#her other book the vanishing half was literally like one of the best books ive ever read

[neonsbian]

im not liking the mothers by brit bennett as much as i thought i would 😔

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― IV.i. Complex Creatures Are They

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART IV ⥽

— London, 1876. They have been everywhere and done everything. Watched empires rise and fall and seen marvels never even dreamed of. The Trinity have wealth, they have youth — they have each other. But after two thousand years... is it still enough?

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Invitation to dine at the Montes Estate is a desirable thing. Earning the ire of its Lords and Lady; less so. Though the years continue to change the Trinity's devotion to one another will always stay the same.

[READ IT ON AO3]

London, 1876

“If you ask me my opinion on the matter —”

Valdas sighs around his forkful of mutton — a little thing easily missed by mortal ears, but they catch it quite plainly. Valdas has the patience of a man who has weathered the petulance of monarchies for ages. If he cannot hold back his disdain there must really be something worth disliking about the man.

Well that much is more than obvious. And this is only one of the several evenings they are meant to host the boorish Viscount?

“Please,” Cynbel encourages with less than half a heart, “do go on, Lord Edwards.” And because his head is so far up his own rear end he does. In such a fashion that matches his red-faced appetite no less.

“Well, my opinion is that of Her Majesty’s. Shame only that she could not have exerted her authority enough to silence that ponce Gurney permanently.”

Pick any other dining room in London and one might find Edwards’ sentiments met with agreement from all around. Here, however, he’s lucky to get similar views out of even a third of the table. The best part is that he has the misfortune of realizing it far too late to take it back.

That they have been able to surround themselves with like minds so quickly since their arrival is nothing short of luck. Or perhaps, he’s willing to admit, expert skill on the parts of his lovers.

There’s a reason Cynbel is no longer allowed to attend even a simple tea without one of them; at the very least. Usually it takes both to undo the damage he unwittingly causes whenever he opens his mouth.

Because the Viscount Edwards is a fool he waits — lets the silence drag on uncomfortably in the hopes that someone might raise their voice to agree with him. Doubtful such a fragile ego could handle healthy debate.

Valdas and Cynbel exchange glances of barely-contained bemusement. They do so enjoy watching her tear into lesser men — even if it no longer means literally so.

“If you would not have women in the medical profession, my Lord, where would you have them then?”

Their darling girl — she’s never been known for her mercy. She doesn’t even allow the Viscount a moment’s offense before she snaps her fingers brisk, startling him into attention. “I asked you a question. As you are in my home and at my table, and as the words you so childishly spew are wetted with my wine, the least you could do is muster me an answer.”

“Such a brazen young wife you have, Lord Montes.”

Cynbel covers his mouth with his hand — if he starts to laugh now he simply won’t be able to stop. Valdas, too, looks ready to mock the man but he knows better by now. Both of them know this is simply the mentality of such fragile creatures; it is in the nature of the weak to find someone to subjugate as a means of removing that weakness. But it is still there; they are merely blind to it. And it will be the death of them.

“I believe it was the Lady Montes who was addressing you, my Lord, not I.”

But Cynbel’s restraint is only so much, and far less than his beloveds. “Unless you picked up a fair talent for ventriloquy in secret. Have you, Valdas?”

“I doubt even a master of the profession could impose upon my Lady his will.” She would eat his tongue for even trying.

With every quip the Viscount huffs and puffs, red face now a compliment to the plum of Cynbel’s dinner jacket.

And if there is one thing the Trinity has learned since immersing themselves in the upper echelons of Victorian society it is this: the wealthy are fools who equate riches with longevity; because they have money they think they will live forever.

Yet they do so love to dig their own graves.

“I admit there are certain advantages to having the nurturing concern of a woman at one’s sickly bedside,” Edwards digs and digs and digs, “but there is an inherent difference between the sexes that cannot be denied. That has been proven scientifically! And by those very same who would now burden themselves with the task of catching a woman up to their decade’s worth of knowledge.”

“‘Nurturing concern?’ Who, our Iss’?” Cynbel whispers for Valdas’ amusement even though it receives him the sharp sting of a shoe on his toes.

Though if either man had not seen the carnality Isseya was capable of with their own eyes they might not believe any claims to such. Not of late, anyway. They humor her these lashings of wit because she suffers the brunt of the burdens among this closed-minded society — the least they could do is allow her to bring men like the Viscount to heel like the dogs they are.

A task which she has not only accepted — but which she flourishes in. More than once her words have been enough to sway the dustiest of aged lechers, the young men raised to think their mothers less than them, the whole lot.

And when words are fruitless—because some are born and will die ignorant—both Valdas and Cynbel watch with delight (and no small amount of desire) while she serves them threats on their lives dipped in honey with their wine.

Cynbel shifts so as not to do so obviously — but one look to Isseya’s perfect features and he knows the Viscount will join the latter ranks this night.

He slips his hand down to rest on her thigh. Draws soft circles with his thumb, carves the old tongue they try desperately not to forget in the light drag of his fingernail over silk. Her tension eases slightly.

“Bold that you would impose such vulgarity on me in my own home.”

“Your husband’s home.”

Valdas tsks and folds his hands over his meal. “Best I’m kept out of this, I despair to think of the mess.”

“My home,” another snap to draw the Viscount’s attention, “where you have grossly overstayed your welcome.”

Of course men like him have the gall to look offended. Guest of Parliament or not Cynbel is having a hard time resisting the urge to tear his spine out in the middle of the entree. If he could manage to find it, anyway.

“I beg pardon?!”

“No amount of begging could change my mind, though you are welcome to try.” Isseya smooths her skirts and stands, her lovers following suit. And with them, the rest of their guests save the Viscount join in.

“Montes, surely you see this—this —” Don’t say it… don’t say it… “— this hysteria for what it is!”

Innovation has been a wonderful thing but Cynbel knows firsthand he and his are not the only vampires resentful to some of its finer points. Disposing of a body used to be such a simple thing; you could just leave it out and save grieving families and vengeful lovers nothing more would come of it. Do you know how hard it is to make a body vanish these days?

But the effort of it is a necessary one. His title will spur investigation, and already he’s contemplating when the constable will come knocking with statements of this very argument in hand. And it will be worth it for the satisfaction their beloved will get in eviscerating him.

It is Valdas who speaks and they both know why. Neither of them particularly eager to deal with the consequences of the fangs Iss’ will undoubtedly bare.

“Get. out.”

“My Lord —”

“Now!”

They scurry like the insects they are. Those who have been to the Montes Estate for before—and wish to do so again—are polite enough to push their chairs in before they join the crowd. Valdas takes note of their faces. They wouldn’t have survived this long without knowing the faces of what few humans were worth getting acquainted with.

The Viscount takes his pitiful time. Still aghast; unable to fathom that he is somehow in the wrong despite insulting the hostess numerous times, lacking in the common sense to read the bloody room.

He is the last to leave. As though lingering might somehow change their minds, as though they might apologize. He has the political clout to make Valdas’ work with the House of Commons difficult and he’s undoubtedly petty enough to do just that.

Or he would if he had the chance.

He won’t.

Only then does he notice that Isseya isn’t still at all. She’s shaking.

“Iss’…?” Cynbel moves to pull her close by the waist — or he would if she doesn’t slap his hand aside with a noise of discontent.

He doesn’t know what to say, to do. Looks to Valdas because he is their Light, their Lord, and he always has the answer. But even he seems uncertain.

His tone is perhaps a little too warning and not sympathetic enough. “Isseya, that was uncalled for.”

“Fuck your ‘uncalled for!’”

Cynbel is a victim of proximity and bears the weight of her lashing; squeezes his eyes closed so tight the spectacles they once thought so amusing on him nearly slip off his nose. The stale evening air doesn’t lessen the five points of pain where she gored at his cheek. Feels his blood wet and warm in rivulets trickling down his skin to drip drip their crimson stain on his collar.

Not like they haven’t struck one another out of passion in their eternity together. They have before and no doubt they would again; such is the burden of loving too hard—too much.

But Isseya doesn’t even look remorseful. No, she looks satisfied.

It stuns both of her lovers still and silent. She bares human teeth with a fire in her eyes. “You think all is made calm with a—a touch?! That fucking me content undoes the words I take night after night after night?!”

“Neither of us would dare,” replies Valdas cool and calm. It only angers her further.

“I will not deny it was amusing at first; toying with their heads, seducing their wives, dismantling the safety of the disgusting mentalities they have held for far too long. But I can only take so much. Why should I have to make argument as to whether or not I am worthy of personhood in front of these worms?!”

Cynbel has to wait until his cheek has healed to speak, until he can no longer feel the breeze near the candles against his teeth. “You seemed as if to enjoy it.”

“Like I said — at first.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She snarls. “I do. Every. god. damned. night. I do.” Her chest heaves against her corset with every word and Cynbel can’t remember ever seeing her like this; so repulsed by him, by them. “But I don’t even get to kill them! To show them just who they have angered — who they have wronged. A thousand years ago no man would dare say such things even in my presence lest they lose their precious cocks, or find their entrails strung up like garlands in the trees, or taste their pathetic little spines.

“But I can’t do that anymore, can I? Not without risk of exposure, of being caught. If not as vampires then as murderers.”

“We have all made sacrifices in the face of a changed world, darling.” Valdas insists, but they all know it to be true.

She raises her chin despite the trembling of her lower lip.

“I can no longer, my Lord. Do not ask it of me, not even for another night. I can’t.”

When their Divinity rounds to her Isseya struggles, even if only at first. Tries in vain to pull her wrists from his grasp, to push him away, but Cynbel knows firsthand the efforts are fruitless.

Then, not even a needle of space between them, she dissolves into tears in her God’s arms. Wails with the might of a banshee muffled into his collar and he weathers the storm of her in an eternal embrace.

Of course. Of course they have all given up the old world, the old ways in lieu of progress. And Cynbel thought himself the most resistant to it all but he could not have been more blind to the truth. In many ways he is still given a berth to be the hunter, the predator that lurks beneath his skin. But not her, not Isseya.

When Valdas goes to rest his hand upon her hair the ornaments braided in stop him. Ornaments, baubles they bought her, bound her with Cynbel’s mind unhelpfully reminds him — but he pushes it aside to gently comb them free, to free her even if just a little bit.

He could—should, is about to—step back. But with claws still stained by his blood Isseya reaches back for a fistful of his dinner coat. Don’t go. So he doesn’t; rests his forehead against the crown of her and allows them both to envelop her until she is no more.

It was a drunken amusement to them; this echoing cavern of a house in the heart of crowded London. Certainly it was more space than they would ever need. They had their bed, as they had always done. And more often than not every other room stood still — as preserved in time as the home’s occupants.

Only by force has the Trinity ever slept apart.

Until now.

He’s awake but Cynbel doesn’t open his eyes. And when he does his arm is thrown over them. Trying to keep the world away for as long as possible.

It’s with a selfish relief that he wanders into the dining room to find the other parts of his soul looking as just as sleep-deprived and lost as he feels.

Cynbel’s half into his seat at Valdas’ left when he catches Isseya’s subtle cough. Looks up to her as perfect as ever and strangely he’s a little disappointed their healing did not let her stay red-eyed and savage — as though it somehow seeks to invalidate her agony — but he can’t imagine not being at her beck and call and makes his way to her instead.

Before Iss’ can rise to meet him Cynbel takes a knee at her side.

The absent rustling of papers stops behind him; Valdas taken with the sight of them even all these years, decades, centuries later. But pride is for those better-rested, so Cynbel settles on contentment that only grows when Isseya’s hesitant hand begins to card through his hair.

“Waking was…”

“Torture?” she offers, and he takes it because it’s true, “I… would fall to the edge of sleep, but there was such a void around me I never really rested.”

Cynbel nods, knows. “I must have come to around midday but could not bring it upon myself to move.”

The Children of Valdemaras look to him as one. Neither of them could expect the stack of bound papers he produces from his lap. “I finally finished that play I started with William.”

They laugh because it’s ridiculous and because they could not possibly lament any more than they already have. There’s a comfort between them even if he’s sitting on the rug so that’s where Cynbel stays; where he pulls the manuscript down and flips through it while Isseya tries to read over his shoulder. “No no, go back, I saw ‘cock-chamber’ what the bloody hell is a ‘cock-chamber’?” And when Valdas does not answer his Golden Son makes use of long legs and nudges teasingly at the man’s groin for incentive to do so.

“Come on, tell us. Tell us. Please tell us? Tell us please!”

“You’re like a child!”

“You adore it.”

“I — you both know very well that this catastrophe of a script was started under some very strong hallucinogenics. Get your foot — we’ve discussed my dislike of your feet!”

Valdas bats away the offending foot; fixes what likely would be a harsh and cold glare down at his firstborn. But there’s a snort up above Cynbel’s head and both of them look to the sight of Isseya with different tears in her eyes, desperately plugging away at her nose and they’ve only made her laugh like that maybe ten times in two thousand years and she’s so beautiful — he’s so beautiful — they are both so fucking beautiful it hurts him all the way down to his bones.

“Oh I remember,” Isseya agrees, “and if my memory serves me—which it usually does—you came back to us in full costume regalia for the role of a… what was it, beloved?”

She looks down to Cynbel, whose mischief matches her mirth.

“Why my dearest love I do believe it was the role of a whore.”

Not that they haven’t told him this story dozens of times for the sheer amusement of it, but that each time Valdas still manages to look so offended makes it all the better.

“I—without proof I refuse to believe —”

“You made such a pretty whore,” Isseya croons.

“I would have paid you in the crown jewels.”

“You—the both of you are such awful, terrible, ungrateful progeny!” And I will love you as I have loved you, as I love you now; boundlessly and effortlessly and eternally. He doesn’t need to say it. That’s what makes it wonderful.

By the time their attending man comes in with the post Cynbel has returned to a proper seat. But the corners that divide the three of them no longer feel so sharp at the edges; the distance no longer so vast.

How delightfully, dreadfully domestic they are in these moments. One could forget they once ravaged continents were they to see this, now; three vampires pouring over letters, missives, the paper.

Isseya lets out a noise of discontent, a lilted “bastard,” as she devours a small handwritten missive. Cynbel glances at the envelope but doesn’t recognize the handwriting.

“Not another wedding invitation, I hope.”

“You know I would prefer it to this betrayal.” She takes no small amount of satisfaction in holding the thick vellum sheet over the nearest candle; lets it burn bright and until the flames tickle her fingertips before she drops what remains onto her empty plate. “It seems my own ungrateful progeny has taken it upon himself to choose the new home of the Musea Sanguis.”

Valdas frowns. “We agreed Jingyi was to move the collection here, to London. Don’t tell me he’s kept it in Paris.”

“On the contrary, snide little worm stabbed us in the back. He sends his ‘good tidings and well-fucking-wishes’ from New York.”

And they all know what that means. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the Godmaker taking principle ownership of the Musea, in fact given the political unease on their side of the world it makes the most sense.

Still. “It would have been nice to reclaim a few of our things before they fell into his hands,” Valdas mutters, and is not disagreed with.

With the fewest ties to society Cynbel rarely has anything specifically bearing his title. And if he does its importance is always greatly exaggerated. Like the invitation to Tepes’ new estate in Prague — he thought the man would have given up by now; what with his other dozen requests for their attendance at his bal masqué ignored. Unfortunately not.

Today, though, is different.

“Would you look at that…” He drags his knife along the common stock envelope but there’s only one person who would take the time to address him these days. “Seems Ambrose has made his way North. Though I suppose if there’s ever a time to wander those winters it’s when you can no longer feel the chill.”

“The boy from Virginia? He still writes?”

Cynbel shrugs and hands the letter off to Valdas’ curious eye. “What can I say, he saved your life and I was feeling nurturing.”

It’s the word that earns Isseya’s scornful mocking. “Then you shall be the one to keep the estate tidy.”

“I am the fairer sex, thank you for noticing.”

“Positively porcelain.”

“Isseya, my love?”

“Hm?”

“Kindly fuck off.”

It’s the kind of laughter that can’t help but be infectious. Seeping from one to the other to the other and linking them as they link their hands.

This. Cynbel knows it, feels it between and through them. This is worth living for.

And it is.

They’ve given themselves this gift for a reason. This indulgence, this life of excess. It is their reward for such a brief time without. Is it possibly too much too fast — he won’t say no. But what is endless life without going a little too far sometimes?

And though they are so desperately (painfully, yearningly, eternally) in love, the Trinity accepts that there are simply some facets of life in which they will never agree.

That would make this splendid time — trivial though it is — a first for them. A time in which they are all contented enough.

He should have known it would come crashing down sooner or later.

It takes a few days, lulls them into a false sense of security, but it does. It always does.

Cynbel’s mood sours the moment he steps into the mortuary. The smell that tickles the tip of his nose — fake death. Just let corpses rot, fucking humans.

“You’d better have a good reason for dragging me down here so close to dawn, Whittaker.” He barks because he knows his voice will echo harsh on the room’s tiles, because he knows the skittish man will (and does) cringe and make his shriveled self smaller at the mere presence of him.

Whittaker is a small whelp of a man. He never stops fidgeting, messing with his hands. Cynbel has half a mind to take one of his medical devices and saw his feet off at the ankles just so he doesn’t have to hear the rustling of his shuffled steps.

As expected he jumps out of his own skin; barely puts it back on before he’s tripping over himself in an attempt to greet the vampire at the door.

“As I ss-said in my letter, I deeply apologize for the inconvenience, sir,” and his words are oily with prostrated subservience, “but this could not w-wait. You will thank me f-for the warning.”

Exactly how Whittaker’s mortal life had crossed paths with enough evil to curse him revenant is a mystery Cynbel will never solve, but one that will haunt him until the end of his days.

“This way, if you please.”

Technically there is not a living soul among them. Three bodies — two who just so happen to have the fortune (and misfortune in Whittaker’s case) of permanence on this the plane of the living.

The revenant’s translucent hand hovers over the sheet for a moment. Perhaps he debates on whether or not to withdraw his summons — though they both know Cynbel will not allow it. He grasps the edge and pulls it back.

Cynbel isn’t surprised to see Viscount Edwards there; their unwilling guest of honor. Gladdened, perhaps. Concerned, deeply. But not surprised.

“You recognize him then.”

“Would you have called me here if you thought I would not?”

There is almost an “ah-ah,” from the mortician as Cynbel reaches for the corpse, but he thinks better of it and simply hovers. A fly seeking spoils while the vulture circles carrion.

His touch is clinical, methodical. Fingertips over peeling lips and down the full face. Eventually he whips the sheet aside and lets it fall behind him to be forgotten. Hears the mad dash of Whittaker to pick it up but doesn’t really listen to it.

“I feel no trace of warmth coming from him.”

His question, unspoken, is answered; “Lamplighters pulled him from the Thames not a few hours ago.”

“A drowned man doesn’t look like this.” Like this, he says, but even for a connoisseur of death such as himself Cynbel struggles to put it to better words. And he cannot help his reluctance to turn the man’s chin this way and that — but there are no wounds to be found even on his neck.

With every answer, a dozen questions more.

When he finally manages to wrench his eyes away Whittaker is back on the other side of the table straightening his smock. “I’ll need a carriage and a disposable driver. He’s not yet in rigor — have you a trunk or a crate? Something discreet.”

No creature as low on the evolutionary food chain as Whittaker should ever look at him like that; with pity. He’s feeling enough strangeness as it is — adding anger would only be adding fuel to the fire. “This is not a task to be negotiated, whelp. I’ll take him back to Montes and you will claim the death a suicide.” Why else would he have brought Cynbel here if not to help him cover it up? “Isseya can perform her own autopsy.”

“Ah, see…” Whittaker ticks his tongue; Cynbel takes great pleasure in the thought of ripping it out with a pair of nearby forceps, “that — I mean to say — that won’t be possible this time.”

This time. Because he’s to believe this creature has suddenly grown a spine? Bodies in far worse condition and definitively by the Trinity’s hand (because this, this he isn’t sure) have gotten the same treatment. Why else would he keep Whittaker’s ill company? He wouldn’t.

Cynbel leans forward and braces his hands on the edge of the table. It creaks under the weight of his years and Whittaker is right to jump in fright.

“And the logic to your insanity would be…?”

There is a great deal of fumbling and the metallic clatter of scalpels on the stone floor. All leading to an offering; a file of worn leather — something that has seen its share of reports all of them with bodies such as the Viscounts; set about in an endless cycle of morbidity.

“A—A detective of the Yard, sir. He’s already opened an investigation.”

Happenstance and the Trinity’s bad luck, really, that at the same time two skin-and-bone Lamplighters soaked through were catching the attention of a night constable, across London a detective was doing his level best to avoid his wrathful wife by staying on the job as long as he could. That he was two steps out into the night just as that same constable was rushing up in a fright.

Happenstance and really. bad. fucking. luck.

“So you s-see,” Whittaker hastens to finish his tale, casts glances at the poor excuse for a window near the ceiling to gauge the morning’s arrival, “I must dissect the poor Viscount here. Claiming his body gone would — dare I say it — be even more suspect than it already is.”

“So you brought me here to make a mockery of me?”

“Of cc-course not sir!”

“Then why —”

“To warn you.”

There’s a twinge of the Veil in the bespelled man’s warble. Whispers both his and not on lips that don’t move, a tongue that doesn’t speak. Cynbel prides himself on being a worldly man, on knowing secrets of both the worlds of light and shadow, and has seen this from Whittaker before.

If only it would stop the sinking pit of despair growing inside.

Their home is vast, yes. But Cynbel is loud.

“Isseya! Isseya!”

He breezes past the one who tries to take his coat and thinks little of it. No break in his bounding strides up the stairwell three at a time even though he hasn’t an inkling where they might be hiding at such a cunning hour.

“This isn’t the time for games! Valdas — Isseya!”

“Grief, you’re a dramatic one. We’re in the drawing room!”

Cynbel rounds the doorway to a peculiar sight. The first of its kind and for them that’s a bold statement.

But Isseya does not look up from her careful medical practices. Her grip doesn’t waiver even slightly on her scalpel where it slides like a hot knife in butter inside their Divinity’s abdomen.

Valdas reaches up what little he can where he lays prone on a chaise and dabs at her forehead with a handkerchief. As though live and conscious surgery is as much a part of them as lovemaking.

If this their darling girl’s fascination with the medical profession continues it may very well become such.

Cynbel’s words choke back down his throat as he approaches. All thought gone but for the sight before him. Watching intently as she slices along the layers of Valdas’ skin until she can pull back the flesh enough to expose bone.

Valdas hisses at that, which causes Isseya to still. Not to remove herself from him, but to wait until he gives the go-ahead for her to continue.

“I’m glad you’ve returned before she finished,” wheezes Valdas — a noise that draws Cynbel’s attention up to his similarly-filleted left lung as it goes through the familiar process of molding itself back together, “here I was beginning to worry I wouldn’t get the opportunity to ask your opinion on the matter.”

Would his opinion have stopped her? “My opinion on what, exactly?”

“How lovingly our dearest penetrates me, of course.” Both of his children can see the strain on his insides as he holds back his laughter. “She’s not as thick as you are, Cynbel, but she’s a quick study.”

“Obviously.” She mumbles back.

“Do you mean sexually or medically, beautif—aah, ow—ul?”

Even at the compliment she remains focused. “Yes.”

For a moment it’s almost enough to forget; to imagine all is well. Until it isn’t.

Valdas picks at a stray bit of flesh absently. “Whatever had you in such a maelstrom must not have been that important. Though if you care to explain why you return so close to sunrise, I would hear it.”

Isseya muses alongside; “One would have thought you got your fill of sunlight for the next century or so. I certainly did.”

Yes, right. “Whittaker sent for me.” And their disgust is understandable.

“What could that thing have possibly wanted that warranted such an outrage?” asks Valdas, but it’s Isseya that Cynbel fixates on when he speaks next.

“He wished for me to identify a body pulled out of the river. That of Viscount Edwards.”

Her composure slips in an instant. Her blood-slicked grasp veers harshly to the side, is followed quickly by their Lord and Light’s cry of malcontent and fresh blood bubbling up from the new incision. Of course he has sustained greater wounds, he is the Made-God of countless ages and innumerable battles. But that doesn’t stop Valdas from watching their darling beauty with a hesitant shadow on his previously carefree expression.

It takes little time for Isseya to regain her composure, she clasps fingers interlaced over the wound as if to demand the pieces of him knit back together. Cynbel grabs a cloth from the nearest washing bowl and kneels beside her to help.

That she goes rigid at his touch hurts him more than she can ever know.

The Made-God speaks first. Because his Golden Son has no more to say. Because his Priestess will not.

“Explain yourself.” But the movement only agitates the wound and the doctor.

“When you’ve healed. Stop talking.”

“I am not beholden to your whims, Isseya,” Valdas doesn’t care that he smears his blood on her as he grasps her chin; forces their eyes to meet, “you are beholden to mine. I seek an answer, and you will not deny me.”

Decades have passed since they have heard that voice from him. The one that demands their worship and takes nothing less than all they are. The voice of their Maker; more than a God in affectionate compliments but real and true. Old and craven.

Even Cynbel feels the pull of his blood towards Him, how it turns his skin inside-out and bends his spine in supplication. Were he not so desperate for the same answers he would almost pity her.

Fuck, she’s so proud. Not defiant—never—but proud. “Of course, my Holy One. I could never — would never think to.”

“I will not repeat myself.” Explain yourself.

“There is nothing to explain.”

He moves in a blur; a speed they will never hope to match. Grip tight enough to part her lips and expose her tongue. Her scalpel still stained with his blood now with the tip pressed against it. She learned her favorite torture methods from Him after all.

“You would lie to me with mine own tongue? Then I will take it back.”

“Were I lying I would cut it out myself in offering,” and for the first time she actually wavers, “but I am not, and would ask my Holy One to spare me for it.”

Two fights in the same fortnight. He wants to scream. But he cautions a tender hand between her shoulder blades instead. “Iss’… think about this.”

Not like they haven’t killed for revenge before. So why does she tempt his wrath like this here, now? Why would she not boast of this cur’s well-deserved death like she would any other?

The thought must occur to Valdas at the same time. He drops her and the blade all at once and pulls her against him, teeth grit through the pain of his healing body but that would never be enough to stop him.

Their kiss isn’t one of apology. This is what the two worshipers of Valdemaras walked willingly into millennia ago. They love Him for this. And He loves them in return.

Cynbel’s wide palm rests where their thighs meet. Their hands cover his on instinct.

“Wash up,” he tells them, “I worry that the revenant calling on me was a sign that this will not be a thing so easily ignored. The Yard has called for an investigation.”

It’s a messy thing; the way three bodies intertwine fingers. But they have seen the uniformity of two held hands and deemed it mundane; too mundane for what they are together.

“I…” Isseya tries to speak — but the words catch in her throat. So of course Valdas kisses her again; of course he takes the words she cannot say.

“I know.” He rasps.

“You swear?”

“On my love for you,” he squeezes their hands again, “for both of you.”

Promises like that are not easily cast aside.

“I’m still struggling to understand what makes this one instance different than all the others.” And Isseya has a point, really she does — but the growing petulance in her voice is admittedly unbecoming of someone with her rank and years. “He was a disgusting, pathetic little nuisance and — and surely the both of you can attest I was positively tame that night.”

Valdas exhales through his nostrils long and slow. A pointed effort on his part to continue sipping his tea rather than speak his thoughts on the matter.

“Unlike the Ambassador to Bombay?” He’s the most recent in Cynbel’s memory and only because he still remembers the smell of fragrant oils, burning flesh, and tropical fruit. A wonderful chance to reminisce of their days trekking across the continent.

“He touched me.”

“And lost those charming looks he so coveted for his troubles.”

Valdas’ cup clinks against the saucer and draws silence from them both; has them waiting on bated breath.

“A fine memory to be sure, though made less so when paired with the hefty sum it cost our coffers to shut him up.”

Cynbel averts his eyes. Isseya refuses to regret her actions — rightfully so — but even she can’t deny the effort it took to smooth over that particular incident.

“My point remains. The Viscount and I exchanged words but he left very much alive. Call upon the other guests — force them to speak on my behalf.”

What made Cynbel think Isseya was behind the Viscount’s midnight swim in the first place? It didn’t take a genius to come to that conclusion. Revenge is to justice is to swift acts of cruelty — all things they love about her.

Valdas pinches his brow. “He was a guest of Her Royal Highness. She will want to see a culprit found and hanged.”

“Well that’s not so bad.” Cynbel himself has been hanged more times than he can count. But his relief is not shared among them.

“If Isseya is hanged we will have to flee London.”

And as always their Divinity is the most rational even in irrational hours.

“Worse —” the serving spoon in her hand doesn’t survive intact; is quickly replaced by the attending butler so used to their displays of frustration, “— if I am hanged he wins.”

“He is dead, dearest.”

“His ilk, those fucking skeletons with their skin that clings like wet lace to their outdated ideals of broodmares and sacrificial virgins.”

A word choice that has Cynbel adjusting his cravat. “You say that like being a sacrificial virgin was a bad thing…” And its a sympathetic offer his God gives but he takes the outstretched hand nevertheless.

Isseya continues; “Hang me and any woman who dares challenge those living mausoleums will suffer the same. And that I will not abide.”

Their God hums his approval. “I was wondering when you would find your righteous cause.” And her confusion only amuses him, but he takes pity and continues; “Thank about it. All of my attempts at freedom from my Maker—fruitless at times but not always—they have fueled me as much as your companionship. And Cynbel… well.”

“Such lofty compliments you bestow.”

“You tread dangerously, beloved mine. But you always have, haven’t you? Just as Gaius will always be snapping at our heels there will always be war and you haven’t exactly been subtle in your desire to seek it out.

“But nothing has held my Priestess’ interest for long enough to consume her, as we have been consumed.”

She hesitates.

“Now that I have found it I will burn London to the ground before I let it go.”

“We would not dare ask it of you. This is a good thing, Isseya. Even shadowed in death as it is.”

“A little death isn’t a bad thing.”

It takes a moment but soon his lovers wear matching smiles; the pressure of what might come eased from their shoulders.

Truthfully it would solve much of their current strife if something were to rile the world. Something to silence the aristocracy and cull the herded masses. Something to distract the Yard so the Trinity may take care of this unpleasantness swiftly and quietly.

Cynbel would kill for a war right now.

Idle hands supping on silver spoons have always fueled the world’s creativity. Didn’t matter where they went, what they saw, what was tearing nations and empires in half outside the safety of gilded walls.

The rich always find a way to make life interesting. Anything for them to feel something, even the barest spark, that their wealth no longer offered.

All those brimming vices, the pot so very near boiling over, paired with the stiff and reserved top of the English social class? Fucking insanity — and the best kind, too.

All one had to do was pull back the velvet curtain to see every temptation succumbed to, every fantasy explored, every debasement given if only for a night — if only here. What? They had to be known for something; better sodomy and seduction than for their body count. Or… that was the plan.

“Forgive the interruption, my Lord,” says the butler with all the tact of an ass in a thoroughbred race, “but your presence has been requested in the library.”

How laughable, he thinks, and because the opium started to kick in mere minutes ago he does indeed laugh. Swings his head heavy with no crown in sight and looks up with utter disinterest.

“It’s not Whittaker, is it?”

“No my Lord.”

“Thank the Christian god.” Cynbel, however, makes no move to stand and take his leave. Instead he goes back to the far more enjoyable show of paint-smeared flesh closest to the window. At least his abandoned hobby was good for something.

“Ahem, my Lord.” What are they paying him, again? Whatever it is it isn’t enough — such determination, such professionalism and decorum. Though his voice strains the third time; “Please, my Lord.”

“Cynbel just go with the fucking man,” growls Valdas from his confines; his eyes brighten red when his firstborn doesn’t immediately obey, “because at this rate I’ll have his head just to shut him up and Tobias has been so very good to us.”

“He’d be far better if he would let me enjoy the show in peace.”

There it is; the barest chip in Tobias’ almost preternatural ability to stay composed. The young man nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last breath of it — especially when he sees Cynbel has indeed abandoned his delights.

“Very well,” he relents, but Tobias’ relief is short-lived, “can’t you just invite whoever it is up here? I hate that I should be inconvenienced because someone didn’t bother to send word they were calling.”

That the butler’s hesitation is confusing doesn’t make it any less amusing to him. Not until Tobias forgoes his usual announcing tone to lean forward and practically whisper into Cynbel’s ear.

“Forgive me, my Lord, if I speak out of turn. But I would rather think you would want to keep a detective far away from events such as…” he gives a shaky exhale, “such as these.”

His ease drops out from underneath him and makes Cynbel pull back; judging the truth in the familiarity of Tobias’ too-bright eyes. A detective, though of course he should have suspected this it comes no less of a surprise.

The Trinity seek one another out about the width of the drawing room. Statues of flesh soft as silk but no less stone amidst passions abundant; their artist might call them The Tragedy of Youth. Or something equally waxing philosophical and waning in temperament.

Valdas nods almost imperceptibly. Go.

Well there’s no use in staying now, anyway. Nothing kills arousal quite so easily as the police.

Just before Tobias opens the library doors Cynbel stops him with a touch to his shoulder. “Wait — did you sense anything about him? Is he…?”

With the high almost completely vanished it’s easier to see through Tobias’ glamor. He prefers to keep himself ignorant to the young man’s true face — even despite coming into a fair bit of contact with various sects of faerie outcasts through his long life there’s nothing quite so disturbing as when the shimmering veil of magic is parted and one catches the first glimpse of them. Cat-like eyes and too-high cheekbones on faces nearly always perfect and even.

Unlike in his earlier years it’s nearly impossible for the Trinity to come across an exile of the Fair Folk that meets even half their age but it isn’t impossible. Tobias is a mere three hundred at best — “But time is so different in our lands,” he had told them, “your ilk are so easily measured in generations, but we are less so,” — yet how his true face looks upon Cynbel now makes the vampire feel…

It makes him feel vulnerable. The gall of him.

Cynbel does little to contain his relief when the butler shakes his head no. “The detective is entirely human, my Lord. His aura carries echoes of will-o’-the-wisps, but —”

“But they are likely from his interactions with the revenant at the Yard.”

“I thought the same. My Lord, if I may…” he hesitates; to see an elven face uncertain is an ominous thing, “he carries the burden of grief in his soul.”

“He has seen death, it doesn’t surprise me.”

But Tobias is insistent. “The grief is not his own. Mortals are dull things to be sure but few among them have been known to… understand our world even if they are not conscious of it.”

There’s no masquerading it — its a warning; one Cynbel would be a fool to ignore. And of course he wants to hold them both back just a little longer, ask Tobias what exactly he’s trying to say, but he knows it would just be in vain. Powerful creatures were the fae. Powerful and utterly incapable of saying anything plainly and not laced in a thousand metaphors.

So Cynbel just nods. “Thank you for telling me.”

Tobias’ glamour begins to shift back into place. Though his eyes may look human now, though, he can’t see anything but the seelie truth. “The Trinity has been good to me. I could have found the same fate as the rest of my kind; wandering the foggy moors up North and giving the humans something to both fear and revere. But I have work, I have my own earned wealth… I would not see that taken from me so soon.”

As long as our interests align. It’s the only thing about the boy Cynbel half-likes.

He gives the go-ahead and Tobias opens the doors.

[memorystormsanctuary]

KH Oc Week Day IV- Alternate Universe!

It was really, really hard to come up with an Alternate Universe I liked the idea of for today’s @khoc-week. While I love reading soul mate au’s not my kind of writing, and honestly, I just didn’t know a lot of au’s in general. So I looked up a list found a Hogwarts au and that’s what you have in front of you.

Basic info-

X and Y are sixth years, along with Terra, Aqua, Ven, and Vanitas.

Yuki is a fifth-year with Riku, Lea, and Isa

Sora, Kairi, Roxas, Xion, and Naminé are all fourth years.

Houses are pretty obvious, but I will say it anyway. X is in Slytherin, Yuki and Y are both Hufflepuffs.

X and Y are half-bloods raised in the muggle foster care system. X knew they were wizards. Y did not.

Yuki is also a half-blood, but she grew up in an all magic community with Kairi and Naminé. 

X’s wand is poplar with a phoenix feather core. 10 3/4′s inches unyielding flexibility.

Y’s wand is pear and phoenix feather, 10 inches, slightly yielding flexibility.

Yuki’s wand is cypress and unicorn hair, 12 1/4 inches, rigid flexibility.

Y’s best class is charms and her worst is History of Magic. She intends to be a healer at St. Mungo’s when done at Hogwarts.

X’s best class is Defense Against the Dark Arts and his worst is charms. He wants to work as an Unspeakable in the Ministry of Magic.

Yuki’s best class is Transfiguration and her worst class is potions. She honestly has no idea what she’s doing after school and is mildly panicking over OWLS.

All three play Quidditch. X and Y are seekers, Yuki is a chaser.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y watched as one of her best friends leaned over an open textbook in the Hufflepuff common room. She had already hissed at several people who had tried talking to her almost literally. She was quite certain Sora was going to be scared for the rest of his life now. Beside her X sat with an open book. No one dared to make a remark about the Slytherin who had made his way into their common room. Everyone knew he was in here all the time anyway when he wasn’t with Vanitas and Terra causing chaos around the school.

“I don’t remember being this stressed about OWLS,” Y said, not looking over at X. He hummed and flipped his page.

“You were worse,” he said simply. “After all, you needed pretty much all OWLS to get where you needed to be.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Y complained.

“You almost set Lea on fire,” X said. “Twice.”

“Ok, but he was actually being annoying,” Y argued. X paused looking up from his book slowly.

“He asked if you wanted him to get you something from the kitchens, you hadn’t eaten all day,” he said. His eyes met with hers as she flushed bright red.

She looked away her attention going back to Yuki who now had her face flat against the desk. She was surrounded by so many rolls of parchment, Y decided there was no way she had read them all. Y sighed standing up and crossing the common room.

“Are you ok?” Y asked leaning over the desk. She could now confirm most of Yuki’s ‘notes’ looked like it was pointless scribble.

“Kill me now,” Yuki groaned.

“Uh, what?” Y asked.

“Kill me now, don’t make me take these stupid tests,” Yuki groaned again. She sat up and looked at Y. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and had rings under them that were so dark she looked almost like she had been punched.

“Hey, they’re not that bad. You’re making things worse for yourself,” Y said.

“She’s actually right you know,” X said casually as he joined the two of them, his hands in his pockets. Yuki looked at him in minor annoyance.

“Did you forget this isn’t your common room again?” she asked. X shrugged.

“My common room is whichever I want, they’re all easy enough to get into,” he said.

“Back to the topic at hand,” Y said, sensing the beginning of a fight. It would not have been the first since Yuki had decided all she could do was study. “You need a break, or your head might explode, and no one wants that.”

“But Y,” Yuki began.

“No buts!” Y said. She pulled her wand from her hair, the bun it had been in falling after it lost the one thing holding it in place. She waved her wand and vanished all of the notes in front of Yuki. “I will give those back to you after you take a break. Go talk to Roxas and Lea. See your sisters, do something besides study.”

“I hate you,” Yuki said. But she sighed and stood up, wobbling on her feet a little before exiting the common room. Y gave a satisfied nod before looking back at X.

“Problem solved,” she said.

“For now,” X said. He turned his back on her and grabbed his bag from the floor. “I have to leave, Quidditch practice.”

“Afraid of losing to Hufflepuff?” Y asked teasingly.

“Well, one chaser is fighting test anxiety, you’re the seeker and for some reason that’s not very worrying, your other chaser is an energetic puppy, I think we’re good,” X listed off calmly. He smirked when he saw his sisters glare.

“Begone foul snake,” Y said. X rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, see ya later,” he said.

“Yeah, see ya,” Y agreed.