#the inside of solomon's head right now is this blog's icon

[solorero]

—  SELF PARA,  THE  VOTING.

18th of july, 2021. 

solomon. sol. solomon romero. the first vote was met with confusion, but it quickly turned into a sour anger as the cogs began turning behind dark eyes. the concept had its benefits, and that much he could admit: weed out suspicion, stomp on the snakes. realistically, as his faith had proven, they were all creatures of flaw and vengeance, some tactical geniuses tossed into the mix too; even without a grand plan, accusing him could result in a big target being down, even if only for a night and day. as yet as another vote was cast ( not me this time, but really, rita getting rid of the horsemen right now? ridiculous notion. ), the dominion reevaluated his own accusations, expecting to find his own dose of grudges tarnishing all logic, but he’d been careful enough some minutes ago. as much as he wished to see most of those present sweat, wasting time interrogating the wrong people was almost as criminal as his record. such was the hard balance, which some could say he periodically lost, between heart and head. maybe he would have yelled out the most acidic names, the ones whose scar map he could link to, or the one who came from the very same nest as him. and maybe he would have blamed for war the man he’d already been privately accusing of other kinds of treason, who’d left him accidentally wounded, flesh ripe for war’s infection. but this was also the teaching he’d gained through war and especially through gabrielle, so a tongue was bitten without even thinking about it. 

i could have done it. he gloated in silence, on the fourth accusation. he’d helped gabrielle warden with the aftermath of michaela pinkett’s husband - not that they knew of that, oh how he could imagine their bloodthirst if they did. he’s skilled enough to pull something, if anything given the decades of criminal contacts he could hit up to help with the logistics of such an undertaking. but why would he have come up with such a plan all by himself? it would be ruin to try to take over war and the rest within the same week. if they considered that this was war’s doing, then gabrielle asking him to carry out the plan would lead to an obvious ‘yes’. war’s horsemen complicated things. 

no one heard us. solomon had fought the urge to immediately look at kashvi when his name was first said, two guilty ones being accused just days later. their conversation on friday night replayed on his mind, but it was simply impossible that someone had access to it. was his hunger visible to outsiders too? gabrielle knew of it, but he’d always considered her privileged in how much she knew without him saying. as if he’d had a choice. that too was another delusion. 

he grabbed his own knee hard, where a bruise lived, in order to keep him away from the cliffs hedge in his mind, always so damn close to jumping into the water. it was hard to resist it, as dozens of voices pleaded with him from below the sharp rocks, but he knew that to leap would be a choice with no return. your house is full of spies, they watch you from behind the mirror. should have checked behind the garden wall, someone would be out of sight. your camera footage was edited, you should have zoomed into every corner. kashvi was setting you up. gabrielle was setting you up. this was all a set up. he dug into that bright purple bruise with the same strength he’d used to crush a windpipe. 

solomon romero has been a loyal servant of war for twenty two years. he’s seen two horsemen in his life, he’s seen power shifts, power gaps, fresh and old blood, and yet he’s remained. he’s been a dominion for nearly fourteen years, a current seraphim having been a member of war altogether for less time. and yet he’s remained. a fixture just as stable as prehistoric ruins, and yet just as forgotten, left to blend with the weeds. he could be accused of much over the years, and would accept most of it with a smile, but to imply that he was a disloyal soldier was blasphemous. solomon could attack other horsemen, fuck the truce, fuck their lives and ambitions, fuck hierarchy; but if the story included gabrielle warden, it would be foolish to imagine romero doing anything that would risk her safety or her wishes.

i would have never done this to you. he’d nodded at some accusations, laughed at others, whispered in anger at a few, but those of his fellow war members dug a knife deep between his ribs. his own war accusation was reasonable, something he was certain samir understood too. if he’d been alone with gabrielle, he would have indicted himself, call it a fit of madness or a strategic movement. what he would have never considered doing is point a finger at one of his own. this wasn’t pestilence, scarred with snake bites, nor death, made up of theatrical vengeance. for the first time in over two decades, however, solomon realised that this wasn’t famine either. this wasn’t a family in any sort of way, regardless of how he had been treating it. i’m just staff. he’s surrendered half of his life to an agreement that was meant to continuously evolve, and yet has been stagnant, with no intentions to ever change. astrid, liam, domenico. he couldn’t murder them with his eyes, even if they so did try, but the list was burned into his brain with the most painful of sizzles. those very same eyes did linger on his own seraphim ( temporary leaders, but was it really? ) but they wouldn’t fight for him, not like he would have. as the votes were tallied together into the most worthless of lists, solomon checked all the boxes again. posture straighter, breathing controlled, throat clear. his body betrayed him only once, as he got up and finally looked at kashvi singh - something in the depths seemed stricken with excruciating worry. it was a private look, untraceable the moment it was over and he returned to his best acted self, a ruin that’s more solid than any modern wall. “this is a waste of your time.” he’d mumbled it before, but it was put into clear words as he was taken away with three other ones. it was of no avail, but he made damn sure to say it straight to his own horsemen: the children he’d watched grow up, who’d been angels beneath him, virtues with him, seraphim above him. those he’d protected once, just as he protected gabrielle, or warlock. “this is a stupid waste of your time.” he would have bled london dry before he let other gangs even get near one of his own. he’d do it for the ones he disliked the most, and the ones he loved. the sentiment was not mutual, apparently. 

so much for loyalty. so much for a reward. twenty two years of patiently waiting and patiently hoping led to a locked door and the title of original assassin, which he’d once heard with pride, hung over his forehead like the red light of a target. solomon picked a corner of the east gallery the moment the search was done, sitting on the hardwood floor with crossed arms and eyes ahead, sizing the three prisoner companions with a craving of violence. let the night begin.