YOUNG GOD
Michael Langdon x OC
He says, "Ooh, baby girl, you know we're gonna be legends
I'm a king and you're a queen and we will stumble through heaven
If there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes
I know you wanna go to heaven, but you're human tonight
Cordelia remembered the first time her eyes caught sight of them. Myrtle’s startled cries echoed in her ears but Cordelia could scarcely hear her. Tendrils of fire creeped over her body, sending her into a curled position on the dry grass of the field. Sweat beaded on her brow and she fought back the waves of nausea that rose up. Cold hands grasped her face, forcing her to open her eyes that had been clenched shut. Liquid pools of worried molten chocolate met her own pained gaze. Queenie? No, she can’t be here. I couldn’t bring her back. How is sh-
The thought was cut off as a giggle ran through the air in the open field. It was followed by a deep chuckle. Batting away the hands that ran over her in worry, Cordelia looked toward where the laughter resonated. Two figures clothed in black stood at the treeline. Their hands were entwined between them as they stood shoulder to shoulder. The sight was shocking as even from the distance Cordelia could tell they would have towered over her. The two were striking in their differences. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing cascaded down petite shoulders in a silken waterfall. Golden skin peaked out of the black robes that cloaked her. She was too far away for Cordelia to make out anything else physical about the girl. But she could feel her. It was a feeling that could only be described as what a lone figure on a thin patch of ice felt right before the ground gave out beneath them.
Helpless.
Her eyes traveled to the other shadowed figure to the young girl’s right and that helpless feeling increased tenfold. The ice beneath her feet was gone. Engulfed in the wretched clutches of the once still water, Cordelia collapsed back onto her knees, the grass underneath her reminding her she was not trapped. Eyes like the very water that surrounded her heart watched her carefully. Warm hands grabbed her shoulder and Zoe, sweet Zoe, caught her before she could collapse fully. Her voice met her ears as she began to ask her what was wrong once more. But Cordelia did not hear her. All she could hear was her own heartbeat thumping in her ears. Each beat felt like the ticking of a clock. Tick. His hair was the first thing about him that caught her eye. Glinting like freshly spun gold as it curled at the base of his neck and framed his face. Tick. Like the girl, he was too far away from her to make out anything else about him. But she knew. Tick. She knew those eyes held more underneath the surface. Tick. It was like looking into the heart of a storm and finding a moment of calm before the ruin. Tick. Beautiful in the way that it was uncontrolled. The two figures paired together struck fear into her. Tick. With her gaze locked onto the treeline, Cordelia used the hands offered to her to raise herself to her feet. She would not be brought down. She was the Supreme. The leader of this Coven. They needed her strength right now. She steadied herself before once again meeting the gaze of the young girl. Tick. A breeze brought with it a slight chill and something else. Cordelia inhaled deeply. Tick. Both of the shadowed figures heads cocked to the side. Tick. Cordelia retched into the dying grass in front of the compound. Death. The smell was of rotting flesh and the very essence of death. Laughter echoed in her ears as her vision blackened around the edges. Tick.
And I've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool
For a while now, drowning my thoughts out with the sounds
“How can you defeat us when we’ve already won?”
The voice was taunting, different from the one that she knew all those years ago. The boy that once resided inside was gone and left in his place was a reminder of her failures. She had wanted to help him then. He was far beyond her help now. They both were. Side by side as they had always been. It was beautiful in the way that it was deadly. It reminded her of the beauty of a Black Mamba but the deadliness of its bite. All those years ago, she had thought they had a chance for redemption. A chance to change the narrative that had been written for them long before they were born. She was wrong. With a hand on Mallory’s shaking shoulder, her girls at her back and at the ready, Cordelia stood her ground, “You haven’t won.”
A voice like sin personified drawled, “Look around you, Cordelia…”
“The world is ours…”
“To begin anew from the ash…”
They had always finished each other's sentences. It had been something that had softened her heart toward them in the beginning. Made them seem like the children she had thought them to be. The ones she had wanted to believe they were. Looking at them at the stop of the grand staircase that was once the Academy, Cordelia was reminded of that afternoon in the field all those years ago. That feeling of entrapment within the icy water, trapped beneath the surface, those blue eyes watching from above. Eyes like emeralds had glinted with amusement as she clawed her way to reality, laughter clinging on the air. Their laughter had haunted her. It reminded her of her failings as Supreme. The dying screams of the world. Cordelia knew that they had danced upon the ashes, clad in crimson and shadow. Myrtle’s voice dragged her from her thoughts, “Didn’t you know, dearies. The only way to win is to kill all the witches.”
The taunt was clear. And Cordelia watched as both their heads tilted to the left as they stared down at them from their perch at the top of the grand staircase. A hand rose up to run through golden curls, “I do believe that is a situation that can be fixed quite easily.”
A hand clutched onto a silk covered hip, “Child’s play.”
But do you feel like a young god?
You know the two of us are just young gods
And we'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath
And they're running, running, running
But do you feel like a young god?
Constance Langdon knew the moment that Michael showed up on her doorstep with that girl that there would be nothing but trouble. As a baby, Michael had been everything that Constance had ever wanted. A second chance. Another opportunity to be the mother she knew could be. The mother that she failed to be for Tate. Her dear Addy. Young Beau. So many mistakes. Addy was gone. Her daughter never to return to her. Michael was that chance to be better. It had all been going so well until the incident with the babysitter. That poor girl. Constance cleaned up the mess and planted a rose for the lost soul. For the soul she had lost so many years ago. Each rose planted over the years that would follow a representation of Constance’s dwindling dream that had been reawakened with the birth of her grandson.
It had been a Saturday afternoon. Michael had been in the front yard playing with the new soccer ball she had gotten him the week before. He had seemed to enjoy it and had been spending hours outside, kicking the ball back and forth across the lawn that laid just a fence away from the famed Murder House. Her home. The place she longed to be. With her two children that waited there. She had been in the backyard, adding another rose to the garden that was ever growing. Funny how a garden struck disgust in her now. The scent of roses now associated with decay instead of her long loved perfume that had long since been thrown away. Both of her gloved hands had been buried in mulch when she heard a deep voice call out, “Grandma! Look I made a friend.”
Her head snapped up in a flash, the roses forgotten. Michael did not have friends. He could not have friends. Michael was dangerous. Her golden boy had darkened to a dull copper. The luster of new life ruined by the realization that he would never be a normal child. She had opened her mouth to ask him where he had met his friend when another voice joined in.
“Michael. You should stop leaving your grandmother gifts she does not appreciate.”
Her blood ran cold. A young girl stood shoulder to shoulder with Michael. The sight was odd to Constance due to Michael already towering over her. Her raven hair a direct opposite to Michael’s flaxen curls. The golden sheen of her skin the antithesis to the pale luster of his own. Together they were lovely in their differences. Constance was always one to appreciate beauty. The young girl’s words finally caught up to her, “Gifts? Now what are you talking about? These are my prized roses.”
Sage fire greeted her own, “I don’t like liars.”
“I do not know who you are but you can’t speak to m-”
Constance had taken a step toward the girl, her hand raising as her voice had, when Michael stepped into her path. Constance looked up at him and was struck with a cold rush of fear. In all her years, she had never seen that look on another’s face. Not even Tate’s. Pure hatred. He had never looked at her like that. Never once. She had seen first hand what Michael was capable of, but she never thought that he would inflict harm upon her. Perhaps that was her mistake to think she was invincible to his anger. Her legs shook underneath her as she took a step back and away from Michael. She watched as he put his arm out toward the girl as he stood in front of her. It was odd for her to see as another held Michael as though he was something precious. I thought he was once. I was wrong. The two’s hands were now entwined and they formed a joined front as they faced her. Michael’s voice resonated, “You will not hurt her, Grandma. I will not allow it.”
One of the girl’s hands rose up to run through Michael’s curls, “We could always hurt her.”
A small smile grew on Michael’s face at her words and a sense of dread was planted within Constance. She was dangerous. They were dangerous.
“Grandma will play nice for now. Won’t you?”
Ignoring the ill feeling in her stomach, Constance painted on a smile that was reminiscent of her days of upper class living, “Of course. Why don’t you all go in and get some lemonade. I made a fresh pitcher before I came back in.”
Michael’s smile was beaming, but there was a difference to it. There was a darkness lurking there that had been absent before. It was almost like the last bit of childhood innocence in him had been snuffed out like the flame of an old candle. Shadow remained. There could only be one cause for such a change. Her eyes trailed to the girl and was not surprised to find her eyes already on her. There was nothing but amusement in those eyes. It was nothing but the sick amusement that one might get by plucking the wings off of flies just for kicks. Those eyes trailed from her back to Michael, “I do believe lemonade would be lovely. Let’s go inside, Michael.”
A nod was the only response and Constance could only watch as her last piece of motherhood trailed behind that girl. From the deepest part of her soul, she knew that Michael would always follow her. Perhaps it was the damned intuition of hers but she knew.
Michael no longer answered to her and perhaps he never did.
You know the two of us are just young gods
And we'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath
And they're running, running, running again
Tension ran rampant through the air. The smell of fire and rot engulfed her nose and choked her lungs. There was nothing truly alive in the bunker. Her eyes trailed up the banister as those words echoed in her head. Child’s play. Did they truly think that it would be so simple to just snuff them out? Blow out the flame before it wore itself down? Maybe it was the very thought of them believing the most powerful witches she knew were nothing more than ants underneath a magnifying glass that scared her.
And Mallory was truly scared. The two halves of her had been reunited and that longing inside of her had subsided. Both past and present had become one and she was once more the learning witch she had been all those years ago with her sisters by her side. Confusion still remained as she tried to separate the two in her head and the thoughts of the Mallory that was born after the end of the world. Looking at them now, clothed in black and burgundy, she was reminded of the first time she saw them.
After months and months at the outpost, now known to her as the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men, they had arrived in a carriage, cloaked in mystery. Their very presence stirred the air. Inhabitants of Outpost 3 had been called to gather in the sitting room. Firelight granted them the opportunity to see their visitors in clarity. A very distinct clicking sound began to near, a rhythm familiar to Mallory’s ears. One that she heard every single day thanks to her servitude to Coco. Heels. Whoever was approaching was wearing heels and their stride was slow. With each step, Mallory’s heart began to beat faster. The very presence that was emanating from that hallway startled her. She had never felt anything like it yet at the same time it felt familiar. She could not describe it. With her back against the wall and eyes on the floor like the good little Grey she was, Mallory awaited the owner of that stride. The small gasp that rose from Gallant caused her eyes to shoot up and she immediately understood why he was shocked. It was not just one visitor but two and they were lovely. They seemed untouched by the dying of the world outside, their skin clean and glowing in the firelight. Curls of ebony and honey flowed and flesh of ivory and gold gleamed. She could not look away from them. They moved in unison toward the fire, not stopping as they glided toward the flames. Not a word was spoken nor did anyone breath. Hands twined together as shoulders brushed, “The world is dying…”
“No need for rules anymore…”
A chuckle rose from behind a crimson smile, “Chaos has won.”
Their dialogue was like a stream. Flowing. It was seamless and endless at the same time. Where one began, the other would join in. It was something that Mallory had never seen before. It was a relationship born from years of companionship. The sound of a cane hitting the wooden floors drew Mallory from her thoughts, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Their heads moved in unison as the young man answered first, “I am Langdon and…”
“March,” emerald eyes roamed over the residents of Outpost 3, “and we are a part of the Cooperative.”
Venable looked visibly confused as Langdon stepped forward, “And we have come to offer you the chance to leave this place.”
“To be taken to Sanctuary.”
“Quite literally.”
As one, they looked at each other as though they were sharing an inside joke that only they would understand. At the time, Mallory did not understand what could have been so funny. They were discussing the end of the world and salvation. She would come to understand that the very idea of it was of comedic relevance to them. A small laugh had left her at their response to Venable. From the moment she had arrived at Outpost 3 with Coco and Gallant, Venable had made sure to treat her as nothing more than the dirt on the bottom of her heeled shoes. At the sound of her laughter, all eyes were on her and Mallory dropped her focus to the floor. In this wretched place she was nothing but a Grey without any other purpose than to clean and take care of the Purples. So quick to drop her attention elsewhere, she missed Langdon’s and March’s focus being placed on her. If she had but waited a moment then she would have seen the sense of familiarity and confusion in their eyes before a mask of indifference fell over them.
Looking back on that moment now, Mallory wonders if they had always known what she was. Who she was. Perhaps they had. But then that raises the question of why they did not just kill her the day of her interview. In her confusion, it would have been so easy for them to end her life. But they had not. Gazing upon them now, Mallory knew the answer. It was apparent to her their love for the dramatic. They were bloodthirsty and cared for no one apart from each other. The feeling that she had felt that first day in the sitting room was one that she could give a name to now.
Power.
They were drowned in it. Their very pores oozed the essence of power and the sense of foreboding. Akin to the feeling one would get while in the presence of a large predator. The awe one would feel as they gazed upon the beauty of the creature only to realize too late that it was a trap. It would make sense for them to appear this way. Michael Langdon looked every bit as angelic as his father before the fall. He was an angel after all and he was God’s favorite. Lyra March was beautiful in her deadliness. Every step she took was poised and seductive, but Mallory knew she could and would kill with the flick of her wrist. She had seen it after all. She had been one of the bodies on the floor of the common area, laying in a puddle of her own vomit. Not exactly something that she wanted to repeat. Lyra, compared to Michael, embodied what Mallory had always thought a fallen would appear to be. Raven tresses trailed down petite shoulders and ended at the dip in her waist. Her skin was unblemished honey and was a stark contrast when placed against Michael’s own. There was a strength in her petite form. As tall as Michael, her lethality hidden underneath her skin, coiled beneath the bones, Lyra March was deadly. It was no wonder Michael worshiped her. Even now, as they hit the last step on the staircase, Michael’s eyes drifted toward Lyra, his gaze reverent. The expression was one a devout man would wear while looking at the divine.
Mallory slipped her glasses off of her face. There was no need for them now. It was just a reminder of a past life. A false life. She could not hide behind a false face now. This was it. The end of it all. The last remains of humanity stood in this very room. Laughter ran out once more. Mallory cut her eyes back to the forefront. Lyra had her head thrown back, the expression carefree despite the situation. Her hand was entwined within Michael’s own, their rings clinking against one another. A deep chuckle followed her laugh as Lyra called out, “Would you like to hurl into the abyss?”
“Eternity down below. How will they ever survive?”
A smile erupted, uncanny to a shark, “They won’t.”
He says, "Oh, baby girl, don't get cut on my edges
I'm the king of everything and oh, my tongue is a weapon
There's a light in the crack that's separating your thighs
And if you wanna go to heaven, you should fuck me tonight"
The Hotel Cortez still haunted her. From the elegant walls and the smell of old perfume, it haunted her. It was a lovely trap. Once inside, there would be no getting out. A perfect little trap. A tomb, entrapping those lost souls that had wandered inside and never saw the light of day again. She had been one of them. Stuck forever in an endless cycle of terror. Nothing living could survive in the Cortez. Age old halls and a catacomb of rooms and secret pathways reminiscent of a roach hotel. The grandeur of seeing it for the first time ending the moment you realize that you’re already dead. Her time was up the minute she rang the bell at the front desk and signed her name in the book. She had damned herself with a swipe of a pen. Queenie could still feel the cutting edge of the blade that ended her life. It was the only time she had ever tasted her own blood. Over the years of using her power, her body had always protected her. But not that time. Not when she needed it to most. She never wanted to taste the rust of copper again.
Time worked differently in the Cortez. It was as timeless as it was on the day of its opening. The ghosts of its halls roamed as though no time had passed at all. Queenie could not tell how long she had sat in the corner of the room where she had taken her last breath. The maid had come to clean up the blood and take her body away. A person never expects to see their murder be cleaned up. A normal person would never plan to see their dead body. At one point, James March returned. The creator of the murder hotel had ended her life and then demanded her company for a game of cards. Loneliness had made her agree. Was this death? Is this forever? Her life had ended and yet she still remained. Eternity spent within the four walls that had ended her.
Queenie still remembered the day Cordelia had come. That brief flicker of hope that had quickly dimmed as not even her Supreme could save her from that place. She had dried her tears and told Cordelia to go. Her fate was sealed. The only positive to her situation was that March was awful at cards. She had just started dealing out a new deck for their next game of gin when they came. March had been in the middle of complaining about his loss when he just stopped talking. Completely frozen and uncaring of his hand showing, March looked the opposite of his normal charismatic self. Queenie was quick to attack, “Hey March. You know you’re supposed to-”
His eyes had cut into her, silencing her quickly. There was fear behind those black eyes. He was scared. Something had scared him. Another second passed before a confused glint took over. A whisper left him, “Queenie, I need you to be quiet.”
Queenie had become accustomed to the atmosphere of the Cortez. So much time had passed since her death that she had become comfortable amongst the dead. She could feel the instance that something changed in the hotel. There was a stir in the air. An anomaly. Something was alive and coming close. Queenie lowered her cards as both her and March turned their attention to the door. Footsteps began to echo, louder than they should have been through the thick walls of the room. With their focus on the door, they both watched as it began to open. The hallway had always been lit. Age old lamps cemented into the walls had always ensured a lighted path to your doom. But as the door creaked open only inky blackness could be seen, dripping into the sunlit room Queenie and March were residing in. A feminine voice rang out from the shadows, “Have you missed me, Father?”
March inhaled deeply and arose from his chair quickly as though spurned by the aged wood. One step was taken closer to the doorway, “Lyra, you’ve come home.”
From the shadow, a young girl began to appear. A tan hand came to rest on the door frame, “Only visiting.”
Queenie could only look back and forth between March and his apparent daughter. She watched as March approached the girl who had finally stepped into the lit room. How could she possibly be his daughter? March had to have stolen her away. They look nothing alike. March was pale as a sheet of paper although that might have been due to the lack of circulating blood in his body. Lyra was gifted with caramelized sun kissed skin. That was the first thing that caught Queenie’s eyes. The second was that Lyra was not alone. Her other hand was entwined with another and a young man stepped into the room behind her. An odd uniform clothed his lean form as he leaned in behind Lyra. March’s voice mirrored her confusion, “Alive but so entwined with the dead. Fascinating. Where did you find this specimen, my dear?”
Her arm wrapped around the young man’s waist, “We found each other. Is he not wonderful, Father?”
“Indeed, darling girl. I taught you well. What brings you home?”
At once, two pairs of eyes landed on Queenie, burning her with the power of their gaze. Queenie dropped her deck of cards as she heard the young man speak, “We’ve come to ensure our standing.”
“In what?”
“Our new kingdom, of course.”
Suddenly a pair of oxfords were in front of her. Looking up, she met the power of a tide pool head on and questioned, “Who are you?”
He bent at the waist and extended his hand, a gesture of old, “Michael Langdon. We have come to take you from this place.”
Queenie opened her mouth to disagree when March’s voice called out from behind the newly named Michael, “Go with them, Queenie.”
And I've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool
For a while now, drowning my thoughts out with the sounds
“You may be a witch, but I am a March.”
Ring coated fingers were locked with one another as they took the last step off of the staircase.
“When we are done, you all will wish you were dead.”
As one, they attacked. The coven had been prepared for an attack but not so soon. There was no warning. No waving of the white flag. Lyra and Michael had always been blood thirsty. Alone they were a terror but together they were an unstoppable force. It would have been a sight for awe if not projected toward the last of the world’s witches. The last of humanity stood in this room. This was the fight to decide the fate of the world. Would it be one built on the ash and destruction of the past? Could it be a world salvaged from the past? Side by side they fought as they had from the moment they locked eyes all those years ago. Myrtle was quickly struck down in a failed attempt to shelter Coco. One after another, they fell. The witches could not handle the power of two. There was too much rage. Too much anger. The air grew thick with the scent of copper and the taste of sulphur. Darkness was on the rise. Their eyes were black as night as they slashed and snapped their way through the bodies of the remaining coven. Cordelia and Mallory remained, trembling in fear at the sight of the carnage in front of them. It was the epitome of everything they had ever feared. Crimson streaks began to glow in the firelight as Lyra and Michael drew closer, highlighting the fallen strewn across the wooden floors. That laughter. Their laughter had always been haunting. A tragedy in the making. It was a reminder of the children they once were and those that failed them. Perhaps they never stood a chance. Maybe this was how it was always supposed to end. Her coven had fallen. Her girls were gone. She would never see them again. Her powers were waning. The bit of life that she had left was draining from her with every inhale. Cordelia was no match for them. Mallory had never been given the chance to harness her power for such a task. A hand as warm as fire cupped her face and she was forced to look into the eyes that she had never forgotten all those years ago.
“Cordelia, I do believe that I promised retribution against you.”
A snap to her left signalled the loss of Mallory and Cordelia held back the cry that wanted to leave her. She pushed away the hand that was on her face and took a step away only to find herself in the arms of Lyra. The female’s arms wrapped like snakes around her waist, pulling her closer. Cordelia could no longer stop the tears. A lulling voice called from behind her, “What shall we do with her, my love?”
Michael tapped a ringed finger upon his lip as he pondered, “Do we leave her to the elements and the revenants?”
“We could always give her to your Father. The Supreme served upon a platter to the highest Court.”
A brilliant smile met her, “The main course.”
The last thing Cordelia Goode saw before her vision dimmed was the smiling faces of Lyra and Michael. Angelic yet waiting to strike. She had made the mistake of believing in them once and that led to the destruction of the world. Her fate was sealed and she was sentenced to an eternity in the depths of hell. As she collapsed to the ground beside Mallory, she watched as they drifted toward one another as they had always done. As they would always do.
Michael Langdon and Lyra March. Two halves to the same coin. Equally dark. Entwined eternally and bathed in shadow. They were now the rulers of the ashes of the world. God could no longer help those remaining. Their time was numbered the minute Michael locked eyes with Lyra all those years ago. That feeling of being trapped underneath the ice hit her once more in her final moments. Tick. The clock had finally stopped ticking. Time was up. The ferryman was waiting. Tick.
But do you feel like a young god?
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