pressure in his chest rose to a crescendo. He buried himself deeper in the coat, trying to disappear within it. A choked sob escaped him, making Vic wince.

“Yeah, alright,” he whispered, gaze snapping up as he handed you the umbrella, revealing a turmoil of emotions in his eyes — anger, protectiveness, and bitter, burning sadness.

You took hold of the handle without taking your gaze off of Rhoades, half-stepping into the downpour yourself to keep him shielded. Asirel followed your step forward, assuring you both stayed dry.

“Let’s get you inside,” Vic said, placing a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, grounding him while he led the little boy back towards the house.

Under his hand, he could feel Isaac shaking, broken sobs now tumbling freely from his lips. At least he wasn’t alone. For a short while, at least, he had a chest to bury his face in and strong arms that would hold him together.

“I’ll get you nice and warm, yeah?” Vic said, his voice hardly audible over the plummeting rain. “Come with me, little one. You’re safe with me.”

“I have not made progress with the Trimedian,” Mr. Rhoades said, snapping Asirel’s attention away from the retreating backs of Vic and Isaac. His tone was flat. “I have new leads now. I will follow them thoroughly.”

“Take a break,” you said, trying to cut the business talk short.

He was a mess. You could see it in his eyes, they were dulled despite the anguish in his expression, dark circles under them betraying his restlessness. His hands trembled the way they only did when he was buckling under the pressure. Hewould down a tumbler of whiskey as soon as your back was turned, you knew, wanting to ease the weight grinding him into dust.

“There is no benefit in working yourself into the ground,” you said. “Take care of yourself. Take care of Isaac.”

“I will.” His voice cracked, and he wiped furiously at the fresh wave of tears with the back of his hand. “But I did not sacrifice them to get thrown out of the loop. I can manage this. I can manage everything. I need to continue my work. It is all that matters now — this and Isaac.”

He choked on a sob, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he ducked his head, half-heartedly attempting to hide his sorrow.

“The price I paid for this case was too high for me to abandon it,” he rasped, clearing his throat and pulling himself together enough for the facade of control to slip back over his face. “Our meeting in two days is on as scheduled. I’ll have new information for you then.”

“Rhoades—” you tried.

“Please,” he begged, and with the pain you saw in his gaze, you found it hard to deny him anything. “If my work should not be up to your standard—”

You shook your head as if to disperse the ridiculous notion.

“If it should no longer be,” he insisted, “I expect you to retire me. Throw me into permanent oblivion, let the damnatiomemoriae take me, and call it a prolonged vacation. I don’t care. But don’t you dare cut me off sooner!”

His eyes burned with fierce determination despite the tears still streaming down his face. His black suit stuck to his body, his hair drenched as wet strands clung to his forehead. His appearance did not warrant the surge of admiration overtakingyou.

You could not imagine the heaviness in his chest, nor the pain in his heart at the loss he had suffered. The price he paid for secrecy. You were in awe that he wanted to continue, that he could not abandon his sense of duty and responsibility even as his life lay shattered and buried in the garden.

Still, you cursed the path you had set out on that led to this.

“Of course,” you said. “Whatever you need.”

He nodded. His gaze dropped to the ground, and you knew he was in the throes of grief again. “Two days,” he breathed, heaving a sigh. He turned, walking towards the house. “Goodbye.”

You did not follow, closing the umbrella and stepping closer to Asirel again. You would have to return it to Vic at your next meeting.

The garden was empty now, only you and the dead left. The rain crashing down painted the ground in a shimmer of silver. You took a last look at the headstones — memento mori — and turned to face Asirel.

He was caught in a reverie, battling with a thought that would not leave his mind. “Do you think it was my fault?” he asked quietly. Had you been further away from him, it would have been impossible for you to hear him over the sound of the rain.

You frowned. “What?”

“Morley— who knows what she noticed,” he said. “She could have gone through the papers, pieced together something to tell Lazarus. Tell him enough to make it clear Rhoades was the informant. Tell him enough to—” He cut off. Make it my fault.

“No,” you said decisively, “Even if Lazarus sent the organization to retrieve the tape and he got the information from Morley. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for putting Rhoades on the Kennedy case in the first place.”

“You could not have known it would lead here,” he said.

“And you could not have known Morley would betray you,” you countered, reaching up slowly to place your hand on his. The silver rings on your fingers clinked together. “The chain of events is unforeseeable, and we can always blame ourselves in hindsight, but the truth is that we simply could not have known. Remember what I told you about information? People will kill for it ruthlessly. Both to get it and to keep it hidden.”

“I know that,” he said, wrenching his hand away from you. He took a step back, leaving you standing in the rain. “And I know people are willing to betray for it as well.”

Droplets of water rained down on you, soaking you. The thought of opening Vic’s umbrella to stay dry did not cross your mind. You looked at Asirel, standing before you with his jaw clenched, and wondered if you had ever felt as alone as you felt now.

“You learn fast,” you found yourself saying, voice strained. You thought he did not need you anymore.

Fresh earth covered two coffins a few paces behind you. White roses were buried with them, left to rot and fall away into nothing beneath the wet earth.

“Do you want to change the world?” you asked him. “You can, with the Collective.”

Asirel frowned, seeing your black VW pull up to the driveway from the corner of his eye. He opened his mouth to reply, but you cut it.

“A piece of advice,” you said, raising your hand to let the driver know you would be there in just a minute. “Remember that old systems are resistant to change. Seize every opportunity to steer things in the direction you want, never push them, or they will topple over and you lose control. Do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt, and if the cards are shit” — you said, staring at him intently to make sure he caught the meaning of your words — “and the secret stack you have hidden under the table is not enough to help you win, you bide your time and wait for the next round. Time might not always be on your side, but it is a powerful resource. You play the long game, after all.”

#asirel cain x reader #asirel cain #a tragedy in five acts

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literary-motif · 4 days ago

Text

Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene ii — The Secret

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: character death(s)

“Don’t you dare pick up that call.”

Mr. Rhoades did not even entertain the idea, continuing to glare at the woman sitting in front of him, her blazing red hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head and her eyes so startlingly blue that it felt like he was staring into the ocean.

She had introduced herself as Allie when he shook her hand, agreeing to a meeting only because she was a friend of an acquaintance who had helped him out in the past. He should have kept to his policy of not carrying favors. He should have!

“I’m afraid you’ve found me at a loss,” he said, leaning back against the worm leather of his chair and crossing his arms in a show of nonchalance. He was hiding how badly his hands shook.

Pretending would not get him out of this, he could tell. Her gaze was too sharp for that, the twist of her lips too ruthless. He was stalling, prolonging the inevitable in a faint, desperate hope that some ingenious idea would strike him, or whatever God lounged up in the sky, feasting on his pain, intervened, or his family finally left the fucking garden oh my God, please.

“Don’t play stupid,” she said, displeased.

He looked into the deep blue of her eyes — the stormy blue just before a tempest that would tear the land to shreds, the deep, dark blue of an enormous wave, rising from the ocean to swallow him whole.

“Now, hurry up. I don’t have all day, and I would rather not eradicate your entire bloodline. Give me the evidence, and we’ll all be on our merry way.”

His mind was blank. God had not heard him (or had chosen to ignore his pleas and prayers). And in the thick silence stretching between every one of his painful heartbeats and her distasteful voice laced with false sympathy, he had not heard the door open.

Desperate times. “What evidence?” he asked dumbly.

“You’re pushing your luck,” Allie said, checking her watch. “Give me the evidence. Give me the tape!”

He had an impossible choice to make. Her demand was choking the life out of him, tightening around his throat until he could no longer breathe, battling with himself to bite back the words he knew he must tell her.

But what if he was selfish for one? What if he damned it all, sent the world to hell, and protected the people close to his heart?

He could do that. He could block out everything else — everything but his son, his beautiful daughter-in-law, whom he loved as if she had been part of his family for his entire life, and the bright, intelligent little bundle of joy that looked up to him as if he had hung the stars in the sky — he could be selfish. He could be!

Mr. Rhoades squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the lump in his throat. He ignored every one of his senses, ringing alarm bells, telling him he was showing weakness in front of the enemy, weakness in front of the person trying to hurt you.

He knew he was giving her ammunition. He knew he had revealed his heart, succumbing to his helpless and dire situation.

You’ve had worse, a voice in his head tried to reason. But no, he really hadn’t.

Allie’s glare hardened, not a shred of sympathy in her expression. Seeing his moment of weakness, she made to crack open his ribcage. “You have thirty seconds.”

His breath hitched, and he bit down on his bottom lip hard to stifle the pleas for mercy on his tongue. Don’t make me choose, I beg you. Don’t take them away from me. Leave them alone and take me instead. Take me instead! He would not give her the satisfaction.

“Fifteen.”

“I don’t have the tape,” he heard himself say, barely conscious of his lips moving to form words.

That’s right. I don’t have the tape, he thought, half-mad with desperation. I ate it. Swallowed it down and watched myself choke to death on my secrets in the bathroom mirror. No more tape. The tape is gone. The tape is over. And so is my life. Yes, so is my life.

“Bullshit,” she snapped, fury lighting up her eyes.

The wave had risen to its zenith, any moment it would come crashing down, splitting him open against the harsh surface of the rocks lining the coast.

“Don’t lie to me. I have all the answers. I know exactly what I’m looking for and where to find it, so don’t mess with me. Last chance now, Rhoades. Give me the tape, and I’ll let your family live.”

He could be selfish. He could be.

“Do you promise?” he asked, not bothering to hide the shaking in his voice. Weakness. You’re giving her ammunition.

Allie’s gaze softened, but the corner of her lips twisting upwards betrayed her glee. She had found the crack in his armor. Her teeth were sinking in, her hands clawing at it to unravel him whole. “I promise,” she said.

And the words part was that he believed her.

“I can’t.”

Her expression fell, lips pressing into a thin line. “You can’t?” she asked, but there was no time for him to answer as he watched her tap her watch twice through blurry vision. Her patience had run out. Time was up. “Too bad.”

He looked at her, that was the least he could do. He forced his eyes to stay on the person who had done this, memorizing every feature of her face, imprinting the shade of green she was wearing on his mind and remembering the look in her dark blue eyes — sick, twisting satisfaction of having dealt a just punishment — when he flinched, hearing the gunshot.

There was a scream, unmistakably his son. He felt his heart break, shattering into dust in his chest as his tears spilled over, running down his face unobstructed. He wanted to sob in rage, break apart in his maddening guilt for doing this to them, for letting them die.

He kept his eyes open, kept them on her — swearing to whatever deity that had remained impassive that he would wage holy war against her and every one of her supporters until there was nothing left but a pile of ash and a shattered heart in an empty house.

The second gunshot followed quickly. He felt his stomach twist at the sickening thump against the backdoor to the kitchen.

Nearly. His son had nearly made it.

One more to go. He clenched his fists, waiting for the final hit that never came.

Allie gave him one last look of contempt as she got up, gathering her coat as if this was the conclusion of some civil meeting. “This could have been avoided,” she said, fastening the blood-red garment. “I want you to know that. Their blood is on your hands alone. This was your choice, Rhoades. Good luck living with it.”

Protect this with your life, you had told him.

He had.

His life lay sprawled out in the backyard. A bullet to the head, another to the heart, and the little crumb that was left of it was breaking apart, shaking in the kitchen cupboard.

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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literary-motif · 5 days ago

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Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene i — The Threat

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Asirel did not try to get up from his office chair. You paced the length of the study. One, two, three, four. Turn. One, two, three, four. Turn. Your steps were even, never faltering, keeping a rhythm he subconsciously mirrored in his breathing.

The empty gun sat on the desk between you — a prop, an illusion of power. All that was left of Morley was a smeared, persistent bloodstain, and the heavy feeling in Asirel’s chest. A dark gray, gnawing away at him.

Your restlessness was obvious. “What did he say?” you asked, halting suddenly. It made Asirel’s breath hitch, missing the crutch the count of your steps provided. “Anything important? Anything—?”

“No.” The interaction was fuzzy in his mind, despite having happened not an hour ago.

It felt like a dream, fading quickly after waking. The only thing he could remember was the seeping terror in him when his muscles locked into place, following orders that were not his. The betrayal he felt when Morley asked for her share after giving away a piece of him. The helplessness as she fell to the ground.

“Lazarus is the head of the Trimedian, as far as I can tell,” he said, trying to relax. His fingers clamped around the armrest of his chair. “He wants the Collective to stay out of its business. When he spoke— he compelled me to obey him. He could have done the same to you, but instead he left. I don’t understand.”

You sighed, shaking your head, at a loss. It dawned on you both that a simple gun — with poisoned bullets or without — was insufficient protection against mythics. They were so much more powerful, on a scale you did not yet fully comprehend. It would take a while to figure out how to combat them effectively.

“Are you alright?”

Asirel scoffed, loosening his grip to drag his hands over his face instead.

He contemplated snapping at you, had the words ready on his tongue.

‘Let’s see,’ he would say, voice dripping with disdain. ‘I’ve been in the Collective for less than a week, and so far I’ve been attacked by vampires twice, got betrayed twice’ — you would wince — ‘lost my secretary, had my family threatened, found out my father was murdered and saw four people die in front of me. I feel like the walls are closing in and my father is rolling in his grave in shame. But I’m fine, why do you ask?’’

You looked at him with quiet sorrow, concern weighing down your features until you seemed so weary and exhausted of it all, that he could not bring himself to speak the words.

“Yes,” he said simply, watching your gaze flicker to the ground self-consciously. You were beginning to feel out of place, knowing your betrayal still blazed in his chest.

Good, he thought.

“Why did you come to find me?”

You cleared your throat, not quite meeting his eye. “I wanted to apologize for my secrecy. I know I— I made mistakes. I kept things from you I shouldn’t have. In this line of work, you never know who is on your side. People can flip like coins when their loved ones are threatened, and I know I can trust Vic. So can you, I promise.”

He grimaced. “Your promises don’t mean much to me, you understand,” he said, and watched hurt flash across your face before you hid behind indifference. A small part of him was proud that he could do that, that you cared about him enough to be hurt at his dismissal. Most of him was anguished, longing to forgive and move on to have you by his side again, guiding him through the labyrinth his life had become.

“I see,” you said tonelessly, allowing the tense silence in the room to engulf you both.

Asirel opened his mouth to break it, but words failed him. It still felt like there was something crawling under his skin, Lazarus’ compulsion leaving a bitter aftertaste that tore his thoughts away from him. It felt foreign having someone so deep in his mind that he could not move if they willed it. It was horrifying.

He wondered if his mother had sat down with her book, the lavender tea already half-drained and cooling. The familiar impulse to make��two cups of camomile tea flashed in his mind, but he pushed it down. He wondered if Lazarus would follow through with his threat if the Collective investigated the Trimedian.

Investigated!

Asirel jolted.

Your lap dog managed to uncover some things while snooping around in what is mine.

“Rhoades,” he gasped, remembering the papers he had left open on his desk. Morley had looked at them closely. Morley had seen it all. She would have made the connection between Mr. Rhoades and the mythics. She would have told them all, selling his secrets to buy herself free.

Your eyes widened, Lazarus’ offhand comment slamming back into your mind.

How could you have forgotten? He could be in danger.

You dialed his number with shaky hands, cursing quietly as you listened to the line trying to connect.

“He’s not picking up.”

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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literary-motif · 5 days ago

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Not to say I told you so but I kinda did. Fair, I was a little wrong, but I was a little right as well!

#Simon!!!#(thanks to Scarlett for pointing this out)#this was an ego boost ngl #lmao #sakuverse #zsakuva #andrew marston

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literary-motif · 5 days ago

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Act IV — The Secret Eye

Scene iii — The Traitor

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Warnings: guns, canon-typical violence, character death

Asirel cursed the morning light. He hid his face in his hands as the warm rays shone through the window, dousing the study in a gentle light. He cursed the entire world with it.

The drowning sorrow in his chest had caved in, revealing a void that was swallowing him while he fought to keep his head above water. Something was dragging him down. These feelings of inadequacy. The betrayal that had left him rattled, frying at the edges.

This does not work if you do not trust me.

He had, and you made him pay dearly for it.

The scream of rage on his lips turned into a muffled groan instead. He wanted to sob, but the tears would not come. He was exhausted, and work had barely begun.

He felt like he had been pushed into a well when his father died, and every day since then had been a continuous, strung-together single day of grief and heartache, twisting into a downward spiral. He could feel the water in the well, chilling him to the bone. His fingers were numb, split open from clawing at the stone walls, his throat hoarse from screaming into the pitch blackness above, praying futilely for someone to hear him.

You had peaked in, flashing him a rope that you had set alight above him. When he closed his eyes, he could picture the ash sauntering downwards, raining on his face as he looked up.

It had all gone bad so fast. He would trade the world for just another day — another hour — of the life he had before. Anything for that sweet lull of ignorance. Everything for the certainty of not knowing what waited for him on the other end of the darkness.

He wanted to tear the memory of the mythics from his mind. He wanted to unsee the vampire’s shining white fangs, hovering inches from him. He wanted to forget the red in the blue, the dead in Atlantis.

Asirel wanted to forget his father was murdered.

And there was nothing he could do about it. Revenge was far away. Kennedy was too powerful. He had not even told his family. It would crush them, and he wanted to spare them the pain.

(Was that why you didn’t tell him? It didn't matter. This was not your secret to keep, and you knew that.)

He heard the front door shut and frowned. Morley was usually quiet, barely audible in the mansion at all unless she rapped on his door to inform him of something.

Measured footsteps approached the study. He raised his head, staring at the door intently. He knew he had no appointments. He had no company, either. Who was it?

He thought it could be you. But your footsteps sounded different. You walked with intent, striking a gentle rhythm against the ground that betrayed both your hurry and determination. These sounded leisurely, somehow teasing. It made him think of a cat, smugly following the mouse that had run straight into a dead-end. No escape.

He felt like prey.

A spike of panic flashed through him before he remembered that this was his home. It was one of the most secure places he could be in. Nobody could come in without him noticing, without him being informed. Security stood at every entrance, the world's best security system recently added on behest of his father (although it did not save him in the end) — he was safe.

But he did not feel safe.

The door to the study was thrown open without enough force to make it bounce off the wall. A man stood in the doorway, brown locks of hair framing his face as his gaze fixed on Asirel.

It felt like shards of ice were digging into him. The stranger made him shudder.

Then, he smiled widely. It was a manic, wide grin that held nothing of genuine happiness but was drenched in smug, playful contempt. A predator spotting his helpless prey.

“Good morning,” the stranger said, stepping over the threshold and fully into the study. He came to a halt in front of the desk, making no move to sit in the soft cushioned chair before it.

Asirel tried not to let his fear show. He knew he shouldn’t, but there was something about the man that made him think he could hear the frantic beating of his heart, his sharp gaze seeing the way his hands trembled faintly.

“I don’t recall having a meeting today,” he said, pushing the words out, and hoping the other did not notice the shaking in his voice.

The stranger’s lips twitched into a grin, and Asirel knew he had.

“Terribly sorry for barging in unannounced,” he said, tone empty of remorse. His eyes never left Asirel, studying him carefully. “Thought I might pop in for a bite and see what I’m working with.”

Asirel stared back. He was caught between fear and confusion, trying to make sense of the situation. The stranger seemed dangerous. He did not know how he managed to get in — the security system making it next to impossible, even for his own security guards — but he would find out and make sure it did not happen again.

Confusion got the upper hand, slowly morphing into annoyance at having this stranger in his study. Enough was enough. He gathered his courage, never averting his eyes from the man still standing in front of him.

His hand shot out to the wired telephone, a secure line with a little red button on its station that would alert security immediately that something was wrong. They would file into the room, and get the man out. Asirel found it blindly, his fingers barely touching it before—

“Don’t,” the man said, his voice as calm and deep as a hypnotist’s, knowing he would obey.

Asirel stilled, his index finger twitching to push the button. But he couldn’t.

His eyes widened. He took a shaky breath as he realized that the man in front of him was no man at all.

“Didn’t know we could do that, did you?” the stranger asked, chuckling at his expression of horror. “There’s a lot you don’t know about vampires, I bet. Too bad, really. For you that is. I find it amusing, a little endearing, even.” He stepped closer.

Vampire. Asirel’s blood ran cold, turning to ice in his veins. He moved his hand away from the telephone, relieved to find that he could. “What do you want?” he asked, pouring as much strength into his voice as he could despite feeling breathless and lightheaded. His heart was beating frantically.

The stranger tapped against the dark wood of the desk. “Relax,” he said with a twisted grin, “with the way your heart is leaping, you’re making me want to eat it. I’m joking, I’m joking.” He laughed, watching Asirel’s face drain of color. “Or am I? Well anyway. I want a simple thing: I want the Collective to stay out of my business. No research, no intrusions into the Trimedian. Forget we exist.”

He swallowed thickly, not daring to say that he longed to do just that. But that point of no return had been passed. He could not run it back — only forward, running every forward. “I’m the wrong person to voice that request to,” he said.

“I’m not requesting, and you are the perfect pet for this. Ackroyd turned out to be a disappointment, as you know. Shooting into action without consulting me first, ha. He deserved what he got. You will do as I say. Steer the Collective away from the mythics and focus on— on whatever else you do. Understand? I could compel you to do my bidding, but I’ve found fear to be a fun motivator as well.”

He cleared his throat, placing his hands on the desk to tower over Asirel.

“Now listen closely, pet,” he spat. “I can hear your mother in the east wing, pouring herself a cup of lavender tea. I know where your sister lives, and I can” — he smelled the air — “taste the fear coursing through you when I mention them. So if you want to protect the two people who are everything you have left, I suggest you do what I—” He cut off abruptly, licking his lips. “Company,” he said. “Dear, why don’t you step inside?”

Asirel’s eyes flickered towards the door. His heart dropped when he saw Morley, lingering by the threshold. “No,” he whispered, gaze snapping back towards the vampire, who was eyeing him curiously. “This is between us,” he said, desperation clawing up his throat. “Leave her out of this!”

The vampire’s face lit up. He raised a fist to his mouth, coughing demurely to hide his spreading gleeful smile. He looked bright, amused at the situation. Asirel was too panicked to make sense of it.

“Look, how sweet,” he cooed, straightening his back to turn towards Morley. She was still standing by the door, expression unreadable.

Asirel made to push himself out of his seat, trying to stand, trying to get to her first and do something to keep the vampire away. She did not know about mythics. She did not know how dangerous he was, that this was no man but a vampire.

“Stay down,” he said, again in the calm, trance-inducing tone that made Asirel freeze, his muscles locking up although he strained against them fiercely, trying to fight off the compulsion to no avail. His body would not obey him. He was helpless under the vampire’s words, his power exceeding Asirel’s strength of will.

He sank back into the office chair. The expensive leather had never felt so much like a prison.

Morley stepped towards the vampire, her heels clinking against the floor. Asirel felt his heart beating in his throat. He contemplated crying out, warning her, screaming at her to get away, to run, to alert security and get out, get out, before he kills you — but his throat was closed. He could only watch in horror as she stood before him, only a little shorter than the mythic.

She looked him in the eye, her lips pressed together with an impatient air. “Where is it?” she asked tensely, not sparing Asirel a glance. “I did my part, now it’s your turn. Where is it?”

“Why so impatient?” the vampire asked, grinning at her. “It’s not as if you’re sneaking out of Sparta under the cloak of night to get snatched away to Troy by the handsome Paris. I know of another Helen who did that. Why the rush, philia?”

“Where is my money?” she snapped. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, impatience giving way to anger.

Her words made the picture in Asirel’s mind finally fall into place. He had watched the scene unfold uncomprehendingly, disbelieving the truth he could no longer deny.

His face fell, gaze searching hers, begging to find a sliver of something that would tell him that it was not so, that his father’s secretary had not turned his back on him, that the woman who had been by his side for over half a decade had not thrown his trust back into his face.

“Did you know she had a gambling debt?” the vampire asked, turning to Asirel with pursed lips and a smugness that shattered every remaining illusion of disbelief.

Helen Morley had betrayed him, too.

His father had warned him not to trust anyone. He was beginning to understand why.

Asirel nodded numbly, his gaze falling to the floor.

“A hefty sum, I understand,” the vampire continued, chuckling as Morley glared at him. “Too bad, really. Too bad.” He stepped towards her, a hand shooting out to close around her neck effortlessly.

Her eyes widened. She gasped, overcome with shock and a sickening fear. He squeezed, and suddenly she could no longer breathe, feeling her chest constrict as her lungs burned. Her hands shot out, closing around his wrists to pry them away, to scratch and pull and hit — all to no avail. The vampire was stronger.

“Please,” Asirel heard himself breathe.

He could not say what he was begging for, but something about Morley — her face contorted in panic as she slowly suffocated — made him wish for this all to end. No matter her betrayal, she was still dear to him. She had been such a constant presence over the years that he found he could not bear to watch her wither away like a flame drowning without oxygen.

The vampire heard him. He tilted his head, glancing at Asirel. He made no move to stop as he turned back to Morley. He spoke in a voice filled with self-satisfaction, like a king passing a judgment he believed to be particularly just.

“Your cards are bad,” he said, eyes shining. “Your stars don’t align anymore, Helen. They haven’t for a long time. We don’t let traitors live, I’m afraid. Too bad, really. Your debts would have been paid.” He flicked his wrist, and Morley’s twisting stopped immediately.

The crack of her neck rang in Asirel’s ears long after the silence had swallowed the study. It made bile rise in his throat as he looked at her body hanging limply, taking a few seconds to understand that the vampire had just snapped her neck.

“God,” he gasped, pressing a palm against his mouth to fight the nausea.

Something lifeless tumbled to the floor. He could not stop himself from glancing towards the vampire, Morley’s body sprawled out at his feet. Asirel squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of anything else to get the sickening crack of her neck and the dull thump of the corpse out of his head.

“Listen,” the vampire whispered, holding up a finger.

Asirel heard it too, the light footsteps coming up the path, slightly hurried and determined. The quiet talk with his security before the front door opened and someone stepped inside. They did not bother to take off their coat, continuing their ascent to his study — to find him — before hesitating as they saw the door wide open. He heard the footsteps falter, then stop entirely.

“In here, darling,” the vampire called, sounding excited. A sharp smile flashed across his face.

He looked at Asirel, his eyes mocking. Watch me kill someone else, they seemed to say. Everyone else until there’s nobody left. All alone. You’re all alone.

He turned towards the door, his smile faltering as he stared down the barrel of the gun you had raised to his head.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” you stated, gaze flickering towards Asirel to make sure he was alright before settling on the stranger again. It could be anyone. You did not know, but the blonde whirlwind of hair you could see on the ground out of the corner of your eyes — what had once been Morley, who was now dead — strongly suggested that you were looking at an enemy.

“We have not, indeed. A grave oversight on my part, I fear. Allow me to remedy that,” he said, inclining his head in greeting. His voice was even, the initial surprise at the gun evidently overcome. “You may call me Lazarus.”

You scoffed, the symbolism of the man born twice — escaping from the throes of death after being resurrected — not escaping you. A mythic, then. Someone who died and was brought back from the dead.

“Lazarus,” you said, testing out the name. It was not his real one, so much was certain from the way he grinned at you. “I suggest you crawl back into your grave before I put a bullet-shaped hole in you and force you to.”

Lazarus chuckled, clicking his tongue. “Very funny,” he said, the amusement slowly fading from his face. “Your bullets can’t kill me.”

Your gaze remained fixed on him. “Can’t they?” you asked challengingly, raising an eyebrow. He did not reply. “I remember what happened to your buddy yesterday, or was the vampire Ackroyd dragged in not one of yours? He was alive-dead one second and dead-dead the next after a bullet hit him. What makes you think I can’t do the same to you?”

He stared, eyes roaming over every minuscule expression on your face as you held the gun steady.

“These are not ordinary bullets,” you continued, finger twitching on the trigger. “Do you honestly believe I would research the supernatural and not arm myself against your kind? Please” — you scoffed — “We might not have met before, but you can impossibly think me so naive.”

Asirel did not dare to breathe, tension climbing impossibly higher.

“You’re bluffing,” Lazarus said simply.

“Try me.”

He fell silent, considering your words for a long while. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. Your whole body tensed in anticipation, expecting him to lunge at you, expecting him to fight back. Instead, he raised his hands in surrender, taking a step back. “Your lap dog managed to uncover some things while snooping around in what is mine, I’ll give him that.”

You followed Lazarus, taking deliberate steps around him while keeping your gun raised and aimed. The doorway was free.

He licked his lips. “See you around,” he said, a strange glint of anticipation in his eyes before he disappeared down the hallway, whistling as he descended the stairs and walked up the gravel path toward the main road. He did not look back.

You lowered the gun as you heard the front door shut, exhaling deeply as you allowed your eyes to settle on Morley, crumpled on the ground and dead. It made you dizzy.

“She let him in,” Asirel said tonelessly. You raised your head to look at him. “Money for— well.” He let the sentence trail off.

Betrayal hung unsaid between you.

“Did Vic give you the bullets?” he asked, nodding towards the gun to change the subject. The silence made him weary. He could hear the sickening crack, the hollow thump—

“No,” you said, setting the gun on his desk and sliding it towards him. “It’s empty. Do you think I walk around armed? I have people for that, Asirel. It was a bluff, and it worked.”

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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literary-motif · 7 days ago

Text

Act IV — The Secret Eye

Scene ii — The Loss

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: (mild) canon-typical violence, smoking

“I insist you visit a hospital,” Julian said, bringing you a newly warmed heating pad to place on your back. “There is only so much I can do, and this won’t—”

“This will absolutely suffice, thank you,” you said, taking a large gulp of the tea he had made you — chamomile, by your request — and took the warm object out of his hands. You sighed contently as you placed it over your shoulder, the warmth seeping into your skin. It soothed the ache, relaxing the muscles that you had felt pull taut since crashing against the screen. “And I should insist you go home to your fiancé. I’ve got everything I need, Julian. Have a good night.”

The man looked unconvinced, wringing his hands in worry as he pressed his lips into a thin line. “I am hesitant to leave you like this,” he said.

You brought the mug to your lips once again, savoring the warmth of the soothing tea. It reminded you of Asirel, andvampires and death — but its sweet taste lingered despite the unpleasant memories. You would need to mend the rift, and you would start doing so tomorrow.

Today, enough had happened. You could feel the light tremble of your fingers, and you longed for a moment of peace where you did not need to hold it together anymore. You had been hanging on by a thread since Mr. Rhoades' first phone call, nearly twenty-four hours ago.

The roaring fire before you made you ease further into the cushions, thankful again for Julian’s observant nature. He knew that sitting by the fire — in the warmth of the twisting flames you could lose yourself in for hours, with a hot cup between your hands — was just what you needed after a difficult day.

His expression of sly pride for knowing you so well had dropped, of course, when he had noticed you were hurt.

“I promise you,” you said, glancing away from the crackling flames to look him in the eye — again with a promise, again with a word that would slip into a lie. Look me in the eye when you lie to me — “I am perfectly alright. Don’t worry about me, and get some rest.”

He searched your gaze. “Are you certain?”

Are you sure you’re certain?

Your heart ached.

I’m certain, Dove.

But Dove was dead now. All dead, all dead.

You clenched your jaw, pouring all your remaining self-restraint into the effort not to snap at your secretary. He meant well. He was worried. It was not his fault you were on the edge of succumbing to the pressure, and chaos, and bloodbath of the day.

“Yes, Julian,” you said, impatience creeping into your voice despite your best efforts.

You could not wait to be alone.

Your head was spinning, the day's events running amok in your mind. It was tearing you apart. Vampires. Werewolves! You could not believe the phone call that brought your world crashing down came a mere twenty-four hours ago. The Trimedian. Tara. Robert Ackroyd. That vampire. Dove.

And Asirel, of course. The murder of his father that you had kept from him.

You gazed into the fire, wishing more than anything to simply disappear. You gave Julian a small nod in farewell as he shut the door to the parlor with one final lingering glance at you. It felt like a million little strings were pulling you apart from the inside.

Sighing, you allowed your eyes to fall shut, the warmth of the mug in your hands and the cracking of the fire keeping you from sinking too far into your mind.

The Collective would endure this, you knew. Bashir was devastated, yes, but she would begin to pick up the pieces once her tears dried, the ache in her heart subsided — before the wound on her arm scarred over. You would have to collect the replacements of both Dove and Ackroyd, a task you did not particularly look forward to.

And what would you tell the general assembly? The truth was out of the question with Kennedy still part of it.

You would have to investigate the Trimedian soon, as well. It was a pressing issue now that it was brought to your attention. You would have to speak with Bashir.

Despite the mess, you knew everything would fall back into place sooner or later. The Collective was structured. Things would be taken care of. The inner circle would gain two new members — perhaps from the general assembly, considering Dove had no children. She would have nominated someone in her will, you were sure. Then you would go about searching for a replacement for Ackroyd yourselves. You could not risk another spy sinking its teeth into the organization.

Tara was more difficult to deal with. You had no chance to toil away and work out some clever scheme to get her back again, no. She was gone. Stage exit right. End of play. Exeunt — both her and your piece of mind. Tara was dead, and she was not coming back.

Stockton was in shambles, the shards digging deeper than the now stabilized numbers of Quetza’s crashed market value.

You would work that out, too, with time. At least you hoped so. There was no safety net, as was the case with things in the Collective. There was no structure for the world, let alone for the city. Everything could come crashing down further, the precarious stillness now a mere illusion, a short moment of respite for the dust to settle before things got worse again.

But no, Warden would take over, and James would help him. They would turn things around. They would bring stability to the city again, or you would make them.

Dove’s skeptical look weighed heavily on your mind, and you groaned, raising a hand to your forehead.

CRISIS IN TECH-COMPANY CAUSES HOTEL CHAIN TO TOPPLE

You had not dared to look, afraid of what you would find.

The mess with Incessant Inc. was over at last — or so you had hoped. You did not dare feel entirely reassured when Robert Kennedy swallowed Michelle’s hotel chain with his own. Samuel was a thorn in your side you itched to remove from power — currently to no avail — and you could not help but be weary of Robert’s son William and the person he would turn into. He had the choice of two poisoned legacies — his father’s or his uncle’s.

Perhaps he would follow in his father’s footsteps, owning a myriad of bars and restaurants and a hotel chain, scattered across the States and Europe. Perhaps he would follow in his uncle’s, join the Trimedian, and release his pent-up rage on the prisoned mythics in an unequal fight. He would not join the Collective, that you would make sure.

Perhaps he would find a path for himself, only time would tell. His life was not predestined.

Time would tell.

You sat up, wincing as you reached for the beige folder on the other end of the couch, resting against the cushions, unopened, mocking you with its presence. You wanted to throw it into the fire, destroy the evidence of what could turn out to make Stockton your fault. Warden’s pain your fault. Elias’ trauma your fault. Tara’s death your fault.

Hotel chain to topple.

If the article somehow knew of the bomb in Fresno — drawing a false connection between Incessant Inc. and Quetza, but foreseeing its market crash somehow — you did not know what you would do. Because you would have known, you could have warned her — if you had only read through it like you had promised Julian you would.

There were not enough white roses on the earth to place on Tara’s grave to beg her ghost for forgiveness. There was nothing you could do to make it up to her remaining family.

And Warden was sure to kill you. Perhaps you would let him.

Opening the folder with a heavy heart, you began to read. Your fate was spread out on these pages, in the careful words some eager journalist had written full of glee.

—crumbling of the Tech-giant Incessant Inc. on Tuesday shook the stock exchange to its foundations, serving as a reminder of how quickly fortunes can change. The charge of embezzlement against CEO Sasha Zilk brought forth by the investigative journalist Patricia Kelley rattled many investors enough to jump ship, pushing the company to a freefall into next-to-nothingness.

In our markets, evident when ships get stuck in the Suez Canal or we run short of microchips that hold up our entire production line, it is not easy to find the invisible threads connecting them. Often we are left wondering about a market’s sudden turn, a twist up- or downwards seemingly without reason.

One such thread has just become apparent, and it has been shimmering in the light unnoticed for the better part of a decade now. It should not come as a surprise that the Zilk siblings — Sasha and Michelle — brought about the downfall of their respective companies (as CCO in Michelle Zilk’s case) together, which both warns and—

You shut the folder, tossing it aside. Hotel chain. It was not Quetza. You could not have known about Fresno.

You could not have known. The loss was not your fault.

“Small mercies,” you mumbled into the empty air, listening to the wood crack. You brought the mug to your lips, finishing your tea. At least that was a guilt you did not need to live with.

A series of muffled knocks came from the front door. You frowned, wondering why security was bothering you at such a late hour.

You got up regardless, gripping the edge of the couch in support as your back lit up in pain and the world spun. Another series of knocks followed, this time more insistent. You shuffled out of the parlor tiredly, opening the front door a crack. You shivered immediately in the cold night air.

“Ye—?” the word died in your throat. Your eyes settled on Warden, standing a few paces away from you, security flanking him with a tight grip on their guns.

He looked tense but stood with an air of calmness that reminded you of the quiet before a storm, unrooting trees and bringing down lightning. He was calm in his anger. His hands were clasped together in front of him, waiting. You saw his wedding ring was stained red.

“Sorry to bother but he said you had an appointment,” the security guard said — Sarah, you thought her name was — motioning towards Warden. “I’ve not been informed about it, but I thought it best to check.”

“An appointment in fucking Samarra,” Warden hissed, wrath burning in his eyes as he looked at you. The longer he stood in your presence, the more you got the idea that he wanted to pounce on you.

His hands were balled into fists, the torn skin confirming what your mind had conjured up. Fingers digging into gravel, shuffling rocks to the side as his wife’s name tumbled helplessly from his lips. ‘She’s still under here,’ he had screamed, voice cracking with the force of his emotions. ‘She’s still buried. Someone, help! Help me! She’s still under here! She’s still—!’

Sarah shot him a dark glance, fingers flexing on her gun. “I’d be more than happy to take care of this,” she said.

You cleared your throat, feeling how parched it was. “No need,” you said, opening the door wider. You motioned for Warden to come inside. “I’m bound to return your hospitality.”

He stepped forward carefully as if waiting for the security to tackle him to the ground. When nothing happened, he kept walking, shooting Sarah a glare which she returned wholeheartedly.

You hardly had the time to close the door behind him, keeping the chill from seeping inside, before his hands were on you. He gripped your collar, ramming you against the wall.

It knocked the air out of you, blinding your vision momentarily in white, hot agony as the pain in your back became all-encompassing. Your ears rang, but the scream trying to tear its way out of your throat came out as a choked, broken whimper. You did not have the air to scream.

You knew Warden was talking. The deep cadence of his voice filtered through the silence like water rushing downstream, but you could not make out what he was saying. You were too focused on the pain, too concentrated on gulping down breaths with his hands crushing you against the wall and fighting your way back to full consciousness.

“Are you listening?” he snapped, janking you towards him only to slam you against the wall again.

This time you did cry out, gasping painfully as your hands shot up to grab his wrists, holding onto them tightly to ground yourself against the waves of pain dragging you under. “I didn’t know,” you choked.

“Like hell you fucking didn’t!” His grip tightened. You were sure it took all his self-restraint not to smother you right then.

“I promise you,” you said quickly. Your vision cleared, the bright sparks dancing before your eyes slowly disappearing as you looked at Warden’s bloodthirsty expression.

He had come here to kill you. It was plain in his fury. He had come to seek revenge. Why flee from Bagdad when the appointment with Death had been in Samarra all along? But it was not your fault. Tara’s death was not your fault!

“I had nothing to do with it. I would not have let her go if I had known,” you said. “It might not have been evident to you, but Tara was my—”

“Don’t you dare say her name!” he hissed, pressing you further against the wall. You bit back a low groan, your hands beginning to shake from the strain on your back. You gasped for breath. “Bullshit!” But you could see a sliver of hesitation in his eyes, the barest hint of doubt.

Perhaps he remembered what his late wife had told him about you — ‘they’re dangerous, I know. I don’t like being a pawn in their game either, but they’re really not that bad, dear. They’re reliable, and I trust them, to an extent’ — and that was all you needed, latching onto his hesitation like a lifeline pulling you out of quicksand.

“I didn’t know,” you repeated, this time firmer. You squeezed his wrists to get him to ease up on the vice grip crushing you. “It is hard to imagine, I am sure, especially in the current situation, but there are more pressing things on my mind than Stockton, Warden.”

His expression contorted in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against an onslaught of tears. His breath hitched and you could see his lower lip wobble. He looked struck by lightning, but instead of electricity scorching him in an instant, it was sorrow shooting through him, making his heart feel like it had stopped breathing the moment hers had. He drew away from you as if burnt.

You sagged against the wall unsteadily, reaching next to you to stay upright with a tight grip on the cabinet. The foyer spun. You blinked against the dizziness, exhaling deeply. Your chest deflated, and you felt a wave of exhaustion crash over you.

Today had been too long.

Warden wiped his eyes. “How did you know?” he asked, voice choked. He gasped quietly. You noticed he was shaking like the last leaf on a tree in late October. He thrust a hand into the pocket of his suit jacket — blood-stained and dusty — and pulled out a crumpled packet of Marlboro red. Jame’s cigarettes. He lit one with trembling hands. “That I’m the Warden now. How did you know?”

Your gaze softened. “Who else would it be?” you asked, sagging further against the cabinet. You felt like a puppet with its strings cut, ready for the curtain call. “James? Little Elias? I don’t think he’s ready for the role yet. Besides, I could think of no one better to carry on in her name.”

The truth was, you did not know, you had guessed. You were just lucky enough to guess correctly — your expectation (and the thing you had promised Dove to will into existence) had simply realized themselves. The man before you had exactly the position you needed him to have. Small mercies. Stockton was already steering onto the right path.

The Collective would soon follow. And so would the mythics. And the Trimedian.

Warden took a long drag of his cigarette, leaning against the banister of the stairs leading up. He exhaled slowly. His shaking had calmed, and he looked at you through half-lidded eyes. He was appraising you in the low firelight streaming in from the parlor.

“You should have done more,” he said, the agony at the loss he had suffered freezing over, turning into cold shards of ice digging into his heart. His eyes flooded with resentment. “I should kill you for this. For her.”

“And what good would that do?” you asked. Two attempted murders in one day. You needed a break.

You needed a gun.

“It’s justice. An eye for an eye,” he reasoned. “Revenge, but not in excess. I take what you have taken from me. A life for a life. It is only fair.”

You huffed, wincing in pain a moment later. “I have not taken anything from you, Warden. I did not know, and I was not the reason she founded the Wraiths. On the contrary, I kept telling her the gangs were dangerous. I kept urging her to strike a truce. She knew the dangers. Her death is no more my fault than it is yours.”

He flinched, playing with his wedding band absentmindedly. You knew he felt guilty beyond reason. It was only natural. If he could trade his life for hers, you were sure he would do it in a heartbeat.

“But please, if it would make you feel better” — you raised your free arm, motioning to your chest — “do me the honor of making it quick at least. I’m sure you brought your gun.” You had given him free rein, presenting yourself like the sacrifice he wanted.

A life for a life.

But it was not your debt to pay, and you could tell that he knew that.

Warden considered your words, taking the last drag of his cigarette. He let it fall to the ground, grinding it with his heel until it was smothered. His right hand inched towards his belt.

For a moment you thought you had miscalculated. A cold shiver ran down your spine, the pain in your back forgotten as you saw yourself staring down the barrel of his gun. Uncaring, apathetic eyes fixed on yours as he pulled the trigger, reaping his revenge.

You thought you had misjudged his grief. His impulsivity. His wrath.

But it stopped. He was doubtlessly thinking about Elias, refusing to let his son suffer the loss of both his parents a mere hours apart. He was not deluded enough to pretend to get out of your mansion after killing you without being shot himself. Sarah would make sure of that at least.

He pulled out the packet of cigarettes instead, offering you one wordlessly.

You shook your head, declining. But you saw the gesture for the olive branch it was.

“Given that you don’t want to kill me, as far as I can tell,” you said, releasing the cabinet to straighten to your full height. Your back protested. “How about we become allies instead?”

Warden sighed, lighting another Marlboro. He looked weary. “Do I have a choice?”

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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literary-motif · 7 days ago

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ZSAKUVA CAT MEMES!! yes half are elias shush

pet trying to nom on asirel

isaac kidnapping pickle because his house is dusty (he’s a nonchalant king)

barista trying to remind elias that there are cameras

elias and barista trying to hide from cameras

how i imagine the meeting with the execs to have been like

pet whenever someone threatens asirel

what james thinks barista was doing at brewhouse (flirting with elias)

predicting elias next episode

barista after crumpets picked the bad path

every character to saku after he gave them trauma

THANK YOU FOR LISTENING TO MY PRESENTATION 🙇‍♀️

#love everything about this

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literary-motif · 7 days ago

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Hi, Cutie! How are you? I really love how well you describe things in your work I feel as if I'm the characters themselves and I feel what they feel. Each line is well thought of and written!

Vic, If you don't mind, can you share with us how you first started writing and how you learned to love doing this as your hobby? ❣️

Hello! Thanks for your kind words :) I'm glad you enjoy my work.

My fascination with writing kind of first started in the academic sphere. I always thoroughly enjoyed writing research papers and essays and so on; it was (and still is) so much fun to me.

I branched out into poetry and eventually turned to short stories (which is still my favourite genre to write) until, eventually, with The Past Is Close Behind (the Xanthus novella) I actually wrote something longer.

I’m not quite sure when I started thinking of it as my hobby — probably around the time I actually started posting my writing. (Funnily enough, I started out with Bridgeton of all things. It’s on my ao3.)

Primarily, I love writing in the sense that I love to artistically express myself. Sometimes there is a certain topic — or in most cases a feeling — that has been on my mind and which I need to pour into a form of art (be it writing or poetry specifically) for it to stop plaguing me. Writing, for me, is a sort of catharsis.

Not always, of course.

It is most often the case that I just want to put characters in situations and find out what they will do. I’m not the type to outline my work (unless it’s longer, of course) so I usually start to write from a concept or a scene that I have in mind and work out what will happen as I write.

It’s fun. Working out a story is the part I love most about writing, and shaping it into a frame that can be (maybe, somehow) considered a form of art is special to me.

#I hope this answered your questions #not sure if the *how* I first started was intended more practically #asks

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literary-motif · 8 days ago

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https://www.instagram.com/reel/DCCqnpmBD6Z/?igsh=MWUwdWJucW55cHdsaw==

I'll miss you, Vic. So much! 💔

How kind of you..

#I laughed so hard actually #this is hilarious to me for some reason #I'll be in your chimney Sophie #asks

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literary-motif · 8 days ago

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Act IV — The Secret Eye

Scene i — The Promise

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Your back hurt with an ugly, burning pain that made breathing difficult. Tiny fireworks of agony shot through your body every time you moved. You did not allow that to deter you, yanking on the door of the black VW — bulletproof, safe, and just what you needed — to climb into the back seat with a groan and clenched fists, eyes falling shut.

Your arm shot out to search for the door again, blingy grabbing onto it and pulling to block out the world so you could collect your spinning thoughts and even your breathing. You felt like you were going insane, splitting into pieces from nervousness and shock.

The door did not budge, and you hissed as your failed attempt jostled your upper body.

“Hospital?” Vic asked, concerned.

Your eyes fluttered open, noticing the sympathetic wince in his expression as he stood in the door, tilting his head to look at you closely, waiting for an answer.

You shook your head, regretting the movement immediately as pain spread through you like liquid heat. “‘M fine,” you gasped, clenching your fists into the fabric of your coat. No, you just needed a bit of rest, a sip of water, and a goddamned moment to breathe.

Dove was dead. Tara was dead. Ackroyd was a spy, and you had shot him.

André — for god's sake — had been sprawled out in the foyer, his neck snapped. At least Livia, with her blazing red hair stained with blood, had been curled up wide-eyed and shaking but alive under the receptionist’s desk.

They were dead. Dead. All dead. All dead.

There were painkillers in your wallet, safely tucked away for emergencies. If you could will yourself to unclench your fists, you could go about procuring them. You could feel the wallet bulging in the pocket of your coat.

“You are not fine, dear.” The term of endearment slipped off his tongue unnoticed. You did not have the mind to tease him about it — Vic, your second. Vic, your closest confidant — as you let out a low hiss of pain. The door on the other side of the car opened, and Asirel slipped into the seat beside you.

His eyes met Vic’s. They shared an entire conversation with a single glance. Distant, you noticed Asirel vibrating in his seat, the adrenaline and fear rolling off of him in waves as he fought to keep control and shake the impact of what he had just gone through.

“Take care,” Vic said curtly, his tone losing its softness to take on a commanding edge. It made you open your eyes again — when had you shut them? — to give him a puzzled look. His gaze fluttered from Asirel to you, the corners of his mouth raising minimally. It made you wonder just who he had spoken to.

You did not ask, too breathless to do much more than groan as the pain in your back flared again. Vic shut the door, and Asirel knocked against the mirror glass separating the car into two compartments. Your driver got the hint.

The silence was heavy, only broken by your occasional soft grunts and Asirel’s nervous fidgeting. He loosened his tie, finally taking a deep breath.

You unclenched your fists, easing your right hand towards your coat pocket. You pulled out your wallet, flipping it open unceremoniously and breathing a string of curses as your fingers stopped cooperating. Your hands were shaking too much. All you could do was hold onto it tightly as you squeezed your eyes shut and breathed through another wave of agony.

“Are you looking for painkillers?” Asirel asked, reaching over to pry the wallet out of your grasp. He pulled out the plastic containing the capsule of silent relief. “Here,” he said, popping two into your open palm before tucking the rest back.

You dry swallowed the pills, not caring about the bitter taste in your mouth as you waited for them to kick in. “Thanks,” you said tensely, trying to distract yourself from the fire running over your back. “Good eye.”

“I keep painkillers in my wallet as well,” he said, gently placing it back in your coat pocket. “Migraines. You should go to the hospital. That must have hurt how he— when it—”

You watched him shake as the scene flashed before his eyes. Helpless terror coursing through him as he stared at the vampire, the other staring back with a predatory grin, ready to devour him whole.

He would have torn out his throat if Vic had not shot him in the next instant. Asirel could still feel the bullet rushing past him.

“How are you holding up?” you asked instead, voice strained. “That was a lot. Ackroyd. The vampire.”

“Stockton,” he added. Tara.

Her name went unsaid, but you heard it in the stretch of silence. You dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself against the rushing tide of sorrow. Tara. No, now was not the time to grieve.

“Yes. I told you Atlantis was safe, and it should be,” you said. “I never thought someone amongst us could be a spy — stupid, I know. Especially with Kennedy and knowing what he’s capable of. I should have known better, but I thought, mistakenly, that the inner circle would be safe at least.”

The painkillers were taking effect. You relaxed a little into your seat, exhaling deeply.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” you admitted quietly, keeping your voice light. “With the promise I made to your father—”

Asirel’s head snapped up. “What promise?”

“To look after you, of course,” you said, sinking deeper into the cushions and closing your eyes with a sigh. “Do you think he would have left without making sure you were taken care of? I promised him I would— would keep you safe, would give you what you needed to carve a path for yourself. I’m glad I asked Vic to keep an eye on you as well. I don’t know how today would have ended without him.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “you had me trailed?”

You blinked your eyes open, turning your head to look at him. “It saved your life — Vic saved your life.”

Asirel gazed straight ahead, even as he felt your stare boring into him. He did not want to reveal how deep his disappointment ran. Vic had saved him, he knew that. He had saved you and Bashir as well, only a few minutes too late for Dove.

But you had spoken to him of trust. Trust, you had told him. Trust, you had expected and it was trust he gave you without hesitation. He wanted to spit the word back at you, betrayal burning in his chest. You had kept this a secret. You had taken advantage of his trust, keeping him under observation because you did not trust him. You did not trust him!

“What else did you do to keep me in line?” he asked, voice thick with anger. “Was Rhoades in on it, too? Was the story with your family a farce to get me to open up, manipulate me to let go of my own?”

“Of course not!” you said, appalled at his accusation.

You twisted around to face him properly, ignoring the pain in your back as simmering rage crept into your tone. You had bared your heart to him when you showed him the envelope. For him to belittle the trust you had put in him felt like a stab to the chest.

“I had to keep an eye on you. I needed to. Our environment is volatile, and dangerous for someone new, especially after a death. Your father left behind a shadow that is next to impossible to fill. I had to make sure—”

“What? That I was not scheming with the enemy?” he spat, whirling around to glare at you. Hurt shimmered in his eyes under all the layers of anger. Disappointment and betrayal. “You could not even pick that up in Ackroyd during half a decade you’ve been working together!”

You grit your teeth. The comment stung, but you did not dare to show him. “I had to make sure you were safe. A man like your father does not simply die, Asirel! Of course, I was suspicious. And I was right to, considering Kennedy—” You cut off, biting your bottom lip harshly.

Shit.

“Considering Kennedy what?” he asked, body impossibly tense as he waited for you to continue. You could see his anger replaced with dark foreboding, suspicion, and horror. “Kennedy what? Tell me!”

The game was up. You owed him the truth.

You sighed, turning away to spare yourself the sight of his heart shattering. “Considering Kennedy poisoned him with Arsenic,” you admitted quietly.

Asirel made no sound, taking in your words.

He looked out of the window, seeing the barren trees of his driveway, and scoffed. “‘This does not work if you do not trust me,’” he said, echoing your words hollowly.

The dull ache in your heart overshadowed the sharp sting from your back. You did trust him, but you kept an eye on him regardless. You wanted to trust him, but even if you did, you knew you could not trust the world. He needed supervision, needed someone to keep the wolves at bay, only longing to take a bite of the new flesh.

But keeping the murder from him had been a selfish act. You did not want to be the one to tell him. You did not want to be the one to look into his eyes and see the anguish that was there once he knew the truth.

You had made a promise to protect him, and you would keep your word — come hell or high water.

“Asirel, try to understand—” you began as the car pulled to a halt in front of the entrance to his mansion.

He got out without a word, shutting the door and not looking back. He was adamant. You would not see the tears in his eyes.

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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literary-motif · 8 days ago

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Apologies for the irregular updates on the novella. The usual time I post (about 4pm my time) coincidences with university things on some days and because of all the links I need to copy-paste etc I haven’t set up the chapters in a queue. Sorry about that!

#in case anyone was wondering

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literary-motif · 8 days ago

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Act III — Titanic

Scene iii — The Spy

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: guns and violence, character death(s)

“However pressing this might be,” Asirel said, glancing at the flashing lights — blinking red slowly turning to white instead as Dove typed — “There are other things that require our attention. These mythics—”

His voice faded into the background as you picked up your phone, intent to call Tara’s husband — the widower — and talk him out of whatever fit of sorrow he was sure to have combusted in. This was the time to reach out, tie the noose around his neck, and tug him along and away from the ruins of his broken heart.

You had a missed call from Mr. Rhoades.

Too late, you thought bitterly, sure he had intended to inform you about the tragedy in Fresno. You saw had sent you a picture.

You could only guess how many resources were poured into making that picture disappear, bury it in the darkest corner of archives and cataloged history, and you felt a wave of pride at having Mr. Rhoades — perhaps the best private investigator in this sector of the galaxy — on your side.

This pleasure of triumph was short-lived, as the implications of the snapshot hit you like a bullet, turning your chest to ice.

It was a picture of two men, shaking hands before the shining sign of a newly opened logistics airline company. One of them wore a crooked smile, his receding hairline making him seem older than he was. Behind the small, round glasses were stormy blue eyes that fixed on you twice a month behind a black door. The man next to him was slightly shorter, his face partly hidden by the angle of the photograph. You could see his gelled, black hair and rimless spectacles, hiding gray eyes that were glaring at Asirel.

A silver ring stuck to the ring finger of their right hand, the mocking proof of their entanglement with the Collective plain as they stood before the company the Trimedian used to ship away mythics.

You raised your head slowly, seeing the very same ring on Ackroyd’s finger. He played with it impatiently, anticipating something as he looked at Asirel unfazed.

Your brain came to a standstill as you heard static.

Ackroyd was part of the Trimedian.

The revelation made the breath catch in your throat, and you could not help the feeling of being weightless for a moment — a careful second at the precipice that made you rise slightly, nearly floating, nearly flying before gravity would pull you down again, dragging you back towards the world and your feelings as you looked at your colleague, the traitor, the fucking spy!

The golden door was thrown open, slamming against the wall with a loud crash that made you think the door handle had embedded itself in the stone.

Dove jumped. Bashir rose to her feet instinctively as she turned to face the intruder. Asirel snapped his mouth shut, looking over his shoulder toward the lanky man in the doorway.

His dirty blond hair was a mess, strands falling into his drawn face and obscuring his dark eyes. He stood tall but seemed to slouch regardless. The red of his unbuttoned coat clashed with the blue of the plastic card in his hand.

“You sure took your sweet time,” Ackroyd sneered, breaking the hush that had settled over the room. He made no move to get up.

“Richard, this is one of yours?” Bashir asked, looking between them. She was uncertain, on edge about the unfolding events. “What’s going on?”

“I was held up,” the man said, surprisingly soft-spoken despite his gloomy appearance. He shifted uncomfortably under Ackroyd’s glare. “Your calling was not exactly scheduled—”

You rose to your feet in a daze. Ackroyd glanced at you, and for the first time, you wished you had a gun to shoot the smugness off his face. “You!” you roared, voice rich with the anger that was boiling up in your chest. “You goddamn Judas, you parasite! You fucking spy!”

He chuckled. “Figured it out, did you?” he said condescendingly. “What’s going on, Meryem, is that I've grown tired of you.” He leaned back in his chair, cradling his cup of cold coffee. “You’ve snooped enough. You know things you shouldn’t. Now please” — he motioned to his acquaintance — “bite. And you all, do me a favor and die.”

The man spurred into action, darting to the center of the room with superhuman speed. This was no man you realized as he gripped Bashir, fast enough she did not even have a moment to think about pulling out her gun.

Vampire.

Dove leaped to her feet, smashing her laptop over his head with a cry to get him to let go. It did not work. The vampire growled, pushing Bashir aside harshly to turn to Dove instead. Her eyes widened, the broken parts of her laptop slipping from her grasp as she shuffled back in panic.

Asirel was twisting around hastily, searching for something — something sharp, something deadly, anything — as you took a step closer to the creature to lure its attention.

“Doing his bidding?” you asked, scoffing with as much contempt you could muster despite hearing your voice shake, heart hammering in your chest as the possibilities to get out of this alive narrowed. “What a disgrace for your kind, following the orders from a human! Pathetic!”

His head turned towards you, tired eyes staring into yours for a moment as he opened his mouth to answer.

“Kill them, you halfwit,” Ackroyd snapped. “Don’t forget your place. Don’t forget what I can do to you if you don’tobey.”

The vampire snapped his mouth shut, faltering as he curled into himself more. “Yes, Master,” he said quietly, baring his fangs as he turned towards Dove.

Bashir launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck to choke him. He was unfazed, simply tilting his head and sinking his fangs into her arm. She gasped, gripping his hair to pull his head away from her. He turned it sharply, tearing a large gash into her arm that bled freely. “Shit,” she cursed, hissing in pain as she wriggled out of his grip.

Dove had pulled out her gun, raising it towards the vampire. She gave no warning, shooting him twice in the chest.

He winced, throwing off Bashir. She fell to the ground clutching her arm. He advanced towards Dove again, the bullets that would have killed a human useless against a mythic.

You saw Asirel move slowly, breaking his shock to shrug off his suit jacket to staunch the bleeding. You gripped the coffee table next to you, your untouched cup of tea crashing to the ground as you lifted it in the air, swinging it at the vampire with full force. The wood splintered. Dove cried out, flinching back as pieces of wood flew towards her.

The vampire stumbled, burning eyes snapping towards you an instant later — like a predator finding its prey.

You had half a second to feel instant regret before your feet lifted off the ground, the vampire holding you up by your throat as he snarled. You gripped his wrist instinctively, clawing at his hands to get him to loosen his grip, letting you breathe. You kicked him hard to no avail.

“Pathetic,” he hissed, echoing your words before he flung you away with all his force.

The air rushed past you, and you had a heartbeat of utter calm — watching the vampire turn away from you towards Dove, watching the scene unfold as you drifted further away as if you were merely a spectator to your reality — before your back crashed against the screen hanging on the wall behind you.

It cracked with a sickening sound, glass shattering. You grimaced in pain, sliding to the ground breathlessly as the broken shards rained down on you.

Your ears were ringing, your vision spotty and dark at the edges. Distantly, you thought you could hear someone screaming your name, but it was hard to make out. You blinked your eyes open, not realizing you had closed them. Thoughts of duty and responsibility swam in your mind, worry twisting somewhere inside of you.

The room tilted strangely. You moved your arm to push yourself up. You found it was not the room, it was you.

Dove was on the ground, slumped against the wall with wide eyes, her face deathly pale. She was gasping violently, scratching at her chest as her upper body twisted, spasming with coughs. Her gun lay on the ground beside her.

Asirel was the last one standing. The vampire approached him with measured steps as he scrambled back, nearly tripping over the armchair in his haste to get away.

Panic cut through the haze in your mind, an overwhelming sense of danger gripping your heart with icy clearness that reminded you of duty, loyalty, and promises.

“Stop,” you gasped out. No matter how responsible you felt for him, there was not much you could do against a vampire, even if you were not kneeling on the ground, bracing yourself against it in an effort not to topple over. Nausea overtook you as you attempted to get up, only to crumble to the ground again, defeated. “No, leave him alone.”

Pathetic.

Ackroyd raised an eyebrow, finishing his coffee. You thought you had never felt such blinding, murderous fury as you did then, seeing the satisfied smirk on his face while you heard Asirel’s sharp intake of breath, the vampire looming over him, ready to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck.

You did not hear the gun cocking, but the gunshot that followed. It echoed through the room and the empty hallway long after the mythic flinched, clutching his chest with a frown before his eyes widened — realizing the bullet that hit him was tampered with — and falling to the ground, dead.

Vic surveyed the room, lowering his gun slowly. His gaze swept over Asirel to check if he was alright. Finding him unharmed, they darted around again, until they settled on your hunched figure.

You heaved a sigh of relief that sounded more like a dry cough. Vic’s expression twisted, his eyes widening as he looked at the shattered screen above you, horror in his gaze. You raised a hand in the air weakly, intent to soothe away some of his worry.

He moved towards you regardless, his attention caught.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ackroyd move. He rose to his feet, reaching into his suit jacket.

He would pull out a gun. You were sure of it.

You turned towards Dove, lips parted to tell her to shoot him, but you found the gun already next to you.

Lurching to the side, you ignored the stabbing pain in your back and grabbed it, aiming it at the spy and pulling the trigger with a sick satisfaction before he could properly aim at your friend.

Vic turned, watching Ackroyd stagger as the gun slipped from his hand. He was caught off guard, pristine white shirt taking on a spreading dark red where you had shot him. His eyes went blank as he fell backward, collapsing into his armchair. His head lulled to the side, chest still. He was dead.

You did not know what twist of fate to thank for the fact that he had still been human — flesh and bone that could be killed by a flying bullet.

The following silence was deafening, only broken by the faint dripping of blood onto the tiles.

Bashir pushed herself up unsteadily, clutching her arm as she leaned against her armchair. She was paler than you had ever seen her, her face a sickly, dark gray color.

Vic had paused his advance towards you, frozen in place as he stared at Ackroyd. Asirel moved to grip the back of his armchair, blood-stained fingers digging into the red cushions.

You turned to Dove. The praise for her quick thinking died on your tongue. She was dead, unseeing eyes half-lidded, strands of blonde hair turned red, blue coat littered with specks of blood. One of her hands was stretched out unnaturally, the silver ring on her finger stained.

She had pushed her gun towards you with her dying breath.

#a tragedy in five acts #asirel cain x reader #asirel cain

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