#oh to sink your teeth into the sacred. into sacrifice. into love

[lotussart]

Sacred

[house-of-crows]

It's been a few years now.... Shall we Unpack this?

Sink me in the River like stones, coins beneath the waves; To break your teeth on love and fight what nests beneath your bones-

The River is often known as the River of Memory. In a ritualistic sort of way, one attaches a memory or a thought or emotional response to a coin, a gemstone…. or a simple, humble river rock, and sinks them into the water. What Lies Beneath will guard them, keep them safe for the same hands who released them to retrieve; if and when they will.

"To break your teeth on love" - Love is often deemed a 'soft' emotion and therefore would not 'break' something, especially your teeth. BUT, if you look at the expression "to cut ones' teeth" : Get one's first experience by doing, or learn early in life, as in I cut my teeth on this kind of layout or He cut his eyeteeth on magazine editing. This term alludes to the literal verb to cut teeth, meaning “to have teeth first emerge through a baby's gums." So if you are cutting your teeth on LOVE, it is a reference both to the first experiences of youth, but also somewhat a return to innocence. Simpler views of the world… when love was the all-encompassing thing we felt.

"what nests beneath the bones" is the heart; in a very literal sense it is talking about fighting one's own heart in a quest for new experiences, but also fighting the concept of LOVE itself. This goes back to the Morrigan's meeting at the Ford with Cu Chulainn, the Dagda, and others; and echoing it in my own life with my lover at the time. Using devotion to Her in a literal and metaphorical sense of my struggle with Faith, asking Her to forget me, as one might ask a Lover to forget them.

So the first verse's meaning becomes, largely:

"Forget me, as the River forgets, as those who go to the River forget; sink me in the water like a coin. Less noble and precious than gems, more worthwhile than only a rock. Tell me that I mattered, when I know I did not matter so very much in Your eyes. Then go and, having forgotten me, find new love/a new servant/new believer. Fight whatever memory Your heart holds of me, so I can rest in peace."

My struggle to find my faith is too great, release me! Don't release me without telling me that I was good. For you do eyes blaze with holy fire For you do untamed tongues speak holy words For you are temples all ruins at your feet For you do the hills cry together glory and mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

For the Morrigan and under Her gifts, I experienced the joy of Belief. For Her, and with Her presence, I found faith. Healing… but it came at the cost of the "temples" of my earlier life. Safe places, old refuges that no longer fit me, or no longer allowed me in due to my pagan beliefs. In Her mythos, She is a goddess of prophecy, and battle, self-sovereignty and sacred kingship. The glory of battle, yes, but oh mercy, mercy mercy! In Irish mythology, Macha; one of the Morrigan's faces; is a goddess linked with horses, battle, and sovereignty. She is said to have collected the heads of the slain, which were known as “Macha's acorn crop-” For which reason many would beg Her to spare and show mercy if they failed…. or would swear to sacrifice in Her honor if She gave them victory. ​ You have given me gifts, and I cherish them, I have sacrificed my past safety; grant me victory over my past or grant me mercy…. by sinking me in the River and releasing me from my oaths. What lurks in the depths Bears your face and form- Still waters and deep currents; Reflected in your gaze, Washer At The Ford!

"What Lurks Beneath" are the Watchers in the Water. River monsters, that take various forms. Great eels with giant jaws and teeth, mega-fauna crocodilian-type reptiles, or even something more horrifying. The "washer at the ford" is a mythic vision of the Morrigan washing blood from the armor of the slain. It was a prophecy that battle was coming, and they would die.

The monsters who will guard my spirit have the Morrigan's protective nature, no matter how terrifying their face. The purpose is the same; to set a guarding wall and offer the space to grow before fighting again. A release, or merely an abeyance until the promises can be fulfilled. Her eyes hold that much power and more, and if my time has come, so be it. Take me! If I must struggle and wrestle with faith, I will wrestle! But if I must give up the fight, then I will.

​ For all the feathers between your teeth, You devour death like crows-

The Morrigan's principle animal shape is a hooded crow; Specifically as the Badb Catha, the Battle Crow with a reddened beak and hood. ​ "Hope is the thing with feathers-"

Though my hope of ever having a stable, steady faith or a simple relationship with Deity is dying, the "heart between the teeth" that are "breaking on love" (I love this Goddess, I love this spirituality, I love this path for me, but I am breaking, breaking) Morrigan is only doing as She has ever done… devouring Death. Her Nature. Inevitable.

​

But whether "devouring death" means devouring the circumstances that lead to this cycle of crises in my faith and ability to hold faith in the Divine, or whether it is a devouring the death of my faith as yet another sacrifice…. I still don't know this many years on. It is the same sort of cycle I am walking.

Battle Crow

Sink me in the River like stones, coins beneath the waves; To break your teeth on love and fight what nests between your bones- 

For you do eyes blaze with holy fire For you do untamed tongues speak holy words For you are temples all ruins at your feet For you do the hills cry together glory and mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

What lurks in the depths Bears your face and form- Still waters and deep currents; Reflected in your gaze, Washer At The Ford!

For all the feathers between your teeth,  You devour death like crows- 

[lisinfleur]

T&T - Chapter 1: Castle of Glass

Author’s Notes | Hey guys! Welcome to this new series! This is an old idea inspired by THIS drabble that comes from one of my first celebrations here on Tumblr. Special thanks to @honestsycrets​, who helped me to develop this OC. I hope you guys enjoy this work with me! Info | Viking Age AU, fully out of the storyline of the series! Words | 3002 ⁑ Warnings: Mentions of violence and murderous intents, curse, mentions of sex.

"Take me down to the river-bend Take me down to the fighting end Wash the poison from off my skin Show me how to be whole again"

Castle of Glass (Linkin Park, 2012)

"Who's Freydis? You can call me Katya... Queen... Katya!"

The sounds of her scandalous laughs were still echoing into his brain as he was dragging his dirty and crippled body on the mud of the ground once again.

The same mud he fought so hard to get rid of. The same body he broke so many times to see standing... Walking...

"What? I told you, Oleg... He was the weaker. A half-dozen of promises and he was eating in my hands..."

Fool.

From all his brothers, she chose the one whose heart was more easily deceivable. It would have been Sigurd if he didn't have cut his brother's heart in two not far from that day, but it was his. His need... His craving for dreams that now he felt could never be his.

"Mighty God, Ivar! Of course, it is not your child! How dumb do you need to be to believe you could make me a child when you weren't a man not even to fuck me? Even more to seed my womb..."

Now, like a shattered castle made of thin glass, everything he ever conquered was gone, along with the braces her bastard of a husband ripped from his legs and the crutch he ensured to break in front of Ivar's eyes. Destroyed like his pride... And his heart, broken by the moans of pleasure of the woman he once thought loved him; her naked breasts bouncing with Oleg's hips hitting in the middle of her legs, careless of the swollen belly he so many times worshiped, full of another's child he once thought was his own.

A fool. That's what he was. He was no god. And unlike he believed, maybe Björn wasn't the only brother the gods had abandoned. Maybe his gods were indeed fallen as Oleg screamed at his face when they stood at the iron doors of Kattegat, throwing him like a bag of trash with nothing but his clothes to survive the winter outside, dumped from his homeland like an outcast where he once was the king...

Maybe Ragnar's blood was curse inside his veins and like Sigurd, all of them were cursed. All sons of Ragnar would somehow face terrible destinies to maybe pay for his father's greed in leaving his simple farm to become a king.

Or maybe it was his own curse. Maybe it was the curse he attracted to himself by sacrificing that woman instead of Lagertha at the fire. The curse he attracted upon himself with the rage of the gods for he believed Freydis... No... Not Freydis. Katya's words... About his blood being divine. About him being more than just a man.

"For me, you're a god..."

His fingers clenched and his fist hit the ground once again, furious. Maybe the fury was what was keeping him alive and warm enough since the road was muddy around him and he had no proper clothes to cover himself. His own were dirty and he could feel they were wet. Soon the wounds in his legs would be infected. Oleg was right after all.

"I won't get my blade dirt with the rotten blood of Ragnar Lothbrok in your veins. I don't need to... Go. Drag your lame butt out of my kingdom, you rag of a man! I won't lose my time with you anymore."

He could swear he saw a smile on Katya's face and listened to her saying ironically that he wouldn't survive the winter before the doors of Kattegat were closed in his face.

Ivar couldn't really measure how long he had crawled without a destiny. Nor the many tears of pure rage he had already cried away from any eyes that could see his fury. First, he swore with clenched fists and teeth that he would come back and rip Oleg's heart from his chest! And sacrifice their child to the gods as a gift for his victory. And fuck Katya until she was ripped beyond healing just to expose her naked and ragged for everyone who wanted to see how much of a man he could be.

Now he was starting to believe he wouldn't really survive the cold unless he was able to find some warm place to settle down for a good night of rest and something more than raw roots to eat. With his eyes stupidly blue and his legs aching enough to make his movements harder than never in his life, Ivar was really thinking the gods' hands were against his chest, pushing him back, forcing him to give up and die that insignificant and unmemorable way.

The great, great Ivar the Boneless, frozen to death in some stupid road in the middle of nowhere. What a horrid fate! Even Sigurd among his brothers found his way to Valhalla, and there he was, sitting on the road, pulling his legs painfully to rest them against a stone and check on their wounds, trying to keep them dryer than his wet trousers could permit.

And as if his pain wasn't enough, before he could yell and warn, a woman came running out of nowhere, stumbling in his legs, breaking one of them before falling in the mud with a surprised squeal.

If he didn't have broken bones as a routine in his life, his scream of pain would have been heard from Kattegat for Oleg and Katya's pleasure. But all Ivar did was growling, infuriated, like a wounded animal that someone decided to kick for an unknown reason.

He thought about yelling at the woman and missed his daggers to sink one of them in her leg and give her a small fraction of the pain she increased in his body a thousand times. However, the curiosity was bigger than his anger when he saw the woman rolling at the mud with her cloak that was once so clean, covering her whole body with that dirty thing and sitting beside him as fast as she could, shrinking by his side, holding one of his arms.

Why the fuck was that woman doing this?

"Please... I beg your forgiveness and I promise on the gods and their sacred halls, I'll care for any wounds I have caused you, but please... Do not deliver me to them!" she mumbled, causing Ivar's expression to twist even more, utterly taken aback by her words.

"Who are you talking about, woman? What is..." he didn't have time to ask.

She shrunk under the hood and against his body and soon two men passed running in the same direction she was going before. They ran a little forward and not finding a trace of their prey, they came back. One of them roughly pushing Ivar's shoulder, speaking in a harsh tone as if he was somehow obligated to answer whatever they wanted to know.

"You... Crippled!" the man said, attracting the fierce blues of Ivar towards their face.

Oh, how he wanted to have his daggers now...

"Did you see a woman... Gorgeous silhouette, rounded breasts, curly black hair... Did she pass through here?"

Ivar kept looking at them for a moment. He could demand some gold from those bastards for the woman. He could get gold or silver enough to pay for a ride in a chariot and it would save his life for one more day.

But he could also sell her and receive nothing, for they were two enemies and he was only one, unarmed, one leg painfully broken, and his weakened body. They could just kill him and take her without paying him anything... She promised to care for her mistakes...

"Beyond crippled are you mute as well?" the man spat, grumpy. "These parents nowadays are too much a bunch of cunts... Too loose to get rid of a child even in this pitiful state, look at this bastard? Your father should have left you to the wolves, son!"

"I'm not your son," Ivar answered, angrily.

His voice sounded hoarse.

"And I saw no woman if that's what you wanna know. The only woman around is my sister beside me, who's sick with a contagious disease I wouldn't come too close and risk to take from us. Now get the hell out of our way... We have already enough burdens to deal with someone else's tasks!"

The two hunters stepped back, taking some distance from them both.

"Odin..." one of them mumbled. "May Eir have mercy and Hella take your lives soon. Why the fuck did they let you live? Fuck..."

"Let's go, Mir. We cannot lose time. The bitch must be going to Kattegat. It is not so far from here and we can get her there, let's go!" the other warned before they left, following the road Ivar had dragged himself through for the last three days and a half.

He still waited for a little more until the two bastards couldn't be seen anymore at the end of the road and then, Ivar turned himself to the woman by his side.

"I saved you. Now you owe me. What is happening and who are you, woman?" he asked, harshly, as she pulled the hood from her head, looking around to be sure the two hunters weren't after her anymore.

"Well... I'm Iliana," she mumbled, getting rid of the muddy cloak and looking at him. "I'm a whore and I stole their gold," she lied.

Of course, she lied. Ivar sighed, looking at her.

After Katya, he could smell the scent of a lie kilometers away from him...

"Now tell me if I h..." her voice was cut when his heavy hand held her wrist in a tight grip.

"I might be a cripple, but I'm not an idiot. Don't treat me as if you didn't owe me your life... Why were those hunters running after you, Iliana?"

His eyes were fierce and for the first time since she left her master's house, she felt fear.

Iliana had passed through several hands to know that glare in Ivar's eyes wasn't something you could play with...

"They're slave hunters... And my master wants me back. But I won't go back to his hands unless one of them decides the payment is not enough for the work of getting me alive and wants to take my corpse for him to use!" she grunted, pulling her hand from Ivar's grip, massaging the wrist his strong fingers almost broke.

Ivar straightened the gloves he managed to keep from his leather armor that was taken from him by Oleg and his men, looking at her with the same fierceness in his eyes he was throwing towards those men.

So, she was a fugitive... It could be interesting to him. Maybe someone more was searching for her and he could indeed find a way to sell her in order to get enough money for his needs. Something that he would think until they were in the next city. For now, she could be useful.

"You didn't tell me your name," she said, not calling him the same awful way everyone was calling him since Oleg undressed him from his titles.

A cripple...

"I'm Ivar," he answered, not denying her the truth.

But instead of what he thought, she didn't make any questions.

Her eyes were too focused on the awful and inhuman angle of his leg to really hear the name he spoke so naturally.

"My lady Eir... Aren't you feeling this?" she kneeled beside him, looking at the broken leg.

It wasn't an exposed fracture, but surely his bone was terribly broken. Any man or woman or human being would be screaming in terrible pain with that wound and yet, he was there, calm and doing nothing but clench his teeth while moving to get himself sitting straight.

"I can't properly feel my legs," he explained. "And after all, ... I broke them all the time, every day... It's something I'm used to."

Used to...

Iliana sighed.

She couldn't understand how a man was completely still with a horribly broken bone, but she could understand his words about pain: after all these years being whipped, abused, cut, raped... All those pains were not something harsh for her anymore.

She leaned herself to touch his leg and so, Ivar flinched, looking at her and holding her hand once again in a quick movement that made Iliana ponder if he was just a simple cripple.

"Do not touch me," he sentenced, demanding.

But Iliana kept her position looking at him.

"If I can't touch you, then I can't help with your wound. And you may be used to this pain, but you don't seem to have any frostbite I can see. You may not deal with the pain, but sooner or later this wound will make you slower and then, my friend, you'll discover pain can always find a way to make you suffer again."

Ivar looked at her.

Somehow, that woman wasn't a common slave. She was wise... Her words weren't random, but he could feel the experience of someone who was speaking with the property of lived moments; experienced pain... She knew what she was talking about and so, he released her hand, observing as she slowly placed his leg in the correct position, gathering straight twigs from the dry and frozen trees around until she had enough to create a strong structure around his leg, ripping a piece of her skirt in strands she used to tie the wood to his leg creating something similar to his braces.

When she finished, his leg was properly immobilized and the wound wasn't aching that much anymore.

Maybe selling her would be a mistake after all: the woman knew good techniques that could probably help him to survive.

"Where are you going now?" Ivar asked, looking at her.

"I was indeed going to Kattegat, hoping I could sneak into some boat and leave this continent. But now... Now I have to think," she stopped, looking around. "Maybe Vestfold..."

Ivar scoffed and she looked at him, surprised by his reaction, but his words prevented Iliana from giving his scoff an angry answer.

"You'll find nothing but death in Vestfold now. They're under observation and soon will be under attack. The same bastards that did this to me now have their eyes turned towards their lands. Oleg won't stop until he has the whole Scandinavia under his feet and Harald might be whatever he wants, but that old drunken bastard won't be able to defend Vestfold all by himself."

Iliana didn't let pass his words.

"The same bastards who did this to you?" she looked at him.

A cripple, around his twenties, calling King Harald by names no peasant would dare to speak.

"What did you say was your name again?" she asked.

But Ivar just straightened his chest and back, looking at her with those imposing and fierce blues that weren't supposed to be in the face of a ragged man like him.

"I'm Ivar, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, woman," he spoke, imposing. "I'm Ivar the Boneless!"

Her body shivered on its base. Ivar the Boneless. The feared king of Kattegat... What was he doing muddy and dragging himself like a homeless man around his own town?

However, she didn't have to ask. Ivar's imposing position didn't last too much and he sighed, letting go of that ruthlessness and looking at her with defeat in his blues.

"I was betrayed by the woman I once called my queen. And overthrown by my enemies who threw me away from my homelands as if I was nothing but an outcast. Maybe we can help each other, Iliana, the slave," he said, looking right into her eyes. "You seem to know very well how to heal my wounds and you're a very beautiful woman, if I may say. I'm sure you can get us some good money..."

"I won't sell myself for your needs, Ivar, the fallen king!" she said, mocking him with the words as if he had mocked her with the title of slave.

But he scoffed again looking at her.

"Don't be stupid, woman," he said, sighing. "You don't need to lay with them for a few coins when I can kill them to have the whole bags they carry."

Ivar's words shocked Iliana not only by how naturally he was speaking of taking lives but also because somehow... They were making sense... If he was really the Boneless as he said, that would be a thought she would understand coming from his mind.

"You stop the next chariot for a ride and while the coachman is busy with his eyes inside your cleavage, I can get us a free horse and a warm chariot for you to travel. Since the hunters are looking for a woman alone and walking, they will have no reason to receive information about a lady in a chariot driven by a cripple..."

How many times did she think she could do it? Seduce a man, kill him for the gold in his pockets... She even tried it once and ended up being fucked for hours by a man who didn't pay her a dime for the amazing night of sex she offered him because of her inability to sink the dagger through his neck...

Ivar didn't seem like a man who would hesitate as she did...

"I don't have a single dime with me. Also, no weapon. And you don't seem to have anything with you as well..." she pointed.

But Ivar just touched her skirt, pulling the rest of the piece she tore to tie his leg, creating a new strand he wrapped around both of his hands, pulling it from both sides to test the tension of the cloth.

"It will serve..." he said, and Iliana's blood ran cold imagining his plans with that thing.

She would have to hear a man struggling for his oxygen that day.

But both of them would have a warm place to sleep that night...

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[tiramochi]

The katana Kaikokusaku pulls her like she's the counterpoint to its melody, a sleek, elegant construct of black and gold, and the space in which it exists is tenuous, bizarre, a pocket of still water amid the currents. It hangs suspended in the murk like a sacred relic, the shintai of a shrine. More mundane objects litter the riverbed underneath, silt and sprawling weed and a conch shell, patterns too familiar; she looks, looks again.

“Oh,” Kingyo says, sinking to her knees.

Its surface is already dulled and rough to the touch, fragile without the pulse of vitality within. The only remains of the conch spirit who’d followed her through the battlefield, and then disappeared shortly after, Kingyo now realizes, to give her life to the blade. To sustain the lifeforce inside it with her own.

She thinks, I never knew your name. And then at the katana, with gold slivers spiraling about its blade, with the entirety of his soul bound within its confines. I never knew yours, either.

Lord Arakawa is a title, and not a name.

But Kingyo takes the katana in hand and he is there, he is there, a sudden startling presence like being steeped in warmth, wrapped in summer winds. Tangible, yet insubstantial. If she fell back she would be able to touch him, to come up against his chest – there is only water.

She makes up her mind; Kaikokusaku dislodges easily from its stasis, falls into her arms. It’s selfish, but Kingyo has always been selfish, and besides, the Arakawa River would be nothing without its people. Better that it can be with them, and with her.

If she cries at all, the tears are whisked away by the currents, out to the open sea to mingle with the salt.

Maybe this is what it feels like, to drown.

* *

Her bones still ache. The sea roars through her.

She stands on her toes, and feels something give. Sometimes, when she’s caught unawares, she takes a step and teeters, unsteady on her new legs. Losing a dancer’s poise, perfectly balanced, for the fumbling of a newborn, like a fish that has forgotten how to swim.

So Kingyo rediscovers her body by force. She does the steps as she’d seen him do, feet thump-thump-thump on the rock, following the shade of her past self, too, a small child practicing with a stick. Extend and swing. Shake off the brittleness in her limbs, the feeling of fracture with every movement.

His hands cover her own. She twists and sees him looming and suddenly she’s small again, craning her neck to glare into his eyes.

Shorty, he seems to say. Don’t overdo it. You’ll never get taller like that, if you break your body before it has a chance to grow. He taps her head with two fingers.

Is that how you treat a lady? Her voice builds to a squeak despite her best efforts. So undignified!

What lady? I don’t see any lady here.

Kingyo knows he’s laughing at her, but nothing shows in his face. Perhaps his eyes are warmer. Perhaps the lines around his mouth are less tight.

“It wouldn’t kill you to smile,” Kingyo grumbles, then realizes her mistake. Bites back her next words, furtive, because there’s no one to hear except the wind and the sword, thrumming quietly in her hands.

* *

Kingyo rules a fractured kingdom. Not quite the world, but acceptable, for now.

Later on, she realizes just how lonely it is.

The water youkai are strangely pitiful, displaced and shrunken; they look to her for guidance. We want to go home.

It’s too dangerous to return, Kingyo tells them, and the miasma hasn’t yet gone from the waters. There could be enemies left, so I have to get stronger, first.

And he is dead, he cannot protect us. They weep. Lord Arakawa is an ideal to them; shining, flawless, faceless.

He said that I had spirit, Kingyo says. He gave me candy and told me stories through the night.

* *

At the river’s estuary she finds clusters of white chrysanthemums sheltered by an outcrop of rock, windblown petals edged by salt. Kingyo comes back the following day, having nabbed a flask of sake from Seimei’s stores – she doesn’t think he’ll mind. She finds a peach too, a whole one ripe and yielding under her fingertips, and takes a bite out of it just to check. Fruit is a valuable commodity, anyway.

Together it makes a pile in the flowers, sake and half-eaten peach and Kaikokusaku settled center stage. A makeshift funeral. Kingyo is no priest, but she can do this much. The sky yawns overhead, painfully blue, warms her too-long hair, her dirt-smudged cheeks turned up to the sun. She feels him too, in the blade, but quiescent.

“To the biggest dummy in the universe,” she begins. “The dummy that threw his life away.”

She doesn’t know what to do with the sake; there are no cups, as her foresight hadn’t extended that far. Her grubby fingers slip on the smooth lacquered surface of the flask, because she knows it isn’t for her, not really. Guilt makes her movements clumsy.

The first taste is – dry, it parches her mouth. Another gulp and the flavour filters through, the subtle bloom of apples but warped, somehow, metallic in a way that makes her face scrunch up and her eyes water.

Kingyo thinks, adults enjoy this. She thinks that he would have as well, so she drinks it in place of him. It leaves a warmth in her belly that does nothing to allay the space cradled by her ribcage. She huddles inwards, compresses herself infinitesimally small.

“Big meanie,” she mumbles. “Bully. You always hit me with your stupid fan, and right on the head, too, and called me ‘shorty’.” Sluggish indignation colours her tone. “Probably the reason I never ever grew up…”

“But you saved everyone.”

She remembers the aching tenderness of his final look. This is the last battle, he’d said, and then stood with his back to her, awfully breakable. Suppressing the tidal wave of monsters, over and over with no recourse, then holding against their leader with the shark’s smile and a sword lined with teeth, and even Kingyo with her dreams of grandeur could admit that it was futile. She watched him flag, falter, watched the cursed blade grip and tear into his shoulder with its fangs, watched as he, as he –

“You’re the hero,” she whispers, curled up on her side. “Heroes never die. They can’t.”

And with that she falls asleep.

* *

Once, there was a girl, and her love for the Emperor caused her to drown herself, in a pond rimmed with irises and horsetail, weeping willows trailing their branches into the water. The Emperor, stone heart moved by her death, brought his courtiers to its banks and wrote poems for her passing.

There was a speck of truth to it. Lord Arakawa knew these things, as he knew everything about the water, each stream and burble, tells them to Kingyo when she demands a tale.

“At Kasuga,” he says, and hums. Even Kingyo tires out from anger, sometimes, and he settles next to her, at a respectful distance and his fan safely out of reach.

“I grieve to see, her hair tangled as in sleep, floating there now like jewelled waterweed, on Sarusawa Pond.”

They never found her body. But he says, contemplative; perhaps her spirit was consumed with grief, and lingered there. Perhaps she became one of ours.

“She’s a dummy,” says Kingyo, with all the surety of the very young. Sacrifice for nothing.

Once, there was a girl, older now, and wiser. She changes the words.

* *

It waits for her. And who would Kingyo be, if she didn’t try?

“You’ll give me what I want.”

She cuts with no ceremony, opening herself up, a neat gouge bisecting the length of her forearm, wetting the edge of the blade. Kaikokusaku drinks in the blood like it’s starving for it, then chases the tail end to come across Kingyo’s youki underneath, heavy and rich with salt.

As soon as it reaches in – Kingyo pulls.

Kingyo is not a princess, but a queen. Not just a queen, but a lord, a conqueror, and she demands that it obey. Kaikokusaku’s hilt judders in her grip, unmaking itself in its desire to appease her; frozen metal liquefies and scorches her palms, clenched as the rigor mortis of the dead. She might be dying, but if she’d thought harder about it then the fear would have locked her in place. There is no space for fear.

No space for fear.

There is only the taste of the sea, the power that she claimed, that took her in turn and made her strong when she proved herself unshakeable, eternal as the fact of the tides. A building pressure in her ears, pungent brine whipping her hair into her mouth, her eyes, blinding – but she pours in her anger, her memories, too, and calls.

The water stills.

It resolves into a figure. He is solid, and so very real; the same tenderness is in his face, like sunlight seen from the ocean floor, soft as the flicker of fireflies.

He opens his mouth, and says –

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― II.ii. Behold, the Dawn

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!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The armies of the faithful purge the catacombs with fire. Serafine uses that light to discover the darkness hidden at the heart of their community.

[READ IT ON AO3]

This the chaotic dance with which he is all too familiar. This the slaughter of his kind — his kind, but not his people. They will never be his people. This the bloodshed that has consumed him, fueled him, ignited the flames of war at his heels ever since the Crusades.

All around him motions of life, motions of death; that he cannot even stand the briefest moment to appreciate the beauty of it is beautiful in itself.

Behind him; rusted metal coiling tight, creaking wood struggling to hold together, the sheen of sharpened blades scraping against one another as the bolt is drawn—loaded—fired.

Cynbel waits until the last possible second to catch the bolt before it sinks home in his heart. He would kiss it for luck had he the inkling — but he doesn’t need luck.

Metal-tipped crossbow bolts; fashioned tough and as tempestuous as to whom they belong. Designed to puncture even the finest of armors — meant for the enemy.

Because he wants to savor in the first of his victories for the night Cynbel makes sure to rip off the breastplate first. Casts it aside no better than maiden’s veils in what good it does the knight; in how effective it is in stopping his adversary from spearing him through with his own weapon.

The helmet goes next. Young eyes wide in panic and young lips stained with blood and spittle yet he feels nothing for this child on the cusp of manhood. Why would he? The butcher does not feel for his supper.

Cynbel smears his tongue flat and wet across the young man’s chin. Tastes the salt and fear in his blood brimming near to a boil and it makes him hard.

Though most of it is wasted — spills on flagstones beside the slick shine of oil. The color, though, is a welcome accent on his damned finery.

Victory runs red along his teeth and he pulls his hand free from the bled meat. Lets him collapse to the floor to join his blood. Unlikely that he’ll live unless the Knights have discovered a miraculous way to shove ones organs back inside their bellies.

But they are only as fun as they are alive. So he moves on to the next. The crossbow yields, splinters apart underfoot.

A high-pitched cry sounds to his right — Cynbel turns just in time to see the youngling from earlier, Marcel, launch himself with bared fangs and eyes that match the blood staining his coat at another Knight.

The Knight braces for a light impact, perhaps even to catch him mid-flight. But what collides is much heavier than they anticipated and the pair go flying across the ballroom.

The chaos is stifling. The smoke clinging to the Gothic ceilings is, too. A sign of fires raging somewhere in the distance and, knowing the Holy Knights, growing closer. Meant not to choke them but to burn them alive; to trap them in with the rest of the dead here.

Beautiful, rapturous carnage.

And it means nothing without them at his side.

Cynbel doesn’t have to call for them — his heart leads him bound and chained to where it belongs. To his lovers; to the reason all this has come to pass.

To Isseya — who rips a head clean from its neck helmet and all. Who stands in perfection among a growing pile of bodies of the dead and dying without a stain on her.

To Valdas — the thrill of the hunt ignited like the burning catacombs despite all of his past protests. Whose nails and frilled sleeves drip ichor where two hearts beat their last in his unyielding clutches.

The distance between them all ceases to exist when the Trinity look up — when they find one another in the fray. Fascinating; how the look of a lover can bend the very laws of reality like that.

As glorious as they look naked, he’s starting to prefer them drenched in the blood of their enemies. As if he didn’t already.

But any hope of union is quickly dashed at the echo of battle cries on hollow bones. As many Knights as have already been dealt with there are more on the way. More than he accounted for — but hindsight meant nothing to the dead.

Masques scatter the floor, the ashes of their owners kicked up in the frenzy. Cling to boot heels and skirt hems and catch on their tongues. The last wish of the fallen to be carried with the victors into battle.

No rest for the wicked — a new wave of clanging iron erupts and Knights pour in from all sides. Faceless foot soldiers frantic for fame. For the glory that comes with their oh-so-noble purpose of ridding the world of vampire kind one by one.

The Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn have come ready for war.

And war they shall receive.

Isseya dances aside, the breeze of a blade missing her just so. And hellion that she is the vampiress grabs the sword by the opposite end and wrenches it from its owner’s grasp — returns it to them generously and all the way to the hilt.

She kicks the fleshy sheath astray, shouts “Cynbel!” with barely restrained delight, and tosses him the weapon. Caught with the ease of a master of both the blade and her love given with it.

He decapitates the nearest Knight with his back turned.

It is a dance the guests know as well as—if not better than—the Prestige Waltz. One that consumed many of their mortal lives — and their mortality with it. And one that follows them now in death. With the collective experience and knowledge of the battlefield in this room alone how could the Knights even imagine victory?

“Seal the West! Let none flee!”

There was fleeing? Who would be foolish enough to flee from such decadent bloodshed?

Only when the words finally ring in his ears as more than another wail of death does Cynbel turn and see a huddle of vampires being led to safety by none other than Serafine herself.

Though blood has saturated the oil spilled it still ignites when a Knight tosses their torch to the ground. A towering blaze alighted that races in winding tendrils from one end of the hall to the other and claims two of the doorways.

He can feel the heat licking at his skin even from a distance. Watches the cries of shock, anguish; agony when those unfortunate souls trapped in the midst of escape are consumed in the threshold. The rest forced back.

Well that’s a new development.

By the time they realize the Knights plan to corral them inside the ballroom like a tomb it’s too late. It’s already happening.

Serafine directs those left to staunch the flames as best they can. Capes and cloaks and skirts torn carelessly to smother what they can. But that leaves them open — vulnerable. Three felled by one Knight alone in a cloud of ash.

And with no time to savor the victory; not when the Godmaker tears the human in two with his bare hands.

“Monsters! All of you!”

The sight is stunning enough to still Cynbel, momentarily taken aback, before a crack and the clatter of armor sends him staggering backwards to avoid being toppled by the dead Knight.

Valdas, glare now too close for comfort; something that makes him feel like a scolded child, joins him in standing over the fresh corpse.

“You seem to have underestimated your adversary, darling.” Says his god through gritted teeth.

“What,” so cocky, so certain, “not having any fun?”

He knows the anger is not for those who have been lost but for the overwhelming number surrounding them. For two of their exits blocked by fire and their chances of escaping before the fight is done now all but dashed.

With a grunt Valdas pulls them together; the kiss as nourishing as it is reassuring. Tongues tangled, tasting the blood of their enemies in each other’s mouths until only pleasure is left.

“I forbid you from dying tonight. Forbid you from denying me the satisfaction of punishing you for your arrogance.”

Oh the things that voice does to him. “Yes, divine one.”

“You choose now to fuck, of all times?!”

Both heads turn as Isseya spits a chunk of the enemy’s throat to her feet. Cynbel erupts in laughter, staggers when Valdas pushes him back and has to quickly gain balance before he trips over another body.

“Jealousy does not match your dress, beloved!”

“Nor desperation, yours!”

Even in the fray she is as sharp of tongue as she is of wit. In times like this it feels like the old days; where bloodshed and war are as common as regalia and waltzes.

Easier, then, to forget that they are not alone.

“We must retreat!”

“One step back, Westbrook, and I will take your head myself.”

“My love…”

“I will not abandon our people!”

A trio of their own; the Godmaker, his Bloodqueen, and the soldier. That they could even consider retreating in the middle of all this sours the blood on Cynbel’s tongue. But even he would be fool to deny this… this is more than he expected from the Knights.

Perhaps he may have miscalculated a bit.

“Gaius, mon cher! Everyone! Allez, viens!”

The sacrifices of the lessers have not been in vain. Flames staunched by cloak and foot, Serafine calls from the blackened doorway with soot in dark stains across her face and blood dripping from her red lips — the body fresh at her feet still twitching in vain.

A hand closes tight around his upper arm, makes Cynbel look back to see the stern face of his Maker resolute.

“If we run now, they win! This could all have been for nothing!”

“If we stay, it surely will be.”

But the decision is already made for him as Isseya speeds to their side and takes each of them in bloody hands. The look she gives him nothing less than frustrated desperation.

The memories it brings back haunt him still; nightmares like reliving the terrible past over and over again.

Ash grinds like glass against their foreheads come together; tastes harsh on her lips in the bruising intensity of her kiss. “You cannot control everything,” she echoes, far more important now than in the innocence of mere hours ago, “but you can control this.”

This. Their escape.

“Rragh!” He whips the sword in hand with blind fury. Watches it lodge itself in the stone and sink deep.

They comfort him because they know his choice. They know him; his mind for strategy, his acute sense for war. And they know he would never risk their lives for the sake of his war.

They already have him spirited away from the center of the carnage by the time he realizes his feet are moving.

A look back—only the bodies of the enemy remain before they, too, are consumed too bright in fire. Flames leaping from table to table, catching on long tapestries woven in recognition of a victory they assumed with naivete.

The ashes of their fallen mingle with burned wood. He watches until he can no longer; sees the dark shapes of those still left to pursue them begin to amass at the other end of the hall.

His victory — gone up in flames.

“We can lose them in the labyrinth!” cries Serafine from up ahead, where the voices of the desperate meet her; their shepherd.

They will have to. The rattling sound of armor-clad footsteps grows louder with every wasted moment. The acrid smell of burning oil curls his lips back.

Even in the flames Cynbel had nothing to fear. Not with his beloveds in his eye and at his side. But when the chaos becomes too much, when he feels their hands slip from his grasp, fear takes her opportunity and slips into the dual voids left behind.

No. No no nonono—

“Valdas! Valdas! Isseya!”

“Cynbel?!”

“Cynbel!”

The threat of breaking his neck — head whipping back and forth to see them hoarded down different passages — means nothing. Let it snap. Let him pass through this terrible loss unconscious; unaware.

Bring them back to him. Bring them back!

His height; a blessing and a curse — keeps them in his sights but he can do nothing through the throng of panicking survivors as they are each pushed in different directions. As they become just another movement in the mass of darkness.

Smoke burns at his eyes but he keeps them open for as long as he can. Knows the tears are not for his own pain but for the pain that comes when the cord that keeps them as one strains, frays, and threatens to snap.

“—sieur! Monsieur!”

High-pitched panic breaks through the thundering of his three hearts. Draws Cynbel down with a small pale hand to the face of a cherubim’s devil.

“Monsieur!” The child Marcel cries again, this time it works to bring him from his own pit of despair.

They are not dead yet.

“I cannot find him!” he wails, “I cannot find Banner!”

“Wh-Who?”

Tear-tracks break through the soot on his round cheeks and really, really he does not have the time for this. Yet as he looks around they are nearly alone — left behind in his panic to rip himself in two and carry each part of him to where his lovers now wander.

They will endure. They have always endured.

And should his pride, his hubris be the reason they are taken from him in this life then he would not hesitate to seek them swiftly in the next.

“Marcel, petit!” A familiar voice calls from the other end of the skull-lined corridor; turns both heads to where Serafine beckons them from around the curved path.

At the sight of her the young vampire’s eyes alight, a cry of “Serafine!” leaving wet on his lips as he rushes to her. Tugs Cynbel along with.

There is no ignoring the suspicion that clouds the woman’s face when they meet. Darkness in her eyes, on the downturn of her lips where blood dries and flakes around her mouth.

He doesn’t have to ask what makes her so. Their brief moments leading up to the climax of the night still hanging, unfinished, between them over the child’s head.

A thousand questions, accusations unspoken. Pushed aside by the urgency of the hour.

“They mean to seal us off in the crypts. We must find a place to surface.”

“Banner—Kamilah—Serafine I cannot find them!”

She gently pries his grip from her skirts and cradles the boy’s cheeks. “No doubt Gaius protects them both, petit. Come, we must go now.”

Were the boy not between them Cynbel isn’t certain Serafine would not have left him behind. Yet with both of their hands in his he now leads the charge with fervor.

The farther they run from the grand hall the less they should smell the blood and smoke. Or so reason would dictate.

But this is not a reasonable time for anyone trapped beneath Paris; alive or undead.

With every turn the smoke chokes them harder; grows blacker and more like a disease than the omens before it. The gaping eyes of the skulls that witness their escape seem to bear down on them larger and larger with every step. We see you, they say, we welcome you — whether you want it or not.

But this—this flight of theirs—goes against his very nature. He can only succumb to it for so long. And when they catch sight of gleaming silver armor at the end of the corridor, when Serafine pushes Marcel behind her with a cry for him to double back, to change their direction, it is no longer a nature he can deny.

“Go,” he snarls, and does not rush to meet them, “get him to safety. Yourself, as well.”

“As much as I am growing to desire your true death…”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Martyrdom does not suit you, Monsieur D’or.”

“I find too much pleasure in survival to be a suitable martyr.” He throws a look back her way; sees the resisted smile on her lips. Offers up one of his own…

“Go.”

They both know he hears the falter in her footsteps at the end of the passage. The rustle of her skirts as she turns to watch the collision between them. But there is no savoring this victory without them at his side — he can’t imagine even the thought of it.

The way he tears into them is animal. Cracks and crumbles the skeletal walls and leaves their bodies to rot, decay, and soon bloom new skulls to join them. Save the one he takes in hand and crushes with a wet noise between his palms.

What did she expect to see?

“You tackle them as one with experience.”

He blows a strand of hair from his eyes. “Mademoiselle, may you learn this lesson soon; experience is the only thing that separates the likes of us from those already dead.”

But even as he shoves her back the way they had come, he can feel the burn of her gaze. “The Knights and I have tangled before, yes. Their order changes names, locations, ranks; but they are always the same. Always with the same holy doctrine.”

He follows her turn — the scent of their companion caught but waning fast.

“The eradication of our kind.”

“Most ardently. Their resources are vast, those who line their coffers may not even know to what end their gold meets. I assume you know of the oh-so-charming King Coppernose.”

Serafine’s eyes widen. “Truly?”

“There was a reason he chose such a… publicly gruesome execution for dear Queen Boleyn.”

His left hand closes tight on instinct. Craven for the beloved that is not there. But just because he cannot see Isseya does not mean she is back beneath the sword. And only because it is here — only because she has seen his weakness firsthand, Cynbel allows himself a shuddering exhale. “The influence of the Knights at the height of their control of England. Though his death led to a division of funds and they turned their sights to Spain shortly after.”

Weak are they who gossip like follies in the midst of the chase. The silence that follows stretches out — but only their rustling footsteps fill their ears.

“You speak as if they have come close to —”

“Once —” —the acrid air burns through his nostrils; pain a startlingly useful motivator— “— and never again.”

With as much as humanity has changed in the past centuries it’s not unlikely someone of the Lady Dupont’s age has come across their persistent enemies. Maybe not in name, maybe not en masse, but somewhere along the line surely.

Cynbel, however, refuses to lie in wait for their inevitable collision. He seeks them out; has done to the protests of his beloveds for decades now. In England — now here in Paris.

“I would hardly be surprised if there was not an alliance among them—those feeble rulers. They’re so easily frightened of anything that might protest their power. Power they claim is theirs by divine right — the arrogance…

“And our very nature calls that divinity into question, does it not?” He waits for an answer but none comes. Fine with him. Valdas and Isseya — they’ve grown bored with his constant complaints of the Knights and their machinations. Fresh ears to help pass the time.

“And in that fear… came the numbers to bolster their forces. Masses desperate for something to believe in. For answers to reach out to them; a light in their dark, pitiful years.”

“A congregation for your sermon then…” she mutters under her breath, but luckily such things are easily ignored.

“What we lack in numbers our kind makes up for in strength. You saw the ballroom — you partook in it! Glorious battle, victory against the multitudes of dispensable faithful.”

“What victory is there in the losses we suffered?”

“No doubt their losses were far greater in number.”

“So callous, your regard for life.”

“Why would I care about a few meager vampires?” Cynbel’s grin is wry. “Especially those who were so easily struck down.”

The shape and breath of their masques meant nothing. They were always insignificant. Would always be so. Extinguished wicks in comparison to the holy flames of his god and beloved.

Serafine; only under his protection for the consequences possible. Proving herself less and less the more she fixates on the means rather than the end.

“I just don’t understand how they could have known…” says she eventually, and he sees the way the wheel turns in her mind even through the darkness of the smoke. “Do you think the Knights have one of our own held imprisoned?”

“Does it matter?”

“How else can we ensure this never happens again?”

“We leave as many bodies as we can. That tends to send a message.”

“Even to those as vengeful as the Knights?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer right away. A grave mistake on his part — one that skids Serafine to a halt. He continues—stops only because she is obviously familiar with Kamilah, because the Godmaker might find some way to punish his lovers should she perish.

“Unless your intention is to turn back and clear the rest of the righteous horde I suggest we keep moving.” Regarding the now soot-stained skulls near the ceiling with disdain; “Who knows how many of these passages have been sealed off — they’re learning.”

But she and he are of a similar ilk; Turned in those years when doing so was a rare honor, not the desperate means of procreation it had become. Such power did not underestimate easily, surely. One look at the blazing wit behind her eyes and he, too, would have been taken with the mere potential of her.

In another life perhaps.

“I am well-versed in the depths of the depravity of Les Trois Amants… but this…”

Which makes him have to choke back gagging on the guilt she tries to push at him in torrents. How could he do anything else? How could he have thought she would understand?

“Is now really the moment for this?”

“No — and the fault lies with you for it.”

“Your point?”

Her eyes widen. “Those dead — and those yet to die — they were unnecessary.”

“War is not war without casualty.”

“This so-called war is none but your o—!”

Her words end in breathless lungs and chipped bone fragments falling and catching in the finer embellishments of her dress. Such things tend to happen when one is shoved against a wall.

Fury brims forth — Cynbel’s strength holds her firm but there is no denying the tension coiling in the muscles of a huntress.

The crossbow bolt hisses through the smoggy air and sinks home in a different kind of dead; straight through the eye socket. Were he not facing her he isn’t sure he would have seen it coming, seen the glint of light reflecting on dirtied armor.

Utterly silent — but how?

Wordlessly the vampires agree for a stalemate in favor of their mutual enemies. They charge like a wall, crossbows cast aside for close-range swords and daggers. Yet they are fools — children playing with toys. Their feeble minds unable to comprehend the sheer number of years between their foes combined… how small they are in the grand design.

Their fall is nothing like their arrival. Noisy and impossible to ignore how they pile upon one another in the corridor’s confines. The dirt beneath their feet has seen too much blood already and refuses to take more; splatters their heels as the vampires continue their flight.

It is not enough to discuss war lest one forget the war never ends.

At the end of the passage they come upon a metal rod dug and rooted into the ground. A lantern hangs from a rusted hook; the candle inside dim and near close to consuming itself — no wick left to sustain it.

He watches as Serafine unlatches the lantern with interest. Sees the silent words on her lips as she runs her fingertips over the waxy bottom until they find whatever she was looking for. A set of grooves dug into the metal.

“Rue de la Mortellerie,” she says finally, as though it’s supposed to mean something to him, but her relief is explanation enough; “up ahead — no more than a hundred paces. Enfin, la liberté…”

Yet even with the tears brimming in her eyes—relief given form—there’s no mistaking the way she looks Cynbel up and down. Saving her life has, apparently, meant nothing. Thoughts once thought cannot be removed from the mind.

And were he in her position, were the tables turned and it was he mere strides from freedom with a dead weight behind…

No; there’s no question. He would strike her down without a second thought.

But perhaps he is lucky the lady is not as selfish as himself. That she waves him to follow with a rasped “Allez!” and gathers her skirts with dried blood flaking from underneath her nails and leads the way to freedom.

The least he can do is take the first steps from the lowly chapel basement into the freedom of the night to ensure the Knights aren’t there to meet them.

But the streets of Paris still slumber, still dream. When a noise sounds distant he stills, blends himself into the shadows and watches the lumbering journey of a mule and her master none the wiser that the world is burning beneath their very feet.

Cynbel ducks his head back inside. “All is clear.” And watches her as Serafine takes great care in sealing the entrance to their secret court with an entire coffin as guise.

As far as he is concerned their alliance ends there. Is already well into the fresh night, getting his bearings on the unfamiliar part of town she has led him to when she notices he no longer stands at her back.

“Arrêtez!”

Her cry stills him though likely not as she intends. His eyes flicking this way and that to reassure himself they are still alone.

“Louder, perhaps,” he snarls low, “I fear the remaining Knights may not have heard you, since you mean to lead them to us!”

“Such is not an unreasonable course of action, as I am quickly beginning to learn.”

If her intention is to get his full attention—it works. “What did you just say to me?”

“I am no fool.”

“A fool’s proclamation.”

“Remorseless even now…” He would be lying if he said this was the first time he has been looked upon with such disgust as Serafine does now. It drips from her every word, from the blood that stains her chin. “But you said so yourself. You take this as a victory — even in the wake of all that has been lost.”

The river must be close, he can hear the lapping of the current against the banks. Foul and putrid as ever but with it, faint but very much there, the smell of burning flesh.

Likely it will cling to Paris; her streets, her people, her dead, for years to come.

With a single step Cynbel crosses the distance he had tried to put between them. Cups her face in broad hands and tilts her up to the light of the nearest lantern. Beautiful now even more than below; the blood-red dress splattered on her cheeks and throat… lingering in her eyes…

“Let us dispense with these games Mademoiselle Dupont,” he croons close, breathes against her lips with a lover’s intimacy, “I abhor them so. I see it there—you think it hidden in your eyes but not as well as you would hope.

“You have a question as I have an answer. But… you cannot have one without the other.”

The same performance on a different stage. Still surrounded by the dead as they were in the crypts like no time had passed. Fulfilling, almost.

And with the knowledge that should she even attempt to wrench herself away the woman would only succeed in snapping her own neck.

But her hesitation is an insult. Cynbel tightens his hold; feels the scraping grind of her jawbones together like music to his ears.

“Paris is my home, my love; my life. Were the ranks of the faithful closing in on our people… I—I would have known.” Though it sounds awfully like she’s trying to remind herself rather than tell him. “I would have known if the Knights knew of the catacombs. I would have known.”

“Apparently not.”

“You brought them down upon us.”

“I did.”

“Upon your own kind.”

“A debate of philosophy for another time.”

And when she finally—finally—asks it is broken, strangled. The strength of her swept out in a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Why?”

“Because he loves us as much as we love him.”

Serafine takes advantage of his immediate relief; pulls herself free. Maybe even means to flee, to find other survivors and maybe even the Godmaker himself to announce his deeds with violent condemnation.

But however fast she is Isseya is faster. Strikes down their hostess with the back of her hand and rides the high of conquest (that he gave her, though he doesn’t expect to hear thanks any time soon) with a well-placed foot.

Crack. Her lower leg shatters within. Her screams fill the air loud enough to wake — well, the dead.

Cynbel’s eyes flutter shut when he feels the familiar permanence at his back. Turns his head unbidden and offers his neck into the vice of Valdas’ grasp. Feels the familiar shape of Isseya’s body molding against his side and feels complete with it.

Serafine looks up at them through grit fangs and bloody spittle. Her eyes a torch ablaze on a stormy night; the passion—rage—fierce but flickering near-dead.

“You risked…” blood dribbling down her chin, “all our lives… Lives you do not know—the very existence of our kind here…”

“True enough.”

Everything — every death a debt paid, every fight a test — was worth it. For this.

For them.

“But your lives are a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, NAY! You’ve been accepted for the role of CRESSIDA with an FC change to Bree Kish. Admin Rosey: I am absolutely shrieking over the fact that we have our beloved, ferocious Celeste back in the group! You have taken the character that has been presented and added a number of layers to her that makes her so completely and utterly unique in her own right. The potential future that you have built up for her has me completely over the moon and there is nothing I am more excited for than to watch her grow -- or fail. Regardless, I’m ready for Celeste to kick ass! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Nay.

Age | Twenty-one & I shall smut plenty, thank you very much.

Preferred Pronouns | she/her.

Activity Level | Active enough? I don’t apply for characters I’m not stupid in love with, so I’ll truly want to explore them every chance I get and activity doesn’t have a chance of being an issue. I’d hedge a bet on being a pretty solid 7 out of 10, allowing for when I’m just too tired for my brain to function to produce any measure of eloquence~

Timezone | GMT+5.

How did you find the RP? | I signed away my soul to it, oops.

Current/Past RP Accounts | I’ve never RP’ed a day before in my life… what are you talking about…?

 IN CHARACTER

Character | CRESSIDA / Celeste Duval

{ NOTE: I’d really like to keep the FC change to Bree Kish, please. There’s just something about the red hair that really fits who I see Celeste as! }

What drew you to this character? | Have I told you how much I love this question? Because I love this question so much. It’s my favourite portion of the application: this opportunity to really go into actual detail about what it is about a particular character that gets you hooked. I so deeply enjoy the way it’s such a particular answer for every character—at least for me—that is very singularly attached to that one character, absolutely due to the fact that there is always a moment where I can’t resist it, whatever it is, the idea in my head or the skeleton, or long-paragraphed biography, or aesthetic concept.

With Celeste, it was empathy, to be completely honest with you. A part of me was already itching to sink my teeth into another character (and let’s just call that a testament to how quickly this group has restored the pleasure of this process for me) and I knew I wanted it to either be someone neutral, or a Montague – but I wasn’t expecting to casually, half-asleep, peruse through a biography & have to sit up in bed, electrified by a ZING! of connection. Let’s call that love at first sight. That’s what drew me to her. I read that biography, and my brain supplied a stanza from Plath’s Lady Lazarus: “Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air.”

But that’s a pretty brief cop-out of an answer, isn’t it? So I’ll at least tell you the many things about her that I am so in love with. I’ll tell you the way I love what a woman she is. I love her ferocity, and I love her humanness – which, I do want to clarify, isn’t necessarily not ferocious. I see Celeste as quite the discombobulation of aspects & emotions. When I speak of humanness, I mean that I love how vividly alive she is, and so intensely open to more classically tender feelings of adoration and hurt and sadness, yes, but also the more classically harsh emotions such as jealousy, and anger, and pettiness. I love her willpower, the sheer force of it that has tided her through so much of her life, and how it clashes with that very relatable, very painful internal need to be enough for our parents, to be accepted & loved by them, no matter how much you claim that you can do (and have been doing) without. I love what a sexy, confident, sassy, badass feminist she is. I see her as being extremely sexy, and 90% of that is how confident and unapologetic she is about taking up space. I genuinely just love what she represents.

And I want to be the one who develops her, with an integration of nuances that make her more than just a bold representation, and unravels a story that this wonderful, special baby deserves.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | As always, this is prefaced with the disclaimer that these are all subject to change, and merely ideas to build off of & give a vibe for the things I’d like to do with this super dynamic character.

→ ONE. The first thing has to be the plotline with Easton. Oh, wow – she wants to slice him like cheese, my friends. I would really like to explore her playing with that, because I think the connection in her biography says plenty: she will exact revenge. Now, I could see this playing out in many, many ways, honestly, but my favourite one is her using Easton’s game against him. He wants to make her feel powerless? Well, Celeste Duval is very, very well-versed in making men feel powerful, when it’s really her who is running the show. I see her, by sheer power of will, being one of those people who gets shit done, and she’s exceptionally clever, or she wouldn’t have made it this far in life with so many odds against her from the get-go. That plotline is something I’m absolutely dying to play around with, because I truly believe that it can be what builds her up or it can be what ultimately undoes her.

→ TWO. This marriage between her & Tomas is absolutely fascinating to me. I very much believe Celeste to be one of those all or nothing! kind of people, and with Tomas, though she feels nothing, it is a relationship that has a very gravitational pull on so many other aspects of her life. It is a representation of the sacrifice she made for parents who have never treated her to a modicum of parental affection, who she swears up & down don’t matter, and still, infuriatingly, very much do. It is a roadblock to a happy ending with a person who Celeste reveres, who is the love of her life and the centre of her universe and the only3 time in her life she’s felt like she is home. I really want to toy with that; I want to see how far Celeste can pull this off before this man can tell that she is not, and never will be, in love with him. I want to see if she’ll get to a point where she won’t even bother to pretend anymore. I want to see the dynamic of their marriage. And I’ll admit – I want him to find out that she has very much not been faithful to him, and then I want to see where she takes that truth.

→ THREE. I would really like to see Celeste reach a place of peace where her parents are concerned. I want to take her on a journey that makes her let go of them, and for her to find love, specifically familial love, in some corner that shows her what that sort of relationship is truly supposed to be. This is because I have this sneaking suspicion that this huge leap could make a sincerely positive wave, and the ripples would spread out to the other areas of her life. Celeste is a very dynamic character, and an extremely emotional one, and I can see her interpersonal relationships having an extreme impact on the direction/mind-set she opts for.

→ FOUR. On a less wholesome note, though, I want to see her choices challenge her relationship with Isabella, too. I want to explore this love of theirs – and I want to stretch Celeste thin about it, making her choose between her reputation, her misplaced sense of duty to her parents, her pragmatism & ambitions, and weigh them against this person she never planned to meet or love. I don’t think there is anything in the world that is more precious to Celeste than what is between herself & Isabella; I don’t think there is anything more sacred. I want to see the lengths she will go to protect it. I want to see what she would sacrifice for it, how much of who she decided she would be she can let go of, how brave she can be, how it can cause her to grow.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Maybe…

 IN DEPTH

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW: 

What is your favourite place in Verona? 

By Isabella’s side, she knows, immediate and sure. There's no question about it. The location did not matter; a graze of her fingertips could make a church feel like it was made for sinning, a classroom for falling in love, a street for an exchange of the most intimate of secrets. There is no pause for contemplation. There is no need for questions.

Her smile is a secret — and privately, reverently, Celeste promises to keep it. Her shoulders lift in a careless shrug. “I don't favour places,” she smirks around the unabashed words. “I let them favour me.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Mmm,” the sound is soft, but never makes it to sweet. Gloss coats her mouth thickly, and it has nothing on the syrup drizzle of her words: “I detest the idea of typical. That was never the life I wanted to lead; routine makes me restless, and being restless makes me dangerous. Hasn't anyone told you about cornering animals? Doesn't end well.” And this once, it is not a lie. This is not surprising. There were many things that Celeste Duval could lie about, do it without so much as blinking twice – that was, all those except for those she cared not to.

This was a part of herself she chose not to sacrifice. Celeste refused to be bored. As her much-adored Zelda Fitzgerald had once written, it was chiefly because she wasn't boring. 

What has been your biggest mistake thus far? 

“How much time do you have?” she asks, wryly. The arch of Celeste's brows is sharp, caught between something caustic & amused. It isn't funny – and somehow, that nearly earns a snort of laughter from her. Was her whole life not one? She had been one every day of her life, become who she has because of it. A girl, pretty & useless; only an accessory or tool or toy.

Wasn't marrying Tomas? As if she cared enough for it to be a contender. Was giving her heart up, losing any will to fight off how easy it was to belong to Isabella? Not being careful enough, being caught by the Craven runt? Perhaps not slitting every Capulet bastard's fucking throat on her way out of the cage they put her in? 

Her laugh is poisonous. “There aren't enough hours in the world, mon chou.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you? 

“Tasks are not asked of me. They are given; synonymous with an order. There is no second or third option; there is no no's or fucking maybes,” the words had all the potential to be serrated, cutting through the poor wretch they were flung at, unflinching. Somehow, they come out patient. Solemn. 

She leaves the answer at that, without truly giving one. Why would she? A lifetime's worth of being deemed weak, and there was a desire for an open admittance of it? HA! Celeste would be damned seven ways to Sunday before she fell for that. “Difficult is a subjective term. I fulfill my tasks; I rise to all challenges – and then, I conqueror them. That is the script I've penned for myself. Learn it.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

Capulets. Oh, the very word sets her aflame. It's enough to have her fists curling to white-knuckled bundles at her sides, quivering. Is she meant to forget how they took her, kept her as their little prisoner? Is she meant to forget the way Easton Craven uses the brightest thing she has ever known to solicit dark betrayal from her – using her, just like them, like she was a toy?

“There is one acceptable ending. The streets can run red with their blood. I only hope to contribute to the spillage.” She does not blink.

Extras: 

– pinterest board;

– headcanons:

Due to her mother being French, she was raised on a multilingual education. Celeste is, therefore, fluent in English, Italian & French – though, she automatically reverts to French cooing in situations calling for tenderness, and filthy, crude-mouthed Italian when she is angry.

Once, on her way home, Celeste was halted by a distinct, pitiful mewling sound from beneath a stairwell. A scrappy, runt of the litter, left abandoned, came home with her that day. She calls him Victor – after Victor Hugo.

There is no text in the world that Celeste Duval adores with the intensity she does the Les Misérables novels. Already, she has large chunks of it memorized, and it is not enough to keep her from curling up in a bathtub with one at the end of a hard day.

There’s very little in the world that a hot bath can’t make her feel at least a fraction better about. She spends entirely too much money on bath-bombs.

She deeply, deeply dislikes children. She has zero tolerance for their shenanigans, no thank you.

Though she is categorically partial to jewellery in general, she has an affinity for anklets in particular. It is very rare to see her without one wound around an ankle, typically her left one.

She enjoys a nice trashy tabloid with her breakfast, but she’ll watch some news after a raunchy round of sex.

Celeste thinks about quitting smoking at least once a day. The better half of a decade into the nasty habit, and she has yet to go through with it.

The one part of herself she was insecure about growing up, and the one part she is astonishingly vain about in adulthood is the same: her hair. She cares for it meticulously, for all that it is always in a very deliberate state of dishevelment.

She has an awful, awful nail-biting habit.

[notapaladin]

i say god forgive me please (cause i want you on your knees)

This is just gratuitous angsty/angry smut featuring Acatl working out his Complicated Teomitl Emotions the best way he know how, and I make no apologies.

Also on AO3!

-

The night was cool and very dark, and the Sacred Precinct was quiet enough that no sound reached him where he sank down onto his solitary mat. It ought to have been calming, soothing, but when Acatl closed his eyes his blood still boiled through his veins. He couldn’t sleep.

The last time he’d been so tense—so angry—had been after Tizoc’s coronation war, when Teomitl had started to scorn him. When he’d come back from war brittle and sharp as obsidian, snarling at everyone in his path, and then gone to his sister and it had gotten so much worse. They’d met in that house in Zoquipan as something terrifyingly close to enemies, and there had been a moment when he’d thought it would end in blood. Gods, he’d been so sick with rage he had almost hoped for it. When they’d faced each other in the bloodstained courtyard there at the end of it all, his mingled grief and fury had almost choked him, and even the way it had ended—with that beautiful sunlit smile and Teomitl greeting him as one man to another—didn’t make it any easier to look back on. He hadn’t slept that night either.

But Teomitl wasn’t the reason for his anger now. He exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax. His sister’s husband—his sister’s husband, he had to remember that—had since been honest and careful and considerate, treating him like a brother. Like a dear friend. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was still enough to make the hard edges of his heart soften; whenever Teomitl smiled at him, he couldn’t help smiling back. No, the reason he was still seething, still struggling to unclench his jaw, was Tizoc.

Tizoc, who was trying to win back the favor of the gods by expanding the Great Temple. Tizoc, who didn’t have a prayer of capturing enough sacrifices to dedicate the construction properly. Tizoc, who snapped at shadows and threw away life after life for daring not to show him what he thought was the proper respect, who’d had a servant whipped nearly to death for dropping a platter in the royal presence, who looked at Acamapichtli and expected obedience as though he hadn’t slaughtered the man’s entire priesthood. Tizoc, who was unworthy.

“And you think he should rule, until such time as he dies?”

No.

He pushed himself upright, barely seeing the shadows of his own chambers around him. Teomitl had been right then, and he was right now. Tizoc did not deserve his crown; more and more of the Empire crumbled around them every day. Nezahual-tzin, never humble, would never content himself to remain allies with a man he couldn’t respect. If this was allowed to continue for much longer, there wouldn’t be enough of an alliance left for Teomitl to rule—and oh, what a ruler he would make. He closed his eyes, letting his breath out in a long sigh.

He could see it so clearly. Teomitl at the head of his army, marching off to war and conquests and returning bloodstained, battered—but alive, with just as many warriors as he’d set out with. Teomitl dispensing justice and leadership from his mat. Teomitl smiling, the curve of his lips and the shine of his eyes enough to melt a heart of stone. Teomitl in gold and turquoise, radiant as the dawn, with coral armbands and a netted hip cloth of jade. And the way he would surely grin, careless and bright, at the sight of Acatl kneeling at his feet and calling him Ahuitzotl. He could hear it already, the humor in his voice.

“There’s no need for that, Acatl,” he’d say, and then—and then he’d draw Acatl close and—

Blood pounded in his ears, and his cock throbbed. He bit his lip, feeling abruptly a little sick. This was his student (his former student), a man closer to Necalli’s age than to his own (but a trained warrior still, a veteran of multiple campaigns), a man who would be his Emperor. A man who was married to his sister and would surely be horrified at the depths of his lust even if he wasn’t. Teomitl wasn’t for him to want. He couldn’t let himself forget that.

He dug his nails into his own forearms, hard enough to raise welts, and dedicated the pain to the gods. He was a priest. He’d made vows. Vows of chastity, of celibacy...

But he’d made a vow to obey Tizoc as his Revered Speaker too, and look how well he was keeping to that.

(“That peasant’s daughter.”)

(Tlaloc’s clergy dying in their own blood and filth like animals.)

(Warriors dying too, in their hundreds, because their Revered Speaker had led them to slaughter.)

Teomitl would be better. Teomitl was worthy of the Southern Hummingbird’s power, smart and courageous and able to bear the courage of his convictions with ease. He was strong and beautiful as a jaguar in the sun, with his rippling muscles and brilliant smile. Gods, that smile. It reminded Acatl what it felt like to be alive again, to be aware of his own breath and the heart beating in his chest. His vocation might grant him peace, but the rites and rituals of Lord Death could not grant him joy. And they certainly couldn’t wake the fire now simmering in his veins and pooling low in his gut. He thought again of Teomitl’s mouth, Teomitl’s hands, and his cock twitched.

Fingers shaking, he undid his loincloth. He won’t know. He’ll never know.

The first brush of his own fingers against his cock felt like a benediction, and he gasped out loud. He wrapped a hand fully around himself, a little tighter than he usually did; the first few strokes were dry, pulling a hitched grunt from his throat, but then he remembered the jar of oil he���d bought. It had been intended for—well. Something similar to this. It would serve. He fumbled for the chest, for the jar, and let some trickle over his fingers and his rapidly-stiffening cock.

That was better. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted out something like a snarl and focused on how it would feel to kneel for his Revered Speaker.

It was so easy to picture it too. Himself on his knees with Teomitl’s hands gentle in his hair—no, he’d pull, the little brat that he was, and the thought made his hips jerk—Teomitl’s eyes gleaming hopefully, Teomitl’s legs bracketing him as he teased him. Yes, he thought, Teomitl would definitely tease, asking with that sweet, innocent smile if Acatl was sure until he was forced to all but beg for what he wanted. And then maybe, if he was feeling merciful, he’d give it to him. The idea sent a shivery little burst of pleasure up his spine, but as he stroked himself a little slower he doubted it would be enough.

No. It wasn’t enough. Between one blink and the next he remembered Zoquipan, remembered that icy arrogance, that dismissal, and he knew he dreamed of more than that. Maybe he’d submit later, when Teomitl was his Revered Speaker and he could bask in the power of the throne restored, but right now he wanted to pull that boy down to his level, wanted to take that arrogant fucking mouth—

What am I doing?

He shuddered, grimacing at himself. The last thing I want is to hurt him. But...but I...

The image intruded again, and as his breathing picked up he circled its edges warily. Would Teomitl be angry? Or would he gasp and stare at him wide-eyed, let Acatl fist his hands in the gleaming fabric of his cloak? Would he drop to his knees or (his cock pulsed again) would Acatl have to make him? Or pretend to make him, really—even as aroused as he was, he knew damn well that Teomitl wouldn’t be manhandled unless he wanted to be, and Acatl very much wanted him to want it. He wanted him to crave it. There’d be no room for hesitation, no opportunities to make him wait.

The memory of those eyes flashed through his mind again. Teomitl had been so cold, but there had been that fire lurking below the surface. There was still warmth now, though it was affection rather than that horrible, desperate yearning. And damn it all, these were his dreams, and if he wanted to imagine Teomitl eagerly choking on his cock then he could do that, never mind how unlikely it was that he would ever be looked on as anything more than a brother. Right now, that didn’t matter.

Now he was pumping himself a little more roughly; he’d never really stopped, after all. It was easier this time to sink back into his fertile imagination. From the starting point of Teomitl on his knees, he could let the details flash by. There, those dark eyes—there, the slick wet heat of his mouth and his clever tongue put to better use—there, how he’d wrap his hands around what wouldn’t fit, how his fingers were stronger and rougher than Acatl’s own, how he’d make little noises each time Acatl thrust into his throat. How that thick, soft hair would feel in Acatl’s fist.

He panted harshly, the fire sparking along his spine building to a blaze. Gods, yes. Teomitl wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t care for his own limits; he’d do his best to swallow Acatl whole. If Acatl forced his head still and his mouth open, he’d take that too, and let Acatl fuck his throat raw. A quiet whine escaped him at the thought. He’d take anything I give him, anything at all, just to prove that he could.

And I would give him everything. Lightning coiled through his veins, rising like smoke and making his skin tingle. Now he could imagine more—imagine himself pinning Teomitl against the wall with those lovely strong legs wrapped around him, their mouths pressed together in something with too many teeth to be called a kiss. Teomitl would be rough and eager, nails clawing down Acatl’s back and catching in the heavy fall of his hair (panting, he let his head fall back and imagined Teomitl’s hands), and if he was noisy—no, there was no “if.” He’d be noisy. Acatl would fuck him hard enough to make him scream.

He could almost hear Teomitl’s voice in his mind. How it’d go rough with desire, how he’d moan if Acatl mouthed at his throat. (He’d thought about it. The lines of his collarbones would be improved with teeth marks.) “Acatl,” he’d gasp when he took him in hand, and then—desperate, loud, begging—“Acatl-tzin.”

Yes. Yes. He was achingly close now, each breath coming out as a broken gasp. The storm coursing through him only needed a little more—

(That strong, lean body around him, thighs flexing around his waist.)

(Those dark, dark eyes, the flash of a bold smile. “What more have you got for me, Acatl-tzin?”)

(The way it would feel if their positions were reversed, if that thick, hard, perfect cock was slamming into him instead—)

Oh. Oh, he hadn’t thought—but now that he was thinking it, he couldn’t stop. Teomitl’s hands on his hips, his thighs; Teomitl’s mouth against his neck; Teomitl’s cock reaching depths inside him that would reshape him, that would leave him wrecked. Something shuddered, spasmed, and he felt that razor-thin line between himself and his release snap.

“Ah—hah—Teo—!”

He came so hard that he had to curl into it like a man gutted, unable to think past the white heat of his own orgasm. Rolling waves of pleasure surged through him as he spilled himself over his own stomach, his hands—his chest, ugh, that was going to be a mess to clean up when he could muster the ability to move again. But that was a problem for later; right now, all he could do was feel. The walls of his chambers were a blur, and when he blinked he realized that was because there were actual tears in his eyes. His legs were twitching, useless things, one still half-bent and likely to stay that way.

What, he thought breathlessly. He’d never—no, that was a lie. He’d definitely thought about Teomitl fucking him before; there was something about that smile and the breadth of his shoulders that made his legs part of their own accord. But he’d never really dwelt on it—

Another lie. He’d never allowed himself to dwell on it. The oil had been an impulsive purchase. He’d used it on himself before, twisting into a frankly uncomfortable position to work himself open and fuck himself on his own fingers until he sobbed, but his mind had skittered away from imagining who exactly he’d like to have doing it for him instead. Apparently his body had its own ideas. He shuddered, clenching on nothing, and blew his breath out in a shaky exhale. Gods.

He cleaned himself up in silence. He was too tired, now, for his hands to tremble. All the anger and lust and guilt seemed to have drained out of him, leaving him strangely hollow. He couldn’t call what he was feeling peace, but nor was it the all-consuming void of Mictlan’s power. Just...an emptiness.

He lay back on his mat, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers itched for the handles of his knives. Duality, Lord Death, forgive me, for I have broken my vows in my heart and I feel no guilt. He was aware he probably should. It was the normal reaction to coming so hard to the thought of fucking your brother-in-law that upon reflection you thought you might have pulled a stomach muscle. He took another deep breath. Disgusting. To think like this...to do what I’ve done, thinking about him like that...I ought to be horrified with myself. But I...

Teomitl’s smile floated through his mind. Once again, he saw him crowned in glory and dripping with gold. It pinched at his heart in a bright spark of near-pain. He will never know. I want him—gods, I love him—but I won’t burden him with knowing that when it can’t come to anything. He’ll be my Emperor, and that’s all he’ll ever be to me. I have to be content with that.

For a moment, he thought about telling him anyway. About drawing him aside, clasping his hands, and freeing himself of the burdens of his heart, just to make sure Teomitl knew. But even as he did, he could picture Teomitl’s reaction. First would be the shock, of course (“Acatl, you—I’m sorry, what?!”), and then the twist of his mouth in unspoken disgust (“I...hm...”), and then he’d step back to keep a firm distance between them (“I don’t think of you like that. Forgive me.”) And then they would never speak again. No, he would take this to his grave, and then he would lay it at Lord Death’s feet and be free.

...In the meantime, he hadn’t put that oil away yet. And he still wasn’t tired enough to sleep. It did help, in the end.

At least until the next morning, when Teomitl greeted him with a smile. It took all his strength of will not to flinch; he was amazed at his own fortitude when he managed to arrange his face into something like a similar expression. He remembered what he’d done with the idea of that mouth and that hard, muscular body, and he couldn’t look him in the eyes.

(And so he missed the way those eyes followed him as he walked away.)